Is It Wrong to be Jealous of a Fifteen-Year old?

My friend's teenage daughter is going to Disneyworld tomorrow.

I am SO not digging that.  Disney is my favorite place on earth and I don't have the money to even stand at the gate.  I'd probably have to blow Goofy to get on the property.

Yeah, it sucks, and not in a good way.

I called my doctor this morning to clarify three issues.  First, she's prescribed the wrong amount of my medication, and apparently has been for forever and is trying to blame it on my doctor before I moved.  Bull.  Some people just can't read.

Second, remember that ultrasound I was supposed to get?  The one the doctor insisted I come to see her about before she would order?  Yeah, she never ordered it.  I hope that thing on my kidney isn't deadly.  If it is my family is going to have one hell of a lawsuit.

Finally I called about getting the number to pain management.  I'm in pain as I sit here writing this, and it will be by sheer force of will that I go to exercise today.  Today is a new adventure!  I have pain in the front of my shoulders, just below my neck.  I guess you would say it's my chest, but I didn't want anyone to think I am having a heart attack.  Every day is a new adventure.  Anyway, the nurse was rather rude, or perhaps I'm rather sensitive, and she gave me the number and told me that since I didn't keep my original appointment it would take "forever" to get in.  I gritted my teeth and managed a thank you before hanging up.

Note to self:  add finding new PCP to the to-do list.

So I call the pain management clinic.  Guess how long "forever" is?  Oh, about two weeks.

I'm so glad I don't listen to snotty nurses and clueless doctors.  And I better darn well get the order for the ultrasound soon as well.

I just know a trip to Disney would fix all this.  I know it.

Oh no's and Hallelujahs

I've learned that blogs--or their writers--can be quirky things.

For example, I currently have five different blogs.  The main one I write on is a professional blog and has to do with my career.  Cool, right?  Absolutely, because I have always loved what I do.  If that interests you more than this (which it very well might) you can find it at www.jumpingbean.blogspot.com.

The last several days I've been pondering the start of another blog, one that focused on me and my personal life rather than continuing with this one.  When I started this blog, I intended it to be focused on my son and of course, my favorite TV shows.  I'm not sure where I thought I would fit in.  Maybe I didn't think about it.  I have a bad habit of doing that, putting myself behind everybody else and figuring I'll slip in and fill the cracks.

Well, the cracks have decided that I should be front and center for awhile.  And I am not digging them at all for that decision.

I'm not sure when it started...probably five or so years ago, when I was around 35.  It started to get harder to get up off the floor.  My back began to give out, and I was exhausted a lot of the time.  I also got sick a lot.  It wasn't unusual for me to get sick once a month.  It was irritating but I wrote it off to stress and weight, and figured I'd get around to it when I got a round tuit (ha, get it?).  Besides, my son was more important at the time, as was my daughter.

Way to go, genius.

I feel like I should be exhibit number one in some doctor's presentation of the effects of stress on the human body.  Surprisingly, my condition continued to worsen until I became unable to work full time (or even close to it) at all.  The human body is an amazing thing.  When I refused to slow down, it forced me to, by causing me to vomit every day for weeks.  I was left with no alternative other than to quit one of my jobs (working with children and adults--one that I had loved and wanted to continue).  As unfair as it was to leave the children after six weeks at this position, it was more unfair to cause them to have substitutes in and out, and for their teacher to be ill nearly every day.  My supervisor asked me if leaving was what my "heart" wanted.  No, I wanted to say.  It's not what my heart wants.  My heart wants to live up to your--and their--expectations; to be the kind of teacher I know I can be; to enrich the lives of the people I encounter.  But what my heart wanted really had very little to do with it.  Every bit of my body was screaming for rest, for release.

Two weeks later I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.

Most people are familiar with the fatigue and muscle aches that come with fibro.  And yes, I've suffered my fair share of both.  However, a diagnosis of fibromyalgia comes with a bevy of other related illnesses, including migraines, tension headaches, complete exhaustion, difficulty with memory (fibro "fog"), IBS, and more.  The disorder is chronic and requires daily management through both medication and choices in diet and exercise.  The only thing more overwhelming than the symptoms are the specialists required to treat it.  Primary care physicians, rheumatologists, endocrinologists, pain management specialists, therapists, psychiatrists...and the tests--x-rays, blood tests, ultrasounds, sleep studies.

