Confessions – Page 4 – The UnderToad

Post-Pregnancy Umbilical Hernia Surgery

Quick Back Story

A week ago Monday I saw a general surgeon to discuss the two umbilical hernias I was left with after my pregnancy with Eliott. Ten years and four kids later, these things weren’t necessarily giving me major problems, but were moderately uncomfortable when they bulged every time I had to sneeze, blow my nose, cough, or laugh too hard.

The first, a typical umbilical hernia, was a little under two inches in diameter and located directly behind what used to be a nice compact and respectable innie belly button. I remember in that pregnancy with Eliott the slow and painful process as I watched it turn inside out and pop like a little turkey timer. I used to bandaid it down, it was so painful at the time. After Eliott was born and my stomach returned to its new normal, I was able to mostly keep it tucked in.

But there is no amount of bandaiding that provided any sort of permanent hope for this outty today. Remember Q*Bert? Anyone? Yeah. It was kind of like that.

The other was just above my belly button and known simply as an epigastric hernia, meaning a tear in my abdomen. It was also pretty small and this one I couldn’t put my fingers into and feel around, but it left a slight bulge above my belly button, and resembled a skin cyst or node of some sort.

Again. Not a huge deal, but what the heck, we’re on Obamacare and might not be for long. Also, this is really the first time since Avery was born that she is finally old enough to climb in and out of everything herself, allowing me to avoid picking her up for the required 6 weeks of healing.

Initial appointment was Monday.

Surgery scheduling calls me Wednesday afternoon to say they can get me in as early as Friday morning.

What the heck.

Just enough time to change all the sheets on all the beds and refresh towels, because Mama ain’t doing laundry for a while.

Bad light and difficult angle, but my belly button just sort of falls out because of the umbilical hernia, and the slight bump just above it is my other hernia (it is more pronounced in different light).

The Day Before Surgery

Okay so the details are a little spotty, but I’m going to provide a quick rundown of the next 48 hours, just because it seems like something that should be captured.

Thursday morning I’m entering the YMCA at my typical time, when my phone rings for my pre-op phone call.

Good morning Mrs. Wait. This Novant Health Medical Park calling about your surgery scheduled for tomorrow, do you have a few minutes to go over some information? (Sure, just don’t make me recite my social security number, I’m not exactly in a private place right now.)

I duck into the locker room and am given the rundown on what to expect the next day. A few notes that stick out:

Don’t take your fish oil tonight, it is a blood thinner. (Weird. But no problem, I keep it in the freezer and forget to take it nearly every night. I guess this also means no drinking alcohol?) In fact, go ahead and skip all your vitamins except the magnesium if it helps you sleep. You can also take a Xanax tonight or tomorrow morning, with water, if you are feeling anxious about the surgery.

Who will be your support person? (Does my husband count? He’ll be shuttling me back and forth from the hospital with our four kids under the age of 13 who aren’t allowed inside due to the hospital flu quarantine. How long does this surgery actually last?) It would be ideal if he could be there while you are in surgery, just in case the doctor needs to provide any updates, but if he must leave at some point to relieve a babysitter, just be sure the OR nurse has his cell number. (Updates like…? I mean, call me crazy, but this is kind of a simple procedure, right? I mean, like, I’m not going to die or anything. How soon do I get to go home?)

Finally, begin fasting tonight at midnight. When you wake up tomorrow, go ahead and shower like you normally would (haaaah) just don’t use any lotion or deodorant after your shower. And you might want to wear loose fitting clothing that will be easy to get on and off.

My neighbor happens to be in the locker room at the time of this phone call, so I quickly fill her in and ask if she can be on alert the next day in case we need her. She obliges because we live in the best neighborhood in the universe. Then, I go tell my friend at the front desk about this last minute crazy whirlwind weekend, and she tells me she is off on Friday and can come over and keep the kids as long as I need.

How do these things keeps happening?

The Day of Surgery

At this point I am weirdly not freaking out or anything. Didn’t even take the Xanax. I’m a little headachy from the lack of coffee and of course, mildly starving. It is raining and the kids have a day off of school for end of quarter grading. I could not be looking more forward to my drug induced nap in a few hours.

