"Jagged Little Pill"

There comes a point in time when you realize you aren't willingly giving yourself to something anymore. The realization had actually been there for months, but I decided to finally admit it to myself two weeks ago. At some point over the last few months, I think I stopped living and started simply surviving. Every day felt like a struggle. Survival until naptime, then survival until bedtime. I would tell Jake that we survived a trip to Target. Last month, we survived the six hour car ride to the beach. Then we survived the beach, but barely (we came back 3 days early). Life became about getting from point A to point B in one piece. I observed other moms when I went out and although I know that nothing is ever what it appears (boy, do I know that one), I started feeling like maybe every other mom except me knew the secret to enjoying their kids. I began to think that maybe I was missing part of the "mom" gene- the one that made me less irritable, more forgiving, more flexible, more....happy. I kept thinking, aren't these are supposed to be the years of our lives- being parents to two beautiful, healthy kids? Isn't this what I always wanted? Why do I feel like this??

So I called my OB and told him I wanted my money back. :)

Okay, not exactly. But I did call him and tell him that this wasn't what I signed up for. Something more was going on. I knew there would be exhaustion, illness, raging hormones, hectic schedules, and days when I would feel like I was barely getting by. But I didn't expect to lose myself in all of it, to forget who I was and the things that I enjoyed. I told him that I couldn't get excited about going shopping, or carving pumpkins, or wine tasting. {gasp?!?!} That Christmas seemed overwhelming instead of occupying it's usual spot as my most favorite time of the year. That I cooked food and ate it, but didn't really taste it. I couldn't finish sentences, couldn't focus. I went to bed exhausted and somehow managed to wake up even more exhausted. My entire body ached. I watched life happen to everyone else but somehow felt like a bystander in my own. I explained how I felt guilty for no reason at all and that I didn't feel like I had anything to bring to the table anymore as a wife, a mother, or a friend. I had given the best of what I had to give for so long, until there was nothing left to give but leftovers. I felt stale, used up. I sobbed to the poor nurse on the phone (she must have been so glad she answered) that I was afraid I would blink- just like everyone promises me that I'll do- and they will be 18 and 16, and when I look back at these "best years"- I'll realize I spent them being numb. I knew if I was going to get better, I had to make myself say it out loud: I think I have PPD.

One script for Zoloft and a couple of weeks later, it's amazing how much better I feel. I feel relieved to know that I wasn't totally losing it after all. I had been carrying something around that wasn't mine to hold onto. A weight was instantly lifted off of me, I think, before I even took the first pill. In hindsight, there were a lot of contributing factors: I'm right in the middle of an exhausting season of life- and there's really no quick fix for that. I'm also a proverbial milk factory for my son, who happens to have the appetite of an NFL linebacker, which keeps me literally "on demand" 24/7 and I think my hormones have hormones now. But I suspect some of my recent restlessness, too, is because I'm simply not pouring my energy into anything else other than my family. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that except for the realization that being a stay-at-home mommy simply isn't enough for me, nor is it bringing out the best in me. And it was an entirely different kind of pill to swallow to finally be okay with admitting that. For so long, I was afraid to actually say it because I thought it meant I had failed. Like, if I actually had a boss as a stay-at-home mom, maybe this would be the part where I had to turn in my two weeks. Maybe I would have even been fired.

But I'm okay with this, with coming to the conclusion that it hasn't turned out how I thought it would. At the end of the day, I have an amazing family. I have two happy, healthy kids, an amazing and devoted husband- and I'm hopelessly in love with all of them. But there's a nagging that something more is required of me outside of this, and I think I finally understand that in a way I haven't since I first became a mom. Maybe something more is required of me because I have so much. I was talking to one of my dearest friends the other day and she said to me, "sometimes, you have to get lost outside of yourself, or you'll be lost inside yourself." It was exactly what I needed to hear.

So now I embark on another journey. I'm not exactly sure what it entails or where it will take me, but for the first time in months, I'm not numb anymore. And that's a great start.

Why Cry Over Spilled Milk?

