The Sassy Uterus

Gentle, merry two-step -or- "Me & My Existential Crisis"

Trying to get through this funk (yeah, there's been a funk afoot in my life) I decided that even though I couldn't figure out why it was happening (overload, medicinal detox, hormones?) or how to fix it (medicine, retreat, go with it or distract myself from it?) I could just be gentle with myself.  I realized that this is the advice I would give to someone who was going through this type of experience and figured that since I *am* such a good advice-giver, I should heed myself.

So today was Day #1 of being good to me. And honestly, this is the first time I have actually felt a sparkle of interest in my life in quite awhile.  So sparkle usually denotes good. 

My first step was to stop judging life.  Which, geez, no matter how many times I write that, it seems lame.  But yet, there would be another judgment.  And amongst all these value judgments...which has brought me joie de vivre?  Nil.

Regarding my existential life questions causing such durress, here are my responses:  So I don't know why some things are the way they are.  I don't know why people are cruel to each other and especially why they are to creatures smaller than them.  And I don't know if they can ever be rehabilitated.  I don't know why the love of power and the primal ego survival means to distance oneself from ones who are different still reigns supreme.  I'm still not sure why we all run amok, day-in and day-out, like busy little ants making much ado about nothing.  And most of all, I don't know why human survivial seems to require much different mechanisms than those needed for soulful fulfillment.  I don't know and I can't figure it out.  Maybe no one can.

But one thing does remain.  I'm here and I need to work to provide for myself and family.  You are here and must do things for your human survival.  We may not know why we are here, but we have to trust that Someone, somewhere has a higher cause for us that we can not fathom.

My first step is acknowledging that I don't know & shouldn't assume the worst in lieu of a satisfying answer. I don't like not knowing the answers.  But there it is and I think that I had better get comfy with the unknown if I ever hope to be both prone to analyzing and happy at the same time.

The second step consisted of following through on creative yearnings, no matter how impractical.  I had to run to the store after work so I picked up poster paints.  I have not yet received any guarantees that I will be producing anything that will be deemed beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but I don't care.  Something is telling me to paint, and that poster paint is better for me than watercolor right now (watercolor can just be too vague and unruly, and I've got enough of that in my life already).  I haven't yet painted.  I watched the results show of Dancing With the Stars instead.  But painting shall be occuring, even if I have to paint the van's dashboard during my commute.

This is my two-step plan:
1. To stop making value judgments of life, mine in particular, especially when I know only a fraction of the workings behind it,

2. To treat myself gently and well into a state of resilience again.

For good measure on this second step, I also picked up a bag of fortune cookies when I bought the paints.  Biting into that mildly sweet cookie, I knew it was a good thing.  After reading the message it gave me and laughing my ass off, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was also meant to be.  The fortune read:

"You will obtain great wealth through your marriage."

After Phil finished busting a gut he mused, "Who are you planning on marrying after you divorce me?"  Laughter is a good thing indeed.  (Phil, Honey, I have all the wealth and happiness I need with you).

The second fortune cookie was a bit more realistic:

"Your domestic life may be harmonious."

Notice the tentativeness of this asssertion...."may be."  Yes, may be.  1, 2.  Harmony is the end goal, but I'm not basing my happiness on it.

What college funds are really for...

After breastfeeding four of my five kids as infants (or not so infant-Dylan, I'm looking at you!  That boy nursed until he was 2.5 years old!), I have come to one conclusion: these breasts reserve retirement.  Or at least rejuvenation.

People who have met me in the last five or so years would be shocked with my following admission since I seem to have accidentally fallen in with a very nature-esque crowd.  Those that have known me longer, say from the high school years, won't be fazed by this at all: I think I deserve a boob job.  A nice 36-D boob job. 

I already know how I want it done, with what "filling" (saline vs. silicone), and where I want the incision to be.  I also know how I want to be put under (pills first please, then get the nite-nite juice going through IV).  I know that I want a steady supply of Vicodin post-op.  Well, I want a steady supply of Vicodin when I am post-work each day but I am quite "judicious" with how and when I take it.  I know I am because that is the exact word, judicious, that my doctor used in complimenting me on my self-control. See, that should go on my "talent" list when I am trying to find my calling or vocation: likes to talk, has a good sense of humor, can survive most chaos & and is judicious with narcotic painkillers.  At the very least, I will be writing that on my future resumes.

Back to the boobs...so I know all I need to know and have decided the big stuff.  I just need to figure out which doctor (okay, so maybe this is a big item left to check off) and when.  But there lies one little, tiny matter of funding the spa treatment for my breasts (you call it plastic surgery, I call it spa day).  This issue has left me perplexed for quite awhile.  Then, one day it came to me.

Whilst breastfeeding Baby Isaac, he decided to bite and pull at the same time.  This is his idea of a practical joke.  Well, hahaha, I missed the punchline since I was too busy detaching Jaws from my breast.  My primal brain screamed, "Listen you little parasite, you don't bite the boob that feeds you!  I'll make you pay...."  What I really screamed was, "Ouch, f--k, damn it ISAAC, let the boob go!" I had my epiphany shortly after I decided to wean Isaac.  It was so simple, so profound...how had I missed it?  Forget college funds, that money is first going to my boob job.  Eureka!

Alas...

The truth is, we haven't put any money away in the boob job jar yet (and how would one decorate a "Boob Job" money jar?) since we are happy to able to make monthly bills and put food on the table (I know, we live craaaazzyyy rich out here), but I now no longer feel guilt about not having college funds for the kids.  And should they ever give me shit about it I'll ask them how much *they* have saved for my special fund.  I already know that Skyler spends every penny he gets on hot Cheetos and Red Bull.  I should tally up how many Red Bulls & hot Cheetos it takes to afford a boob job and wean him too.  That money can go to a far better place...

