A blog all you moms should read

A blog all you moms should read

This is a brilliant blog post from a woman who’s sick of seeing mothers compete for the title of ‘Super Mom.’ (Click the picture)

Moms are a super judgy bunch, (That’s not a word? It should be) and it’s senseless to judge each other because we don’t walk in their shoes. Our priorities are different. We have different strengths and weaknesses.

“We all have our own things, our gifts, and talents. We all have our own priorities. That they are different, doesn’t make them wrong. We all are making the best of our collective situations, but it doesn’t mean we have to be assholes to each other. ”

“Just be a good parent, love your kids, and do the best that you can. Quit being a jackass to those who don’t share your choices. “

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If I had more self esteem…

I’m approaching my 30th birthday.

It’s an interesting feeling. Before my son was born, I didn’t look anywhere near thirty. People would put me between twenty and twenty five. (I was 27) I was tiny, a size three, and pretty cute if I do say so myself. I colored my hair, occasionally did makeup, kept up with eyebrow plucking and face fuzz removal and had a tiny waistline.

Now I’m twenty pounds heavier, and feel like I’ve aged ten years over the last two. I normally have bags under my eyes, and my grey hair shows because I don’t color anymore. I don’t spend much time primping, being a mom. I don’t like to diet, it makes me feel deprived and miserable, it adds stress that I don’t need in my life right now. So my waistline is NOT tiny anymore. I’m not horribly over weight, I’m in a healthy BMI range. But I’m not as slim as I was before.

Coming up on my 30th, has me thinking. I never looked my age, I always looked younger and fresh. I miss that. I miss spending time on me. I think it would be in my best interest to find the time again. I need to spend the extra couple of dollars on the nice shampoo. Keep the eyebrows plucked, and the face fuzz free. Even keeping the bikini line trimmed will make me feel sexier in my skin. I need to eat healthier, if not to lose wight, but to stay healthy. To feel comfortable in my clothes.

So I’m making a resolution. Not a new year’s resolution but a 30s resolution. Spend more time on me. Take pride in my appearance.

On my birthday, I’m going to get some new ear piercings. I’ve always told myself I couldn’t afford it, but I’m going to set money aside. And when we get taxes back in February, I’m getting myself a nice big tattoo. I have two already but they’re small and you can’t really see them. I’m getting one people can see. So people can see ‘she’s the kind of woman who has tattoos.’

I’m going to get a haircut, and have it colored. I’m thinking about bangs! *gasp*

I may be turning thirty, but I’m not turning in my young card just yet. Thirty isn’t old, no need to look or act like it is.

In a perfect world, where I had more self esteem, I’d have some of these things.

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Surface piercings probably on the collarbone or sternum.

ImageRed hair and these bangs!

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A nice big shoulder tattoo.

And I’d dress something like this;

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Motherhood Vs. Adventures in Babysitting

I don’t know what I was thinking. Telling my sister in law that I’d babysit their baby when she went back to work. Well, I know what I was thinking, I just think it was a momentary lack of sanity. With my condition, how could I possibly think it was a good idea?

Some women are just born to raise a brood of kids. Handling more than one kid at a time comes naturally. Being nurturing, having all the right mothering instincts. It doesn’t come natural to me. I have to work at being affectionate more than other people do. And I get more easily irritated than those women who are natural born mothers. 

I love my son, and we’ve been thinking about having a second child. So I said I’d babysit, thinking it would be good practice, having a baby in the house. Good for us as caretakers, good for my son as a toddler. I knew it would be trying. 

With my emotions on edge, as they are with BPD, it’s more trying for me than it should be. When my son was an infant and he cried, there was still the overwhelming love for him, so I could push past the irritating wails. With my niece, as adorable as she is, it’s lacking the overwhelming love and the wails get to me faster than they did with my son. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great baby, well behaved and easy to take care of. But now she’s teething, and it’s a whole new story. 

We only have her for five hours a day. I keep telling myself, five hours. Get past it, then it’s done. A small blip in time. So far I’ve done well. Yesterday was the first difficult day. My husband is home for seven days then works seven days. He’s on his seven days off, and I feel like I should get a little more help. It’s almost like, this is my job, not his, so I need to do everything. Yesterday, I had to ask him to hold her so I could eat some lunch because I was feeling light headed. She wasn’t letting me put her down because she’s teething. I held her for a collective four hours yesterday. 

