So on Friday, September 8, after being on anti-depressants for anxiety for a month, I sat in my therapist's office to check in with her. It's a warm, welcoming space. I sit in the same chair every time. This time was different though; this time I asked Jeff to come along.
For a couple of months I've been thinking about having him come to a session with me. Jeff is one of the most logical people I know, but sometimes I've felt that he doesn't really understand the anxious version of me (who the hell really does though, let's be honest). I thought that if he heard some of the things I say, and some of the things the therapist says, maybe it would give him a bit more perspective.
We have also run into a bit of trouble, thanks to my anxiety. We are one of those annoying couples that rarely fight or even argue. In the last few months, we have had two arguments for which my anxiety is 100% responsible. I will give an example.
Disclaimer: I know this is super weird. Welcome to the world of anxiety, where things are based on extreme versions of logic (there are germs on all public door handles), but actions are pushed to a land entirely devoid of logic (I will never, ever touch a public door handle).
Some background: I've mentioned that stomach bugs/gastro issues (specifically relating to nausea and vomiting) are my anxiety trigger. If someone says they feel nauseous, or if I was around a person who later developed flu (stomach specifically) symptoms, I would immediately be nervous and spend the next handful of days -- five or so (I have googled incessantly the incubation periods for many viruses) -- intently watching my own body for signs of impending illness. I would also be on very high alert for signs of illness in the kids: not eating a meal, a runny poop, etc. Upon hearing this information, there is also an immediate physical reaction - increased heart rate, tightness in my chest, fidgeting in an attempt to distract myself from my thoughts and intense worry, and my stomach drops the way it does when you get really, really bad news. The immediate mental reaction is panic, "Oh my god, the kids are totally going to get this." The thoughts spiral out of control and I want to escape that feeling of terror. It's actual terror. I worry and remain on "high alert" for about a week, at which point, if no one gets sick, I am fairly confident that we are out of what I like to call, "the danger zone." If one of the kids gets sick, the entire process starts again while I wait for someone else - the other kid, Jeff, or myself, to get sick... and then the entire process starts anew. It is probably exhausting to read, so imagine living it. Every. Effing. Day.
Now that you know that additional background (which I hope to continue to expand upon in additional posts) (man, I really, really love parentheses lately...), here is an example of a conversation that has the potential to happen daily, or more than once a day, in my house:
Scene: Grayson craps himself. Jeff goes to change his diaper.
Amber: How was that poop?
Jeff [knowing that Amber is asking about consistency; did he have diarrhea?]: Fine. Normal.
End scene.
Now, I ask you, is it normal to ask "how" a kid's poop was after they are getting over a stomach bug that gave them the runs? Sure. Is it normal to ask after every bowel movement, when there has been zero evidence to suggest that the child might have a watery poop? Nope. It sure isn't. And yet, I do it anyway. And when I don't do it, I still think it. I have to will myself not to ask.
Through my therapy appointments and the book I'm reading, The Mindful Way Through Anxiety, I now understand that asking the question and getting the "right" answer, i.e., his poop is totally normal, is a bandaid fix to quiet the anxious thoughts.
The problem is that it's a quick fix solution that doesn't get at the heart of what I'm afraid of: losing control, freaking out, running away, etc. if and when the kids, or I, actually get sick. What I need to actually remind myself over and over and over again is that it doesn't matter if his poop is runny or not. It doesn't even matter if he throws up or not -- I CAN and will deal with it and EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY. I've dealt with it in the past and I can deal with it again in the future.
So, ultimately, the problem with asking the question is that since it provides relief -- although temporary -- from the anxiety, that sense of relief makes me want to ask the same question next time. It worked for shutting the anxiety up last time, so, like an addiction to a high, I turn right back to that method to quiet the worry and calm the tense body.
This is a risky game I'm playing though. The danger in resolving the anxiety this way is twofold:
1. What if the answer confirms my suspicions, worry, and worst fears and he *gasp* had diarhea? Now what? That leaves me more anxious than I was before. Hmmmm. This is a problem.
2. What if Jeff says, "Fine. Normal," but he's lying because he knows it will get me worked up into a panic and there's nothing to panic about yet, because one runny diaper doesn't necessarily mean anything.
This second, newfound, concern that people will just lie to me because they are trying to "protect" me from myself, is where Jeff and I have run into our problem. We recently had a conversation where afterwards I told him that I didn't know if I believed him (relating to an anxiety induced question). He was frustrated and, rightfully so, because he's spent the last nearly twelve years of our relationship proving his honesty to me.
So, not only did Jeff want to come because I wanted him to (and he's a kick-ass, supportive husband), but also because both he and I were looking for some direction from my therapist on how he should deal with/respond to the interrogative line of questioning hurtled at him by my anxiety.