Have you ever thrown a perfectly good piece of meat at the wall recently? My guess is that you haven't. But I have. And although it was instantly regretted, it felt pretty darn exhilarating for that one second. So why did I throw a 6 oz. steak at my wall? Why the drama?

Hormones. It's as simple-and as complicated- as that.

Before anyone should think I make a habit of throwing (read: hurling) food across the room, let me break it down even further: I was ravenously hungry. It was 9 o'clock at night. Jake had been to the store after work to pick up my "filet" which he was told they didn't sell (seriously, what reputable grocery chain doesn't sell filets??) He came home, bathed Ella and gave her dinner, all while I had a fussy 3 week old hanging from my left boob- and then my right. and then my left again- all because of this very torturous phenomenon called "cluster feeding." It was the end of my first week home with both kids and my state of being was catatonic, at best. I had 3 hours of sleep the night before. And 3 hours the night before that...and the night before that...and all the way back for about a month. After a very long and draining week, I was somehow managing to keep my calm, convinced that restoration was coming to me in the form of a juicy filet and a velvety glass of Cabernet.

I sat down, took one bite of the steak, and started to cry. It was tough and chewy. It wasn't a filet. I decided that I couldn't drink my wine with a piece of meat that tasted like that. That would be a waste. Of course, if I couldn't eat the steak or drink the wine, I couldn't eat the baked potato and green beans either. It all had to go together, damnit. This was the meal I had been salivating over all day and it was ruined. Poor Jake. He did the best he could- it wasn't his fault. But I could feel the anger welling up in me. (Apparently, I don't cry over spilled milk, but I have the surprising ability to go ape shit over my red meat. Go figure). So when the bulging vein on my forehead appeared, my sweet husband quickly offered to go out and pick up another steak for me.

But I suddenly realized I had to leave. I had to get out. I didn't want him to go get me a steak. It wasn't about the food anymore. Sure, I wanted to sit down and enjoy a nice steak dinner and a movie while the babies slept, but I also wanted to be able to keep my eyes open past 8:30 p.m. I wanted to be able to run out to Target to get toilet paper and Tylenol without taking 45 minutes to pack up the kids, load them into the car and make it home before Milo screamed his head off needing to eat. I wanted to not smell like sour milk. I wanted jeans that could hide my post-partum muffin top. Even more, I wanted the muffin top to magically disappear, along with the stubborn 15 extra pounds hanging around my thighs. I wanted to be able to use the bathroom by myself or disappear into our bedroom to fold clothes without being followed. I wanted sleep. Sweet, beautiful, elusive sleep. Precious REM cycles. I wanted to feel like I wasn't failing at this "being a mom to two kids" thing. I wanted validation. I wanted to know that at some point, it HAD to get better.

I decided in that instant, I didn't want him to go get me a steak. I wanted him to go get me my life back.

It was almost as if my hand involuntarily reached down to my plate and chucked it before I could even tell myself to stop. And so the tough, chewy steak ricocheted off my wall, leaving a T-bone shaped A-1 stain above the kitchen sink and I proceeded to storm out of the house in tears, (begging the question- who was the real 2 year old in the house?) I got in the car and drove-not entirely sure where I was going- and had a good, ugly cry- you know, the kind with uncontrollable sobs and hiccups and mascara stains all down my neck and shirt. Several minutes later, I eventually arrived at my senses- and at the closest Outback Steakhouse. (I still really wanted steak). While I was waiting for my order, I waited for the guilt to subside. First, that I had acted like a 2 year old and actually thrown my food. And then there was all the mom guilt- those voices that show up to kick you while you're already bruised and bleeding. "You thought you could handle 2 kids. You thought you were ready. You'll never be enough for them both. You're destined to buy stock in waterproof mascara because you'll probably be crying every day for the next 6 months. Your husband could never find you attractive looking like this..." I thought surely Jake was pissed that I had stormed out like that. He was probably just as fed up with me as I was fed up with me, if not more. I was almost afraid to go back home.

And then I got the text. "Are you okay?"

He wanted me to come home. He wasn't angry. He just wanted me to be home.