But why did I feel so guilty for asking him to hold her for five minutes? Because I feel like he doesn’t want to help me, because it’s my job and not his. Even though he encouraged it, because they’re paying me. (Very little, but it’s family) He wanted the extra cash, no matter how difficult it is for me to be around two kids for half of my day. But he doesn’t want to volunteer any help. 

Sigh. That’s getting into a whole new story for a whole new day. 

I’m hoping today goes better. Yesterday put me in a bad mood because of the teething, and the mood lasted all day. 

Hope today is better. That’s all I can do, hope. 

But the good news is that my son is really good with her. He doesn’t interact with a lot of other kids, but when he does he’s really good. I’m very proud of him.

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Motherhood Vs. Anger

ImageOne of the lovely symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is anger. I’d say of all my BPD symptoms, this is the one I have the hardest time managing. I get ridiculously angry for ridiculously stupid reasons. Women; think of it as having PMS, ALL the time. Men; imagine your favorite sports team losing, ALL the time. 

The smallest things set me off. I won’t know when, I won’t know how. At least with PMS you can see it coming a month away. “Okay, about twenty days from now I’m gonna be an angry bitch, so honey I apologize in advance.” No, I don’t think so. 

It seems to happen a few days at a time. I’ll be fine for several days, then for several days I’ll just be a fuse waiting to get lit. Today, my husband had a cough. When he coughed, I had to resist the urge to throw things at him. Every. Single. Time. Some things just grate on me on days like today. I have an unusually low tolerance for other people’s grievances and illnesses, so that doesn’t help on days like today, when coughing sends me into a bad place. I’ve read that this is a common BPD trait, and all along I Just thought it was something in me that I picked up from having a hypochondriac father. 

Today it came on a little slow. I was a little irritated to start off with. We had some friends over to play games, and we played a game I hate. They didn’t ask if we all wanted to play, they just said ‘this is what we’re playing, you’re either in or you’re out.’ So I played an irritating game where you’re a politician in the 1850s, you’re trying to gain favor of a bunch of Italian, German, English and Irish immigrants in various districts to win elections. Maybe I was just being a stick in the mud. I mean, who doesn’t want to be a nineteenth century politician and do all kinds of corrupt things to earn immigrant favor?

Anywho, I was a little irritated but nothing unmanageable. As the day wore on more and more things upset me. I kept it all in check, we had guests over and my son was home. By the time our guests left I just wanted to crawl in a hole and scream at the top of my lungs until I felt better. Then the coughing started. Every. Single. Time. He coughed and I’d have to close my eyes, take a deep breath, and keep my mouth shut. 

ImageI get mean when I’m angry. I yell, I say things that shouldn’t be said, I hurt people. When I say people I mean my husband. For the last few years he’s been the only one who sees this side of me. I used to blow up at friends and family. It cost a lot of friendships, so I changed my tactics. Avoid conflicts, keep things to myself, don’t even talk when I’m angry. But not with my husband. I can’t help it, I’m home 24/7 and he lives here too soo….. yea. I say things that I shouldn’t say, at least not in anger. He gets hurt, I feel terrible when I’ve cooled down. It’s just bad. 

I should look into anger management classes. But I’m not sure, would that help? Or does anger accompanied with BPD need to be treated differently? Lately I’ve just been trying harder to keep it under raps. Close eyes, deep breath, don’t speak. If I speak when I’m angry the bad stuff happens. After my son was born and the post postpartum depression hit I would scream a lot, and I don’t want to do it in front of my son.

I feel like it needs to get out. It’s festering in me, this anger. I don’t know what to do with it. Sometimes it gets so infected that I expel it through banging my head on the wall, or counter. I almost knocked myself out a few weeks ago, hitting my head on the counter. I hate to think how that COULD have turned out, my son and I were alone at the time. What if I’d have hurt myself terribly, and passed out. He’d be alone and scared for who knows how long. I don’t want that. It scares me to think it could happen. So I need an outlet. Hurting myself isn’t acceptable.

