I Get High on Baby Hugs

A friend posted this on our mommy-group website, and I had to share.

I'm especially fond of the Rage homage near the end.

Stay at Home Dad Rap - Watch more free videos

I like Winnie the Pooh, yo.

Yearbook Yourself

1960

1966

I gotta say, I'm kinda diggin' the '66 shot.

What's your best blast from the past? Yearbook yourself here.

(link via Robyn's Online World)

It's Too Early in the Morning for This Kind of Stress

Please tell me I'm not a bad mother. That everyone makes mistakes and that the important thing is that she's okay. Because I know this, but could use the pep talk right now.

I was getting us ready for a playdate this morning. You other parents out there, you know how sometimes you just get that feeling? Like everything's too quiet all of a sudden?

I left the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs open.

She was two thirds of the way up the stairs.

Luckily, I didn't startle her as I vertical-leaped up the stairs until I was right behind her. I let her finish climbing with my hands fractions of an inch from her behind, as we've let her climb a dozen times before.

We started that because I read a suggestion that, rather than making your stairs completely off limits, you let them learn to climb while you're right there because the day will come when they're suddenly confronted with a set of stairs, parent unawares, and a baby with experience is more likely to come out of that confrontation safe than a baby who's never been allowed to experiment with climbing them.

So, maybe I'm not such a horrible mother. Maybe I at least know my own weaknesses. And I don't think I'll make that particular mistake again. My heart couldn't take it.

She Walks!

The Papoosekin is officially walking. Or toddling, anyway. A week ago, she took six steps in a row while I was on the phone with the Husband. We decided that was officially walking. She'd taken one or two steps at a time for days before that, but this was the first real walking she'd done. This video is from last weekend, and I'm sorry it's sideways. I don't have software to edit it, but I'll take another one soon. In the meantime, I knew I hadn't posted any pics of the Papoose in a while, so thought I'd better throw some baby action up before I get lynched. Enjoy!






Cell phones are one of the holy grails of babyhood, in addition to digital cameras and remote controls. Much tussling ensued after this shot was taken. The Ouisers should really get S a bluetooth headset.

Slacker

Uh, yeah. A week later, I still need to finish my list o' interesting things about moi. Commitment issues.

3. All sheets and blankets must be perfectly aligned before going to sleep. This drives the Husband nuts.

4. I'm a very good speller (no fair sifting back through my posts looking for a misspelled word). And I can spell quickly. I think I just had very good sight word memorization when I was little from all the reading I did because when someone asks how to spell a word, I very rarely have to think about it. I just see the word in my head and rattle off the spelling. I didn't realize this was at all unusual until I was in graduate school.

5. I'm an only child. People always ask how that was, whether I liked it, was it hard. I didn't know any different. It was what it was. I think it's why I read so much, which I think helped my education. I also think it's why I'm very, very rarely bored.

6. In another life, or a parallel universe, or something, I'm a linguist. And a good one. If linguistics were a remotely lucrative career, I would have been all over it. As opposed to how well I'm using my speech therapy degree now. Heh. Anyway, there was a point where I was studying German, Greek, and Latin at the same time and was the happiest I've ever been, academically. You know that scene in The 13th Warrior when the old seer woman is maniacally selecting Norseman after Norseman to send chasing some firey wormy menace and they have to act all happy about it? The whole scene is in some language that I can't even identify, but I can translate every word, and did the first time I heard it. It's all about roots and morphemes, yo.

7. My favorite book of all time is the Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.

And I still have three people left to tag:
Toddler Tamer, now that I know you're back in the country and even back online.
The Reid Family
And I'll take a stab at tagging Moosh in Indy. Though, she's one of those bloggers who actually makes money doing this, so she may be too busy pulling in the big bucks to respond to my tag.

The Dam in Pennsylvania

I received this email from Wonderland this morning, and had to share.

The Dam




This is an actual letter sent to a man named Ryan DeVries regarding a pond on his
property. It was sent by the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Quality, State of Pennsylvania . This guy's response is hilarious, but read The State's letter before you get to the response letter.

State of Pennsylvania 's letter to Mr. DeVries:

SUBJECT: DEQ
File No.97-59-0023; T11N; R10W, Sec 20; Lycoming County

Dear Mr. DeVries:

It has come to the attention of the Department of Environmental Quality that there has been recent unauthorized activity on the above referenced parcel of property. You have been certified as the legal landowner and/or contractor who did the following unauthorized activity:

Construction and maintenance of two wood debris dams across the outlet stream of Spring Pond.

A permit must be issued prior to the start of this type of activity. A review of the Department's files shows that no permits have been issued Therefore, the Department has determined that this activity is in violation of Part 301, Inland Lakes and Streams, of the Natural Resource and Environmental Protection Act, Act 451 of the Public Acts of 1994, being sections 324.30101 to 324.30113 of the Pennsylvania Compiled Laws, annotated.

The Department has been informed that one or both of the dams partially failed during a recent rain event, causing debris and flooding at downstream locations. We find that dams of this nature are inherently hazardous and cannot be permitted. The Department therefore orders you to cease and desist all activities at this location, and to restore the stream to a free-flow condition by removing all wood and brush forming the dams from the stream channel. All restoration work shall be completed no later than January 31, 2007.

Please notify this office when the restoration has been completed so that a follow-up site inspection may be scheduled by our staff. Failure to comply with this request or any further unauthorized activity on the site may result in this case being referred for elevated enforcement action.

We anticipate and would appreciate your full cooperation in this matter. Please feel free to contact me at this office if you have any questions.

Sincerely,
David L. Price
District Representative and Water Management Division.

