Getting Off the Merry-go-round

I was going along at a pretty good clip, buzzing busily from one thing to the next and onto the next, when I suddenly hit a wall. Now, all the busyness and buzzing about has me feeling apathetically stalled. My little engine that could has simply run out of steam. Like always, there are many, many things going on, things I cannot escape or let go unattended. I won’t say I’m dissatisfied in anyway, I prefer being busy and having things to look forward to doing, but I’m just tired. I’m so very, very tired. Partially, this is due to the simple lack of sleep (thank you Love Bug and my own poor ability to stay asleep a full night), but it’s also due to my dietary choices combined/enhanced/compounded by my hormonal/PCOS issues. Simply stated, I need more hours of rest and I need to eat better.

 

It’s no secret I struggle with my weight. I’ve tried doing things to lose weight in the past but was abysmally unsuccessful. My contempt for my own body, something I’ve had from a very young age, was only compounded by the utter disappointment of infertility. Of course my body would let me down when it came to conceiving because my body is worthless, disgusting, contemptable. To me, this is a truth. When I was a teenager at a local fair showing my 4-H animals, another mother said to my mother, “It’s a shame [my name] is so heavy because she has such a pretty face.” Already body-conscious and over-weight I internalized this as my personal mantra – I have such a pretty face, it’s a shame I’m so fat and disgusting. And, for years this is what I believed about myself. I think most people see a confident and self-assured woman when they meet me. I do a very good job of hiding my personal neurosis. But, this sickening mantra is hurting me, it is holding me back from having a life full of joy. Now more than ever I need to learn to stop hating my body. I need to love my body so I can teach my children to love their bodies. And, I need to do it for myself. I think one reason I find dating and meeting that potential someone so difficult is because I don’t see my body as worthy of the attention. I’m gross-looking, don’t want me, don’t desire me. It’s evident how this is a major roadblock.

 

One major player in my malaise is my addiction to sugar. Yes, I am a sugar addict. For so long I would have denied that, I would have insisted I eat much less sugar than “other” people. But, as I was starting a new non-diet (it was a cognitive self-help book for people seeking to lose weight, but not a diet in and of itself), I self-sabotaged gloriously and probably gained another 10 pounds eating as many unhealthy things as I could get my hands on. I’m not really a fad person, in fact I’m more apt to try something many moons after it’s been around, but the idea that sugar can be a toxin to the body, especially in high doses, seems spot on to me. And, for people like me, it can be an addiction – something that hits those pesky pleasure spots in the brain and lights them up like a Christmas tree ala the Griswolds. And so I have this dual-pronged thing I need to deal with and it’s rather emotionally draining, especially when added to the effects of sugar overload, lack of sleep, and hormonal imbalance. Good-bye energy, hello blah.

 

My therapist told me knowing is half the battle but I see knowing as putting on the armor for the battle. I have found a Certified Natural Health provider but won’t be able to see her for our first appointment until July. She is also an R.N. and certified through a whole host of organizations and through a holistic approach, helps women with hormonal imbalances. I’m anxious to see her, even if the appointment is pricey and not covered by insurance. They have me on a wait list should there be any cancellations before July. But, I cannot wait until July to start doing something to better my diet. Part of my struggle is time and convenience. I am busy, or haven’t I mentioned that? I work full-time at a job outside my home and then I come home to work some more. And, if I’m not squeezing housework into every available moment of the day, I’m out and about with the kids trying to provide some semblance of a social life for them and me. So, trying to make sure I follow a planned menu is about the same as asking me to write my blog in Chinese – seems downright impossible! But, I have to find a way to make it work. We cannot just grab something somewhere because it is killing me and it is teaching the children horrible eating habits. They groan and complain and refuse to eat when I make dinner, but happily gobble up the non-homemade meals. So, not only am I forcing myself through this change but I’m tugging the children along with me. My goal for this weekend is to get the junk food out of the house. Adios. Primero will probably bulk the most because I don’t think that boy would know a vegetable if it jumped up and kissed him. He will probably just hide his junk food and resist unhappily. This won’t make any of us happy initially. But, my hope is, eventually we will all become happier as the toxins from the processed foods leave our bodies for the most part. I mean, the school is still going to feed Chica Marie PopTarts for breakfast. And I’m pretty sure hotdogs will remain on the daycare menu, but hopefully our family meals and snacks will balance out those foods. It’s not going to be an easy change on many levels. Junk food is fast, convenient and always available. It’s prevalence and easy consumption is what draws me to it again and again. Meal planning is hard, like calculus hard! Meal prepping is hard; it requires a lot of forethought and considerable time management. But, it is non-negotiable, it must be done for the betterment of our health. It’s time to get off this particular merry-go-round.

