6

There is something amazing about age six.  Granted, I have loved every age Violet has reached (except 4.  4 sucks.), but this is a whole new level of amazing.

Until this point, it was like she was in training;  she was soaking up the world around her, learning how it worked.  There has been this switch where she no longer observes the world, but is an active participant.

She has these astounding thoughts that I end up sharing with professors, things I have to stop to think about.  In her world, things are black and white, yet colored with compassion and creativity.

Though I study religions, I have none of my own.  However, I was raised in a very conservative, very fundamental Christian household.  The Christian ascetic life is what I knew…I know.  It was torturous for me to embark on a intellectual journey that would lead me away from that.  So I don’t want to push my personal views on God, religion, the afterlife onto my children;  I want them to come to their own conclusions after learning facts and histories. 

So when the subject of God came up recently, I was at a loss.  She knows what my parents believe, but she wanted to know my thoughts.  Instead, I deflected it back to her.

“Who do you think God is?”

The thing about my girl is that she is not going to give you a stock answer.  She is going to think, consider, frame her response.  Simply infuriating when trying to decide what to wear in the morning, but phenomenal to watch in a religious discussion.

“I think,” she said, ”that God is something that takes care of people.  Like baby Hiram is our godbaby.  So, really, everyone is God.”

Good lord.  I had to digest the enormity of that statement, then discuss it with a woman who holds a master’s in Religious Studies…she was as blown away as I was.

Now, I am not stating anything about God.  Your beliefs are sacred, and should be respected.

But what really floors me about this statement is the concept of care, of spreading compassion and love to your fellow man.  EVERYONE should take care of someone, and so reasonably, EVERYONE is someone who should be cared about. Each person is worthy of love.

I love that she looks at the world this way, as a place of caring, compassion, and love. My girl, she teaches me things. 

And so she blogs.

I gave it up. I gave up the blogging. I couldn't tell you why, other than I was empty. I was trying to be fabulous for the ones of readers, and I had nothing.

Maybe one day I won't struggle with an emotional stasis. However, I don't really expect that.

*

We are in another new city, another new state. I wonder often if we should have stayed in Alaska.

I do like our new city, Owensboro. A smallish urban center in north-western Kentucky. There is a small mall, museums, parks, Democrats. We have a two-bedroom flat in a group of buildings that houses many families. There are bike paths and friends for Violet and Carli. An oak tree beyond the balcony that is slowly turning orange. Three pumpkin patches within driving distance.

*

The best feature is the distance to school. It only takes 4 minutes to drive to classes; 6 in traffic.

Jason is near the top of his program, Auto Technology. He doesn't take his General Ed Requirements seriously enough, but he doesn't really have to.

I do, though. The nursing program is highly competitive. More get turned away than accepted. The only way to guarantee the spot is a 4.0; so far, my 88% in math is cancelling out my 103% in Psych.

I'll get it, though.

*

So, we are good. Happy, even. Dealing with Carli's lactose intolerance and Violet's minor sensory sensitivities. Collecting fallen leaves and painting window catchers. Budgeting 3 months of loan money to last 5 months and folding sweaters to earn money for Christmas. Driving through miles of fall foliage and evading conversations with my parents that steer towards politics or gay rights or wine.

And maybe, finding some time, here in my own space.

Fabulous Day 6

Windblown Sea Hair and a Handsome Husband.

Fabulous Day 5

My Favorite corner of the kitchen: turquoise breadbox, pink teapot, pear timer.

Fabulous Day 4

Violet conquers her fears at the playground...and with style.

Fabulous Day 3

SO. Violet hid my camera. So my documented fabuolous things are postponed. Today's fabulous thing will be un-photographed.

I have finally taught Carli to drink out of a straw. Not only do I not have to worry about having a sippy cup Every. Time. I leave the house, but the muscles used to suck on a straw are the same muscles that help a baby learn to talk.

Seriously. This was the most awesome thing to happen this week.

Fabulous Day 2

Two beautiful girls in 'party dresses', eating Nutella bread.

Fabulous Day 1

The view from my favorite chair:

my first completed afghan; boot-cut blue jeans; orange toenails; and artwork by Violet taped to the front door.

so fabulous.