At the session we talked about some of the new actions Jeff engages in as a result of my anxiety (i.e., how we change the garbage is quite the process to ensure that the lid never touches the kitchen floor because I'm scared of contamination from raw meat, etc.). It allowed my therapist to see a bigger picture of the ways in which my anxiety has seeped into my life, my home life, and the actions of my family (even the kids) and their home life. His being there to talk about some of these things moved the conversation in a direction that her and I had touched on before but not fully explored: my obsessive compulsive tendencies.
Having a more complete picture of the anxiety, and the newer realization the OCD is a bigger part of this picture than she (or I) originally realized means that we move forward with work on the OCD actions as well as anxiety. The task that she left Jeff and I with was to come up with a comprehensive list of all of the OCD tendencies I have/all of the things we do differently now that anxiety has taken on the role of dictator.
We talked a little bit about how I've been feeling on the medication as well. I am on Escitalopram (20mg/day). When I told her the dosage, I could see in her face that she felt that was too low. She told me, more than once, that we will do some work together, and with Jeff (who is a part of my healing process as well since he has become involved in my anxious processes/OCD), but that I should be open to an increase in dosage because we will have to work at that until we get it right. She also said that it would be about six to eight weeks before I would really feel the full benefit of the drug. So, in a month, I will have to see how I feel.
Thankfully, getting the very strong sense (Jeff did too) that she thinks my dosage is too low, did not have any negative effect on me whatsoever. Though, as I talked about in my previous post, I struggled with going on medication initially, having to increase the dosage or try something else because this one just doesn't work doesn't bother me in the least. I don't feel as though I have any emotional reaction to that.
And how do I feel after a month of being on the meds. Meh. Okay? I don't really know that I would say I feel much improvement. I'm not sure if I feel any real improvement (which tells me that, at least at this point, I wouldn't call the drugs effective in the way they need to be). I might say that the drugs have dulled the intensity a bit. Maybe 15%? I still feel a sense of panic when I hear someone is sick, but I don't find that it lasts as long, though the thoughts remain. Maybe they aren't as relentless. But that's a big maybe. I wouldn't say I feel better.
I'm back to see my therapist on October 5 and by then the medication should be operating at full capacity and we can get to work on my OCD behaviours and figure out where to go from here.
I find it funny that I brought Jeff to this appointment thinking that he would gain perspective and that in the end it was the therapist and me who walked away with a greater perspective on the situation. I don't feel upset or particularly distressed at the "discovery" that I have OCD. I view it as part and parcel with the anxiety which, truthfully, feels like a much bigger hill to climb.
So there we are. There's an update. I have now spent much too long sitting at my laptop on a Sunday. Since my dad has had the runs all morning and Carter stayed over there last night, I have some excessive worrying to do, so I need to get to that. (This is my sad attempt at half-true humour. I actually need to put laundry away, create a meal plan for next week, and go get groceries. Exciting times, folks. Exciting times.)
Have a wonderful day, and I mean this sincerely: if you read this far, message me and tell me what your favourite coffee place is and (again) I will treat you to a bevy there. 'Cause I'm awesome sauce, but you're even more awesome sauce for taking time out of your life to engage in mine.
Thanks for reading.
A.
Sunday, 11 September 2016
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
Day 1: Three Good Things
I'm going to try this again (and, probably, then again, and again, and again).
Every day, for a year, I'm going to do a blog post that lists three good things about my day. Simple enough right? Yeah, you try it.
Seriously though; I want you to try it... cause I want to read it.
So, today -- Tuesday, September 5, 2016:
1. I had a pretty productive day at work, and that felt kick-ass. I feel like I will breathe a bit easier when I go in on Thursday.
2. I am currently sucking back my second Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks since yesterday. Note: there is a fair amount of guilt that comes along with this: not because I care about adding to the cellulite that already exists on the backs of my thighs (if you don't like it, don't look), but because they are $5.50 a drink.
3. Carter's first day of preschool is tomorrow. This is his second year of preschool, so it's not a "big" or emotionally charged day for me, but it's exciting for him nonetheless. Last year, I did up a chalkboard with information on it for him to hold for his first day. Tonight, I updated that information. It blows my freakin' mind that next year, he will be in Kindergarten. Gah!
Every day, for a year, I'm going to do a blog post that lists three good things about my day. Simple enough right? Yeah, you try it.
Seriously though; I want you to try it... cause I want to read it.
So, today -- Tuesday, September 5, 2016:
1. I had a pretty productive day at work, and that felt kick-ass. I feel like I will breathe a bit easier when I go in on Thursday.
2. I am currently sucking back my second Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks since yesterday. Note: there is a fair amount of guilt that comes along with this: not because I care about adding to the cellulite that already exists on the backs of my thighs (if you don't like it, don't look), but because they are $5.50 a drink.