I'm currently half way through the evaluative process.  I have a diagnosis and have found a good rheumatologist as well as a therapist I'm fond of.  I have appointments with other specialists.  I am so thankful not to be alone through this--my mother has accompanied me to many an appointment, and sometimes just having someone else there is comforting.

I have never before found it so difficult to concentrate.  Some days I'm as on top of things as ever and other days I feel lost in that "fibro fog" that makes it hard to think.  For someone who has always prided herself on logical thought and reasoning, it's a cruel reminder that I am not who I used to be.  The loss of the ability to keep up with a large group of preschoolers is painful as well.  I miss the excitement, the joy of watching the inquisitiveness on their little faces.

Recently a friend of mine told me that she had attended a church service away from home.  She was visiting her daughter in another city, and they had gone to church.  The minister had made the statement during the sermon that the only answer to "Oh no!" is "Hallelujah!", because the oh no means God has bigger plans in store for you.

I have practiced turning my oh no's into hallelujahs lately.  It's hard some days, such as today, when I found I would not be teaching this summer.  I need the money desperately but there's not room in the schedule.  My friend reminded me of all the potential hallelujahs in this moment--to pursue things I have wanted to pursue; to work at home at my own pace; to have more time to focus on my healing.  And she is right.  Despite my fears, hallelujah Lord; you have given me the opportunity to grow and be creative beyond measure.

So this blog may see a lot more action from its author.  And it may not be about attachment disorder, or television, or anything predictable.  All I know is it's mine, and it will go in whatever direction it drives itself.  I don't have the energy to drive right now, but it's all going to be okay.  We all know who's at the wheel anyway.

WWC&SD???

I was just chatting with a friend online who was watching a marathon of "What Not to Wear".  In case you happen to be one of the, oh, three people whose been buried in the sand for the last several years, What Not to Wear is a show that documents the hideous outfits people wear and then teach them how to dress more appropriately (along with stealing their wardrobes and giving them a $5000 visa card for new clothes).  At any rate, the hosts, Clinton and Stacy, are a hilarious pair.  If you enjoy watching out people's humiliation (done in good humor but offensive of wardrobe nonetheless), you should tune in.

My friend had watched enough of the show today to make a comment that she was DYING to get a new wardrobe.  New clothes, new shoes, new everything.  And who wouldn't?  Not only do you get five grand to blow on clothes and shoes how you  (and the two obnoxious Jimminy Crickets) see fit, they also give you a complete hair and makeup restyling.  And let me tell you, this mother here could use a little restyling in more than one way!

The whole thing got me wondering, as I glanced down at my brown (once nice) shirt and my three year old jeans (whose zipper came undone in the middle of class today--I will be forever scarred by one of my students raising her hand to say, 'um, this is completely off topic but your fly is down'.)  As I read my friend's comments, I saw my long, wavy hair hanging straight with a few strands of waves toward the bottom, split ends, brassy coloring, and the increasing gray.  I imagined myself looking in the mirror, noting the lack of makeup.  I didn't bother today.  The rosacea, the ungroomed eyebrows, the acne scars.  And I found myself thinking, WHERE IS MY CARMINDY???  How come I don't get my own makeup artist every day?  Where should I go to get my hair colored?  Should I go for a smoky eye look or a more natural one?  Is it time to get rid of the old brown shirt?  How long SHOULD one hold on to a pair of jeans, especially when the back of the leg bottoms are splitting and coming apart?  In other words,  What would Stacy and Clinton do???

I find that to be a very good question.  I can picture Clinton staring horrified into my closet at my ill-fitting shirts, my tees with nothing to layer over them, my soft cup bras and my leggings.  Stacy would be laughing hysterically, tossing all I own into a trash can, asking where the nearest thrift store is so she can return the items I have.  Very funny, Stacy and Clinton.  That is my life we're talking about!

I wear the brown shirt to teach in and think I look okay.  Some of my clothes I'm not crazy about, but some I kind of like and want to hang on to...like my leggings.  What's wrong with a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt for a casual day?  I admit, I'm not batting off the men, but I don't go to the store to attract them.  I go to purchase what I need.  I haven't noticed anybody staring--in fact, I'm more likely to notice young men with their pants hanging down to their thighs and their boxers sticking out, or young women wearing extremely tight fitting tops that bare their midsections.  And the heels...how does anyone wear those heels?  God I want to wear those four inchers, but I know as soon as I stepped in I'd be falling down.