Here is the actual response sent back by Mr. DeVries:


Re: DEQ File
No. 97-59-0023; T11N; R10W, Sec. 20; Lycoming County

Dear Mr. Price,

Your certified letter dated 12/17/06 has been handed to me to respond to. I am the legal landowner but not the Contractor at 2088 Dagget Lane , Trout Run, Pennsylvania .

A couple of beavers are in the (State unauthorized) process of constructing and maintaining two wood "debris" dams across the outlet stream of my Spring Pond. While I did not pay for, authorize, nor supervise their dam project, I think they would be highly offended that you call their skillful use of natures building materials "debris."

I would like to challenge your department to attempt to emulate their dam project any time and/or any place you choose. I believe I can safely state there is no way you could ever match their dam skills, their dam resourcefulness, their dam ingenuity, their dam persistence, their dam determination and/or their dam work ethic.


These are the beavers/contractors you are seeking.
As to your request, I do not think the beavers are aware that they must first fill out a dam permit prior to the start of this type of dam activity.

My first dam question to you is:
(1) Are you trying to discriminate against my Spring Pond Beavers, or
(2) do you require all beavers throughout this State to conform to said dam request?

If you are not discriminating against these particular beavers, through the Freedom of Information Act, I request completed copies of all those other applicable beaver dam permits that have been issued.

(Perhaps we will see if there really is a dam violation of Part 301, Inland Lakes and Streams, of the Natural Resource and Environmental Protection Act, Act 451 of the Public Acts of 1994, being sections 324.30101 to 324.30113 of the Pennsylvania Compiled Laws, annotated.)

I have several dam concerns. My first dam concern is, aren't the beavers entitled to legal representation? The Spring Pond Beavers are financially destitute and are unable to pay for said representation -- so the State will have to provide them with a dam lawyer.

The Department's dam concern that either one or both of the dams failed during a recent rain event, causing flooding, is proof that this is a natural occurrence, which the Department is required to protect. In other words, we should leave the Spring Pond Beavers alone rather than harassing them and calling them dam names.

If you want the damed stream "restored" to a dam free-flow condition please contact the beavers -- but if you are going to arrest them, they obviously did not pay any attention to your dam letter, they being unable to read English.

In my humble opinion, the Spring Pond Beavers have a right to build their unauthorized dams as long as the sky is blue, the grass is green and water flows downstream. They have more dam rights than I do to live and enjoy Spring Pond. If the Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Protection lives up to its name, it should protect the natural resources (Beavers) and the environment (Beavers' Dams).

So, as far as the beavers and I are concerned, this dam case can be referred for more elevated enforcement action right now. Why wait until 1/31/2007? The Spring Pond Beavers may be under the dam ice by then and there will be no way for you or your dam staff to contact/harass them.

In conclusion, I would like to bring to your attention to a real environmental quality, health, problem in the area It is the bears! Bears are actually defecating in our woods. I definitely believe you should be persecuting the defecating bears and leave the beavers alone. If you are going to investigate the beaver dam, watch your dam step! The bears are not careful where they dump!

Being unable to comply with your dam request, and being unable to contact you on your dam answering machine, I am sending this response to your dam office.

THANK YOU,
RYAN DEVRIES & THE DAM BEAVERS

Medicated Me

I'm on my third day now with the little pink pills.

I'm not sure yet if I can feel a difference. I know it commonly takes a few weeks, so I'm not concerned. I feel good, but I had felt good for a couple days before starting them, so who knows? I could be in an up cycle, or it could be a placebo effect. Don't care. I am not one to look a gift placebo effect in the mouth.

Wha??

Also, night before last, I was having trouble sleeping and thought, "Well, this is what he prescribed the anxiety meds for," so I took one.

I have tried twice now to explain how mind-blowing the effect was on me, but so far have failed. All I've managed to come up with is this:

I felt like 90% of my brain had just been shut off. It was the most unbelievable silence I can ever imagine experiencing. All of the voices were gone. And I don't mean voices in the multiple personalities way (yeah, yeah, get all the Cybil jokes out of your systems now, people). I mean that I normally spend a good chunk of my time and energy trying to keep my anxiety at bay because when I let down my guard (like at night, when I'm trying to sleep), all the unspeakable worries come streaming in and form a giant downward spiral that sucks me into the bad, dark places, and I can't fight my way out.

But that was all gone. I was 100% in the present for, I think, the first time in my adult life. I have never felt so there. For the sake of academic experimentation, I actually tried to come up with something to be anxious about and couldn't.

But I didn't feel drugged. I didn't feel spacy or out of it or medicated or sluggish. Well, I was sleepy; I was trying to go to bed, after all. So I'll have to see what it's like some time when I take it during the day.

But what I keep trying to figure out--again, as I had to clarify for Ouiser, not because I'm worried about it, but just out of academic, dorky interest and curiosity--is that what all y'all "normal" people feel like all the time? Or did my medicated pendulum swing past normal all the way to the other end of the spectrum? If that's how the rest of the world gets to live all the time, y'all are dang lucky. It was pretty sweet.

Friday Favorite

Grammarians and logophiles, prepare to be horrified. Apparently, the folks at Webster's have gotten a little loosey-goosey with their new entries. Check out Happy Meals & Happy Hour for a great report here.