Newly Diagnosed

Last Saturday I had taken Chica Marie to see the new Smurf movie as a surprise. Her previous TSS worker met us there to reward her for getting on green and purple at school (green means “ready to learn” and purple means the child did something extra-special, like helped a friend). I wasn’t even inside the house when Primero pounced on me, telling me Esperanza was in his room asking to talk to me. She had been to the emergency room for issues with a burst ovarian cyst and had received bad news. She has PCOS, the same complicated, horrible disease with which I suffer. Apparently she had not known, along with so many other problems like acne, extra hair, imbalanced hormones, high blood sugar, extra weight, and wacky cycles, PCOS can make it hard to get pregnant. She was distraught. So, I sat and talked to her. I didn’t, I couldn’t sugarcoat it, none of it. I explained more about the disease and some potential treatments, what I had tried and what I didn’t. And then I held her while she cried and I cried along with her. No platitudes were going to make this go away. I didn’t whisper words of false hope  or flippant encouragement into her hair while she bear-hugged me and sobbed. I told her I knew how much it hurt and how unfair it is, how much it sucks. I told her to be kind to herself and if she couldn’t be around someone pregnant to allow herself the space for her own mental health. I told her the beginning is the hardest time, triggers are literally everywhere, but time would help and the triggers would lessen. They wouldn’t go away entirely, but they would lessen. She told me how she tried to talk to her mom and sister about it but they didn’t understand. I explained that for those who easily got pregnant it is as impossible to understand as it is for us to understand easily getting pregnant. I promised her she could talk to me anytime she needed because I do understand, I intimately know this pain and how far it reaches into your life. I also know the very dark place it can take you emotionally and I hope she does not go there. After we talked I felt emotionally drained, as if talking to her had taken me back to when I was first diagnosed. But, I was also glad I could be there for her in a way I wish someone had been there for me in those early, dark times. In a strange way infertility is like an unwanted sisterhood, we don’t want to be here, we don’t want anyone we know to be here, but if we going through hell we might as well help each other along.

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I Am Always There

I saw this post with a list of 10 ways the author is rocking motherhood. She took the idea from a previous blog and invited, just as the original one did, us readers to post our own list. It’s important, in a world of mommy wars, to be reminded of how much we do that positively affects our children. As anyone who reads my blog knows, I’ve been struggling mightily with my middle child, my only girl and resident badass. I spend most of my non-moming time thinking of all the ways I’m screwing up with her and evidently not meeting her needs. Too often I’m trapped thinking about what I need to do better so she cannot press my buttons and our merry-go-round of insanity can finally end. I sat and tried to think of ten ways I’m rocking motherhood. I came up with just one.

 

I am always there.

 

I am there when my children are sleeping and when they get up in the morning. I am there to take them to school and pick them up at the end of the day. When they are sick, had a bad dream, or need to talk about the latest drama, I am there. I go to their sporting events, their plays, parent-teacher conferences, IEP meetings, graduation ceremonies, art events and any other opportunity to show up, I’m there. I suppose, to some, that doesn’t seem like a big deal. But, my kids didn’t always have that predictability, their parents were not always readily available to them physically or emotionally. But, I am. I am there for them in big ways and small ways; from the skinned knee to the broken tooth, from the sibling spat to TPR – I am there. I am there when Primero needs advise on relationships. I’m there when Chica Marie needs to be tucked into bed at night. I’m there when Love Bug wakes up every. single. night. and calls for me. I mess up in a lot of ways on a daily basis. But, the one thing my kids can count on, as long as I am drawing breath, I am here for them.

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This Thing

Dancing with the Stars last night, ugh! The first ugh! because I cried three times. The second ugh! because of Nancy Kerrigan’s story. I don’t know if I can aptly unpack all that I was feeling during her most memorable year. Being an Olympic figure skater, one might imagine her most memorable year would be related to her sport, yet it was not. Instead of celebrating her professional success, she chose her most memorable year to be 1996, the birth of her oldest son. She explained that from a young age she had always known she wanted three children. She had no problem conceiving and birthing her first child, so she assumed the next two would follow suit just as easily. But, that is not what happened. Let me pause to interject this is a feeling so many suffering from infertility understand. I had a mental image in my mind of my family; a husband and the children we would raise. My reality does not fit that image and it never will. For me, letting go of what I wanted and embracing what I have, was such a struggle that at times it felt insurmountable. Nancy mentioned not being able to give up on her ideal of three kids. After her first child was born she suffered 6 miscarriages in 8 years. The pain of those losses were evident when she expressed she felt guilty and the Olympic medalist felt like a failure. Let that sink in a moment. What the world would see as a successful woman felt like a failure because of infertility. If that doesn’t express the pain of infertility, I don’t know what does. She also expressed feeling ashamed of having to seek medical help to conceive and carry her second son. It was unclear if IVF was used for her to conceive her daughter, that part was sort of skimmed over.