If you haven’t been to a hospital lately, let me quickly update you on some security procedures. Every time someone enters your space in order to do even a menial task (with the exception of emptying the sharps box), he or she must ask you your full name and birthdate before doing anything. Also, they have these grocery store scanning guns which I assume they are using to create my itemized bill. I noticed the nurse scanned my bracelet and then my bag of saline, sort of silently announcing, “You’re paying for that.” Fine.

Then, after protocol, they immediate ask, “How are you doing today?”

At first, I did the typical, “Oh fine. You know, no kids. This is great. Haha.”

But by the time I was being wheeled into the OR, I had had enough of the niceties.

When the male OR nurse went through the name, birthdate, and howareyoufeeling(s), even without drugs I answered, “Well, let’s be honest. I’m feeling a little vulnerable right now. I mean, I’m laying here on a table-with-wheels in a room full of strangers and I have no underwear on. I think a better question is how are you feeling today, because you are a key part of the team that is supposed to be keeping me alive. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

I get a little hung up on the possibility of death inside hospitals.

He sort of laughed. He also assured me he was fine and I was definitely not going to die. Then he announced me to the room (I said my name and birthdate AGAIN) with, “This is Claire, and she’s feeling a little vulnerable today.”

At this point I felt like it was only fair to assure them that I meant vulnerable in the way of leaving my life in their hands, not so much the lack of underwear part. “I mean, I have a whole bunch of kids. My dignity’s been gone for a while now.”

Within a few minutes, they hook me up to the sleepy time meds and the next thing I remember is waking up after what felt like a day of sleeping. I even had dreams. (I looked at the clock back in the recovery room. 45 minutes had passed from start to finish. So weird.)

As I’m coming out of my sleep stupor, though, I suddenly have this crazy memory of John coming out of back surgery, and his breath, which I could smell from the doorway. I kind of panic and then blurt out my insecurity about my breath. Another male nurse gives me a peppermint flavored sponge on a toothpick.

And it is fantastic.

“Do you give these things to everyone?! Why didn’t my husband get one of these?!” I ask.

“Only the nice people,” he says, and he’s not joking.

“Oh that’s funny. No one ever calls me nice. I swear. Like, ever. Never. No one ever calls me nice. I’m not nice.”

“No. I think you are very nice Mrs. Wait. You have been particularly pleasant. And trust me, not everyone is nice in here.”

At this point I do not have the wherewithal to conclude that I have absolutely no idea what I may or may not have been saying while going in and coming out of anesthesia. But I’m just so thrilled to think that here, in what is obviously a very raw and unfiltered state, I’m totally coming across as nice.

As soon as we see John I say, “Hey, tell my husband what you just said. Honey. He said I’m nice! He called me nice. Isn’t that so weird?”

“Oh you must have her on some really good drugs. No one ever calls her nice. I mean. Ever. She’s not nice.”

“No! No, it’s not the drugs. I think, at my core, I might actually be nice. Isn’t that great!”

In hindsight, I think it was definitely the drugs.

Next morning: slight swelling (it got a little worse the next day) and taped up surgery site.

The Day After Surgery

After sleeping most of Friday with minimal pain, I wake up very early Saturday morning (4am early) wide awake, and aching. Trust me when I say, you have no idea how much you use your stomach muscles until they’ve been sliced open, even slightly. Breathing too deep is painful. Talking, even softly, painful. Laying down, not too painful, but laying down and turning my head sideways? Painful.

I end up on the couch and stay awake until Isaiah and the sun both greet me simultaneously. I relocate to my bedroom after John gets all four kids out of the house and off to soccer for the day.

Just as I’m starting to fall asleep, there’s a knock at the door. Assuming, at first, that it is the little girl from across the street, of course I ignore it. But then, instead of the usual 2nd knock, I hear a van door sliding open and closed, and some muffled talking. I hear a few more cars drive by, and I’m convinced it is the Jehovah’s Witnesses, picking what is obviously the best day of my year to come preach me the Good News.

Oh hell no.

I fall asleep plotting my conversation with them when they come back.

At 11am, I finally wake up, shuffle around the kitchen, get a cup of coffee, and my sister calls. While I’m on the phone with her I hear another knock at the door.

“Omigosh, Laura, it’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I know it is. Stay on the phone. I want you to hear this…” I’m saying as I swing the door open with a little less gusto than planned.

A huge pink bouquet of flowers greets me.