Most of the time, breathing works. Sometimes, not so much.

I feel guilty, and horrible. I feel like a horrible human being. When my son gets on my nerves. It’s not his fault. He’s just being a kid, and most of the time being adorable at it to boot. But if I’m in the right mood, no matter how cute he is, something will send me off. I don’t want him seeing that side of me. I don’t want to neglect him. I hate shutting the door and separating us because I’m worried I’ll yell at him or worse. I don’t want him to see me that way.

Go into the bathroom with the child safety knob so he can’t follow. Shut eyes. Deep breaths. Think. 

That’s not a childhood any kid should have. Angry mom, locking herself up in the bathroom. Heaven help him if he ever sees me hurt myself. This is not acceptable behavior. All I can do is try harder. 

I’m on an antidepressant. It’s not great, and doesn’t help with the anger. I was on Citalopram for years and the problem with that was that it took everything away from me. Sure I wasn’t depressed anymore, but I wasn’t anything else either. I wasn’t happy, content, sad. My cat could have died and I wouldn’t have cared. Everything was the same shade of gray. So I switched so I could feel something again. Unfortunately, I still get a lot of the bad too. One worked too well, one doesn’t work well enough. 

I need to see a real doctor, get a real medication for a real problem. This was just for the postpartum depression and honestly my obgyn doesn’t really know anything about these meds. But guess what, no insurance. No doctors for me, no good medication. 

So I just have to breathe. 

 

 


Motherhood Vs. Body Issues

Every woman has some grievances with her body. “My nose is too big,” “My butt’s too small,” “My hair is grey or thin,” there’s no shortage of things to be unhappy about. The media does a pretty good job of cramming the ideal of perfection into our subconscious everywhere we look. If you don’t look like Barbie, you’re not trying hard enough. It’s sad that they recently tried to change the Barbie image, make her more normal, and the notion was rejected and the prototype thrown out.

Speaking of Barbie…..

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If Barbie was an actual woman, she would be 5’9” tall, have a 39” bust, an 18” waist, 33” hips and a size 3 shoe. • Barbie calls this a “full figure” and likes her weight at 110 lbs. • At 5’9” tall and weighing 110 lbs, Barbie would have a BMI of 16.24 and fit the weight criteria for anorexia. She likely would not menstruate. • If Barbie was a real woman, she’d have to walk on all fours due to her proportions. • Slumber Party Barbie was introduced in 1965 and came with a bathroom scale permanently set at 110 lbs with a book entitled “How to Lose Weight” with directions inside stating simply “Don’t eat.” And this is girls inspiration.

‘Thinspiration’ is in, apparently. We’re not talking about getting inspired by healthy women who eat right and exercise to maintain a healthy weight. We’re talking ‘Pro Ana’ which means pro anorexia. Young girls who can’t seem to get small enough, who think Natalie Portman is a porker. The newest look is ‘thigh gap,’ where you’re not attractive if your thighs touch.

I’m sorry…. what?

Your thighs are supposed to touch! You know what I think when thighs don’t touch? A skeleton. A skeleton comes to mind. There’s supposed to be meat there. And hello, what the hell kind of world do we live in where Natalie Portman is fat? I mean, have you seen her?? Any thinner and she’d slip through the cracks.

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Today’s youth is headed in all the wrong directions. I like to blame the media. All this pressure for Kate Middleton and Kim Kardashian and Jessica Simpson, just to name a few, to lose the baby weight is ridiculous. You’re a new mom, you have better things to focus on than looking like a model right out of the gates. Modeling agencies won’t book anyone over a size two. So you don’t see healthy women in magazines. Hot sells products. Then young girls think you have to be hot to wear said product successfully. Want the newest look from Vogue magazine? Lose twenty pounds or you can’t pull it off.

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I’ve always battled with my body, at least since adolescence. I always hated one thing or another. I’m not sure if it was my psychological illness that caused it or just the social media telling me I wasn’t good enough as is. Lots of diets, on and off. Never really happy.