3. Carter's first day of preschool is tomorrow. This is his second year of preschool, so it's not a "big" or emotionally charged day for me, but it's exciting for him nonetheless. Last year, I did up a chalkboard with information on it for him to hold for his first day. Tonight, I updated that information. It blows my freakin' mind that next year, he will be in Kindergarten. Gah!
Saturday, 3 September 2016
Winning the War? I have no idea.
*More than once I have tried to write this post. Two versions of it sit in the drafts folder of my blog. It hasn't been fear that's held me back. I'm not nervous about publishing it. It's that, in spite of numerous re-visits and changes to both drafts, neither felt right. Neither felt good. I guess, I didn't know what it was that I wanted, or needed, to say. But this one, finally, feels right. It feels like me. So here is the first real blog post about my struggle with anxiety.* (I'm sorry the post is so long; there's a lot in it. If you read to the end, you get a gold star -- or a Starbucks something-or-other on me.)
Today is Saturday, September 3. Twenty-five days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of a Safeway, holding a prescription for an anti-depressant. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes. I couldn't get out -- partly because I didn't want to and partly because I looked a hot mess. Every time I thought about getting out, I started to cry, and I didn't want to walk into Safeway looking like the joker with mascara running down my red face. I figured I would wait the crying fits out; they took longer than I had anticipated. Eventually, when I felt I could make it fifteen minutes without crying, I walked in. I was still wrong. As I walked around the mall, Starbucks in hand, waiting for my prescription to be ready, I still cried.
The next morning, the tiny pill stared at me, daring me to take it, and - a moment later - daring me not to take it. Fuck you, I thought, as I washed it down. I felt strong, and weak, and scared, and proud, all at the same time. I wished my next therapy appointment wasn't a month away.
I posted a picture of that first pill on Instagram. I said that I was scared to take it. I was scared it would make me feel sick (nausea is my anxiety trigger/phobia). I was scared it would make me feel so tired, I would have difficulty taking care of my boys, my house, and being productive at my job. I was scared I would lose all interest in sex. But, to be honest, I think I was most scared that it wouldn't work at all. As I said to my GP when I sat in her office the day before to discuss whether or not it was in fact time to call the medication in, "I'm terrified that they won't work and I will feel like this forever." That was the line. That was the moment she put her head down and wrote the prescription.
I have dealt with anxiety and strange tendencies for the entirety of my life, but, back in February when both of my kids had a stomach virus, it really spiralled out of control. I knew it had taken hold in a more severe way than it ever had in the past and that I needed help. I made an appointment with my therapist (who I have seen in the past for the exact same issue), but I couldn't get in right away. I felt nothing short of desperate for immediate relief, so I also made an appointment with my doctor, hoping that she would prescribe me something. She wouldn't. She felt that I was still "functioning" and that my anxiety wasn't negatively effecting my relationships, my job, my ability to sleep, etc. Looking back, I think she was wrong: I wasn't sleeping and I had essentially locked myself in a room downstairs. This, folks, is not functioning. But I didn't say anything and the doctor said that she wanted me to see a therapist and try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) first. If that wasn't moving me forward, we would talk about supplementing with medication. I agreed and told her that I already had an appointment with a therapist that I liked.
The truth is that when I went in to see the therapist, I wanted her to echo my sentiment that I should be on drugs. (I know that only psychiatrists can prescribe medication, but I was hoping that she would agree with me and I wanted that confirmation from a professional.) But she agreed with my doctor. And so, I saw her once a week for the first two weeks, then once every two weeks for a month, then about once a month. I had completely put the notion of medication as a treatment option out of my mind and moved forward with the therapy.
Fast forward six months to July. I hadn't been in to see her in well over six weeks. The summer had been busy. She was on holidays. I was on holidays. As she asked me how I had been, and I said that, truthfully, I was frustrated with myself and my lack of progress. I felt that I was consistently and more frequently engaging in behaviours that feed the anxiety and irrational thoughts (in future blog posts, I will give actual examples of this) and that I felt that, in that way, I was actually getting worse. In addition, my worry about the kids getting sick would often consume my thoughts. In the past, I felt like there were "safe zones" - like in tag or hide-and-go-seek. But I was at the point now where nowhere, no situation, provided me relief or freedom. It was exhausting. During this session, and throughout the past six months, I honestly had not given medication another thought. As I told my therapist that I almost felt like I'd regressed, as opposed to progressed, I still wasn't thinking about medication; I was just venting my frustrations and being honest.