I’m not sure what I did to deserve all these surprise surgery elves (nothing, actually, I did exactly nothing), but let me tell you, I couldn’t be more humbled and dare I say it, #blessed, by this great little town we have stumbled upon. Again.

I die.

Then I apologize to the florist for assuming he was a JW. And I actually tell him that. He says he came by earlier but I must have been sleeping. I apologize again, because now he seems even kinder than he did with just the flowers, which prevent me from giving him a hug.

At some point I go back to bed for a little while and wake up to find a chicken pot pie on my kitchen table.

I’m not sure what I did to deserve all these surprise surgery elves (nothing, actually, I did exactly nothing), but let me tell you, I couldn’t be more humbled and dare I say it, #blessed, by this great little town we have stumbled upon. Again.

Today: April 3, 2017

Today I’m off all the Vicoden and have cut back to just Advil. Let’s be honest, I fancy regular bowels, and there is nothing that will stop that train quicker than some Vicoden. My pain is pretty minimal, considering, it just hurts to sneeze, cough, laugh, or move too suddenly.

I’m pretty swollen. Swollen, like, five months pregnant in my first pregnancy, or six weeks pregnant after that first kid. You know the kind of baby bump I’m talking about. I’m icing every hour because it feels good. I’m not sure that it is doing anything.

Also, a few things went differently than planned. First, my doc did not use mesh to fix me. She got in there and realized my tissue is “paper thin” and “You are also tiny, so there was no way to use a piece of mesh without it showing this square right behind your belly button.”

Score one for the fantastic female surgeon who continually thought of cosmetics from start to finish, no lie, in this entire process. Her name is Dr. Lori Kellam and as of today, I recommend her wholeheartedly.

That said, I won’t be able to see what she did for two more weeks. She sutured the hernias and also repaired a short length of my diastasis recti. She did not use any stitches on the outside however, I am being held together by nothing but glue, steri-strips, and a double wrapped belly binder.

The hardest part, dare I admit it, is looking at my house fully knowing that even with John’s best effort, it will be a bit of a disaster for the next month or so. The control freak in me feels good enough to have to consciously make the effort to just let the mess be there.

I will try to remember to update with some better “after” pictures when everything settles down, but don’t expect that anytime soon.

April 14, 2017: Update

Hernia surgery: 2 weeks post-op, side view.

Got the tape off a couple days ago. Was very exciting.

There are a few internal stitch strings sticking out of pinpoint holes on either side and it is weirding me out to no end. I trimmed two with nail clippers but they are still a bit pokey. Too afraid to just pull them out.

New innie belly button is tight. Like, physically tucked in there very tightly and it has been so long since I’ve had an innie-belly button I forgot what it feels like. Weird. Honestly. Also, am I going to have to clean this thing now? Forgive the terrible lighting of my bathroom. Scar looks like an upside down frowny face, but overall I’m thrilled that there’s no more skin-lip hanging from the top, nor a Q*Bert nose.

Still minimal soreness and taking things relatively easy. Still on lifting restrictions. But I’m not experiencing the acute pain from sudden movement, coughing, or laughter. The sorest part is right above my belly button where she sewed my diastasis. It is tender to the touch, even. Muscles have a dull ache, but nothing distracting. Sleeping on my stomach is fine.

Because I’m no longer experiencing the sharp pain I had with even minimal movement in the first couple days after the surgery, I’m finding that it is easy to forget that I’m not supposed to be doing any heavy lifting. Like, today I ran the vacuum, briefly, even though it is probably outside of my weight limit. I felt okay for the 90 seconds it took to get that dirty rug clean, but as soon as I finished I could feel it, and realized I still need to take it easy.

May 3, 2017: Update

Got on my bike for the first time in over a year today (don’t tell my doc). Put in about 10 miles and felt fantastic. To everyone (John) who mentioned recovery was not a terribly big deal: touché. Ended up pulling those weird little strings out which was eerie but not that bad.

My scar is a little itchy, and nubby. I’m treating it nightly with Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Swivel Stick, which worked so well on my knee surgery scar I’ve been a convert for life.

July 13, 2017: Update

Listen, I’m not a huge fan of taking ab-selfies, though you wouldn’t know it here. This picture was taken first thing in the morning (well, my morning, which begins around 9) and the line across the bottom is an imprint from whatever I wore to bed. It is not additional scarring.