I picked up my order and drove back in silence. When I walked in, my mess had already been cleaned up and the steak was resting in the garbage can, where I should have thrown it to begin with. I sat down to eat in silence, unable to think of an apology that could possibly make up for the way I had acted. Before any words could come out, the tears interrupted them all over again. Without a word, he reached over and pulled me to him and I realized that nothing else about that night really mattered anymore. Because if I have learned anything about this life I have made with my husband- and this life that we're building with our children- it's that there is room to mess up. There is room to bawl your eyes out and be scared. And come to find out, there's even room enough in our tiny kitchen to test the stain-resistance of our walls. Who'd have guessed?

So these hormones might be here in abundance, but so is love. But love will still be here in abundance long after the hormones have disappeared, and that's all that really matters at the end of the day. And as for sleep? Well, I'm told that it will return in abundance at some point too. I just hope it will be sometime before they start high school...

"I Don't Think You're Ready for *This* Jelly"

I was running some errands earlier today and one of the featured "Friday Flashback" songs came on- "Bootylicious" from Destiny's Child's Survivor Album (and since when 2004 became a "flashback," I have no idea. 6 whole years ago. What a stretch.) Anyhoo, I was instantly taken back to my single, clubbing days- drink in hand, dancing off the buzz and appreciating a song that made girls with curves feel good about what God gave 'em. There was a time when I knew this song word for word, but those days are long gone, so when I got home, I pulled up the lyrics. (And discovered that there were quite a few lyrics that I never had right to begin with...)

And while I skimmed over them, I thought, "ya know- this is pretty applicable to pregnancy too." So I thought I'd offer some insight into the words sung- ever so eloquently, I might add- by Beyonce, but with a preggo twist.


"I'm about to break you off
(if you ask me if I'm sure I'm not having twins)
Read my hips
(and you'll probably see remnants of the humongo bearclaw I had from Panera this morning)
Slap my thighs
(but be warned, they're big enough to slap you back now)
Swing my hair
(thanks to my prenatal vitamins, it grows at an alarming rate of 1/4 inch per day)
Squint my eyes
(No, I'm not trying to look sexy, I'm actually feeling a little nauseous)
Lookin' hot
(oh Jesus, here comes another hot flash)
Smellin' good
(did someone bring in a pepperoni pizza...*drool*)
Groovin' like I'm from the hood
(yeah, because they haven't even invented a word for my skin's particular shade of white)
Over my shoulder
(there's a strange new pregnancy-induced skin tag that appeared in the last few weeks. Awesome.)
Blow you a kiss
(because I'm really not in the mood to be touched. Or have sex. For like, the next 7 months).
Can you handle, handle this?
(Nope. Not without my yoga pants and a special little friend called Zofran).


I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(I just tripped over my cankles on the treadmill)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(is that *another* stretchmark??)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(did someone say "jelly?" Blackberry is my favorite. I want to make biscuits. Oooh, breakfast for dinner sounds good...)


"Cause my body's too bootylicious for ya, babe."

;-)

Noise Aversion

We've all heard that pregnancy hormones can send a woman in her first trimester running for the toilet over the smell of certain foods or even the scent of aftershave her husband has been wearing for their entire married life.  Smell aversion is nothing to be messed with, my friends.  I lucked out on this one though, as I only recall a very few times where I actually ended up walking (or practically running) through the meat section of the grocery store, breathing only through my mouth so as not to start gagging.  I was sensitive to certain aromas, but not enough to bring on the dry heaves, thank God.  Instead, these lovely hormones decided to skip my nose to have a little fun with my ears.

That's right folks, due to a heightened sense of sound, I believe that I have developed certain noise aversions.  Just as smell aversions can often lead to gagging, dry heaving and sometimes ultimately puking, these noise aversions often cause me to have what I like to call *word vomit. This could be as mundane as my dog (I tend to think of him more like a rabbit on crack) barking incessantly at a squirrel outside.  This is an aversion to sounds in a higher decibel range that I simply can't tolerate right now.   It could also be the times when Jake calls me from work, and some days he just doesn't sound quite "right" to me.  Perhaps, I had thought, he should be sounding a little happier to be talking to me.   This is a different type of noise aversion- a heightened sense of tone quality.  *Look out, more word vomit.*   