I am lacking.

I want to be a happy stay-at-home mom more than anything in the world. And I love being with my girls. I got to see Carli's first steps; I get to teach Violet the alphabet. I love being at every appointment, making the meals, giving the baths.

But I have been losing part of myself. Maybe the lack of social interaction is to blame. I left all friends but Jason behind to move here; then, my mother moved to Kentucky, and took the last bit of my sanity with her. I became that person who tells the cashier way too much information, simply because she is the only person I am not related to that I will see for days. I find myself apathetic to how I look, because some switch in my head flipped all my self esteem off.

I changed my anti-depressants. And while I really do love my new medicine, it takes some adjustment time. And in that time, I have had to deal with my ambition being zapped, my energy gone. There are days when I feel like I an encased in a rubber glove, and though I am going through the motions of my day, I can't quite be there, in that moment, fully present. I am removed, watching my day play out on a big screen t.v. Not all the days are like that, and they are lessening; but when they do come, they are disheartening.

The strangest part is that I have a hard time remembering that I was not always this way. That I cared about fashion, that I used a flat iron or curlers every day. That I could carry an interesting conversation, that I didn't feel the beginnings of a panic attack when someone knocked on the door. That I gave dinner parties that people asked to be invited to, that I was someone who people sought out for advice.

I forgot I was fabulous.

I named this blog Rebecca is Fabulous not because I look like Megan Fox or have a sparkling personality or am a trendsetter.

It was because I was well-rounded. I could look at my life and point out the bits that were fabulous. That I could take an ordinary day and make it special. And a little bit of tongue-in-cheek, as well; I am quirky, I am geeky, I am odd, but that can be fabulous.

The thing is, I am still that person. I know that under my lethargy and frustration, I am still the person I was so fond of before. I just need to remember who that is.

So, to that end, I am embarking on Fifty Days of Fabulous. I am setting a personal goal to find and celebrate something in my life that is fabulous every day. Something small, something large, something ordinary, something quirky...anything.

My bloggy friend Jennie sent me a set of champagne flutes for my wedding. They were lovely, and unfortunately met a sad, sad, tinkly demise, but I enjoyed them immensely when I had them. I drank just about anything out of them. They were well-loved.

Anyway, the note attached to them said, "Celebrate every day."

So that is what I plan to do. Find a way to celebrate each day, each detail. Join me if you like.

Violet has short, short hair.

And I love it. She hacked into her hair one day last fall, and it resulted in a short pixie with longer bits in the front.

She is a beautiful girl, and the fact that she wears pink or purple every day keeps her from being mistaken for a boy. But, truthfully, the style is reminiscent of Justin Beiber; dye it black, and she'd be Pete Wentz.

The pink and the purple is her thing, not mine. She chooses her own clothes, and has since she was a year old.

Violet is a princess. She plays with Barbies. She watches Enchanted and Beauty and the Beast. She is obsessed with Princess Tiana and Dorothy Gale. She freaks over tea sets and cooking instruments; she loves to vacuum and wash the dishes and peel vegetables. She loves to be active and play Kung Fu, but only if she can be Tigress. She is much more likely to make up a dance or a song than kick a ball.

(Though in our house, this has little to do with gender: Jason cleans and cooks as much as I do, and in reality, is much better than I am in these areas.)

Frankly, I feel like people need to get over celebrity kids. Sure, they are adorable, and they have awesome clothes and really cool strollers and look! Tea Leoni wears her robe to drop her kids at school! I am way better than her in my jeans and t-shirt! I even comb my hair almost every day!

I am tired of hearing about Suri's high heels and lipgloss; Violet got these for Christmas, and wore them until she grew out of them. And I am sure that the Sephora makeup Suri gets is a lot less unhealthy than the Dora lipgloss that Violet uses.

I am tired of hearing about Shiloh's identity crisis. Today, Violet is wearing purple striped pants, a pink flowered shirt, pink Dora skater shoes, and a pink velvet sweatshirt. Does the fact that her clothes don't match make me a bad mother? She picked out each item herself. She put it on herself. And when she takes it off, she will put it in the hamper. Shouldn't we be focused more on the fact that Shiloh seems healthy, happy, well cared for? And stylish, even?