Magnificent Seven (Er, Two)

So excited that after two years of blogging I've finally been tagged! Thanks, Snarkygirl08! Snarky is apparently on the edge of her seat waiting for me to divulge seven facts about myself and thinks y'all'll be just as interested (that's what I call a double contraction with a half twist. It won me the gold in '04.). Seven is a lot. I'm not sure I am that interesting

1. I'm very tall. Like, 5'10". I know that's not record-breaking or anything, but I'm well above the 95th percentile (I checked. By the way, do you realize that we're already shrinking, ladies? At least, I am. According to that chart, I peaked in my early 20s. Life is cruel.). I'd probably be taller if it wasn't for that dang kyphosis. Extreme height (I'm assuming this works both ways) has a greater effect on one's life than ye average-heighted sistahs may imagine (some Olde English Gangsta for you there). Firstly, NO CLOTHES FIT ME. Ever. Until now. Because now, Banana Republic (yeah, right, like I shop there anymore. Sometimes I miss having a paying job.), Gap, and, most recently, Old Navy all carry tall sizes. In tops, too. This is really the key because, although hard to find, pants with a longer inseam have, truthfully, been around for some time. But to not have my belly hanging out of my shirts, especially now (ugh!)...it's a reality dreamt of since I was a wee 5'8" freshman in high school. I remember being in college and being asked why I was wearing a shirt that was too small for me (I'm looking at you, Wonderland!!). As I looked down at shirt sleeves that had shrunk up to the midpoint of my forearms, I didn't really have an answer. This is the same Wonderland who also laughed and pointed at how skinny my calves are on our way home from crew practice one day. I'm a freak, Wonderland! That's why! On the other hand, if I had a nickel for every woman who has told me how they envy my height and that I should be a model (Note to all those women: get thee to the season premiere of ANTM Cycle Gagillion. Because, in case you haven't noticed, you need a lot more than height to be a model. Like, you have to weigh approximately 4 lbs. And have cheekbones that could slice bread. Which I don't.), I'd be...well, let's just say I could afford to have a personal chef and trainer to get me to a weight of 4. Or at least 140. Another advantage is athletic prowess. Or at least the potential for athletic prowess, however unrealized it may be (ahem). I blame inconsistent coaching in high school as the only reason I didn't completely kick-ass during my volleyball years. Wasted talent. That, and the fact that I'm about as coordinated as my nine-month-old daughter. She's probably peaking even as I wr-...wait, nope, she peaked, that was it. Finally, I can reach stuff no one else can and am often the first to spot Mr. Ouiser in a crowd.
2. I used to be a rower (see Athletic Prowess, above). I entered college looking for the most difficult, most punishing, most thankless sport there is, found it, and shouted, "Sign me up!" I met some of the best people I've ever met in my life through crew, including the Husband and a good chunk of my current best friends (um, maybe 99% of them?). I also suffered palms full of open and bleeding blisters, shoulder injuries, back injuries, calve scars, knee damage, sleep deprivation, vomiting, frostnip, windburn, lactic acid overload, and a failed career in mathematics (you can't pass a 200-level calculus class as a freshman if you sleep through every single class. Apparently, you not only have to be there, you have to actually maintain consciousness. Who knew?). For those of you not familiar, collegiate rowing involves getting up at 2:00 am for practice, running 73 miles uphill both ways in the snow just to get to the boathouse, getting into a long, skinny boat with seven other rowers and a pipsqueak with a Napolean complex and a microphone (read: coxswain; I kid, die Frau, I kid!), who orders you around a lake that is half a degree away from freezing, while blisters form, burst, and bleed all over your oar as you're supposed to be coordinating your strokes with the other rowers for fear of catching a crab (crew-speak for putting your oar in the water a fraction too late, too early, too angled, not angled enough, etc.; aka "Uh-oh.") and getting thrown from the boat as the handle comes back to punch you in the stomach and lift you in the air, or possibly just losing some teeth if you're lucky enough to catch it in the face. And, if the hungover rower behind you is really considerate, she'll puke over the side of the boat rather than on your back. It was so much fun. And I never want to do it again.

Hmmm, seven may take a while. I'll leave you with these two uber-interesting facts to absorb today and will hit you with the rest as the week goes on.

In the meantime, as per the rules, I need to tag seven more people, so I'll start with my favorite pipsqueak, die Frau; and my favorite so-should-have-been-coxswains, Ouiser and Scarlet Lily; and my girl, Yum, who is expert in the ups and downs of living with rowers (who generate so much body heat that they like to keep the temp at a balmy 58 degrees), and THAT SYRACUSE PRACTICE! (Ask her, I'm sure she'd love to explain.)

You're it! Make sure you each tag seven more. And keep it real, yo.

*August, 18: Note that the author holds no ill will, grudges, or pouty faces toward Wonderland and her comments of ten years ago. My attempts at humor and self-deprecation were in no way meant to out her as an evil, acid-tongued mud-slinger. I was not calling her out so much as gently ribbing. However, Wonderland, if you ever tease me for not ironing my pants, all bets are off and the friendship is over. You're on notice.

And for My Next Trick, I'm Giving Up Meat

I love that feeling where something occurs to you, some kind of epiphany, or maybe some creative idea, and then you hear it or see it or read about it somewhere else, almost immediately. That whole universe-in-sync thing that I know I've discussed here before, and with die Frau on multiple occasions.

So, last night, I was laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, futiley due to a poorly timed afternoon nap. And the anxiety started creeping in, like it always does at night if I don't fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. The start of my meds is only a couple days away now, and I find myself worried about what I'll do if the meds don't make everything much, much better. Like, what if I'm still so unhappy even without the depression? What if it's something more, in addition to the depression?

