It is really no wonder more women don’t get help when they are feeling nuts. Since my big admission yesterday I’ve dealt with several doctor’s offices and one completely retarded insurance company.

It turns out, I have incentive to head into next week’s appointment and really crazy it up. If I’m only mildly crazy, it costs more per visit. If I’m severely crazy, its cheap. Gotta love the insurance companies.

I just want to thank everyone for their words of encouragement while I do this. Even though I’m not really sure what “this” is just yet. I can’t get over how many of you are going through something similar. It really makes me wonder if we’re not nutso afterall…maybe we’re all normal and the world just wants us medicated. Or maybe this is some sort of Mommy epidemic and our drinking water is spiked.

I have to say, its surreal to get call from a complete stranger, making sure you’re not suicidal or going to drown your kids. I guess it is standard practice for the doctor to check up on you if they can’t see you right away…but geez. I felt really, really odd saying “No, I’m cool, not gunna kill anyone today…Thanks for calling.”

In the meantime I have a pile of freelance to finish and kids to feed. Rest assured I’m good. We’re good. YOU are good. We’re all good.

Kisses

There has been a lot going on around here lately. The Kaiser’s usual 9am to 9pm work routine. The Count’s never ending, vomit inducing cough. The Peanut’s two new teeth. I’ve picked up some freelance writing. Busy. Busy.

So busy we sort of didn’t really notice I’m, well, um…Possibly suffering from a post partum anxiety and/or depression.

There. I said it.

I’m getting help.

In all honesty I have very mixed feelings about what may, or may not, be going on. I’m ashamed. I’m confused. I’m not sure I even buy it. But something is wrong and it needs to be addressed.

I’ve noticed every other mother in the blogging world is drugged. All of them seem to need medication to “cope” with life. This upsets me. I thought it was a cop out, frankly. An easy way out of a big problem. Take a pill and magically your stress and fears are gone!

Those thoughts are why it took me 9 months to admit I need help.

I’m not sure where this revelation will go. Or what will happen. But for the sake of all the other women out there, I promise to blog about it…good and bad. Because I already know I’m not the only one. And I already know I was reluctant to even admit a problem because, apparently, I was feeling very Tom Cruise on the whole subject.

I only leave the house when I have too.
The kids and I only get out of our PJ’s when we have too.
I don’t clean or cook anymore. (this one has improved)
I leave soiled diapers all over the house. (this one has gotten better too)
I stay awake in bed, fantasizing how my husband will die. How my children will die. How I will die. Kidnappings. Fires. White slavery. Car accidents. Plane crashes. Playgroud accidents. The fear of the unknown consumes me.
I can’t shut off my brain.
I am very tired.
I’ve never felt sad, so to speak.
I don’t cry.
I’m convinced I will be a widow. And wait for my husband to log onto his computer at work every morning, faithfully.
Sometimes I shop to feel better.
I have panic attacks during the day when I think the Count may have escaped the house and is wandering the streets. He’s just in the playroom.
I stare at the clock, get to nursery school early, and wait in the parking lot just to make sure no one has entered the school with a gun and taken the kids hostage.
I can work myself into a vomit or a migraine just thinking about what could happen to my kids.
I am suspicious of EVERYONE.
I think I’m weak for feeling this way.
I think I just need to “suck it up” and move on with life.
I don’t think I need to be medicated.
I’m angry no one around me noticed and made me get help.

Jesus, I just went back and read those. I’m fucking crazy.

I’m going to be over here this week. I’ll be back in a few days.

Pay me, and I’ll come back sooner.

Count Waffles the Terrible, HRH Princess Peanut and I got a “gift” from the Kaiser this weekend. “Shana Banana Yoga” ordered and shipped to our home thanks to the good people over at NetFlix. You might ask yourself, “but Queen, that’s not a gift…you have to send that back.” Right you are. But the gift portion is the fact the Kaiser even ordered it for us. You see, normally the only thing that comes to our house via Netflix are the Kaiser’s zombie movies and “Sleepaway Camp Massacre” the series.

So not only was I thrilled a movie came for us. But I was super thrilled the Kaiser found it himself and ordered it without me begging for it to jump “Dawn of the Dead: Documentaries” in the queue. What a guy.