But there is another form of noise aversion I'd like to address: aversions to noises that are completely and utterly unnecessary.  The other day, Jake and I were brunching at one of our favorite spots in Richmond- a small, eclectic diner situated in the heart of the city.  Like most diners, it's filled with various, and oftentimes loud, sounds: the clanking of dishes and silverware, chefs calling out short orders, the sound of the cash register drawer slamming shut, people talking and laughing.  But these sounds are only to be expected in such a place, so my noise radar had remained unaffected.  That is, until two men walked in and seated themselves at the table directly behind us.  At some point, each of them must have asked the waitress for an iced tea.  I know this not because I heard them place the order, nor did I see the waitress bring it out to them.  I know that they ordered two very large iced teas that must have arrived unsweetened because for the next 10 minutes (really, I'm not exaggerating), all I heard was the swishing of spoons, ice and plastic cups as these two grown men apparently worked feverishly to ensure that every tiny granule of sugar had dissolved into their teas.  Yes, above the talking and shouting, above the clinks of plates being cleared by the busboy, my ears could hear nothing but incessant swishing and stirring of ice.  At one point, I even turned around to look- not because I was aggravated so much as I was completely amused that two people were obviously so intrigued by the process of dissolving solids into liquid (let's go back to 5th grade, shall we?)- and I saw, to my relief, that the ice had actually melted in their cups and they were finally laying their spoons to rest.  Ah, sweet peace at last!  (Even Jake, in all his patience and understanding, was laughing at the antics of the apparently oblivious duo behind us).  I turned back around to Jake to try to finish our conversation but my attention was caught by a waitress walking past our table carrying two large glasses of ice.  Please God, no. No no no no no noooooooo.  And before I can think another "noooo," the swishing resumes.  There's fresh ice in their glasses again and it's not disappearing anytime soon.  I'm in serious disbelief over these people, who I determine must be obsessive compulsive- and mute- because neither one of them is talking to the other.  Not one word.  They just continued to stir the hell out of their iced tea, making mindless and unnecessary noise....and that's when I felt it coming up....more word vomit....and there was no stopping it. 

Needless to say, we left our waitress a good tip for having to clean up after all of that...

 

*word vomit (wurd VAH-mit) v. the vigorous expulsion of a string of obscenities and complaints (which may or may not include name calling) often preceded by thoughtless acts, words or noises on the part of an unsuspecting individual. Warning signs include but are not limited to: facial contortion, bulging eyes and/or veins, gritted teeth, flushed cheeks and white knuckles. 

"Now...what did I come in this room for?"

I'm a living, breathing testament to preggo brain.  And I quickly discovered that not only is it real, but it's intense.  I swear, I have never felt so stupid in my life (minus, of course, some chosen drunken moments in college).   Friends had warned me of the fate my brain cells would suffer upon getting pregnant and gestating a child and I was somewhat surprised and amused to actually see "brain drain" listed as a potential pregnancy symptom, but I continued to assume this was yet another old wives tale.  Wrong.  

Like clockwork, it started for me- literally- the day I found out I was pregnant.  It was a Saturday morning, and Jake and I had decided to go out and run a few errands after breakfast.  I was in the dreaded two-week wait, and although I had been experiencing some typical early pregnancy symptoms, I was trying to convince myself to wait another two or three days to take my first pregnancy test.  I was in serious need of distraction to keep from getting my hopes up, so I suggested we go look for Halloween costumes for a party we were throwing at the end of the month.   Off we went, and although we had a good time, it proved futile in keeping my mind off anything and everything preggo.  We came back home, unloaded some stuff from the car and came in to have lunch.  Another hour later, I was going to call a friend of mine, but couldn't find my phone anywhere.  It was my newest toy, time-suck, and little modern marvel all rolled into one- the iPhone.  And it was gone.  After realizing that it was not resting in it's usual place in the side pocket of my purse, I frantically turned the house upside down in search of it.   Looking back, I realized this was the only point in that two week waiting period that I thought of something other than being pregnant.  *This was not the distraction I had in mind, however.*  Was I losing my mind?  I didn't even take it out of my purse the whole time we were in the store, and I distinctly remembered having it with me when we left.   I did nothing short of digging through our trash can in hopes of finding my little black beauty.  What the hell?  Frustrated and distracted, I went out to our mailbox to bring the mail in and as I walked past my car, a small black object on the windshield caught my eye.  Holy mother of God.   There it was.  Sitting outside in the bright afternoon sun for two + hours- and yes, on the windshield. Ohhh, right. *lightbulb comes on* I had taken it out of my purse and then set it there momentarily in order to help Jake grab some bags from the backseat. 