In reality, it is none of our business. As long as a child is fed, clothed, sheltered, and loved, then what right do we have to question their parenting choices?

I don't really have a point. I just know that Katie and Angelina sure handle the judgment a lot better than I would.

Carli

I wake up this morning because your father has plopped you on the bed beside me. You grin, you laugh, you make a beeline for me and cover me with your open-mouthed kisses. The clock says 7:30.

This time one year ago, I was pacing through empty hospital corridors, trying to increase my contractions from the 3 minutes apart they are at. There isn’t a delivery room open yet, and the nurses are skeptical that you are actually coming today. But I know.

I heft myself out of bed and carry you downstairs to greet your sister. You squeal when you see her: she is your favorite person. You spend your days chasing her, mimicking her, trying to steal her Little Pet Shop figures and Barbie shoes. She tires of you occasionally, but never misses an opportunity to tell anyone who will listen about ‘her baby’. We all dress and head to the grocery store. The clock says 10:30.

This time one year ago, I was finally checking into a room. I had been in various stages of labor for about 9 hours at this point, and told the nurse to get the epidural ordered as soon as possible. You dad settled into the couch beside my bed to watch the Powder Puff Girls and lament the fact that he hadn’t bought more tacos on our stop on the way to the hospital. I adjust my bed and think, “This has got to be over soon. Second births are faster. She will be here soon.” Little did I know that you do things on your own time.

Today has passed in a blur. You are so active, so busy, that the days fly by. You started walking in earnest last week, and have already progressed to running. You don’t talk much, but you squeal with joy, you chortle, you snort…you are a little bulldog. Your father let you walk through the store today, and you smiled your huge, gap-toothed smile the entire time. People cannot resist you; I am often told how blessed I am. It is true. Now, I put lotion on your freshly bathed tummy, and give you a raspberry; you laugh, dimples flashing. You gulp your sippy of milk in record time; you know you have precious few moments of play time before bed. It is now 7:30.

This time one year ago, I am finally dilated enough to push. I am only at 9.5, but the midwife is sure that won’t be a problem. And it isn’t. At least, I think it isn’t, until many moments have passed, and I am still pushing, pushing. At one point, my midwife won’t give me a break; I don’t just push through a contraction, I push for a solid ten minutes, grunting, gasping. I ache, I beg Jason to make her stop, but he keeps coaxing me as well. I find out much later that your head was stuck, and you were turning a bit purplish. But your mama’s kegels paid off, and with the help of my vigilant Tanya, and my calm-in-the-storm Jason, you were free. And returning to a normal color. And as is the case with most babies, the rest went rather quickly. And soon you were on my chest, lovely and slimy and squeakily squalling. Gazing at me. And I fell in love.

My life is richer because of you. You make things shiny; you remind us to smile. I adore you, baby turtle.

Broke as Heck.

A couple of weeks ago, Swistle, whom I love like Diet Wild Cherry

Pepsi (aka LOADS), came out as plus size. There was much controversy, many people cheering her own. Of course, there were a few haters, but it seemed to me that there was overwhelming support. Score one for the big girls!

It has inspired me to honesty. I am quite open about being a bona fide Big Girl, so obviously that is not what I keep hidden. Quite possibly every who has ever come across this blog has been bombarded with me babbling on about being zaftig. The thing I tend to sweep under the rug is the dismal state of my finances.

Part of what drove us from Alaska was the recession. We left before it hit hard, but barely. Jason's job was being eliminated shortly after we left, and the company I worked for was projected to do a fraction of the work it had the year before. We never lived the high life in Anchorage, but if we were comfy. We went to the theatre when we liked; we ate in hipster-yuppie restaurants on a whim, whenever we felt the need for some stuffed french toast or salmon eggs benedict. And the COFFEE. Oh, the coffee. Toasted marshmallow lattes, and triple shot soy iced kaladi's, and chocolate croissant on the side, and a raspberry Italian soda for Violet. Locally roasted specialty beans to grind ourselves for use at home. We easily spent $40 a week on coffee.

I now spend about that on groceries.