At this point I feel pretty much back to normal. Workouts have resumed completely, including my super rigorous ab exercises (lies, I might do a plank a couple times a week), and obviously all lifting restrictions are off. Again with the terrible lighting, but the scar is barely perceptible. I do keep it SP-F’ed up (like what I did there?) because I know scar spots tend to burn easily. But that’s it.

August 23, 2017: Update

Last one, I swear! Just wanted to show an end of summer picture because I think it is worth noting that it is possible not to hate your stomach after 4 kids and a semi-major surgery.

Every once in a while I experience dull soreness or very specific but moderate pain in the site of the surgery. Every once in a while it itches. My actual belly button is a tad tender. (But maybe that’s normal.)

Yes, I clean my super deep innie, and actually the tightness is relaxing a little.

The scar is smoothing out nicely. I imagine by this time next year, it will be a distant memory.

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Confessions, House Management

Hello, Stranger

This post may contain affiliate links. Read my full disclosure here.

Today is the first day of March, the first day of Lent, and the first day in 6 months that I’ve felt the inclination to publish a blog post. Something in the weather, the clean calendar, the early release day, and several rooms of my house turned upside down, have me in a contemplative mood.

I’ve been busy.

First, the Blog

A few weeks ago I decided to switch from a WordPress dot com site to a self-hosted WordPress dot org site. I took a computer science course in college which was predominantly focused on using the basic functions and programs of a Mac, a machine that I loathed at the time. This is particularly dumb because that was right about the time most public schools did away with Apples and introduced PC’s, and even dumber because now I’m a full blooded Mac convert and nothing I learned in college is still applicable to what I’m doing today. What I didn’t learn in college was anything about web-design, HTML, blogging, CSS, or social media.

The process of teaching myself these things has been as arduous as it has been rewarding. Anyone who has ever done it (especially without prior knowledge) knows exactly why people pay someone else big bucks to design and manage their personal or company websites. Who has time for this?
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What you are seeing is a work in progress, but I feel like it is finally at a point that I’m no longer hiding the lose ends and wet paint. I have a lot of ideas. Organizing and then translating them into Internet language just isn’t happening overnight. That said, I’m fully in favor of crowd sourcing when it comes to creativity, so if anyone has advice, questions, complaints, criticism, or thoughts, I’m truly all ears.

Kid Life

Meanwhile, life with four kids keeps chugging along, at a faster pace than ever. As our last child is likely nearing the time when the afternoon nap will be a thing of the past, John and I have opened up several extra curricular doors we previously had adamantly left locked, without guilt. The big girls are playing piano and soccer. Eliott is in the Elementary Battle of the Books club (EBOB for short) at school and will compete with her team in just a few weeks for some honorary title of nerdom to which John and I can only attach ourselves distantly by association.

Three out of four kids joined the choir at church, which is a little less like the singing practice on Sunday nights I remember it as, and a little more like forget you have a life outside of the Baptist church cause baby, we got shit to do and people to bless. I don’t actually say this to complain. It has been nothing short of fantastic. Carter got to sing the National Anthem at a Wake Forest basketball game. She and Eliott have both had trips to sing at nursing homes and they both have parts in the Spring musical.

Isaiah will also play organized soccer for the first time this Spring, and though the preschool church choir is only a Sunday night one-hour commitment, he loves it. It is difficult to express the level of adorable this boy has reached in his unabashed enjoyment of all things musical.

Couple all of this with four children and an equal number of birthday parties, school parties, field-trips, family visits, and summer plans. (Oh, and public school homework. The insanity. Shoot me now.)

Lent, Spring Cleaning, Longer Days, and Lists

I love school. I do. I love the stay-at-home-mom life now that all four of the kids are in school for at least part of the week. But I long for summer and its lack of schedule, longer days, warmer weather, minimal wardrobe (and lack of laundry that comes with it), and fresher produce.

Today I found myself in list-making mode, and because it is the first day of Lent, I started with a 40 Day theme. There’s no telling whether I will actually tackle any (let alone all) of the ideas I put down on paper today, but sometimes a little mental decluttering is all I need to feel like I can wake up more purposeful tomorrow.