Now, for the past five days, I had been experiencing what I thought and hoped were undeniable early pregnancy symptoms: sore boobs, fatigue, recurring tension headaches, some mild nausea, bleeding gums...I had a mental checklist that I was updating every 10 minutes.  For whatever reason, none of the above mentioned symptoms were enough to make me pull out my pee sticks and have a go.  Yet, the first thought that popped into my head upon seeing my iPhone chillin' out on the windshield of my car was, "oh my god.  I think I'm pregnant."   It was pretty uncharacteristic of me to have had a brain fart of quite that magnitude.  Thank God it wasn't raining that day.  I walked into the house and straight into our hall bathroom, pulled out the pregnancy tests and 2 minutes later found myself face to face with two very undeniable bright pink lines.  Thus, the preggo brain drain began.  *Special thanks to that lovely hormone, progesterone.* 

Since then, my memory has deteriorated and is not nearly what it used to be, and I have been warned that it may never return.  I have forgotten phone numbers of people I dial on a regular basis (and this, from a person who could remember every phone number of every house I have lived in, in four different cities since I was five years old).  I have walked into a room and wondered what the heck I came in there for to begin with (if you have seen our house, you'd know this is tough to do as there are not that many rooms).  I have gotten in my car, driven out of our neighborhood to go to....wait, where the hell am I going?   I started leaving myself post-its with reminders- everything from birthdays, bills, my own social security number and cat's name, much like someone with Alzheimer's.  My reaction time is even slower.  When it comes to math, I would fit into the "borderline retarded" category.  But even with quick math (you know, the kind that most 10 year olds can do in their head), I stutter and stammer and search for my calculator, which I also seemed to have misplaced.   

It's gotten bad, people.  It's probably going to continue to get worse before it gets better- if it ever gets better at all.  Thankfully, those on the receiving end of my brain blunders have been more than understanding.  Apparently there is validity to this "brain drain" after all.   I just hope I can get some of these brain cells back once baby is here....*fingers crossed, but not counting on it.*

The Top 10 Things Never to Say to Pregnant Women

*Most* people know how to speak and behave around pregnant women, as a general rule.  I've discovered that some people, however, do not have a filter through which they speak.  So, as promised, here are the 10 things to never say to a pregnant women, according to yours truly. These are in no particular order.

1. "You just wait...."  

Here are some G-rated examples of things said to me:

"If you think your boobs are big now, you just wait..." 

"If you think you're uncomfortable now, you just wait..." 

"If you think you're exhausted now...." (you get the idea)

Do people get some kind of satisfaction in pointing out that you're not nearly as miserable now as you will be?  Gee thanks.  I'm enlisting my friend Karma to pay you a visit sometime in the near future.

2. "Try eating some saltines."

Saltines, huh?  Wow.  I had NEVER heard that one.  I miserably called the nurse at my OB's office to ask for a prescription for Zofran and one of the first questions out of her mouth was, "Have you tried saltines?"  Seriously, what is it about these crackers that makes people (even trained medical professionals) think that by eating them, the nausea should instantly vanish?I mean, did she really think that I hadn't already tried anything and everything possible to stop the bubble of puke from creeping up even further in my throat?  "Oh nevermind.  You're right. Who needs Zofran when I have a tasteless box of crackers in my pantry.  My bad."  Seriously people.  Just as many pregnant women who have tried the ol' saltine and ginger ale diet have more than likely watched it come back up in the toilet.  Moving on.

3.  "Can I touch your belly?"