She told me that she disagreed with me and that, in spite of some of my behaviours, I had absolutely made progress since February. She said that part of the reason I might feel as though that isn't true is because I am now significantly more aware of how irrational the thoughts are, where as before, it was simply the track that repeated in my head. (I only half agree with this. I'm a pretty self-aware person and I did know -- for the most part -- how irrational some of the thoughts were and why they weren't "normal," but I do think that I have more clarity with respect to the boundaries of "normal" thought patterns and the behaviours that follow. She also said that, in spite of my desire to allow my decisions and actions to comply with the demands of my anxiety, the fact that I would still follow through with an original plan was evidence of progress. (For example, leaving the boys with my parents for a few days and going on the trip to Saskatoon, just Jeff and I, instead of cancelling it in fear that my kids would get the flu that my dad had just three days before). She said Past Amber would/might have cancelled the trip. I don't know that I agree with that either, but I might have changed plans (i.e., taken the kids with us instead of going alone, etc.). So, at the end of my appointment, I was caught completely off guard when she said, "have we talked about medication before?"
Immediately I wanted to cry because my first thought was, "she doesn't think I've made any progress." Knowing exactly how I think, the next words out of her mouth were (again) reassurance that I've made really great progress, but (the inevitable, always annoying but) she thinks I am in the "red zone" of anxiety a lot. She said that the intensity of the "red zone" makes it challenging for me to utilize and practice the tools I've been given over the course of my therapy sessions. I know what to do to manage the anxiety, but when I'm in full-on panic mode, and my thoughts run rampant, my heart rate nearly doubles, and I start shaking, my body reverts to fight or flight, and trying to use the strategies she's given me to calm myself down is exceptionally difficult when I'm already swimming upstream... and I can't swim.
She said she would write a letter to my regular doctor advising her of how our sessions were going, but suggesting that medication was, in her opinion, necessary.
The days leading up to the doctor appointment were very difficult.
For some reason, I really struggled with the idea of taking the meds -- a reaction that came as a surprise to me. In the two weeks I had to wait to get into my doctor, nearly every time I thought about it, I cried. I couldn't figure out why. It really wasn't feeling like I failed. I have/had no problem with "needing" medication. The stigma associated with mental health didn't bother me. I didn't feel the need to hide it from people in my life. I'm a very naturally open person. So what was my problem? Normally, I would over-analyze my own feelings and reactions to figure out where the knot was, and then work to untie it, but I didn't want to think about it this time. It felt too messy and every time I tried, I came up empty-handed.
By the day of the doctor appointment, things were starting to become more clear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment that the therapy wasn't working as well as everyone thought it would. I also felt indescribable frustration that, after six months of therapy, (in some ways) I felt that, not only had I not progressed, I had actually regressed, now to the point of needed to be medicated. I also felt terrified that, even with medication, I would feel this way for the rest of my life: trapped in my own irrational thoughts and fighting physical urges to behave in ways dictated by the anxiety. I think finally, and maybe most importantly, I felt that I really wasn't in control of this situation at all and that in spite of my best efforts, I was in a situation that had gotten beyond me. Anyone with anxiety knows that, at the core, control is the issue, so coming to the realization that the anxiety had a hold on me, rather than me on it, was very difficult for me.
I went into the doctor's office and she said, "so, what can I do for you today?" I told her what the therapist said. She said that she had read the letter and asked how I felt about it. I told her that I was very frustrated that after half a year of therapy I still felt like my thoughts were still so unrelenting, etc. She said that she has patients that come in and, regardless of what they want, she insists that they need to be on medication. She said I wasn't one of those patients and seemed concerned that frustration was at the root of why I wanted to be on medication. She said that six months of therapy wasn't really that long, in the grand scheme of things, and (though she didn't say this) I suspect that her concern was that I wasn't being patient enough -- that the therapy was working, but not as quickly as I wanted or anticipated it would and that it was unreasonable of me to expect myself to be "perfect" after only six months.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be on medication, so I didn't push for or against. I just continued talking to her about how I was feeling, and that was the point at which I said I was "terrified" that I would feel this way forever. And, as I said, that's when the switch flipped for her. She said, "Okay, I think you do need to be on something. The fact that you used the word 'terrified'..."
And so off I went to Safeway with my prescription. The last reason I think it was so hard that day -- sitting in that parking lot -- was that I had never really been 100% certain that I did indeed have any kind of an anxiety disorder/mental health struggle. This felt like the first time in my life that I had professionals saying, "you need help. You need therapy and you need medication." So I think this was the first time in my life it felt really real. This wasn't something I was making up. I wasn't just being dramatic. This was a real thing. And it was a real thing that I couldn't control. And that was scary. And that was hard.
But, I took the pill, and I have continued taking the pills. And it's been okay. The side effects have been nearly non-existent, although now, nearly a month in, I will say I am fighting fatigue.
I have been so fortunate to have so many people checking in on me. I've got a great deal of love and support and the ears of many so, although it's a battle, in no way do I feel that I'm fighting it alone.
This post is too long, so in a separate post, I will talk about how things have been since starting the medication and I will also talk about the history of anxiety's presence in my life.