I remember being really happy during the first two thirds of my pregnancy, when the back pain wasn't keeping me completely bed-ridden, and my hormones weren't too crazy out of control. What was I doing then? I was reading. And I was sewing. And I was learning to cook. And I was generally nesting. I wasn't working out much, but that's something that has ALWAYS helped my mood, as long as I can remember. I think a lot of my unahppiness now is due to pure boredom. And I keep asking myself if I just need to get back to work (still waiting on that stupid license), or if it's something else. And I keep answering myself that, yeah, working a day every week or two would probably help, but that alone is not going to bring my personality back.

I feel very lost. Like I don't even know what interests me or inspires me anymore. And I remember very clearly a year or two ago feeling like there were so very many things in life that I was excited about that I was afraid I'd never get to experience them all in one lifetime. That's got to be the depression, right? I want so badly for this medicine to be a magic, cure-all pill, but I know it probably won't be.

So the conclusion I came to last night that finally helped me sleep was this: My Google Reader is keeping me down. I spend the majority of my day with the Papoosekin, in the house, in the living room with her playing on the floor. Playing with a nine-month-old has its perks and moments of unbelievable cuteness, but it gets boring, yo! And the conversation is pretty one-sided. So I get bored. I don't like to keep the tv on too much because she watches it and I'm not down with that for extended periods of time. So I pick up the laptop and usually end up reading blogs for some connection to the outside world. But I think it's become a giant time suck for me, and I'm wondering if there aren't other things I could be doing that would be more uplifting and fulfilling.

To be fair to myself, this habit started because the Papoosekin is loathe to allow me more than five feet away from her at any given time. And I've indulged this for a while because, after all, she was only six months old, then seven, then eight, but now she nine months, and practically walking, and really, this tugging at my skirts (literally) can't go on forever. I understood, when she was going through the separation anxiety, but we're pretty much past that. And I'm not going to cut her off cold turkey, but I think it's time to start learning that crying doesn't always get you picked up and Mama's not going to drop what she's doing just because you're crying. At least not when you're crying only because you've realized that Mama's undivided attention is no longer on you and your fascinating block-gnawing activities.

Apparently, similar revelations have been unfolding at Loralee's Looney Tunes. I'm not quite ready to delete my whole Google Reader (but I also don't have hundreds of subscriptions. Only 52.), but I think I'm relegating the laptop to the office, out of the living room. It's just as well; the Papoosekin is getting taller and so the surfaces on which I can safely store the laptop are shrinking. I'm not sure exactly what more rewarding projects this will spur me onto it, but something will surely pop up. I'll keep you posted.

And to be clear, I'm not planning to blog less frequently, just wasting less time on the Internet in general. I think Google Readers can be an addiction, if you're not careful. And for the love of bacon, the last thing I need is more medical intervention for my various psychoses.

Friday Favorite

This post is nominated not even so much for the content as the comments. Enjoy this from Happy Meals & Happy Hour.

So Who Has to Be Robin?

The Husband and I are two very different people. In fact, we're pretty much polar opposites about a lot of things, ranging in importance from food preferences to fundamental personality type.

The depression and anxiety I've been dealing with lately have been hard on him, too. Anxiety, they say, expresses itself as rage, and I have to admit, ashamedly, that the Husband has taken the brunt of that. So we've not been our closest lately and as he was getting ready to leave the country for a week, I was feeling pretty emotional about adding such a physical distance to the emotional distance we've recently felt.

Me: I'm just so sick of us never understanding each other anymore. Everything is so hard and I just wish we agreed on something.

Husband: Well, we both like Batman.

That pretty much made my day.

Do a Little Dance

Five years ago, last Saturday, the 26th, the Husband and I tied the knot at a little inn in Vermont. Sixty-five of our closest friends and family got down and boogied with us. It was so much fun that a close family friend passed out, my stepmother-in-law had to go to the hospital, and my florist kind of yelled at me. And 73 people gave toasts, I had so much fun I didn't drink a thing (except for the toasts, and until my friends found out that I wasn't drinking a thing), and everyone said it was the best wedding they'd ever been to. Oh yeah, and I won a husband and a trip to Jamaica. Made out pretty well, all in all.

We've had ups and downs since then, of course, but it's been a wilder roller coaster ride than ever this year. I feel like we are just barely coming up from what may be the lowest low we've ever had, with a long way to go yet just to approach sea level (See what I did there? With the horrendously mixed metaphors? You should see me with a martini.).

And our anniversary was such a microcosmic representation of the whole year. You can't make this kind of material up.

The Husband surprised me by planning the whole night for us. Which was great because it occurred to me that I'd better start looking for a babysitter, oh, two nights before our anniversary. But he already had one lined up. Ouiser's aunt generously took the Papoosekin off our hands for the WHOLE NIGHT! We haven't had a night out alone without her since before we left Tucson in February. FIVE MONTHS AGO. I believe I did a little dance in their driveway.

The Husband brought me to a surprise restaurant, featured in the August issue of Southern Living magazine. OMG, it was fabulous! Every single thing was delicious. It was the best meal, for the food, the conversation, the company, the atmosphere, everything, that I've had in forever.

Brie and fruit appetizer

My beef filet with green beans and some kind of potato pancake thingy. I forget what they called it.

The Husband's flank steak with pommes frites and cheese grits. It was supposed to come with broccoli but he subbed. Yeah, the waitress was a little horrified. That's my meat and potatoes guy!

Chocolate torte and pistachio ice cream. Perfection.

We even managed to get to the movie theater in time to catch the last part of the Husband's fun-filled plan and saw the Batman movie. Which was great. Loved Heath Ledger. So, so creepy.

But THEN! THEN!!! We leave the theater all happy and satisfied with the night and tired and ready to go home to the Papoosekin and sleep. And we get in the car and see that the few papers that were in there are scattered all over the front seats and floor. And it's not even our car. Our car died a few weeks ago and we'd been borrowing a spare car from the Ouiser collection.