Unless you're a close family member, girlfriend or the one actually responsible for putting that peanut in there, then no- no, you may not.  Period.  I might even exercise some grace if you actually ask, but unfortunately, most people just don't bother to ask anymore.  A pregnant woman's belly, therefore, is often treated like commercial property- i.e. the assistant at my eye doctor who put her hands way too close to the equator, thank you very much. *shudders* How often do you see someone walk up and rub the stomach of an overweight woman- just because their belly is bigger (albeit for a much different reason, but still).  Or run their hands up and down someone with obvious washboard abs?  It just doesn't happen.  But if you've got a pea in your pod, look out.  It's an instant magnet and it's all hands on deck.  Which, on a bad hormonal day, means I'll deck you.

4. Any comment about how big you are:  

"Wow, you look like you're about to pop."   Why thank you, Captain Obvious.  I'm having a baby- what's your excuse??

"You sure there's only one in there?"  *fake laugh*  Amazingly people think this is actually funny.  All the while, I want to retort, "You sure you don't want the heel of my boot up your ass?"

Or the opposite (which I got up until a month ago when I finally popped):  

"You're 15 weeks?  You don't look pregnant at all!"  Nice.   Because after all the nausea, fatigue, breast enlargement, inflamed nipples, food cravings and swollen ankles- all I want is to at least look the part.   Apparently I just looked more like I had way too many fourthmeals at Taco Bell.

5.  Any unsolicited advice or comments about baby's name.

"What kind of a name is....?  

"That's such a popular name right now."  

"What about....?"

Let me start off by saying that yes, of course, you are entitled to your opinions.  But please know when to keep them to yourself.  And this would be one such time.  It seems many people are surprised to find out that, *shock* mom and dad-to-be don't want or need their stamp of approval on the choice of names they've picked.   And it's not up for discussion.   Didn't you all get our email about which baby names you liked best?  You didn't?  Oh, I'm sorry.  That's right.  We don't care. 

6.  "It's probably just your hormones."

I realize a lot of women will play the hormonal card as often as they can get away with it.  I admit I did this often when Aunt Flo made her monthly appearance.  But pregnancy hormones are not "just hormones," people.  They're downright scary.  They could beat the crap outta my period hormones and steal their lunch money to boot.   So, yes, I'm all too aware that my body is outta control and I'm a) crying because someone in front of me at Panera took the last four Cheese Egg Souffle or b) overreacting because you didn't call when you said you would  or c) feeling the intense need to dust the bedroom before we go to sleep to avoid having a meltdown or d) crying for no apparent reason at all...

but having you tell me that's it's probably "just my hormones" does NOT in any way make it easier or better.  Jake learned this early on and has since stopped saying that.  Now he just gives me a hug or rubs my back (or retreats to his studio for hours at a time to escape it all, poor guy.)  *Big brownie points to him* <3

7. "Hey Mama!" (or "Preggo")

I have a first name, and the last time I checked my driver's license, it was neither of those.  The only person who gets to call me anything that closely resembles "Mama" is my unborn child.   However, if you are a fellow "mama-to-be" (there are quite a few in my circle of friends right now), you're excused as there is a camaraderie among pregnant women, where there is a true sense of empathy.  (The same is true for #3).  But that still leaves quite a large percentage of you who should call me by my first name. 

8. "Are you sure you should be eating that?" 

Since when is it anybody's business what I have a craving for?  If I am granted a reprieve from the waves of nausea long enough to realize that I really want a double cheeseburger from McDonald's, then outta my way.  What baby wants, baby gets.  If I've decided that in fact, one piece of chocolate birthday cake was not enough, then back off.  I'm expending more calories sitting here growing a human than you probably will in one visit to the gym.

9. Any unsolicited details about your own labor and birth experience.

Remember the overly friendly eye doctor assistant in #3?  Well, she also had some lovely things to share with me concerning her own birthing experience.   She gave me a play by play on how she ended up pushing for nearly 6 hours because she was afraid she was going to poop on the table.  No lie.  Instead, other grotesque things ended up happening to her, most of which made pooping on the table sound ideal.  Definitely not the kind of story you want to hear from the woman touching your contact lenses.  I'll add that she did this only after she sat me down in the dark in that weird chair with the goggles.  I had nowhere to run and by the time her story was over, I was wanting to poke my mind's eye out.