So, you made it this far -- text me your Starbucks order and let's pick a date <3
Today is Saturday, September 3. Twenty-five days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of a Safeway, holding a prescription for an anti-depressant. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes. I couldn't get out -- partly because I didn't want to and partly because I looked a hot mess. Every time I thought about getting out, I started to cry, and I didn't want to walk into Safeway looking like the joker with mascara running down my red face. I figured I would wait the crying fits out; they took longer than I had anticipated. Eventually, when I felt I could make it fifteen minutes without crying, I walked in. I was still wrong. As I walked around the mall, Starbucks in hand, waiting for my prescription to be ready, I still cried.
The next morning, the tiny pill stared at me, daring me to take it, and - a moment later - daring me not to take it. Fuck you, I thought, as I washed it down. I felt strong, and weak, and scared, and proud, all at the same time. I wished my next therapy appointment wasn't a month away.
I posted a picture of that first pill on Instagram. I said that I was scared to take it. I was scared it would make me feel sick (nausea is my anxiety trigger/phobia). I was scared it would make me feel so tired, I would have difficulty taking care of my boys, my house, and being productive at my job. I was scared I would lose all interest in sex. But, to be honest, I think I was most scared that it wouldn't work at all. As I said to my GP when I sat in her office the day before to discuss whether or not it was in fact time to call the medication in, "I'm terrified that they won't work and I will feel like this forever." That was the line. That was the moment she put her head down and wrote the prescription.
I have dealt with anxiety and strange tendencies for the entirety of my life, but, back in February when both of my kids had a stomach virus, it really spiralled out of control. I knew it had taken hold in a more severe way than it ever had in the past and that I needed help. I made an appointment with my therapist (who I have seen in the past for the exact same issue), but I couldn't get in right away. I felt nothing short of desperate for immediate relief, so I also made an appointment with my doctor, hoping that she would prescribe me something. She wouldn't. She felt that I was still "functioning" and that my anxiety wasn't negatively effecting my relationships, my job, my ability to sleep, etc. Looking back, I think she was wrong: I wasn't sleeping and I had essentially locked myself in a room downstairs. This, folks, is not functioning. But I didn't say anything and the doctor said that she wanted me to see a therapist and try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) first. If that wasn't moving me forward, we would talk about supplementing with medication. I agreed and told her that I already had an appointment with a therapist that I liked.
The truth is that when I went in to see the therapist, I wanted her to echo my sentiment that I should be on drugs. (I know that only psychiatrists can prescribe medication, but I was hoping that she would agree with me and I wanted that confirmation from a professional.) But she agreed with my doctor. And so, I saw her once a week for the first two weeks, then once every two weeks for a month, then about once a month. I had completely put the notion of medication as a treatment option out of my mind and moved forward with the therapy.
Fast forward six months to July. I hadn't been in to see her in well over six weeks. The summer had been busy. She was on holidays. I was on holidays. As she asked me how I had been, and I said that, truthfully, I was frustrated with myself and my lack of progress. I felt that I was consistently and more frequently engaging in behaviours that feed the anxiety and irrational thoughts (in future blog posts, I will give actual examples of this) and that I felt that, in that way, I was actually getting worse. In addition, my worry about the kids getting sick would often consume my thoughts. In the past, I felt like there were "safe zones" - like in tag or hide-and-go-seek. But I was at the point now where nowhere, no situation, provided me relief or freedom. It was exhausting. During this session, and throughout the past six months, I honestly had not given medication another thought. As I told my therapist that I almost felt like I'd regressed, as opposed to progressed, I still wasn't thinking about medication; I was just venting my frustrations and being honest.
She told me that she disagreed with me and that, in spite of some of my behaviours, I had absolutely made progress since February. She said that part of the reason I might feel as though that isn't true is because I am now significantly more aware of how irrational the thoughts are, where as before, it was simply the track that repeated in my head. (I only half agree with this. I'm a pretty self-aware person and I did know -- for the most part -- how irrational some of the thoughts were and why they weren't "normal," but I do think that I have more clarity with respect to the boundaries of "normal" thought patterns and the behaviours that follow. She also said that, in spite of my desire to allow my decisions and actions to comply with the demands of my anxiety, the fact that I would still follow through with an original plan was evidence of progress. (For example, leaving the boys with my parents for a few days and going on the trip to Saskatoon, just Jeff and I, instead of cancelling it in fear that my kids would get the flu that my dad had just three days before). She said Past Amber would/might have cancelled the trip. I don't know that I agree with that either, but I might have changed plans (i.e., taken the kids with us instead of going alone, etc.). So, at the end of my appointment, I was caught completely off guard when she said, "have we talked about medication before?"