Someone had broken into our borrowed car. And stolen the Husband's laptop. The laptop that's owned by the company he works for. The company for whom he's only been working for five months. And he's a YANKEE!

We called the cops. The cops came. They took our report and that of at least two other people whose cars also got broken into. Did I mention that the Husband had a bunch of our personal financial documents in the laptop case? Yeah, he did. Oh, and also a memory stick with ALL OUR PERSONAL DOCUMENTS from our desktop. Oh yes, he did.

I cried. The Husband sighed. We drove home, deflated. The Husband got some ribbing at work last week, but nothing too bad. We knew we'd never see that laptop again. I don't care how small your town is, the police have better things to do than track down this kind of petty theft. The whole thing felt numbingly familiar. We're like a Greek tragedy over here, except no one is putting us out of our misery.

But THEN! THEN!!! I must have finally sacrificed enough chickens to the right god because the police called the Husband and said THEY HAD THE LAPTOP! In fact, they'd had it since the night it was stolen. The idiot thief took a bunch of the credit cards he'd stolen (from a total of nine cars, apparently) and tried to use a bunch of them at Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart detained him (more on that later) and the police got back all the property. It just took them four days to get around to calling. Whatever, do you realize what this means?

Something actually went well for us. We had good luck. (If you never read another post from me, it's because lightening struck my house tonight. Right on my head.) We sat around for three days waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it really hasn't. I don't even know what to do with this feeling. I feel so accustomed to all the crap life has been dealing us lately that I almost don't feel like we deserve this good fortune. I'm sure I'll adjust.

So that's my happy anniversary story.

Now, back to Wal-Mart. I quizzed the Husband on this, but he was unable to come up with any satisfactory answers. I want to know how Wal-Mart is able to "detain" anybody. I swear I've never seen any security in there, but the Husband claims that he has. Fine, even if they have security, no way do those rent-a-cops have guns. Do you think they strong-armed the dude? Or do you think the thief was so stupid that security said, "Stay," and he just sat down with his stolen merchandise and played solitaire on our laptop until the cops showed up? Do you think a bunch of checkout clerks tackled him and performed a citizen's arrest? I'm so curious about this...

New Tradition

Okay, we're starting a Friday Favorite Post of the Week. It will probably last...this week.

And it will consist of whatever post that week made me wish I'd done more kegels after pregnancy so I wouldn't have to try so hard not to pee my pants with laughter.

Ha ha! Get it? Kegels?

Oh, I see. Not an image you wanted. Meh. Fine.

Here's this week's winner! Now Imagine 10 Years of This, People by Amalah

Local Duck Found

One Duck, of Dickson, Tennesse, was recovered yesterday when local authorities found him at nearby Cheekwood Gardens in Nashville.

Duck was first reported missing by one Papoosekin, also of the same residence in Dickson, at lunchtime yesterday. Papoosekin was unable to report the time or location that Duck had last been seen. Luckily, Papoosekin's mother was on the scene to assist with the search-and-rescue plan.

"I remember seeing him in her stroller as we were approaching the mansion. I kept looking over to make sure he hadn't fallen out. But now that I think about it, I don't remember seeing him when we left the mansion. She was only holding her mum-mum."

A Cheekwood spokesperson has been quoted as saying that the mother's story was crucial in conducting investigations. "We'd never have found Duck so fast, if she hadn't been able to narrow the search parameters," he stated.

Duck and Papoosekin were reunited yesterday afternoon at 2:00 pm. Other Cheekwood officials had already located Duck by the time he was reported missing and were holding him in a detainment cell as he lacked identification. No injuries were sustained. It is thought that Duck may have fallen out of the stroller during a particularly steep climb approaching the mansion. Unfortunately, Duck was unavailable for questioning regarding his role in the caper.

Celebration continued into the night as local paparazzi caught the pair, apparently leaving the Living Room. Papoosekin would only offer, "Do, do, do!" Duck gave no comment.

Papoosekin's mother is said by an anonymous source to be looking into purchasing opportunites of spare Ducks.

Lessons from My Brain

You know when you learn a new word and suddenly you see/hear it everywhere? They say you're just more aware of it now because you finally know what it means.

I thought I knew what the word "depression" meant. When do you learn about that? Middle school? Probably sooner for some kids. Depression, I thought, was what happened to some people, sometimes, when they become very sad and down and need to go to doctors to help them get better.

As we got older, they started with all those dang pharmaceutical commercials. But I bet we all learned a little better what depression is. "Where does depression hurt?" But like so many things in life, you don't really know until you've been there.

I linked to some posts recently that probably were a bit of a buzz kill to some. I think it made my family nervous. Then, after my "depression coming out post" (term credited to mooshinindy's recent tweet), I'm sure it made a little more sense to people. I've read so many depression coming out posts since then. I feel like they're everywhere, all of a sudden. They all sound exactly the same. Well, not exactly. I seem to like to slap myself upside the head with how much worse everyone else has it. Horror stories of NICUs, fantasies of hurting self or child, so many health problems that I'm so happy we've been blessed not to have to survive.