 

So, here’s the ugh! part of it all. I know it was brave for Nancy to share her story, I know it took a lot out of her to delve back into the memories of those dark times. But, yes there is a but. But, I don’t think the word infertility was uttered. I know, after her dance when she was talking to Erin Andrews, there was an awkward exchange where Erin called infertility, “this thing.” In my mind, I thought perhaps Erin also has suffered or is suffering from infertility and just couldn’t bring herself to say the word out loud. That’s totally conjecture on my part, but it sort of weakened the impact of Nancy’s story. Sure, no one wants to be the poster child for infertility, but when viewed alongside the story of Mr. T battling cancer, the wording was in such stark contrast. Mr. T battled cancer. Nancy Kerrigan dealt with “this thing.” Nancy expressed guilt, failure, and shame. Mr. T used words like overcame, grace, and survivor. I am not picking on these two celebrities, both of their stories moved me to tears, but in seeing their two journey’s dealing with medical afflictions, it was so evident how society shapes our views on the two. Nancy’s battle was not victoriously won, she was not viewed as survivor, rather she just dealt with this thing. I’m not trying to take away from Mr. T and, having a mother who survived breast cancer, I would also use all the words to describe him (survivor, victorious, an overcomer, etc.). But, I would use those same words to describe Nancy too.

 

The second ugh! part of Nancy’s story was when she expressed never giving up and remaining hopeful. She mentioned knowing what she wanted in her life and not giving up on that vision. In the end, it worked out for her and she has three (living) kids. But, the whole idea of not giving up in regards to infertility just rubs me the wrong way. Medical interventions are not magic, nor are they dependent upon how much hope you have in order to be successful. And, sometimes, that driving hope, that never give up attitude, can push you into a very dark place. Infertility is not figure skating or dancing or acting or any other human activity where perseverance equates success. An infertile woman could use treatments from the time she starts her menses until menopause and never successfully carry a pregnancy to term or even manage to conceive. And all of her hope and all of her perseverance will not make a whit of difference. Rather, it would be dangerous to her health both mental and physical. Just the mere idea that stopping infertility treatments or “giving up” before or without birthing a child equates loss of hope is a dangerous mindset. Hope doesn’t make babies, never giving up doesn’t bring a pregnancy to term. Not following every treatment is not the same as giving up. There are so many more factors involved, beyond personal attitude and persistence. For some women, their bodies simply cannot handle the treatments with the plethora of medications and hormone stimulants. For others it’s a question of faith and their religious beliefs that a higher power has predetermined their path. And, for some, like me, it’s a matter of finances. Infertility treatments are not for the less-fortunate, the outrageous costs are insurmountable when you are living very near pay-check to pay-check. Hope and determination cannot overcome it all.

 

I know it’s just a TV show, but I really felt let-down by Nancy’s story last night. There was such an opportunity to stare unflinching into the maws of infertility, to shake-off the shackles of the shameful, guilt-ridden taboo and instead it became “this thing.” I do applaud Nancy for sharing her story, I’m sure it will have some people thinking of how hard it must have been for her and her family. But, it’s sad to know infertility survivors are not the virtuous conquering hero’s like those who have survived other diseases. They’ve just dealt with “this thing.”

Monthly Frenemy

I need to explore herbal remedies for hormonal and menstrual issues because at this point my monthly frenemy is adversely affecting my quality of life. I spend roughly 7-10 days per month cursing my reproductive organs. If I’m not spotting for days on end before and after my period, I’m dealing with a gushing, heavy flow that takes me 10 minutes to clean up every time I use the loo. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, I am so bitchy moody and irritable with painful breasts, bloating and cramps both back and front, that I’m no fun to be around. The coup de grâce has been the utter lack of energy I have when my period first begins. I am utterly exhausted to the point that I feel ill from being so groggy and have to fight not to fall asleep at my desk at work, regardless of how much I sleep. It’s like when that time of the month rolls around, suddenly my uterus fills with kryptonite, zapping away my super-powers, leaving me a weak and feeble mortal. I simply cannot go on this way. Losing some weight might help, so I’m working on that, but spending roughly 60-80 days a year utterly miserable is no longer ok with me. When I sought help from my medical professional last fall I was given the option of birth control pills or an IUD – so a contraceptive or a contraceptive inserted into my body. No thanks, I’ll pass. I asked about herbal remedies and was told there isn’t anything that helps with miserable periods. Dr. Google begs to differ and while I wouldn’t go just on those recommendations, I feel it is an option I would like to explore. I’m just not sure where to go for sound recommendations from a professional. So, I’m contemplating becoming my own herbalist professional. Did you know there are a plethora of herbal certifications available via online courses?

