sueeeus

• the number of years my firstborn has been gracing the earth
• the number of months my last born has been gracing the earth
• the number of hours spent expressing breast milk on any given day
• the number of hours of sleep I manage to accumulate on most nights
• the time of morning when a) my firstborn wakes me up to tell me he’s wet or b) my last born makes it known that it’s time to be fed or c) both a) and b)
• the number of days before Gadget returns from visiting Gizmo
• the number of days remaining of my single mom ‘vacation’
• the number of weeks before my last born begins daycare
• the number of working days left before Christmas
• the number of times each day (on average) that I lose my temper with my firstborn (I so need to figure out this mothering a nearly four year old thing)

before

small child, big mind, loud

dropped food, dropped dish, unhappy

tired, patience long worn

after

time out, minutes pass

words spoken, young mind meets old

until the next time

almost four

boundaries tested

it’s not easy being four

how I love that boy

I wish it were easier to get started when it comes to exercise.  The combination of all things down makes even the prospect of exercise almost insurmountable.  If by some miraculous force of will I can push myself over that edge, and make my grudging self sweat a little, oh, the results!

I managed to spend a little time playing DDR again today.  I try to stick to the fast songs, and I try to do the difficult level.  The antics can be quite comical, and the result is a sweating, heart-pumping, chuckling me.  All good things.  The boost lasts quite some time, too.  Instead of a nap after work, I tidied BB’s room.  It wouldn’t be honest to say that I cleaned it, but where the floor was not visible prior to entry, it is now bravely exposed.  I gave up sorting the toys into their various bins.  It seems pointless, when they all end up on the floor together.  I think I’m the only one who appreciates the order of like things sorted with like things.  He’s nearly four.  He likes chaos.

I feel generally happier, and with that, hopeful.  Hope is a powerful thing.  Depression, on the other hand, is a life sapping force, and I wish it weren’t so easy for it to catch me in its suffocating grasp.

As for hope.  It prompts us to try things we might not otherwise try.  Breastfeeding, for example.  After a shower (bliss!) I noticed that milk was dripping from me.  Unprecedented!  So what do I do?  I take my beautifully content little boy and put him to the breast.  It’s the football hold, the milk is freely flowing, there is NO WORK INVOLVED.  What does he do?  Screws up his face and screams like there’s no tomorrow.  Gadget just laughs and shakes his head.  She’ll never learn, he says to LB.  The Gadget boys don’t like boobs.  It’s just the way it is.

My exercise endorphines are still hanging in there, so I don’t let this lapse of sanity crush my otherwise fragile feelings.  Pumping is more efficient, anyway.  I get both sides drained at the same time, and I get to use the time to read, surf, blog, or otherwise entertain myself on the computer.  It’s me-time!

Most of the time Sometimes I feel as though my life resembles a circus performer’s spinning plates trick.  Up goes a plate, then another and another.  And another.  And so on.  The trick is to keep them spinning or they all come crashing down.

It’s all I can do to keep my life pulled together.  I don’t know if it’s my age (closer to 44 than 43, oh my), the challenges posed by my nearly 4 year old, the challenges posed by my new love (3 months!), the effect of post partum hormonal changes, the effect of domperidone on the pituitary (the reason it works for milk production is the boost to prolactin, a powerful hormone), the full time job, the lack of sleep, the commitment to provide breast milk to my baby, or all of the above.  I’m sure it’s all of the above, and then some.  I’m tapering from the domperidone now, so hopefully in a month or so the various side effects will have departed, leaving at least one less plate spinning.

I’ve barely gotten any fresh air since LB was born.  I’ve been on a walk only a couple of times.  The movement I get is from laundry and housework and schlepping through stores getting groceries.  I keep meaning to get outside and/or get some exercise, any exercise, but one thing gets in the way of another and the next thing I know it’s 2 a.m., I’m finally in bed, thinking back on the day and getting ready for the next (which starts at 6), telling myself that maybe I’ll do better tomorrow.

Today I did manage to turn on the Wii and play DDR, which is big, all things considered.  It’s a step, and it’s in the right direction.  I wore my heart monitor and confirmed that I really did get some aerobic action out of it.  Now it’s just a matter of placing one foot in front of the other.  It’s how I get through each day of pumping, each day of working, each day of living.  One step at a time.

I need to love the moment more, though.  This is the life that I wanted, and now that I have it, I need to find more ways to love each moment, rather than just get through each moment.  It’s pathetic, really.  I almost need to make it a mantra that I repeat constantly, all the day long, “Love the moment, love the moment.”

I have so very much to be thankful for, but this…  …this lights up my life and fills my cup to overflowing.

Bliss.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Have you ever heard the one about finding a worm in your apple?

Not finding the other half.

The same goes for salads.  And finding a bug.  Or part(s) of a bug.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.  I know, get over it, if it were that disgusting, you would have noticed it when you ate it (if in fact you did).

And I wash my lettuce meticulously.

But not meticulously enough.

Apparently.

The washing of lettuces and all manner of things in which creepy crawly things might seek refuge is from henceforth escalated to a level of scrutiny far and beyond meticulous.

I am so squeamish, I’d never make it as survivor (wo)man.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!