If you are in a similar boat and need some inspiration:

List 1: 40 Days of Organization

The idea here is to make a list of 40 places in your house that need to be organized. Ideally these would be less-than-an-hour to tackle jobs (and let’s be real, coming up with 40 was actually pretty difficult until I broke a few into smaller parts). My list isn’t perfect, and some would realistically take me a weekend, while others I could group and finish 3-4 in one day. Again, starting place.

Confession: I actually tailored this after a goal I made a few years ago called the 52 Weeks of Organization challenge. (As the name implies, make a list of 52 things to organize and tackle one a week.) I’m not sure I did 52 tasks that year, but I did do a couple of tasks so well that they have remained organized. I should post pictures. I did re-list these areas to remind myself to check them and make adjustments if necessary, but I know for a fact a few areas are as close to perfect as they can be.

List 2: 40 House Projects

This list is really for John and me both. Like all homeowners, there is always a number of things that need to be done (fixed, updated, decorated, painted, repainted, hung, rehung). These are all non-emergencies, and many are 10 minute tasks. Several, however, require a lot of time in the planning stages, which is often why they get relegated to the back of our priorities on the weekends. This list was easy to write because most of it is already jotted down and shared with John on Quip.com.

Quick note: if you are not using Quip, go to the app store and look it up right this minute. This is how John and I share grocery lists, this list (known by some as the honey-do list), and talking points for future conversations that might involve specifics. Eliott comes by her nerdom as about as honestly as she does her awesome hair and long eyelashes. Also, Quip did not pay me to say this. I did get a free t-shirt, but I’m endorsing this app all on my own because it is exactly that good.

For me, this list also included some arts and craps things that serve no other purpose but to kill an afternoon at my sewing machine. This is one of those self-love secrets I don’t necessarily show off.

So that’s pretty much it for me right now. Hoping the time between this post and the next is shorter. Also, if you are so inclined to take on a 40 day focus in celebration of Lent or something else, please tell me what you are doing in the comments below.

Confessions

An Isaiah Moment

Tonight, while clearing the dinner table, Isaiah was explaining to me that it is Avery’s turn to sit by the faucet in the bathtub. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me, but he did earnestly care that his sister get a chance to sit by the faucet tonight, a rare moment of 3-year-old selflessness.

Then, mid-sentence, in front of the dishwasher, he put his plate down and starting pulling off his shorts and underwear. I wasn’t sure what he was doing but I didn’t stop him. It wasn’t until he was bracing himself against the counter to get his feet out that he seemed to realize what he was doing, and that he was technically still clearing the table. In the kitchen.

A really adorable and sheepish grin sort of cracked in the corners of his mouth, and without making eye-contact he seemed to be thinking, “Maybe if I just keep going she won’t notice.”

But then I cracked. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing a little and said, “Did you forget you aren’t at the bathtub yet?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing a little too. “I’m going to go tell Daddy that Avery can have the faucet. And I’m going to the bathroom just like this.” He grabbed his pile of clothes, and with his little white booty poking out under his shirttail he scurried upstairs, leaving me with the rest of the dishes.

It was one of those moments that I would never remember to remember.

But I don’t really want to forget.

Confessions

Short but Sweet

When you are a teacher, or you have children in school, the end of August brings a more important New Year’s Day for goal setting, life planning, big ideas, and dreams of organization.

Am I right?

I’ve been off the blog lately, and generally speaking, I’m not one to post the everyday musings of things going on in my life, diary style, on the Internet.

But today I have a snippet, for my friends who are Believers (or maybe not).

Read your Bible, they say.

Pray.

They say.

And yet…

Well, if you are looking for a little spiritual kick in the pants, something to start this season off on a different foot, open to the Gospel of Matthew. But find it in THE MESSAGE version. (You can find it online if you don’t have a copy laying around. But I hope this encourages you to purchase a copy that you can hold in your hands and feel and smell, because, well, you know, see yesterday’s post.)

Matthew. The Message.

The Holy Spirit says, you’re welcome.

Confessions

Back to School

Ah yes. The time of year when motherhood meets former school teacher, and I get super awkward about wanting the best for my kids but not wanting to seem demanding (and annoying) by voicing all the concerns I probably legitimately have against the public education system in North Carolina. Certainly a better platform than Open House exists for discussion of room for improvement.