Jason has a good job. Just not a well paying job. I stay at home with my girls and pick up tutoring jobs. The cost of day care would well outweigh what I could make on the salary offered to someone who has one year towards a theatre degree under their belts. We are stuck in the vicious cycle of hand-to-mouth, working hard with little reward, and yes, even a little government assistance thrown in.

We live highly budget conscious. True, I have the internet; however, it is a requirement to pick up tutoring jobs with private school kids. Yes, we make lovely, wonderful food - with cheap groceries from discount stores and a lot of help from Food Network.com. Christmas was only possible with careful saving. Even at that, we spent less than $300 in total for presents this year, including extended family.

I grew up poor. Backroads Kentucky, Aldi shopping, missionary barrel poor. My mother made it work; no one would know the lack of finances, no one would realize how below the poverty line we were. She had the touch. She makes everything special.

I don't have the touch. I do better than some, but I fall well below Ma. Jason and I want to do better. We want possibilities for our girls. We want comfort and luxuries and place firmly in the middle class. Which is why we are going back to school.

Which is going to make us even poorer for a while. We have to save the money to get to school, then the money to stay there. We will make it work, because we are that kind of people: we are survivors, strong-willed and ambitious. Eventually, Jason will have his doctorate. I will have my master's.

But in the meantime, there will be a lot of beans, a lot of thrift stores, a lot of making do. And I hope, in the interim, I am teaching my girls something much better, much more important than how to live in the middle class. I hope I am showing them how to achieve their dreams, how to handle obstacles with elan and grace. How to not give up.

Even with a belly full of beans and ratty Salvation Army cardigan.

Watch out, 2010!

I realize this post is very similar to the one 3 or 4 previous...things I want to be, ways I want to change. However, if I learned anything as a kindergarten teacher or tutor... REPETITION is key. So, without further ado:

2010 is the year I will:

*get healthy. Not skinny. Healthy.

*teach Violet to read.

*finish writing a book. Any book.

*get my hair to its natural color.

*be the best mother and wife I can be.

2009 was a mixed bag. I had some lows - such as staying in bed for weeks after Carli was born, deeply relapsed into PPD, and my parents moving 500 miles away. I had some highs - my gorgeous CJ was born, and I feel like I am starting to get myself back. I had the bittersweet moment of CJ turning 9 months old on the day Max would have turned 1. I had moments when I wondered if my marriage would survive the girl's early childhood. I went to a church that I loved because my parents were there, and hated because so many of the people attending were bigots. I had the joy of leaving that one for a church I love, completely. I have had the privilege of watching my eldest start to turn into an amazing person. I have enjoyed a new freshness to my marriage, where we enjoy, and even SEEK OUT, each other's company.

I suppose a lot of this comes with nearing 30. I have been told by many wonderful woman that a women's thirties are when she comes into her own, when she truly finds herself and becomes content. And I look forward to this. I feel the beginnings of this. Of wanting to be no more that what I am. I know there have been times in this past year I have been less than I could be, when I have not fully realized my potential as a mother, as a wife, as a person. And I am eager to embrace myself this year, to be more fully Rebecca than I have ever been.

Here's to keeping New Year's Day high as long as possible.

Bougie Butts*

It has been a good 3 months.

My girls are...enormous and brilliant and lovely.

Carli is a first rate explorer: she can make it to the top of the stairs in under a minute - something you realize when you decide to pick up the blocks before putting up the baby gate. She can climb just about anything, and luckily, has learned to back off the couch (bed, table, laundry basket) safely.

Violet is smarter everyday, and so imaginative. She is constantly taking care of her 'babies' (which she has named Sylvia, Gwendolyn, Rapunzel, Batilda), imitating Rachel Ray in her play kitchen. She received her first bike for Christmas, and within 20 minutes was shooting around the lot on her own. She is also currently obsessed with reading her abridged version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - which makes for a very long bedtime ritual.

Perhaps the biggest change has been one that hasn't happened yet. Jason and I have decided to go back to school. My schooling was interrupted by Violet's conception, and Jason's never really started. The thought of school has always stayed in the back of my mind, but with no real direction. However, after nearly 5 years of discussion, Jason decided he wants to be a veterinarian. I am so happy for him, and completely support this decision; I can't wait to get started.

