Where do I begin? Updates

Where the hell have I been? In bed, mostly, with a cold, for two and a half fracking weeks. I honestly did not think it was possible to be this sick this often without an underlying primary condition. Of course, duh, pregnancy, but damn, does it have to put you down like a lame horse? It’s been a really phlegmy snotty thing that’s left me coughing up crap (and I throw up at least once a day, whee) and sinusy and we don’t have to mention the stress incontinence, do we? Do me a favor and assume it’s there and it’s bad. But the goo is turning the right color and I am making a little less of it, and the combination of OTC meds gets me through the days if not the nights. None of them are technically okay, but I was coughing myself into some very organized Braxton-Hicks contractions. So I looked down at my belly and said to T/M, “sorry, kiddo, no magnet school for you”, and started sucking down Sudafed.

Things that have occurred in the meantime:

• Seamus has appeared to have gotten some massive developmental clue that he is a PART of things, and not merely THE thing in our universe. It’s still a little rough, but I’m so stoked at the possibility of him developing some awareness that I’m ready to rustle all the livestock from one of the local educational farms and sacrifice them to some pagan gods.
• The cats have integrated themselves nicely into the household, despite Inky’s desire to be indoor/outdoor. All three pets worm and flea-free and healthy. Inky escaped on Monday and we were so damn overloaded from my being sick and the house being filthy that we decided to let her come back on her own. Which she did, five hours later, and aside from being a bit more affectionate, has carried on like nothing happened. Her bullying days are coming to an end, however. Remember how I thought Aggie’s growth was stunted, perhaps due to having litters too young? I take it back. Big-framed cat has filled out her big frame and weighs about 11 pounds now. Inky growls at her, and Aggie just stares her down, sans drama. Faolan is fine with the cats provided they don’t graze from her bowl. Poor old girl, we really need to spoil her a bit more. I’ve been trying to have time with her on the floor with petting and treats, which she loves.
• Patrick has been freaking amazing during this illness crapola (my words, not his, he takes it seriously). He’s taken Seamus to work on non-school days, he’s taken time off to help at home, and he keeps reminding me that I’m pregnant, I’m sick, and it’s okay to focus on not being sick anymore. He’s also been a fantastic hand-washing task-master with the marauder. He may move on geologic time for most things, but during the last nine weeks (seriously, how does one get sick for nine fucking weeks?), I’ve had nothing to nag about.
• Seamus’ last day at his preschool will be in May, so he graduates with his classmates (they become butterflies and get their wings), but doesn’t succumb to the boredom that may have played a part in last summer’s suckfest. We enrolled him in three sessions of science camp totalling four weeks, we’ll possibly join the local pool association but keep his more structured lessons ongoing, and perhaps find a couple more camps or another class. Then I plan to fill in the gaps with field trips, hikes, some service days through Save the Bay, I think, and whatever comes up, including playing at home, feeding the jays, warblers, and woodpeckers that visit. We’ll go fruit picking like last year, and depending on how T/M handles the carseat, we’ll go further afield. We’ll keep working on reading and early math as he shows interest. I still think at this age that treating the whole project like potty training is important. Offer and praise the effort, don’t push.
• We’re still in the effing goat rodeo. Waiting to hear back on our Montessori options, and our local public school info night is tonight. Since it has been determined that I am not going to be the PTA parent, Patrick’s attending that one. I’m quietly marshalling my home education plans should Patrick not like the place.

That’s the bulk of it. How are all of you?

Some thoughts on being your own damn self

“I’m not romantic, you know. I never was.” - Charlotte Lucas, Pride and Prejudice

I had Sherri cut off twelve inches of my hair yesterday. I went in knowing I was ready for shorter but not wanting to come home with a pixie and scare the crap out of Seamus (true story: My mom cut off all of her hair in 1979 or 1980, and I cried through the whole haircut, which was at home in her bedroom), so we picked a swingy bob cut with short bangs out of a magazine and went for it. We re-did my hair as well so it’s quite dark right now. Aside from the new color severity, I like it. After Sherri blew me out I spent the day feeling like Anna Wintour. This morning, post-shower, I look a bit like Marcia Gay Harden’s character in Pollock. 

I also look my age. Which I’m finding very interesting. Not interesting in a “Oh noes, I need…something! Woe is me!” sort of way, but in a “This is what 37 will look like” way. Which is easy to accept, since getting younger isn’t something we do as living beings, and I’ve been shutting down the sound and fury that is media imagery for quite some time now. Another interesting assist comes from never really being considered a sex object to begin with. Let me unpack that.