Last week included meeting new teachers and gathering supply lists. Hoping the fit is a good one. Hoping my kids are as loved as they are challenged. Trying not to let my mind wander down the path of wondering exactly how hard it would be to implement some school-wide uniformity when it comes to classroom procedures and oh, I don’t know, say, color-coding folders and notebooks according to subject. (Just an idea.) Forgive me, I was nothing if not excellent at procedural management as even high school kids are terrible at organization. Imagine how my undiagnosed genius/ADD 4th grader struggles.

It also included pages upon pages of login information for all the different online portals my babies will be accessing in the name of up-to-date instruction.

Sigh.

All this, and another folder full of paperwork I must fill out by hand every. single. year, despite the fact that nothing ever changes.

Mind. Blowing.

When I read that my 4th grader’s academically gifted classroom will be “mostly paper free” I had to pause and catch my breath.

Call me old fashioned, but then tell me I’m not the only crazy mom who will be praying my way through the next 16 years (times four children) as our society increasingly moves toward what we may one day deem our “worst move” in educational history.

Yes. I’m talking about technology in elementary school classrooms, and how much I hate it.

Forgive me, but when it comes to developing neurological pathways (though I’m no neurologist) isn’t physical touch a pretty big developmental factor? What about the smell of a book? What about how many things I remember from 11th grade AP Biology because of the exact placement of a certain graph, table, or picture, and my memory of where it sat on the page?

You cannot convince me that a paperless 4th grade classroom is what is truly best for my child.

But possibly I can be convinced that it isn’t the worst. And, possibly, I can also be convinced that there exists a balance, and ultimately my children will be even more well-rounded than I was, in my always-slightly-behind-the-times, small religious private schools.

I can also still be convinced that what my kids need to learn most from school right now is how to get along with others in a closed system in which they have very little control. How to talk and listen to people who are different from them. How to act and speak respectfully towards adults they may struggle to actually respect. And this, despite my late night wake-up panics, is still very high on my list of positive things to come out of sending my kids to a large(r) and also public elementary school.

We can read and write and build and tumble and paint and sing and create and even ask our children the hard questions at home.

But I’m never going to be able to replicate or engineer the very real-life relationships my children are already developing, with kids they would otherwise likely never meet in our day-to-day life, and adults they might otherwise never have the guts or a reason to talk to.

So, here’s my public outcry against this beast-machine that is so much bigger than all of us, and a public invitation to join me, quite seriously, in praying for our kids, their friends, and their teachers this year at school. Of course we all do it, even silently in the way we hold back tears of fear and joy on the first day. But this year, I’m announcing it.

Pray with me.

Please.

And let’s not stop. EVER.

Confessions

Back To School

It also included pages upon pages of login information for all the different online portals my babies will be accessing in the name of up-to-date instruction.

Sigh.

All this, and another folder full of paperwork I must fill out by hand every. single. year, despite the fact that nothing ever changes.

Mind. Blowing.

When I read that my 4th grader’s academically gifted classroom will be “mostly paper free” I had to pause and catch my breath.

Yes. I’m talking about technology in elementary school classrooms, and how much I hate it.

You cannot convince me that a paperless 4th grade classroom is what is truly best for my child.

We can read and write and build and tumble and paint and sing and create and even ask our children the hard questions at home.

Pray with me.

Please.

And let’s not stop. EVER.

Confessions

Things We Don’t Talk About

It was a Thursday morning, a little over a month ago; I woke up in a bad mood.

It was probably a combination of several days’ poor sleep catching up with me, and possibly a little PMS in there. But I was irritable and no longer even tapping into my patience reserves, which had long since been used up.

When I got into the shower and saw that the razor was not in its usual cradle, I snapped.

(Yes. John and I share a razor. We also share toothpaste, deodorant, and for the last month, stupidly, a hair product that he has decided he likes and also needs. This post isn’t about providing solutions to our mostly common roommate issues; the bathroom situation is what it is and merely provides a background to the story. In short, please refrain from mentioning that separate razors might solve our marital issues.)

It’s stupid. Really. Something like this happens maybe once a month. Something we take for granted, like returning an object back to where it goes, suddenly becomes the impetus for blind rage.

I was really angry about that razor.