But it is a real commitment; there are only about 40 schools that offer Veterinary degrees in the country. We want to find a place the girls will be happy, where we can all be happy, for the 8+ years it will take for us to get our degrees. Jason will have to get a bachelor's and a master's, and I will be working full time, and only able to attend 1 or 2 classes a semester. So we are on the lookout for a place that matches our family. Our current leaders are Knoxville, TN (university of Tennessee), and Columbia, MO (University of Missouri). We don't know if we will aim for this coming fall, or wait a year so Violet can attend pre-k here. Big decisions afoot.

So that is what we have been up to. You know, plus Thanksgiving and Christmas and my parents moving to Kentucky and Halloween and homemade costumes and blonde hair and red hair and Violet in the Christmas program and changing churches and joining a playgroup and Carli's month long ear infection that wouldn't die and visiting Knoxville and changing my meds and Violet chopping off all her hair and about a million other things I can't remember right now.

*The term of endearment Violet made up for Carli. Now commonly heard in our house.

Working on That Woman

2 days after the last post, my mother asked me to help her write her biography.

I have been blogging for over 2 years, and being a Blogger, no matter how small time, has become part of my identity. Being on the BlogHer ad roll has given me a huge sense of pride.

But I need to focus on this for now. I need my thoughts to be geared toward bettering myself, to be centered on my mom's amazing story.

Not to say I won't be here occasionally; blogging is a drug, the therapy that has gotten me through the past 2 years. But I need it to be occasional, not necessary. A writing treat, if you will.

Thank you, Blogher. You helped me realize my self worth, gave me a gentle push on this road I am on now. The road that is long and arduous, but is my silly little dream.

my list.

The woman I want to be is:

One who sends thank you cards and snail mail.

One who listens to others more than complain.

One who has cool hair, tattoos, piercing, and doesn’t care what others think.

One who does crafts with her kids.

One who smiles most of the day.

One who is actively following her dreams.

One who cleans her house before she goes to bed.

One who wears what she wants.

One who compliments more than criticizes.

One who has fabulous dinner parties.

One who kisses her husband every day for more than 7 seconds.

One who sews and crochets.

One who laughs easily and loudly.

One who loves herself.

One who is always ready for drop-in guests.

One who has solid and quiet faith.

One who accepts compliments gracefully.

One who has a strong family ruled by love and respect, not fear.

One who is a writer.

Some are silly things, some are very serious things. But they are all things that I want to be said about me.

Chasin' Rainbows

I went to my doctor on Monday, as my anti-depressants prescribed in Alaska have finally run out. My parents love their doctor, so choosing a new guy wasn’t a problem. Ma came with me to watch the kids and have her blood pressure checked…which is a whole other post about my mom and the sickness she has to deal with and how it is isn’t fair that someone so good and wonderful has to deal with all she does.

This appointment was…different. Usually, I go in, tell them I have clinical depression, they give me pills. So the four of us go back to the room, we weigh, we chat with the nurse, we wait. He came in, he looked at my facial orifices, he asked me what was up, I told him I need pills.

But then he talked to me.

Like, really TALKED.

Asked me how I was doing. Asked about my home stresses. Asked why I thought I was sad.

Asked if I wanted to be happy.

WOW.

Let me tell you, that is a loaded question.

I have had this diagnosis for two and a half years. I know that it is a chemical problem, I know that it is encouraged by hormonal changes. I know this is a physical problem.

But I am coming to realize that I am leaning on it, depending on it as an excuse to not try. To not strive for happiness.

I know that exercise will help me, I know it will release endorphins, will benefit me physically, but also help me feel strong, in control of myself. But it has taken me until now to establish a routine. It has taken an unconscionable amount of time to make myself get off the couch, for my own health.

I know I am too hard on Jason, I lean too much on him, I blame him for too many things. But I do it anyways.

I don’t think that I be able to completely leave medications behind like my doc thinks I can. But I can make myself happier than I am now. Because I sure do cry a lot for someone who is on a steady anti-depressant. So we made a plan.