Maybe I should be calling you GB instead of LB, my Giggle Box, Gorgeous Boy, Googlie Bear.  You are just so darned adorable, especially when you giggle.  And I hate to stifle you in any way, but when I have an international teleconference discussing very important work matters, it would certainly help my fragile semblance of professionalism if you could, ummmmm, keep it down a bit?

It’s a very good thing that I have a mute button on my headset.  It’s also a good thing that I didn’t need to contribute much to the discussion.

You are so much more active during the day than your brother was.  I recall he slept most of the time during my working hours, up until he was five months old.   You, on the other hand, are a GIGGLE BOX!!  Which I love.  Absolutely adore.  However.  I think I will be sending you to daycare after we herald in the new year.  Because, how can I concentrate on the serious matters of Corporate America when I’ve got a Googlie Bear Giggle Box bouncing away in his bouncy chair at my feet?  I ask you!  So I’ve just perused my work calendar, and it looks like I have between 10 to 14 working days until the new work year begins, depending on how many vacation days I take.  I think we’ll be able to make it.

I’m sure going to miss you, but that will just make the moments when I do see you all the more sweet.  Prepare to be covered in kisses!

One of the reasons I get very little blog traffic may be that my blog sometimes suffers fatal errors.  Lucky these fatal errors aren’t permanent fatal errors.  Although today was a close call.  After the fact, and many hours after discovering that all was dead in the water, I learned that the server on which all my domains reside had suffered the blue screen of death.  Very frustrating.  But my support person, and it’s almost always the same person, is top notch.  However, it’s still frustrating to be dead in the water for an entire day.

I’ve said it before.  I hate technology.  Now, if I had any wits about me, I’d run some backups, just in case.  Too tired right now though.  Maybe tomorrow.

There are two main trains of thought milling about my head right now.  One is that I need to go back to the office.  Need to.  Need some adult interaction, a change of environment, and a better defined routine.  Need it.

The other is that I have a new goal that I need to explore and fully define, but it’s a goal, nonetheless, and it’s important.  I’m sure it’s a repeat goal that I’ve attempted before, and abandoned, but it’s time for a resurrection.

There.  About the office.  I don’t recall feeling this caged the last time I was telecommuting full time.  Maybe it has something to do with the time of year.  BB was born in January, so spring was springing when I was returning to work.  There was more sunshine, there were flowers blooming, there were afternoon walks.  LB was born at the end of August, and we’re fast forwarding past autumn and into winter.  There is rain, and more rain, and wind and more rain.  The sky is darkening by 4 p.m.  Did I mention the rain?  There are no lovely afternoon walks, unless mad dashes through Costco and Fred Meyer count.  I’m only working three days a week, taking Tuesdays and Thursdays as vacation days so I can catch up on the sleep I missed while working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  Having over 20 years under my belt has its advantages.  I get 4 weeks of paid vacation a year, and I can roll a full year over, so I’ve banked 8 weeks that I’m using now, and I can spread it out for quite some time.  I think I can work 3 days a week until April, in fact, and still get paid for full time.  Woot!

But something is different and I’m feeling house-bound.  Stir crazy.  I don’t necessarily get more work done at the office, but it sure is nice to see people, and, dare I say it, social anxiety or not, be seen.  I miss my peeps.  Over twenty years with some of these people make them family.  We’ve spent the better part of our lives together.  I miss that.  I miss them.  I actually brought up the mother’s room calendar today, to see how many people were using it, and if I could fit my pumping schedule in.  A couple of the women have dropped out, and there’s a new one, but it looks like there is room for me.  Do I want to drag my pumping gear around with me?

And then there’s the pang, big time, I feel when considering sending LB off to daycare earlier than later.  He’s only a baby for such a short short time, and what kind of a person am I to send him off when I actually could keep him with me for a little while longer.  As long as he’s not interfering with my work, it’s reasonable to allow him to stay, and since he’s still sleeping through most of my working hours, it’s okay.  So if he’s sleeping, does it matter that he sleeps at my house or at the daycare?  I think I’ll consider starting him at daycare in January, after the bustle of the holidays is over.  He’ll be a little over 4 months old.

Sigh.

Did I mention that I Googled child care rates across the country and found that I’m fortunate enough to live in one of the more expensive states?  I wonder if that means our per capita earnings are accordingly higher?  Right.  I doubt it.  Anyhow, I’ll be getting a blazing steal of a bargain at $300/week for the two kids.  It’s way under the average, so I shouldn’t complain.

And now for the other item.  My goal.  I need to get to know myself better, get over myself, and fall in love with myself, if any of that makes sense.  Get over myself, because I get wrapped up in the same patterns and thoughts and depressions and cycles, over and over and over again.  It’s getting old.  I’m getting old.  And fall in love with myself, so that I can honor myself and accept myself and be comfortable with myself, and just cut myself some slack.  Walk the talk, so to speak.  Not have ridiculous expectations that can’t be met.  Relax a little, alright, already.  No conditions.  That’s the goal.  Unconditional love.  For my self.  I have no idea how to get there, but there it is.  That’s my goal.

I think that unconditional love will wash away a lot of stress and anxiety.  And guilt.