I’m fairly awkward. I also came of age with a lot of early-developing girls who got very interested in make-up and clothes and hair. I didn’t really do that. I was pretty much depressed all through middle school, overate myself into big hand-me-downs, and didn’t quite get how to do the hair make-up dressing thing. So I tended to be…looked over by guys. It’s not a thing for me at this point, but it was at that age. I spent a lot of time in my teens and early 20s trying to get my outsides to match the expectations of what the outside of a woman should look like, till the summer before grad school. I was single, not interested in dating a lot, and running 30 miles a week. So I figured hell with it, let my looks match my lifestyle.

Tinted sunscreens and lip balms with the occasional mascara, buns and ponytails. I’ve played with things as I graduated and entered the work force, but basically everything I’ve worn supports my need to be comfortable and to be mobile. Three men haven’t tried to change that either overtly or covertly, and I married one of them. That doesn’t mean I haven’t slid into worrying about my looks or trying to achieve some outward-projected image, because getting comfortable with oneself when you are taught not only to judge yourself by your looks but to brace for judgement from others is fucking hard, yo. 

But. But but but. Somewhere along the line the need to use that energy for something else kicked in. I’m too damn tired to wear whatever is popular and style myself accordingly. I know what I like and what works, and perhaps more importantly, what is needed to keep up with my 1.5 kids, dog, and spouse. And if the spring is full of road trips and bathroom remodels with a newborn in our lives, having hair halfway down my back is a ridiculous thing. So off it goes.

My gums, cont'd.

The amoxicillin has stopped the suppuration, hooray! Apologies if you’ve just eaten. The plumber has been here and shown me how to turn on the heat tonight if he doesn’t come back with the part he needs. I’ve done dishes, vacuumed, watered the seedlings, and started laundry. I’ve got the bathroom and dinner prep left.

I’m feeling quite okay about things. I’m still swollen but not puffy. I also realized why the puffiness was freaking me out. My sister was hospitalized in 2005 for a big oozy wound in her neck. Since this was during a relapse, you may correctly guess that said big oozy was her primary infection site. I was that puffed up on the side of my face, like some villan from a DC comic. Staph Girl or SlimeMouth or something like that. Knocked down by Microbiology Dude, I’d smoke in my cell in Arkham and sing my songs of non-glory: “The stench…(cough) I blew away crowds of preschoolers, overworked husbands…seriously, I could have taken the Joker.”

For now the meds are working on knocking this shit out, and the supplements I’ve been taking appear to be helping things on the PMDD front. I’ve had a couple of good cries, but other than that it’s been feeling mostly even-keeled. Now to find an acupuncturist and some sort of class for me, and figure out how to deal with Seamus’ new mouthiness. I think he’s in need of a good old fashioned ignoring.

My gums, the universe and everything

I grind my teeth. I ground them as a babe, slamming tiny china nubs against one another as they emerged from my gums. I ground them as a kid while we crossed country and my parents split up fractiously and violently, while living in an apartment infested with vermin, shopping with food stamps, wearing cast-off clothes and making grades while being bored, then sad, then lost at school. I ground them as my neck and shoulders solidified into a tight painful yoke. As the headaches came, unsoothed by aspirin, acetametaphin, or ibuprofen. I ground through college and teaching abroad, through jobs and two break-ups and Taekwondo training. Ten one day I as I shopped in a Safeway, pressed for time and tired from driving, I realized I was grinding in line, wide awake, in time to the piped-in music.

It’s called Bruxism, and it’s linked to a cute collection of associated issues and long-term effects. One effect is gum recession, whch led to Friday’s graft. My periodontist is excellent and has the qualities I love in a dentist: good with the novacaine and the understanding that I process it quickly, A no-bullshit demeanor, and steady, steady hands. He harvested about an inch of tissue from my palate and upholstered the exposed roots of two molars with it and stitched me up in an hour. The night before this happened, the basement flooded and snuffed both the furnace and the hot water heater. We have hot water now, but no heat. And while the graft has taken I have an infection somewhere in my mouth that oozes pus and reeks. I suspect the inside of my cheek has gotten lacerated from the stitches and depsite my vigilance in swishing and cleaning, crud happens around surgical sites when you can’t poke around and see things. Seamus will not let me kiss him, because I am a “stinkymouth”, and I now have a week’s course of amoxicillin.

My friends, I think I found my bottom.

Hi, I’m Sarah, and I am riddled with stress. I don’t know where it all came from, but I do know that I need to learn to get rid of it. I don’t want to pass this on to my child, nor do I want it to shorten my time with my family or lend itself to more insidious health issues. This must end with and within me. Because I suspect that so much of my life will, once I have let some/most/all of this go, become a fucking cakewalk. Not perfect but less fraught.