I have to exercise every morning. With Jason around in the mornings, there is no excuse not to. Today was hard…truthfully, if Jason hadn’t pushed me, I would have skipped it. I was sore and sleepy and grumpy. But now I am glad I did.

I have to lower carb, especially white carb, intake…Doc thinks my body doesn’t like them. (Although I am pretty sure my face does.)

I have to cut out pork. My family had heart disease history, so even though I currently have no cholesterol issues, Doc wants to make sure it stays that way. (sadly, this comes just after I find an awesome garlic lime pork recipe.)

I have to choose to be happy every day. I have to get up, smile, and pray that God helps me make that choice every day.

I have to decide what I want to do with my life. I know this seems strange, but one of the things that makes me sad is not having a dream anymore. Before I got pregnant, I was on a very straight course: bachelors degree (with honors) in theatre, grad school in Philadelphia, a few years in small theatres in New York, then become a professor at a small college. I even had my honors project picked out, lined out. Then I got pregnant, and choosing a profession that pretty much dictates poverty was out of the question. So I have been floundering, trying to decide which ‘normal’ career will make me happy.

I love being a stay at home mom, I adore my kids, and spending every day with them. Bu what is my purpose outside of that?

I want to be a writer (obviously, duh, isn’t that every blogger’s ultimate desire?), but doubts assail me. Something keeps me from taking the steps to do that. Everyone who knows me has heard me talk about writing this book or that book…it has been a long standing dream.

So Doc says I have to believe it will happen. He told me stories of his life, things that made it seem impossible that he would ever get to medical school. But he did, because he worked for it, he never gave up the dream.

So…it is time to grab the dream by the horns again. I have to try.

And my last assignment is to decide what kind of woman I want to be…and become that woman.

I’ll get back to you on that one. I gotta do some research.

Disclaimer: I recognize this is not the path to happiness for everyone. This is just the way I am trying to find my rainbow.

Just the way you are, if you're perfect*

This subject is so old hat, I am loathe to bring it up.

But, the truth is, this blog is an expansion of my brain. And part of what is occupying my brain lately is weight loss. Though in my head, it is Weight Loss. And sometimes WEIGHT LOSS.

There is a struggle associated with weight loss that has nothing to do with wanting to eat cupcakes. It is the struggle of whether to try in the first place.

Like many women, the desire to lose is constantly wrestling with the desire to have self-acceptance. By going out of my way to decrease my waist size, am I not basically saying that I dislike myself? I tell myself it is all for my health, that I don’t care how I look as long as I am healthy. But I know that part of what drives me is the desire to wear sizes in the teens, to look at the tag on my jeans and not see a 2 followed by another number.

And how awful is it that I initially typed ‘be a teen size’? Like I am not Rebecca, I am not a woman, a mother, a writer, a wife…I am a 22, and that is what defines me the most?

Also, what about my daughters? I put a lot of effort into teaching them to be strong, independent, caring people. I teach them to eat healthy food, how to exercise their bodies. But by being dissatisfied with myself, am I instilling in them societal beliefs that big people have something wrong with them?

So I move forward gently, quietly. Trying not to call much attention to the face that I am dieting. Not saying the word diet. Doing exercises that resemble salsa dances, jumping jacks, things Violet likes to do. We move and sweat and laugh together, as we try to master the moves before us. Projecting a not-quite-true image of self-love so my daughter doesn’t learn that hating yourself is the norm.

The truth is that for most women in this society, at least the ones I am around, hating yourself is the norm. That we tend to have one or two things we like about ourselves, and hundreds of things we don’t. Really, shouldn’t it be the other way around?

I don’t have a delusion that Violet and Carli are going to love everything about themselves. But my goal, what I strive for is that the things they like severely outweigh the things they hate.

Daily we work on it. Daily I tell them the wonderful things I see in them. Daily I tell myself the wonderful things I see in myself, so that eventually the self-love half-truth can become a whole truth. Daily that list grows.

And daily I eke my way to a healthier me, one that can keep up with them each step of the way. My ultimate goal is not ‘Hot Mom’, I have no desire to look like a super-model. I am not even shooting for a single digit size. The ultimate goal is the size 14 I was when I became pregnant with Violet, which was the healthiest time in my life (mostly due to being too broke for groceries and having to walk miles across campus each day. I don’t plan on using this method.)