Immediately I wanted to cry because my first thought was, "she doesn't think I've made any progress." Knowing exactly how I think, the next words out of her mouth were (again) reassurance that I've made really great progress, but (the inevitable, always annoying but) she thinks I am in the "red zone" of anxiety a lot. She said that the intensity of the "red zone" makes it challenging for me to utilize and practice the tools I've been given over the course of my therapy sessions. I know what to do to manage the anxiety, but when I'm in full-on panic mode, and my thoughts run rampant, my heart rate nearly doubles, and I start shaking, my body reverts to fight or flight, and trying to use the strategies she's given me to calm myself down is exceptionally difficult when I'm already swimming upstream... and I can't swim.
She said she would write a letter to my regular doctor advising her of how our sessions were going, but suggesting that medication was, in her opinion, necessary.
The days leading up to the doctor appointment were very difficult.
For some reason, I really struggled with the idea of taking the meds -- a reaction that came as a surprise to me. In the two weeks I had to wait to get into my doctor, nearly every time I thought about it, I cried. I couldn't figure out why. It really wasn't feeling like I failed. I have/had no problem with "needing" medication. The stigma associated with mental health didn't bother me. I didn't feel the need to hide it from people in my life. I'm a very naturally open person. So what was my problem? Normally, I would over-analyze my own feelings and reactions to figure out where the knot was, and then work to untie it, but I didn't want to think about it this time. It felt too messy and every time I tried, I came up empty-handed.
By the day of the doctor appointment, things were starting to become more clear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment that the therapy wasn't working as well as everyone thought it would. I also felt indescribable frustration that, after six months of therapy, (in some ways) I felt that, not only had I not progressed, I had actually regressed, now to the point of needed to be medicated. I also felt terrified that, even with medication, I would feel this way for the rest of my life: trapped in my own irrational thoughts and fighting physical urges to behave in ways dictated by the anxiety. I think finally, and maybe most importantly, I felt that I really wasn't in control of this situation at all and that in spite of my best efforts, I was in a situation that had gotten beyond me. Anyone with anxiety knows that, at the core, control is the issue, so coming to the realization that the anxiety had a hold on me, rather than me on it, was very difficult for me.
I went into the doctor's office and she said, "so, what can I do for you today?" I told her what the therapist said. She said that she had read the letter and asked how I felt about it. I told her that I was very frustrated that after half a year of therapy I still felt like my thoughts were still so unrelenting, etc. She said that she has patients that come in and, regardless of what they want, she insists that they need to be on medication. She said I wasn't one of those patients and seemed concerned that frustration was at the root of why I wanted to be on medication. She said that six months of therapy wasn't really that long, in the grand scheme of things, and (though she didn't say this) I suspect that her concern was that I wasn't being patient enough -- that the therapy was working, but not as quickly as I wanted or anticipated it would and that it was unreasonable of me to expect myself to be "perfect" after only six months.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be on medication, so I didn't push for or against. I just continued talking to her about how I was feeling, and that was the point at which I said I was "terrified" that I would feel this way forever. And, as I said, that's when the switch flipped for her. She said, "Okay, I think you do need to be on something. The fact that you used the word 'terrified'..."
And so off I went to Safeway with my prescription. The last reason I think it was so hard that day -- sitting in that parking lot -- was that I had never really been 100% certain that I did indeed have any kind of an anxiety disorder/mental health struggle. This felt like the first time in my life that I had professionals saying, "you need help. You need therapy and you need medication." So I think this was the first time in my life it felt really real. This wasn't something I was making up. I wasn't just being dramatic. This was a real thing. And it was a real thing that I couldn't control. And that was scary. And that was hard.
But, I took the pill, and I have continued taking the pills. And it's been okay. The side effects have been nearly non-existent, although now, nearly a month in, I will say I am fighting fatigue.
I have been so fortunate to have so many people checking in on me. I've got a great deal of love and support and the ears of many so, although it's a battle, in no way do I feel that I'm fighting it alone.
This post is too long, so in a separate post, I will talk about how things have been since starting the medication and I will also talk about the history of anxiety's presence in my life.
So, you made it this far -- text me your Starbucks order and let's pick a date <3
Tuesday, 12 July 2016
8 Years Later
People make so many jokes about marriage and how terrible it is. Typically, the "how many years of wedded bliss" question elicits the initial response of laughter, because though it's been, say, eight years of marriage, only two were bliss-filled. Not for me, people.
Has absolutely every second been perfect? No. Does he annoy me? Sure, sometimes. But, honestly, I'm in one of those marriages (are they as rare as I think they are?) where all of the jokes that people made to us before we got married still don't make sense eight years in. Maybe we're doing it wrong.
Oh, the jokes in the days leading up to the wedding were plentiful alright. "Enjoy these last happy days now, because they'll be a distant memory soon enough." "You still like each other now; don't worry -- that will change." Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Hardy, har-har.
So... are we just doing it wrong?? Because I still like him. Like, a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And, it gets worse: we're still happy. Like really happy.