But I try not to let myself play the who-has-it-worse or, even more fun, who-deserves-to-feel-depressed game because it's stupid and I never win anyway. We've had our share of hard times. My baby's healthy, but I scare easy, and we had a rough start. We moved across the country. The Husband is in a new job. We're in a new, small town. We've been sick with virus after virus after virus. After virus. My back went out. I haven't slept. We have carpenter bees, and water damage in an outer wall, and dangerous wiring that had to be replaced, and ticks in the yard, and some kind of orange lawn rust disease, and a flooding dishwasher, and no refrigerator when there was supposed to be one, and somewhat shoddy construction in our utility room, and cracking kitchen tile, and asbestos under that tile, and no smoke detectors, and our car gave up the ghost, and the borrowed car was broken into, and the Husband's laptop was stolen, and oh yeah the identity theft, after virus after virus, and my back went out again. And the ten baby pounds I can't lose. Probably because I'm depressed and therefore want to eat all day. And the separation anxiety of the Papoosekin kept me out of the gym until very, very recently. Bah.

And then there are things that the Husband and I have endured that no one knows about, and no one will, and neither will you, Internet, because everyone has skeletons. But man, they weigh you down.

That's my inventory of Why Things Suck. I know I've left some out. Probably a lot. They sneak up on you, and depression sneaks up on you, and you wake up one morning and realize you never want to get out of be anymore (I used to POP out of bed, even on weekends, raring to go. Drove the Husband nuts.). And then you find yourself crying on your baby while she's trying to nurse. And you're biting your husband's head off like some demented preying mantis (praying mantis?). And you can't identify what's actually wrong.

And you're only one in a gazillion mamas, all in their own, isolated little boats!

When did all these mamas get depressed? Ninny, they've been everywhere, always, you're only just noticing because now you're one of them. Parenting's hard. Hormones suck. Depression sneaks up on you. And this is what else I've learned about it:

1. You're convinced you're alone, but you're not.
   
2. At least half your friends have battled depression, even if you don't know about it.
3. It feels exactly like you're wrapped in seran wrap: you can see everyone and everything around you, you can see all the good things and good people and love that's out there, but none of it can touch you. That's stolen from another blogger, but I have no idea whom. (If you recognize it, let me know, I'm happy to link to and credit them)
4. Nothing is wrong and everything is wrong all at the same time, and you will never be able to explain this to your husband, much to both of your dismay.
5. The last thing you want to do is talk about it. You want someone else to notice and then save you. If they do, you're lucky. Most likely you just have to wait for it to get bad enough that your common sense gets so freaked out that it screams loud enough to make itself heard through the haze.
6. There are good days and bad days and the good days may come all in a flood of sunshine and rainbows and kittens and make you feel like yourself for the first time in months and it will feel so good and so right and maybe you're not even actually sick after all? and then BOOM! You get knocked on your ass so hard and so fast and with no warning, and let that be a lesson to you. Depression does not up and walk away one day. DO NOT cancel your appointment with the doctor because things seem rosy again. It's an illusion. Things are crap and you need help.
7. You cannot will yourself out of depression.
8. Depression and anxiety can be hereditary. This information doesn't necessarily help, but it's interesting.
9. You can still smile and laugh when you're depressed. This may fool people around you into thinking the other times are just bad days. This can be good if you're trying to fool people. It can be bad if you're begging someone to notice.
10. It takes a lot of guts to start talking. For me it came out of desperation. But once you do, it's sooooo much easier. Then you want to talk about it a lot because you're so happy not to feel so alone and to feel like someone (finally!) gets it! In fact, a lot of someones get it. Which is both sad and heartening.

Part of me wants to apologize for all the doom and gloom I've posted recently. My three readers probably get sick of it. And part of me is absolutely not sorry at all because this is important and I started this blog for me, not to become one of the famous bloggers who pays their mortgage with their blog. Although, now that I think about it, many of them start this way. But anyway. Things will get cheerier around here when I do. And it will happen, I know. Hopefully, you'll still be with me when it does. At any rate, I'll still be here.

Totally "Addictive"

For all my favorite punctuation guerillas, check out The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.
It's pretty "funny."
link via Cake Wrecks via Scarlet Lily

Milk Factory Shutdown: Phase 1

I spent much of Friday staring at two pieces of paper currently magneted to the refrigerator.

The Husband and I both had a hunch, when I was pregnant, that I could be one of the unfortunate women who might end up with post-partum depression. Do you think there are some people that just have more of a propensity to end up battling depression at some point in their lives? Not in that, "Yeah, I always thought she had a screw loose!" kind of way. Just people who's natural personality traits may make them more vulnerable to it? 'Cause I kind of do. And I'm including myself here, so you know I don't mean these people are weak or mopey or whiney or whatever horrible little stereotypes you sometimes hear. I don't think I could define this personality type. But I know there are people in my life that I just can't imagine being likely to ever suffer from clinical depression, and people about whom I wouldn't be surprised, though I would be sorry, to hear of battling it.

Anyway.

I finally went to the doctor. My general practitioner, not a psychiatrist. I had had an appointment with a $300/hr psychiatrist several weeks ago, but canceled the appointment when the three preceding weeks were the first time I'd felt like myself in months. I didn't know...about that symptom that everyone else seems to have known about...that depression is like that, with the ups and downs.

So now I have two pieces of paper from the doctor magneted to my fridge. One is a presciption for an antidepressant. One is for anti-anxiety meds. I have not filled them.

There are two reasons for that: First, I'm pretty sure I have a pathological phobia of taking meds. Okay, maybe not that bad. But it is a battle to get me to take Advil when I have a headache, Nyquil when I have a cold, any kind of pain meds stronger than Advil after knee surgery. I'm sure it's terribly annoying to everyone around me. And I don't know where that comes from or what it's about. Probably some horrifyingly transparent reflection of my control-freak nature. But there it is.