Then when I got pregnant I had terrible morning sickness, I couldn’t eat anything for six out of the nine months, and I had produced too much relaxin in my hips and couldn’t exercise without excruciating pain. I gained fifty pounds. I had a heck of a time losing that weight. I dieted, I exercised excessively. In one summer I lost twenty-nine pounds and I was pretty happy with that. I do still have a mommy belly, but what can you do. But it did make me realize that I wasn’t really fat before, I just thought I was. Being bigger, I could look back at the clothes that fit, the pictures, and think “Wow I was actually skinny!” But I didn’t think so at the time, what was that all about?

I’m still not where I was before the pregnancy. But it’s not all bad. I’d like to shed a few pounds, but dieting stresses me out. I have enough anxiety, I don’t need to worry about denying myself the things I want to eat. I don’t want to beat myself up over having a moment of weakness and eating two cookies instead of one. I don’t want to hate myself for what I eat or don’t eat. It’s too psychologically draining.

Still, there are days when I want to be thinner, when I want to feel and look good in my clothes.

I don’t need to be Natalie Portman skinny, or skinnier as they say she’s fat. (WTF?) I just want to be healthy and feel comfortable in my clothes. I love clothes, but since my son was born I haven’t found any I’m comfortable in. I used to be able to walk into a store and say ‘This will fit me, I’m not even gonna try it on.’ Now I have a hard time fitting my body, I have to try everything on. It discourages me from buying clothes, which discourages me from looking nice, which makes me feel like a slob, which makes me feel like a hot mess out in public. I’m almost ashamed of the way I dress. I want to be fashionable, but when it comes down to it I wear jeans and t-shirts because they fit comfortably.

It’s a never ending battle, like all things.

But I think as a society it’s our job to teach our children that it’s ok not to have thigh gap. That we’re all beautiful. Our daughters are beautiful just the way they are, they need to know that.

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Some celebs have it right. There are some hollywood beauties who are trying to get the message out there. That it’s ok not to fit into society’s perfect little mold.

I love Kat Dennings;

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And Jennifer Lawrence. It’s so nice that a young star, who’s an idol and inspiration to really young girls, has this kind of attitude; “In Hollywood, I’m obese. I’m considered a fat actress. I’m never going to starve myself for a part. I keep waiting for that one role to come along that scares me enough into dieting, and it just can’t happen. I’m invincible. I don’t want little girls to be like, ‘Oh, I want to look like Katniss, so I’m going to skip dinner.’ That’s something that I was really conscious of during training. I was trying to get my body to look fit and strong, not thin and underfed.”

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And there’s pop stars too. Like Adele, who refuse to diet, who prove you can big big and successful as all hell.

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Society sucks. That’s all there is to it. Telling our girls they need to be deathly skinny to be attractive, to be worth it. Thank goodness for these women who fight the societal norm. We need a movement, or our young girls will fade away to nothing.

So I leave you with this. When did this stop being a thing?

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Motherhood Vs. Mornings

Me, not so much a morning person.

My son gets up at 8am, but he’s super good about it though. I hear him playing on the baby monitor, he talks to himself or plays with his toys. I lay in bed another fifteen or twenty minutes then go get him. He’s so happy in the morning. He beams at me and says “Good morning mom!” We come out to the living room and eat breakfast in front of Netflix. He has toast, pop tarts or fruit and watches Cars or Special Agent Oso. I have my slimfast at the computer while I check my messages. All is well, for about twenty minutes.

I know a good mother would cook breakfast. We’d sit at the table, with the tv off, and enjoy a meal together. There are two problems with this. First, he doesn’t eat breakfast foods, so it’s really a waste of time. No eggs, bacon, pancakes; nothin. Second, I’m not entirely awake yet, and it takes me time to clear my head and prepare for the day. So I check my messages, in relative silence. It might be the only time all day I will be left alone for five minutes.

Some days it’s tough. Today, for instance. I’m checking my messages, I Just want to be alone with my coffee and see what the rest of the world is doing. (I hardly ever get out of the house) My son wants to find his red helicopter. He tugs on my arms at the computer so I can’t type or use the mouse. He yells over and over ‘Where’s red helicopter?’ I tell him to give mum a minute, go look in his room and I’ll be right there. But no. He understands, he’s just got a toddler’s impatience. He wants it now. He wants mom to help him now.