Years ago a friend of mine was engaged to be married. Three weeks before the wedding, she found out that her fiancé was sleeping with (or had slept with at least once) his ex-girlfriend. I was already married when this bombshell hit and, sensing that she was going to marry him anyway, I tried to counsel her out of it. I told her that marriage isn't just about loving someone; it's kind of like a business. A life business. And the person you marry is your business partner, so you have to trust them with every facet of your life so they don't rip you off and leave you high and dry. I told her that marriage is hard and you can love someone all you want, but it's still going to be hard. Love is just the first prerequisite. It is a partnership that, over the long-term, requires so much more than just love. I absolutely did (and do) believe that a partnership based on trust is paramount, but I was lying when I said it was hard. I only said that because that's what everyone else has told me my whole life. I just assumed, though, that we hadn't been married long enough and that we hadn't faced enough challenges. I figured that, though I knew I chose my life partner well, we hadn't been put through the ringer yet.
Maybe that's still coming, because eight years later, "hard" is not a word I would use to describe my marriage. And, while (thankfully) we haven't had some of those significant stressors that experts say can wear on a marriage (major loss, illness, financial difficulties, etc.), we have made it through some pretty intense life changes together.
I was reading an article recently that talked about how much kids change and challenge the relationship that a married couple has. It's true: it changes because you have so much less time together alone. The marriage is no longer the focus and, especially in those first few months when you're busy trying to figure out how to "life" and your tired and broken (for mom, especially) body shifts into survival mode, the marriage can be a footnote (though, there is nothing quite like watching the person you love more than anything hold and love the other, tiny, person you love more than anything). But we have two kids, and though (as kids tend to be) they can be a source of stress, that has never felt that it comes at the expense of our marriage. He has started travelling a lot for work, which, with my tendency towards anxiety and my sometimes nagging self-doubt, has been a change I have struggled with some. I miss him terribly when he's gone, but -- in a weird way -- that has actually just been another reminder of how much I love him. There is something romantic about counting the days until he's back and the exchange of sweet (and sometimes not so sweet, if you catch my drift) texts. Missing someone feels nice too. We've also weathered a rough family storm together right before we got married, and that could easily have been something that caused a rift between us. But, in none of those times did I feel like we had to work to cocoon our relationship. If anything, it sort of felt like a safe haven in the midst of chaos.
So, will it get hard later? Maybe. Maybe, when we lose parents; if we lose jobs; if we face bad health news; when we're experiencing trouble with our kids in those oh-so-wonderful teenage years. Maybe, but I just don't know. I don't think so. Maybe we just chose right in marrying each other.
When I had that conversation with that friend (who married him anyway, by the way), she told me that marriage is a gamble anyway, because you can't predict the future, so everyone who gets married knows that divorce is a possibility. I agreed. You can't predict the future. You can't predict someone's behaviour and (as I've only just learned in the last few years, sometimes, you can't predict your own behaviour years into the future -- but that's another blog post), but, as Mark Hoppus, from the band +44 sings, "the past is only the future with the lights on." So, yes, like her, I suppose I did gamble that day when I vowed to give myself to Jeff for forever and cried as he made those same pledges to me, but the gamble wasn't done blindly. The bet I made was calculated. I did my research first and things looked good for a win. I was pretty happy with my odds. I believed that he had never lied to me; that he was committed; that he loved me; that he would be a pretty good and present father. I knew that he was honest and hard working and sincere, and he's the kind of person I would want to go into business with. I would want to buy a house, share a bank account, make babies with. And, so far at least, I was right.
We came to Saskatoon, the city where we first met, to celebrate our anniversary. One of the things we did today was head to The Broadway Roastery on 8th Street -- the coffee shop Jeff took me to for our first date. It was a good four-hour date and I remember dreading it coming to an end. We decided to follow it up with supper. Still not wanting it to end, we picked up a movie from Blockbuster (say what????!) and went back to his house. I got back to my hotel room at 4:00 a.m. and we shared our first kiss -- the last first kiss I'd ever have again. And then we never looked back.
So, here we are eight years, one apartment, one house, two cats, a few job changes, a handful of trips, and two beautiful, perfect little boys later -- still in love. Still in like. Feeling as blessed as ever.
I asked him today over our Broadway coffees what he thinks of eight years of marriage and he said, "I think it's good. We should do it again." I agreed. We decided to revisit this whole marriage thing in eight years and see where we're at, but for now, thank you, Jeff, for choosing me and for loving me, and our boys, exactly right. I love you and here's to the next eight years of wedded bliss.
Sunday, 4 October 2015
Back to Work
Tonight I put my baby boy and his big brother to bed for the first time knowing I have to work tomorrow morning.
I have left the Mayor's Office at the City and tomorrow I start a new position -- Communications Assistant -- at Luther College at the U of R. I am really looking forward to re-entering the land of adulthood for a few days a week and getting life back into something more reliably routine. This position puts me on course to my career path of choice: communications. Also, it is part-time at only 2.5 days per week and, for the month of October, is actually only 1.5 days per week, which will be a nice, gentle way for me to ease myself back into working. I think it is the perfect blend of working outside and inside the home.