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Broken Trust

My six year old is smarter than me. For proof, I wish I could show calculations of complex math problems, but instead I have the following story. Earlier this week I noticed Chica Marie seemed to be able to take her pills with ease, as opposed to her long drawn-out gaging, sipping water, holding the pill in her mouth and eventually painfully swallowing it, while grimacing and complaining. When she announced, almost gleefully, that she was done taking her pills I was immediately suspicious. This morning my suspicions were confirmed. Generally, the morning routine is as follows: I get up and have breakfast first. While I’m preparing my meal I sit Chica Marie’s pills on the table with her gummy vitamin and a glass of water. Usually I wake her up around 7 but sometimes, like this morning, I let her sleep in because she got to bed later or had a rough night. So, this morning I woke her up around 7:30. I was changing Love Bug while she slowly changed out of her pajamas. Then, I returned to the bathroom to do my hair and make-up. She came into the bathroom to use the toilet and I reminded her to put on shoes when she left. I have the bathroom door open and it’s right outside the kitchen. I noticed Chica Marie was not sitting at the table performing her morning pill ritual. I called her name and she came out of her room. It was then I noticed the pills were missing. And, I had a deus ex machina moment and just knew she was hiding her pills in her room. I asked her to show me. Stuffed behind her dresser, nestled in a huge dust bunny, was a large handful of blue and white pills. I didn’t yell. I didn’t make her pick them up. I asked her why they were there and she told me she didn’t want to take them. I snapped a picture with my phone and calmly moved the dresser back into place. I closed her bedroom door and told her to take the pills I thought were still in her hand. At first, I was shocked by her smarts. So clever! And she had been doing this for some time, pulling the wool over my stupid, trusting, unsuspecting eyes. But, now, as I write this, I am angry. And tired, oh so very tired! I’m tired of her lying to me all. the. time. about everything! I’m tired of not being able to trust her, to never, ever trust her. I’m tired of feeling like I need to be a prison warden, checking every nook and cranny, lest she get the best of me. And I’m really tired of her not caring, of giving no f*ck at all, none. I’m tired of being out-smarted by a 6 year old because I want to believe my kids will do what they are asked to do. I don’t know how many pills are there. Picking them up and counting them is tonight’s chore. I don’t even want to talk to her about it because I’m either going to rage and rave like a maniac or sob uncontrollably and I honestly might do both simultaneously.

 

I’m reading the book “Beyond Consequences, Logic, and Control” by Heather T. Forbes. It’s a book about trying to work with kids with trauma backgrounds using techniques different from those traditionally taught by mental health professionals. Each chapter in the book is about a different behavior commonly exhibited by a child with a trauma background. The first chapter was on lying and it expressed the best course of action for a child who lies is to ignore the lie but not the child. Parents who have a hard time dealing with the lies their child tells are said to have a painful past experience of someone lying to them, thus their anger over the lies are more related to this past issue than to their child and the whoppers they tell. What I feel the chapter was missing was the loss of trust that comes when someone lies to you. Trust is so important in any relationship, it is truly a foundation block to any relationship. If you lie to me, I cannot trust you, if I cannot trust you how can we have a close relationship? I don’t know if I ignored the lie this morning or just shut down emotionally and got us out the door to school and work. Chica Marie seemed unaffected by my discovery and almost proud that she had gotten away with this for so long. Never mind the multitude of consequences hiding pills could cause, including hurting herself.

 

I don’t know what to do. I know I’m failing big time in really meeting the emotional needs of this child. I’m failing at getting us out of this hideous cycle of anger, disappointment, lies and tantrums (and I mean both of us!). I know it’s on me to figure out how to make this better. I don’t feel like we have professional help, even though I have begged for it incessantly. I feel stuck and frustrated and I don’t know how to get us out of this.

By Any Other Name

I’ve written before about changing Chica Marie’s name after the adoption. I’ve read about adoptee’s and their views on changing their names and it runs the gamut. Some are fine with the name change, some are not. Some feel it is inclusive, pulling them into their new families, whereas others feel it is another loss, disconnecting them from their first families. I’ve wrestled with it, I’ve talked to the case workers about it and I’ve even tried talking to Chica Marie about changing her name. Mostly, she seemed to think it was a game and any new name she heard she would offer up as a potential for her new name. But, I had it boiled down to three options. Option one was keeping her first and middle names the same, just changing the spelling of her first name. Option two was a different first name (different, but similar-sounding) but the same middle name. Option number three were two new names (the first name still being similar-sounding to her current name) and would give her the same initials as Love Bug, who is getting the same middle name as my father and brother. When working with her new child prep case worker, Chica Marie chose option number three. So, I’m now trying to incorporate her new name into our everyday lives. This is hard because we call Chica Marie by a nickname I gave her on her first respite visit when she wouldn’t tell me her name. She goes by her nickname at school and daycare as well. In fact, most people don’t even know her first name, they just know her by her nickname, which is not changing. For me, I like having the decision made. I can only hope that Chica Marie is ok with the change when she is older. If not, we will work on a solution together.

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