What would Stacy and Clinton do?  That is the question.  My friend mentioned that we should make rubber band bracelets that say WWS&CD?  Maybe we should, to help us remember to buy the most attractive clothing and shoes possible.  Or maybe we should just forget about Stacy and Clinton and be whoever we already are.

Depression

It's interesting to me how my writing takes shape--in different forms and phases--and why it turns out that way.  When I first started this blog, I wrote regularly; in fact, I wrote nearly nonstop, every day, about all sorts of thoughts both fun and serious.  It was supposed to be about my life.  But I very soon found it constricting.  How do I write about children while keeping their anonymity?  How much can I really obsess over Bobby Goren before it becomes a repeat of what I said yesterday?  After  starting this blog, I began writing fiction.  More specifically, fan fiction (if you don't know what that is, google it, and then feel free to laugh, because I sure did).  Then I tried my hand at true fiction before realizing I was comfortable writing about the characters I imagined--even if they were slightly based on fictional characters from elsewhere.  Following that realization came the idea of starting a blog...one for early childhood teachers and parents of young children.  Genius, right?  Well, maybe.  It depends.  Sometimes I feel like writing about the fictional antics of my characters.  Some days I feel compelled to write about early childhood issues.  And then some days, like today, I feel compelled to write about my life.

The one thing I keep coming back to is the thought that all of this--all of everything--is truly bigger than us.  Bigger than you or me or the people of any part of the world.  There has to be something or someone that holds it all together.  A common thread.

Like many people, I suffer from depression.  The last few months have been horrific for me--days I couldn't get out of bed--but I forced myself to write.  Sometimes I wrote about ideas people had given me for my blog on early childhood.  Sometimes I wrote the dramatic story I've been working on for the last few months.  Sometimes I even wrote poems or letters or notes.  But I wrote.

Admitting my struggle with depression in a potentially public forum is scary but I think it's necessary.  I realize that if a person like me, who looks as though she's got it pretty much together, is falling apart inside, it happens to more people than we realize.  Some of us are so good at masking who we are and our feelings that nobody has any idea there is anything wrong until it's too late.

Fortunately I was able to get in to see a doctor who is helping me with medication, and my new job has revived me in a way I hadn't thought possible.  It's given me purpose again for a good part of the day, and that means everything.  In those darkest moments, on those darkest days not so long ago, I clung to the vow I had made to myself to never leave my children.  To never abandon children who had already once been abandoned.

I realize by writing this it may change the ideas that some people have about me; it may frighten others and there's even the possibility it could one day be used against me in court, should we need to fight for custody again.  But I feel the darkness of depression that so many people live with needs to be aired and brought into the light.  The stigma of the idea that people who suffer from depression are incompetent or selfish needs to be corrected.  And the idea that we can identify those who are suffering by their overall mood and expression needs to be corrected.

In a year where I've lost a job I loved, moved halfway across the country, continued to parent an attachment-disordered child, spent months trying to find employment, and watched both of my older parents struggling with illnesses, it would be a miracle if I hadn't experienced depression.  That's the reality.  The other reality--that depression goes back generations on one side of my family--makes me more susceptible to the illness.  Living with that isn't always easy.

And whatever pulls me through it will be bigger.  Definitely bigger than me.  Bigger than us.

Holy Mother of God...got any advice for me?

Oh what a night.  I think I'm stealing that from a song, huh?

Since our move, our son has done much better here overall.  His attitude has improved as have his grades and school relationships.  He has been more cooperative than he was a  year ago.  The progress that we have seen has been pretty terrific.  With the exception of his mouth.

Oh. My. God.  I've been warned about the mouth of teenagers, but I really had no idea until I experienced it myself.  Nonstop arguing.  Everything out of his mouth is smart-alecky and ugly and rude.  And I'm ready to plug my ears with anything for the next three years.

I have never raised a teenager before.  In fact, my only real experience with teenagers is when I WAS a teenager, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone.  So I don't know how much of this is normal and how much is dealing with a chid who has a variety of different disabilities.  It's hard to navigate the maze of adolescence anyway, I think; but this is a bungled mess.