More importantly, I can't start meds while nursing the Papoosekin. This is the main reason I didn't make this jump three months ago when the Husband and I realized that I was "not well." I saw my doctor then, too, and he got it, and he wanted to give me a prescription then, warning that my marriage would need it. But he also got it about the nursing. And that I'd had such a hard time getting started and that six months was way too soon, for me personally, to wean. He got that I so wanted to make it to 12 months. So we compromised and he sent me off for some cognitive therapy to try to bridge me to the nine-month mark without losing it completely. Nine months, we agreed, was not too early.

But that counselor was a horrible, guilt-tripping, insensitive wench who basically told me to suck it up, create more energy (from where?), and that it was pretty much unacceptable that I wasn't cooking and cleaning more. I tried to put a brave face on it at first, but some distance has made enraged at how horrible she was. I only saw her twice, then stopped because I entered that three-week remission. It's apparently a big, huge given that cognitive therapy doesn't do crap for PPD anyway.

So I have the prescriptions and we've started weaning. And the Papoosekin takes a bottle, even from me, so it's really not that bad. But I'm still battling this guilt about not making it to 12 months. So, so stupid, I know. I would never hesitate to agree that this is the right decision if it were someone else; in fact, I fully know that this is the right decision for me. But I didn't want to wean at nine months and it's hard because she is obviously missing those two nursing sessions we've dropped and I know it's just a habit because when she's tired, she wants to nurse...but it's hard.

I'm not really sure how fast we'll get through this and how fast I'll need to cash in those two pieces of paper on the fridge into nasty little pills that I'll have to take for god knows how long. But it's coming. And I'm both relieved and resentful all at once.

Without even an attempt at a segue, I'm going to just dump some pictures of a very happy Papoosekin in here to make us all feel better.

See, Papoosekin loves her bottle, too. Especially when cuddled up to the awesome Mr. Ouiser, sunburn or no.

Saturday, we went to an Irish Barbecue Picnic. The Papoosekin did not get to have any barbecue. She had a Wagon Wheel.

A little extra laundry to do...

8 Hours

I fell asleep around 10:00 last night. The Papoosekin didn't get up until almost 6:30 am. I didn't wake up until the Husband's alarm went off at 6:00 am.

I didn't wake up.

Holy healing power of writing.

I slept through the night.

And the Papoosekin rewarded me with her first step today.

This is a Wordle of that last post. I'm going to focus on that big, purple word.

The Day This Blog Got Real

I used to be a good sleeper. I won the award for Best Napper in kindergarten.

In eighth grade I had mono and, as I recall, it took weeks for my parents to realize I was sick because I slept so much anyway.

I spent most of high school getting home from practice (depending on the season, x-country, track, volleyball, whatever) at around 5:30 or 6:00 pm, passing out in my room, missing dinner, getting up around 8:00 or 9:00 pm, finding something to eat, talking on the phone until 11:00 or 12:00, then finally getting around to doing my homework.

I don't even remember when I got most of my sleep in college. I was a rower, which meant getting up at 5:00 am or earlier every morning for practice. Because dorms don't quiet down to any decibel level that is remotely reasonable for someone trying desperately to induce sleep until at least 11:00 pm, I think I did most of my sleeping during my 8:00 am calculus class. I had notebooks full of pencil marks skittering off the page or becoming so minute that it required a magnifying glass to read the equations.

After college, the Husband and I lived in Philly for a while, and for part of that time my brother- and sister-in-law lived in the same apartment building. Right across the hall, in fact. I'm pretty sure my brother-in-law became convinced I was an undiagnosed narcoleptic because he woke me up from a nap every single time he came over.

That long history of a good, healthy sleep appetite ended, as it does for almost every mother I've ever heard of, during pregnancy. I had some back issues during pregnancy that were a bit more severe than average. I had to stop working early because of them and spent a lot of time at home, nesting for the baby when I could walk, taking in a lot of tv when I couldn't. And napping. And the naps at that point were some of the more reasonable and justifiable of my life because, hello, I was pregnant and exhausted anyway, but also because, like most pregnant women, I wasn't getting much sleep at night what with the bladder squished by the weight of a whole human sitting on it, the back pain, and the general discomfort of hosting said human with free room and board for ten months.

I knew sleep would be scarce with a new baby. Duh. But I didn't expect the complete and utter sleep dysfunction that life has thought fit to bestow upon me. Apparently all those early years of robust somnolence were leading up to a major drought.

The night the Papoosekin was born (or was it the next day? It's all a blur.), I had a nightmare that the Husband was holding her and dropped her. Not like she just somehow wiggled out of his arms, or he tripped, or anything remotely accidental. He just let go and watched her fall. I know that sounds like some major trust issues with my husband, but it actually had nothing to do with that. I woke up with my heart racing, but with no untoward feelings about him. Just terror about the safety of the Papoose and a desperate need to identify her whereabouts and that she was still breathing.

This never stopped. She's ALMOST NINE MONTHS OLD!

That first nightmare haunted me for weeks, awake and asleep. I can still replay it in my mind in vivid detail and actually feel my heart rate escalating as I type this.

The Papoosekin slept in our room the first couple months, and I woke up at the sound of a pin dropping, but hearing all her coos and sighs and wee coughs while sleeping actually soothed me into assurance that she was still alive and well. She moved into her own room shortly before the big move across the country. I can't remember if the major nightmares started before or after that, but they started with a vengeance. I didn't actually have proper nightmares, per se, but I would half wake, convinced that she was in the bed with us and that we'd accidentally fallen asleep with her there (we never coslept, so I don't know the origin of this exact manifestation of my clearly major neurosis), and that she was suffocating. I would start frantically ripping the sheets and blankets off the bed trying to find her. I'd wake up the Husband, grabbing his arm or shoulder or face, thinking it was her, and trying to pick her up, talk to her, make sure she was safe. I don't know how many times I must have scared him out of his skin during this mania before he got so used to it, he'd just mumble, "She's safe, she's in her crib, go back to sleep" while I had my hands on his cheeks cooing, "Hi, baby!"