This is probably not even a hiccup in a normal mother’s daily routine. She’d drop what she was doing, and go into his room with him and find the red helicopter. He’d be happy and she’d go back to what she was doing. My brain doesn’t work that way. I just get irritated, irrationally and overly irritated. I’m irritated that my morning routine got interrupted, I’m irritated that I’m even up at eight am. I haven’t been getting much sleep, my husband just started working the night shift and when he’s not home in bed with me I’m up every couple of hours, and getting really restless sleep in between. So today, it’s especially irritating. I just want him to sit on his little couch, watch Cars and eat his breakfast.

Most moms, I believe, aren’t so selfish.

So he’s tugging at my arm, screaming about his red helicopter. I’m taking deep breaths and trying to talk to him in a calm manner. (Don’t yell at him, don’t yell at him) He’s not doing anything wrong, he just wants his toy. My mind knows what’s best, just go look for the helicopter. My ‘nature’ is fighting it, saying ‘I just want to check my messages and drink my coffee damn it!’

Deep breaths. Don’t yell. Go look for helicopter.

We don’t find it, but somewhere along the lines something on tv gets his attention. He’s back to his show, he’s content. And now I’m back at the computer. Pat on the back, I didn’t overreact to having my morning ritual interrupted. I didn’t raise my voice. My son is still a happy camper.

These are the challenges I face every day. Sometimes all I want is something for myself. To check my messages, to work on a project, to read a couple chapters, to get out and go shopping alone. ALONE. I really need to be alone sometimes. But for about fourteen hours a day, I have these responsibilities. Take care of the lil dude, who’s in the terrible two’s and needs almost constant attention to avoid a nuclear explosion. Clean the house. Feed people. (My husband normally takes care of dinner, I mainly just focus on lunch)

I was able to steer clear of an episode this morning. Who knows, two hours from now, five hours from now, there might be another opportunity to have one. Which reminds me, I haven’t taken my medication yet this morning. I’ve been on medication for about five years give or take. I stopped taking it while I was pregnant and breast feeding but I’m back on it now. An anti depressant. I suppose it helps, I can tell because if I haven’t had it that day, I’ll start to notice that I’m even more irritable in the evening than I would be if I’d have taken it. That’s normally when I realize I forgot.

So I’m off, to face the day. To fend off toddler tantrums, boredom and anxiety attacks. It’s a never ending battle.

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Projects

I’ve always been a do-er. I blame my parents. Ever since I was a kid, we’d go to arts and craft shows or see something we like when we’re out shopping and they would always say “Oh we can make that.” So I don’t buy crafts, I don’t buy handmade jewelry, I don’t buy any home decor. I make it. And I don’t buy new furniture. I get it used and fix it.

And I LOVE antiques.

Generally the antiques I get aren’t worth anything to anyone but a do-er. No real monetary value, but a good project and a sense of accomplishment when it’s done. And cheaper. WAY cheaper.

I have about five projects going on this week. One of them is this desk. It’s a Governor Winthrop Secretary desk from early turn of the century. Somewhere abouts between 1910 and 1930. My husband’s mum and dad owned a flower shop some twenty years ago and had a lot of antiques in it. Unfortunately, the desk got put in a milking parlor (glorified barn) and that’s where it’s been said twenty years since the shop closed down. It needs a lot of TLC.

My dad is helping me fix her up. My relationship with my dad is a story for another day. Pretty much all we have in common is that we’re do-ers, we like to fix old things.

Anyway, this is a picture of step one. Glue all the shelving brackets back in, and clamp the sides because they were bowed out a good quarter inch on both sides. I’m going to repeat the clamping process on the bottom, and again on the top of the drawer portion of the desk. Then a leg needs to be reattached, the drop down front needs to be pressed flat because it’s bowed (Which won’t be easy, it’s a heavy chunk of wood) and the veneer put back on it. Then I can lightly sand and finish it. Hopefully in about a month’s time she’ll look like new. It’s going to go into my work room, where I will be using it as my jewelry station. I’m so excited!

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