So take a deep breath, my friend.  Today will pass and tomorrow will come.  Hopefully he will calm down and we can try again.  I learned a long time ago that often, as a parent, you take two steps forward and one step back.  Sometimes you take one step forward and one step back.  Sometimes you do the fucking tango or the electric slide and you're not really sure what direction you're headed in.  But you have faith that at the end of the dance, you're in a better place than where you started.

Here's to hoping for a better dance tomorrow.

The Bitch Session

I've been interviewing for a job over the last several months and have turned a couple down because they didn't fit me well.  I thought I had found one in higher ed that would work for me.  The only snafu was that they wanted to call a reference that I didn't want them to call--someone who I had worked with and whom I had a contentious relationship.  This was during my last several months at my last job and a big part of why I left.  I was on FMLA during most of that time and struggling to balance a very sick child and a terminal diagnosis for my mother, among other things.

Well, I was still offered the job.  I guess for that I should be thankful.  But I was subjected to a lecture about the importance of regular attendance.  I was biting my tongue until it nearly bled, because this is what I wanted to say:

Yes, I missed work.  Yes, I left early.  Those days, primarily, were used to take my child to therapy or to a psychiatrist's office.  There were days I was caring for my other child--an asthmatic with severe allergies--when she was too ill to go to school.  And in all honesty, there were probably some times that I was exhausted from it all.

I'm one woman.  I can only do so much and meet so many needs.  Caring for a child with attachment disorder full time is a huge job.  Getting an IEP written, taking kids to doctors, taking kids to therapy, taking kids to psychiatrists, not to mention medical and psychiatric specialists.  I would love nothing more than the idea that I could dedicate myself 100% to my job.  But that would be a lie.  I can't.  I don't live a typical mom's life some days and some days I never will.  That's the reality.

So the dilemma:  do I tell my new workplace or not?  Do I pretend I'm not the mother of two children who need more care than most?

I don't know what the answer is.  I hope I figure it out.

And on to less serious subjects...

The last month has held some exciting news.  Goren and Eames are coming back to Criminal Intent!  It's as though the universe smiled upon me and gave me eight more chances to see my dream team together.  As much as I love D'Onofrio's work, I'm a huge fan of him and Erbe together, and was nervously biting my nails as I waited the three weeks it took for her to sign her contract.  But now it's done, and I'm anxiously awaiting the spring season.

In the last year, going through withdrawal of my two favorite detectives has been difficult..  I've been entertaining myself with the web.  It's amazing the things you can see on the internet.  It never ceases to amaze me some of the things people create in the name of fandom.  I've kept up on articles about my two detectives, but have wandered onto some other fan sites that have been, well, interesting, to say the least.  Most of them have made me laugh, because they're so overtly sexual in tone.  I mean, entire posts and pages of pictures of D'Onofrio's crotch?  Really?  And great discussion about dimensions as well.  I always wonder, if you really met him, is THAT what you'd be focused on?  How would that go?  "Hi, I'm (fill in the blank)...would you mind dropping 'em?  Nice package."

When D'Onofrio and Erbe unceremoniously left CI (or were actually not invited back), irritation among fans was high.  Several fans created a "binder project" with letters, drawings, etc. to show the actors their appreciation of their work over the years.  Although I thought the idea in and of itself was a nice one in general, I didn't think it was appropriate in this case and here's why:  both actors have dealt with stalkers.  D'Onofrio was stalked and his life threatened by a stalker several years ago.  Since then, he's exercised more caution for himself and his family.  Just this past April, a man was arrested for stalking Kathryn Erbe and attempting to contact her and her family through facebook, among other means.  He had stalked her on the set, had pictures taken of himself, Erbe, and his child together, then photoshopped his child out of the picture and posted pictures of him and Erbe together.  As nice as the idea of letters of appreciation are, I can imagine that as a human being, your first reaction is to protect yourself and your family.  The reality is a book full of devoted letters and drawings is bound to bring about anxiety along with appreciation.

Everyone's entitled to fantasy.  Sure, if you want to take a bajillion photos of an actor and focus on his privates, knock yourself out.  It's a free country, and I'll be honest--when I come across that stuff, I find it so silly I usually crack up.  But I can't imagine for a minute actually looking a person in the eye and trying to have a conversation after spending extensive time cutting and pasting their privates all over the web.

So maybe fans should be just that--fans, being careful not to blur boundaries between an actor's work and reality.

Okay, off my soapbox now...enjoy your crotch viewing and have a nice day!