Google search gone terribly awry...

So, the Baby Isaac has acid reflux and has been on Zantac for a couple weeks or so.  And it has helped him tremendously during the day.  However, our nights are still touch and go.  I'm more sleep-deprived than ever due to my ADHD med making it hard to fall asleep in the first place coupled with the anxiety of wondering when Isaac is going to jar me awake. 

I have narrowed it down to a gas issue.  At least that's what I think.  Who really knows with that child?  He makes me feel like I have never had a baby before.  Totally humbles me.

Since I wanted some ideas about gas (Mylicon and Gas-X are merely a joke to Isaac's digestive tract) I decided to do a Google search.  My first attempt at searching involved the words, "one-year-old gas problem."  You would think this would be clear enough, especially for the sophiscated bots at Google. 

Wrong.  Apparently, those bots have been laid off and replaced with bots from fascist countries (fucking outsourcing) that thought that I wanted, clearly, to hear about child abuse crimes.  I couldn't believe the horrors that came up before my eyes.  I will spare the details here because it is sickening. 

For the sake of honesty, the results were a 50/50 mix for toddler gas problems and child abuse crimes.  But still, really?  Not that I want to negate the fact that the reports were awful, but I have to call Google out on a technicality because most of them didn't even include "gas" in the story.  So why?  Why would the bots even come up with these things as results?  Google has gone off the rails and the world has gone mad. 

And several grown men and women, as I unwillingly learned, need to burn s-l-o-w-l-y and painfully in hell.

So I tried all different search criteria until I found what I wanted.  For those who want to know, the safest search criteria is, "toddler gas problem."  However, this particular criteria still turned up the news story about the one-year-old girl who is pregnant with her fetal twin.  Which, again with the technicalities, is clearly *not* a gas problem.  Although it would explain why I am tempted to call my kids "little farts" so often.

The blog entry in which I prove how mental I really am...

I have no idea what is in the water but everyone at my house is going loony-tunes.  This is no joke.  Dylan is stressed out, Lucas is ultra-distractable, Cassidy much more demanding, Skyler is acting out more and Phil and I are worn out and depressed.  I'm thinking we need a whole family makeover.  The only person who seems to be thriving is Isaac.  This is due to the discovery of his acid reflux issue and the prescribing of the miracle medicine, Zantac. 

Maybe it's the pollen in the air. Or the economic downturn and chaotic times we are living in.  Maybe we need to change our diet or get more excercise.  Maybe it is all these things and more. 

I'm not a fan of uncertainty or not being able to find out information.  It bothers me and rubs under my skin.  Case in point:  I realize I'm depressed.  I feel blah.  No, scratch that.  I feel BLAH-DIDDY-BLAH-BLAH.  I then get worried, "Shit, I'm depressed.  Now how I am going to fix this?  I don't like this feeling and I want it gone right now.  Why is it happening?"  Well, that sounds like a good way to approach depression right?  I am bringing some logical thinking into the picture (Hooked on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy worked for me).  Now...around the time I am on the fifth round of this barrage of self-interrogation it has completely lost any sense of being a healthy response.  I have now shot myself into complete neurosis.  Meanwhile, the kids are acting just as wild as they always do, but now....now it's under the microscope.  Are they being worse than usual?  It seems like it. Well...of course it seems like it.  Everything seems, well, magnified once under the microscope.  This is thanks to my OCD that I could not escape inheriting since I am just one little branch off a massive family tree of anxiety disordered individuals.  Nearly half of my family (on both sides, thanks Mom *and* Dad) spend their days obsessing about our trunk health, re-checking the hydration level for safety purposes, and living in fear that the squirrels are going to bring diseases of unknown etimology to our green parts.  I am working the symbolism tonight.

On my way to work today, I told myself to stop analyzing and just go with it, reminding myself that I'd find my rhythm once again.  My mental barrage slowed and things seemed to be dying down.  Until one of my co-workers mentioned today that she senses I've lost my joie de vivre.  I've also lost my mind, but that seems to have escaped notice.  Although it was nice to have someone touchdown with me on my mental status, I have to say the comment didn't exactly have me beaming sunshine out my ass.  Although not much does anymore, alas...

But I can't hang with this gloomy gus bullshit so I came up with a plan:
I have decided I am going to write down all the things that are bothering me on one big list.  Then I'll flush it and let the landlords deal with the clog.  Only kidding.  (Wow, my eyes nearly twinkled at the thought of being a rascal, I just might be on to something).  But once done with the Bug-a-Boo list, I am going to start a daily list in my planner of those little itsy bitsy things that make life fun, entertaining, and enjoyable. 

My logic behind this plan is that perhaps our modern self-help gurus are right.  No, I don't read that stuff.  But you can't help but hear about it right?  I mean it's everywhere-on their blogs, in the magazine articles that they write and even on Oprah (which, of course, I don't watch) when she interviews them and then that interview mysteriously shows up on your DVR. Really, you can't escape it.  Shut up, it's my lie and I like it. 

Anyway, these people, some of which actually have the proper training and experience to back their teachings, have said that when you focus on something, it becomes bigger in your mind.  I already know this is true with negative stuff.  But what about the good stuff?  In essence, I should be able to focus on the good shit, (like that time when that bitch was driving like an old lady in front of me, forcing me into another lane and then floored her gas pedal and sped past me and she ended up getting a ticket---ohmigod...good times) and it should grow bigger in my head and I will be my piss 'n vinegar self again.  Right?

Maybe it will even make my hassled self feel like life is worthwhile.  Is that too lofty of a goal?  Because honestly, don't know if I could take the failure in stride at this point.

Stay tuned, or whatever.