Sounds almost funny, when I read it, but it's so, so not. It would often take minutes to wake up enough to realize that everything was okay, that my baby was safe. And by then I was wide awake, so it took a while to get back to sleep. And a while to get my heart out of my throat, calm the nausea in my stomach, and feel that it was safe to close my eyes again. Only for it to happen again and hour later. And again. And again. And again.

*****************

Once I was searching and searching our bed for her and couldn't find her anywhere. I saw a pile of blankets on the floor next to me and thought she'd gotten wrapped up in them and fallen off the bed. I looked at the bundle carefully for any movement and saw none. I reached a hand down to feel if there was any movement, any breathing, and there was none. I thought she was dead. For minutes. A lifetime. Until I got up the nerve to unwrap the bundle and found there was nothing but blankets. My sobbing woke up the Husband that time.

*****************

When the Papoosekin started crawling, the nightmares shifted from the suffocation theme to a falling-off-the-bed scenario, whereby she was either on the floor injured or crawling around on her own in our not-entirely-child-proofed bedroom, about to hurt herself. So now I got to leap out of bed, searching wildly around the room trying to find her. The worst part about this new variation on my own personal hell was that now the half-awakenings were proceeded by very realistic dreams of her waking up in the night, me going to get her from her crib, and bringing her back to bed with me. Which never happens in our house. But it does in lots of others', so it's a very logical and reasonable imagining. As I gradually woke up, even to the point of full awareness, I had no idea whether I had actually gone to get my baby and she might truly be in the room, or whether the whole thing was a dream and she was asleep in her crib as she always was. The bright side was that at least I wasn't waking up the Husband anymore. At this point, I was going through the whole routine about a dozen times per night.

After almost nine months of this, as you can imagine, I've been nearing a breaking point. Obviously, I haven't been getting any kind of quality sleep at all. I wake up at the sound of the cats walking across the floor. I wake up every time the air conditioning comes on. Downstairs. I wake up when the Husband rolls over. Wide awake. Every time. And I don't wake up like a normal person, opening the eyes, looking around half-awake to make sure everything's okay, and going back to sleep. Nor even like a normal insomniac, who wakes up, realizes they won't be able to get back to sleep, and stumbles downstairs for some water, or tv, or Internet. I wake up with a whiplash-inducing suddenness, ramrod straight, sitting up in bed, one thought, and one thought only, at the forefront of my mind, pulse racing, almost in full-on panic attack mode: "WHERE IS SHE?"

*****************

What's that? Where am I going with this horrifically depressing story? Why am I weighing you down with this kind of grief? Shut up with the terrifying description of motherhood that is sure to make all childless readers glue their legs together to protect themselves from this particular curse?

I do have a point. A point besides my own catharsis at getting this out in the open after months of keeping it between the Husband and I. I've been going through a lot of stuff for months and have started opening up to those closest to me only fairly recently. And it's helping. So there's that.

But more importantly, I CAN'T BE THE ONLY ONE THIS HAPPENS TO. And someone out there may need help, too. And maybe on some Google or Technorati or whatever search for anxiety and new mother and sleep disorder this post will come up, and some other woman won't feel so alone and so helpless.

Other new mothers to whom this is happening: We have an anxiety disorder. Get help.

Yeah, Scarlet, I'm finally listening to you. No, I was listening all along; I'm finally hearing you. And I'm getting proactive on this shiz.

And here's my other piece of advice and the reason why I'm writing about this now: Three nights ago, I decided, out of nowhere, that a mantra might help.

Unsurprisingly, I've developed a fear of going to sleep for the past two or three months, keeping me up later and later at night as I lie there, afraid to go to sleep, but afraid of the dark places my mind was going in my fear as well. The Husband kept urging me to find a sentence I could repeat in my head to help me fall asleep. I mostly ignored him because I always used to do that: "One, two, three, four, five; one, two, three, four, five..." Worked like a charm for me for years. His is: "I must stay awake. I must stay awake." But I couldn't get my mind to settle on anything and was just frustrated and resentful. Finally, I hit on something without even trying one night and I knew it was going to work. I just had to find the only thing my poor, stress-addled brain remotely cared about: The Papoose is safe in her crib. The Papoose is safe in her crib. Over and over. And I fell asleep.

The magical part? When I woke up for the nightly terrorized room search, the sentence popped back into my head: The Papoose is safe in her crib. It still took a few seconds to feel the meaning of that sentence and believe it. But seconds! Not minutes!! And I didn't have to fully wake up and I fell back asleep smiling, repeating my magic phrase.

The Papoosekin, safe in her crib.

I'm not fishing for a bunch of comments worrying about me and how I'm doing and whether I'm really okay. I'm not. But I'm talking to people about it now and I'm making decisions and I'm figuring out what path is going to be right for me to make this better. And I do know that it will get better.

The main points of this post are threefold (come on, every book--and I know you won't argue with me on that word choice--needs a good conclusion!):

1. Writing it out helps.
2. Writing it out may help someone else.
3. This blog is obviously no longer a craft blog. And if I want it to be something more than just a place to show my friends and family the latest cute pictures of the Papoose, then I've got to get more genuine and honest and make people want to read it. And I do want it to be more than that.

So there. There's a big chunk of my soul out there. Have at it. Gently, please.