10.  Any comment or question about how baby may have been conceived.

Upon hearing the good news that a baby is on the way, there is really only one appropriate response and that is:  "Congratulations!"   Things not to say include but are not limited to: "It's about time,"  "Is he getting fixed after this one?"or "are you sure you can handle another one?" Also, questions like, "how long did you all try?" or "was it planned?" and any other fertility-related inquiries are quite frankly nobody's business.  If they are close enough to know, they don't need to ask and likewise, if they don't know, they simply have no business asking.

And so there it is.  A list, which I'm sure will grow to 15, maybe even 20 things never to say to a pregnant woman by the time I reach June.  We shall see...

Frogs, Spiders, and My Imagination...

"When the master is absent, frogs hop into the house."

     That's according to a Ugandan Proverb, and by the sounds of it, frogs aren't looked too highly upon in that culture.  Since I have always thought frogs were pretty cute (meaning, I want to admire them from a distance), may I just replace it with a few things I don't look too highly upon: Let's start with spiders. Like the one I found crawling in the tub this morning.  My first instinct was to yell for Jake.  I hate killing spiders for three reasons: 1) I always seems to miss (oversized shoe, dime-sized arachnid- figure that one out)  2) I believe in Karma so if I miss the 8-legged freak, I figure it's just a matter of time before it comes after me for revenge, and 3) the "popping" sound it makes when you squish it in the toilet paper.  You know what I'm talking about- it's nasty.  Almost makes me want to let them run free in my house just so I don't have to hear it and gag...  So back to the tub.  I instinctively yell for Jake.  Oh yeah, that's right.  He's not here- the master is absent this weekend.  Thus, the spiders will run free.  

      That's just one tiny example of what happens when the "master" is gone. Other things tend to run free as well.  Like my imagination.  Let me talk briefly about my paranoia at being alone this weekend: turning on every light in the house at night, looking behind closed doors and shower curtains (yes, it's true), I even made a crazy mad dash tonight from the car to my back door when I realized I had forgotten to leave the back porch light on.  Oh, I could easily blame this on the pregnancy hormones, but I think its because I've seen one too many grade B scary movies.  I think I'd rather deal with spiders.

     I have never had a problem being left alone for periods of time.  In fact, I used to quite enjoy having the random day or two to myself.  But when Jake left for Michigan on Friday night, one might have thought he was being deported to Iraq.  I sobbed and blubbered and even though I knew how pathetic I was being, the tears kept coming and I just didn't want him to go.  What if something happened to him?  What if he were in a car accident?  What if...?  There was an endless list of things in my head that could potentially go wrong.  This, I know I can blame on the hormones.  Don't get me wrong- I always miss him when he goes somewhere, but it has never before approached a level of "meltdown."   Rewind to last week, when he told me he was going to the dump to unload some things and would be back in a little while.  Two hours later, when he was not home, and I had unsuccessfully tried to reach him on his phone 4 times, there I was- sprawled out on my bed in near hysterics, my life flashing before me as the next Lifetime Original Movie: a widow, 6 months pregnant, then raising our little boy or girl who had his blue eyes and he/she *hiccup* would never know their Daddy...because *hiccup* he had been killed in a car accident on the way to the dump!!!!!  The phone rings and it's him and I can barely speak.  He immediately thinks something is wrong with me or the baby and is trying to calm me down, and all I can say is "I th-th-thought you were d-dead!!!!"  To which he says, "Don't you remember I told you I was going by the McBride's after I went to the dump??"  Oh.  Right.  Totally forgot he said that.  (Preggo brain: I'm a living, breathing example that not only is it real, it's full throttle now).  Needless to say, I've had a harder time being without him this weekend than I want to admit.  

     And it's not about the frogs, the spiders, or an overworked imagination...it's the more sober realization that nothing in this life is ever guaranteed.  The time spent apart is what shapes the time spent together, so if that's true, I believe I've earned some good snuggling time...