And that kind of anger, for me, burns in a way that I cannot stew on and let out later. I’m not wired that way. I try to hold grudges, and I’m the only one who suffers before I forget why I’m mad. Except, when I’m that angry, my kids also suffer, which isn’t fair. It’s not fair to John either, but somehow I feel justified in his size and maturity, that he can handle it, and it is better to take it out on him than eat an innocent child alive, for something as forgivable as throwing matchbox cars down the stairs into the back of his sister’s unknowing head. (This might have also contributed to my difficult day.)

I’ve mentioned before the way I used to call John on his way to work, when I wake up like this, fuming and cursing and spitting and sometimes crying over things like toothpaste and razors. When he stopped answering his phone before 10am (expecting wrath), I switched to angry G-chat messages that would be waiting for him on his desktop the minute he sat down to work. What a way to start the day.

It is 2016. You know I am finally up to date on my tech habits. G-chat has given way to angry texting. Because if there’s anything that soothes my anger as immediately as a shot of whiskey, it is typing curse words into small handheld devices, announcing my bad mood to the one human who probably needs to hear it the least.

I’m not proud of this. (Hence the title of my post.) And every time I do it, a little Jiminy Cricket inside me reminds me that this isn’t edifying. This isn’t blessing. This is straight up crazy-bitch behavior and if anyone at church or in the neighborhood was truly aware of it, we might receive fewer invites to BBQ’s and more invites for prayer.

Yet. Somehow the devil inside me always wins.

The text went a little something like this: “Would it kill you to put the stupid razor back in the shower, even one time?” (Add some creative cursing in there, because I don’t sensor myself with John and I keep all my -ing’s intact.)

Wife of the year here.

A reply came when I arrived at the gym, not from John, but from a friend whose name also begins with a “J” – to whom the text was inadvertently sent.

She wrote: “Hahahaa. Yes. Yes it would,” followed by a series of kiss blowing emojis.

I laughed.

Then I cried. Like two forgotten faucets, right there in the parking lot of the Jerry Long YMCA, tears, streaming.

Not tears of embarrassment or even deep seeded shame, which I should have had.

Tears of relief.

John and I are a good team. We are maybe even a rare form of outstanding, when it comes to this game of doing life together. Much of this is due to the fact that no one else on the planet could stand to be with either of us for so long, so by default, we have to stick together. But, truly, we work a lot harder than it looks like we do, to make us work.

I was extended a big fat arm of grace that Thursday, and I wish I could say it catapulted us into a really great weekend full of family time and love, complete with appreciation for each other and physical displays of affection, and a rare bit of extra patience for our children.

It’s just not true.

Though we both laughed pretty hard, together, about the text mix-up, the days following were by no means good.

And I frequently wonder how many people would be surprised by this.

This marriage thing? This long-term living-together-relationship thing? It’s work.

It’s a lot of work. It is ever-evolving, and even when we plateau to complacency, it doesn’t always last long. We struggle a lot more often than we let on. And when we are struggling, we say mean and hateful things. And we yell at each other (me more than John). And sometimes we fight in front of our kids. And sometimes we unfairly fight with our kids.

But here’s what we don’t do. We don’t stop fighting because we are too tired. We don’t get passive aggressive or sullen, and punish each other silently. We fight until we get it out. And we don’t stop admitting to each other when we are wrong. And we apologize a lot. We’ve been known to have one or more “restarts” to a day or a weekend.

I’m not saying we’re the poster children for marital bliss.

I feel like I got a restart that Thursday and I missed a great opportunity. At the peak of a stressful week, I let a little thing get the better of me, and I lost a stupid battle with a petty problem. Because I’m human. And I’m weak.

I’m just glad I have another human who chooses to love me despite this weakness.

So John gets home today, from a weeklong Canada fishing trip he’s been on with my father. This same trip two years ago was easily the worst week of my summer. This time was much different. It has been a great week of connecting with my kids, relying on Eliott and Carter for a little more help and patience, and purposefully scheduling a lot more playtime. It was a completely different dynamic and a totally different balance, and I didn’t just survive. I enjoyed it.

Don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t be more ready for John to come home. But the break was healthy.

Confessions, Marriage, Parenting

Things We Don’t Talk About

It was a Thursday morning, a little over a month ago; I woke up in a bad mood.