Imagine my utter disappointment when I was so overcome with the CRAP that is Shana Banana Yoga that I couldn’t even speak.

Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness.

That was a rap. A RAP.

Ok, I’ll give old Shana the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this was made in 1993. Maybe rap was really big and she was pressured to bust a few rhymes.
No such luck. 2000.
But the kids and I press on. Because dammit, we got a Netflix and we’re using it, no matter how crappy.
Count Waffles seems interested for all of 10 minutes. Sure, he’s not exactly the age group they are going for here, but Mommy is doing downward dog…that has to be engaging.
I wish I could adequately explain “Shana” to you. She’s obviously a little, umm…”out there” and she seems to think shaking her head and talking “crazy” is big with the kids. And let me just say right now I have a pretty high tolerance for adults acting stupid for children. The Wiggles, Doodlebobps (ew), etc. are all on our television.

…but after the Kaiser sat and watched, all he could say was, “I really want to hit her in the face.”

Me too. Meeee toooooo.

BUT we did do some yoga. And the Count did ask to watch it again. But what the hell does he know, he thinks Barney is cool.

A good friend of mine had a baby this week! And last night I got one of those sobbing, new mother calls.
Remember those?
How could she tell the baby was eating enough? Why did her boobs KILL? Why were they so hard?? How does she get the milk out? Was that her milk?
It was adorable.
And it was all I could do to calm her down, talk her through her engorgement (as I figured out through the sobs) and then, not giggle.
Welcome to the club, girl.
Those first few days home from the hospital, which seem soooooooooo long ago, were a big steaming pile of worry, indecision, panic, questions, questions, and more questions…all thrown on top of bleary eyed euphoria.
I’m a little freaked out she called me. Make senses, I’m the mother of TWO, now. I have the toddler and the infant. And both are/were breastfed.
Huh. Suddenly I’m the wise old Mom you call for advice.
That’s crazy.
But by the end of the phone call she was massaging milk out of her breast and going to snatch the newborn from her Dad before someone else panicked and gave her a bottle.
She sounded more confident. She sounded more sure she was doing what she needed to do as a mother. For that moment she felt like it was under control and she knew what to do next.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she will have 5 million more moments like that over the next few weeks, months, years.
But I did tell her to call anytime.
Fellow clubmembers are always around to help out their newest recruit.

I got Princess Peanut in her PJ’s…and she pooped through them. So I put her back in her clothes.

Count Waffles the Terrible refused to put his PJ’s on at ALL. Then wouldn’t allow me to take his picture at ALL.

I finally got my PJ’s on…and HRH Peanut wanted to nurse for 16 hours, non stop. So here is the one and only photo you are getting Running2K’s. Everyone can find the other PJ party participants (and they actually participated, as opposed to my sorry clan) over at Running’s place.

We suck. Literally.

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
All I say is Daddy.
Nevermind Mommy is always showing me her tits.
Nevermind Mommy changes me and carries me and carts me around. Shields me from my brother, kisses my ouches.
Nevermind Daddy is at work a lot.
Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy.
He’s the only one that can bounce me to sleep.
He’s the only name I will say over and over and over and over.
Making Mommy feel like shit.
Sure, I can say Mommy. And I will, if you bother me enough.
But really all I want is Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy.

We have Guinness prodigy on our hands here. The director at Count Waffle’s nursery school is checking her books. She thinks our little man just might be the Boo-Boo Slip record holder. I guess its better than that guy with the longest ear hair in the world. I think.

It seems that Mr. Daredevil exhibits no fear on the playground. Thus landing on his ass and head often. When the kids get hurt enough to mention (because they get hurt more than this? and they don’t tell me??) said kid gets sent home with one of these “ouch” slips:We’re on slip # 7. SEVEN.
That particular slip talks about the Count swinging. Just swinging. And then, randomly, letting go.
“Because I didn’t want to hold the sides anymore Mommy. I just wanted to sit and swing.”
The good news here (I’m laughing as I type good) is that this is typical 4-year old behavior. The Count will not be 3 until the end of March.
But if he is advanced, will too many cracks on the head knock him back into average?