But for now, my immediate goal is 2 pounds a week, 40 by December 31. I direct your attention to the tiny box on your right, boldly reminding me each time I come to this site that I have WORK TO DO.

Little by little, step by step, day by day.

*Alanis Morrisette, Perfect

Those Days

Tuesday night, my girls didn’t sleep.

They went to bed at 8:30, sure. Then I cleaned house, folded laundry, did my chores…I went to bed at 12:30.

Carli woke up.

I fed her, changed her, got her back to sleep. I fell asleep about 1:30. Then 2:00 am rolled around.

Violet woke up.

Not from a bad dream, not for any reason. She just wanted to be up.

She fell asleep around 4, during which time I fed Carli another time. I fell asleep around 4:10.

My wonderful husband let me sleep until 11, but I woke up in a mood.

My bad days are few and far between, but when they hit, they are vengeful. And when I have so many good days in a row, like I have been…the bad days are just awful.

I snapped at Jason. I cried into a pillow. I wanted to crawl into my cocoon, like I always do when the bad days come.

It just makes me feel so out of control. My girls aren’t the targets, my husband is. I pick fights. I call him names. I scream at him.

He has been through this enough to know when it is an episode. That it is chemical in my brain, not representative of how I really feel. But he still has the patience of a saint to sit through it.

After he went to bed, my sister called. She took us out of the house, and gradually, my day ebbed away.

I am still a little edgy today, especially when my blood sugar got low, and Jason grabbed my butt in the grocery store. I usually love that, but NOT when I am on edge…

Tomorrow, I should be back to normal.

These days are getting farther and farther away. I just wish…I just can’t wait until they are gone forever.

I hope that it happens. I know it might not ever go away. But I can hope.

Tuesday Night Rocks the House

My nights are pretty tame. Primetime hits, and I sit on the couch, feeding Carli her bedtime bottle. Violet sits beside me, and we watch whatever I deem safe for her to watch.

Tonight, it was her favorite, America’s Got Talent (love me the guys in the pageboy caps and suspenders…RAWR)…just about the only show I can get her to sit through the entire hour for. Well, the first hour was the one where they pared the contestants down to 40...and I bawled through the whole hour. Then they showed the previews for the new season of The Biggest Loser…and I bawled. (her WHOLE family DIED!!!!) I am fairly sure I bawled through a Sprint commercial. (Their 3G network is SO BIG!)

I need to get out more.

My gypsy heritage affords me many perks…curves no matter how much weight I gain, olive-ish skin that rarely sunburns, the propensity to be the loudest in the room and thus Center of Attention.

However, it also comes with hair. True, the stuff in my head is thick and adorable (I humbly proclaim), but the stuff growing out of my chin is equally thick and not nearly as adorable.

Seriously. I can get up in the morning with nary a hair…and by lunch, my fingers will feel the beginnings of one starting to poke through. And that baby is BLACK and THICK and while that may work for Beyonce, I am not feeling it, yo.

The BEST (insert sarcasm here) is when I am at Target, handing the clerk my debit card, and Jason says, “Reka, you have more facial hair than I do!”

Not that that has happened recently. OH WAIT YES IT HAS.

Carli does not stop moving while she is awake. She hasn’t started crawling, but she can get anywhere on the first floor of my house in less than a minute by rolling her little self at the speed of light. Sometimes so fast she spits up from dizziness.

She’ll climb onto the shelf under my coffee table and sort through my books. She’ll roll under her swing so she can lay on her back and push it with her feet. She makes a bee line (caterpillar line?) for anything Violet leaves on the floor.

Her favorite is the shoes, though.

Living in Canada, then Alaska, for so many years has cultivated a habit of taking off our shoes at the door. This creates a pile of shoes near our front door. Which Carli likes to roll around in.

I came down the stairs this morning (Jason watches the girls when he gets off work so I can sleep till 8), There was Carli, laying on the floor, grin huge, dimples flashing…hugging Jason’s topsider.

That’s my girl.