When I got into the shower and saw that the razor was not in its usual cradle, I snapped.

It’s stupid. Really. Something like this happens maybe once a month. Something we take for granted, like returning an object back to where it goes, suddenly becomes the impetus for blind rage.

I was really angry about that razor.

Yet. Somehow the devil inside me always wins.

Wife of the year here.

A reply came when I arrived at the gym, not from John, but from a friend whose name also begins with a “J” – to whom the text was inadvertently sent.

She wrote: “Hahahaa. Yes. Yes it would,” followed by a series of kiss blowing emojis.

I laughed.

Then I cried. Like two forgotten faucets, right there in the parking lot of the Jerry Long YMCA, tears, streaming.

Not tears of embarrassment or even deep seeded shame, which I should have had.

Tears of relief.

It’s just not true.

Though we both laughed pretty hard, together, about the text mix-up, the days following were by no means good.

And I frequently wonder how many people would be surprised by this.

This marriage thing? This long-term living-together-relationship thing? It’s work.

I’m not saying we’re the poster children for marital bliss.

I’m just glad I have another human who chooses to love me despite this weakness.

Don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t be more ready for John to come home. But the break was healthy.

Confessions

Happy Memorial Day

I opened my computer this morning after a weekend of mostly avoiding the Internet, to the usual flood of semi-bad news. A dear friend from High School is in the throws of a cancer battle with her 3 year old daughter. She is, like me, a stay at home mom of four kids, all under the age of 10. My alma mater, that Baptist beacon that has been celebrated in recent news for finally fielding a winning football team and cranking out the beloved Chip and Jo-Jo, is all over the national news for potentially sweeping sexual violence under the proverbial Big 12 rug. Ironically, Trump and Hilary didn’t cross my newsfeed this morning, but I know they are still there, looming in the political horizon I refuse to gaze at anymore.

Meanwhile, Eliott was in my room first thing discussing the EOG review packet that is “huge” and “due Thursday.” Then, we hear Avery calling from the first floor. Her sing-song “Mom-my! Mom-my!” floated up the stairs and I asked John if she was still stuck in the high chair. He said he had let her out a while ago and I assumed she wanted me to see something she had destroyed. Eliott went downstairs to investigate, and took almost five minutes trying to find her. The toddler had shut herself in the small downstairs bathroom and the light was off. She wasn’t crying or panicking, just calling me patiently, waiting for the door to open.

We’ve discussed our plans for the day (as I lay in bed at 10:35, still in my PJ’s, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee) and it has come down to the choice between cleaning out a barely used basement room, or taking the chainsaw to some unsightly bushes growing around our mailbox.

My life is rough.

This is a fact which is not lost on me, as I seek to teach my children the art of gratitude and contentment. Every night this weekend ended up on the porch of one neighbor or another, where in the light haze of these early summer evenings, the usual banter of back-and-forth picking on each other was comfortable and familiar.

I am thankful for friends and neighbors who can laugh at themselves, and who keep us humble.

Friday was the last day of preschool, and I got a little teary-eyed, hugging the women who have been twelve hours of love for my babies each week, all year. I am thankful that when the ages and stages of four children feels constantly out of balance, there is one hallway on this Earth that looks and smells like comfort, consistency, and unconditional love.

I see the American flags and I’ve read the sentimental Memorial Day posts this weekend, thanking those who have served and died to give us our freedom. And I’m thankful for that too.

My little sphere of existence is currently turning a million miles an hour, but it is still very little, and arguably, pretty mundane. Today I am sincerely comforted and comfortable in the boringness of my life. I wish I had the ability to channel this sense of calm in the midst of the upsets that are inevitable coming one day. I wish I had the ability to give it to those who need it right now.

The most exciting plan for my day includes trying out the new dehydrator my mom impulsively sent me last week, and I’m not being facetious with my use of “exciting” as I debate which fruit I’m going to try first.

There’s some porch-fodder for the neighbors.

Avery, Confessions, Eliott, Friendship, General

Happy Memorial Day

My life is rough.

I am thankful for friends and neighbors who can laugh at themselves, and who keep us humble.

I see the American flags and I’ve read the sentimental Memorial Day posts this weekend, thanking those who have served and died to give us our freedom. And I’m thankful for that too.

There’s some porch-fodder for the neighbors.