I am very excited about this change in my life, but I am struggling emotionally with the reality that this marks the end of one of the most incredibly rewarding, difficult, and love-filled phases of my life. Grayson always goes down before Carter, and reading him his pre-bedtime books was hard. Then I did books with Carter. That was rough too. It brought me back to this time last year when I was just barely off of work. I was roughly 36 weeks pregnant and reading to my Carter every night before bed - knowing that soon, one of these nights would be the last night he would be my only priority in the evening. It was such an exciting time -- waiting for my body to make the move that would forever change our family. Knowing that I had a year off with these little boys to kiss and cuddle them all day. It was harder and more precious to me than I ever could have prepared myself for.
Tonight I read the last book to Carter, again distinctly aware that things are about to change. After the last book, I turned off his light and he said to me, "You stayin' home with me tomorrow, Mom?" I'll tell ya, I just about died.
I just never in a million years thought this would be so hard. The boys are going to my mom's tomorrow, which makes it easier. And - again - this is only part time, which means that I get 2.5 days a week WITH my boys. This makes things much, much easier. But my heart is still breaking at the end of this part of our journey. I have loved it so much more than I can express.
I am so very blessed that the universe saw fit to make me the mom of these beautiful little boys. I certainly don't always feel like the best mom, but I am certain no one can love my little boys better than I can and I hold on to that when I'm feeling down on myself.
While the phrase, "don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened," is on a neon flashing sign in my head, and while I realize that having a whole year off with my kids is a luxury that a lot of women in the world do not have, I am going to allow myself this moment of sadness. Saying goodbye to this time in my life IS emotional and, if my life wasn't so amazing, it wouldn't be. And so, I will make my tea - as usual - and allow myself to shed a few more tears.
I can't say it enough: this time when they are small simply goes too fast. <3
I have left the Mayor's Office at the City and tomorrow I start a new position -- Communications Assistant -- at Luther College at the U of R. I am really looking forward to re-entering the land of adulthood for a few days a week and getting life back into something more reliably routine. This position puts me on course to my career path of choice: communications. Also, it is part-time at only 2.5 days per week and, for the month of October, is actually only 1.5 days per week, which will be a nice, gentle way for me to ease myself back into working. I think it is the perfect blend of working outside and inside the home.
I am very excited about this change in my life, but I am struggling emotionally with the reality that this marks the end of one of the most incredibly rewarding, difficult, and love-filled phases of my life. Grayson always goes down before Carter, and reading him his pre-bedtime books was hard. Then I did books with Carter. That was rough too. It brought me back to this time last year when I was just barely off of work. I was roughly 36 weeks pregnant and reading to my Carter every night before bed - knowing that soon, one of these nights would be the last night he would be my only priority in the evening. It was such an exciting time -- waiting for my body to make the move that would forever change our family. Knowing that I had a year off with these little boys to kiss and cuddle them all day. It was harder and more precious to me than I ever could have prepared myself for.
Tonight I read the last book to Carter, again distinctly aware that things are about to change. After the last book, I turned off his light and he said to me, "You stayin' home with me tomorrow, Mom?" I'll tell ya, I just about died.
I just never in a million years thought this would be so hard. The boys are going to my mom's tomorrow, which makes it easier. And - again - this is only part time, which means that I get 2.5 days a week WITH my boys. This makes things much, much easier. But my heart is still breaking at the end of this part of our journey. I have loved it so much more than I can express.
I am so very blessed that the universe saw fit to make me the mom of these beautiful little boys. I certainly don't always feel like the best mom, but I am certain no one can love my little boys better than I can and I hold on to that when I'm feeling down on myself.
While the phrase, "don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened," is on a neon flashing sign in my head, and while I realize that having a whole year off with my kids is a luxury that a lot of women in the world do not have, I am going to allow myself this moment of sadness. Saying goodbye to this time in my life IS emotional and, if my life wasn't so amazing, it wouldn't be. And so, I will make my tea - as usual - and allow myself to shed a few more tears.
I can't say it enough: this time when they are small simply goes too fast. <3
Monday, 28 September 2015
The time. Oh the time. Where the hell has it gone?
This post is going to be a total jumble of thoughts, probably mostly unrelated, but things I wanted to get down nonetheless. I'm going to number them, because who doesn't love a list?!
1. My Grayson James is 11 months old today. I can't believe it. The next month birthday we will celebrate will be his first birthday. That's INSANE. And to celebrate this monthly birthday, he slept through the night last night! Say whaaaaaaaaat?? He went to bed around 7 p.m. and woke up around 11:00 p.m., nursed, and went back to sleep until 6:15 a.m.! It was glorious and my boobs didn't hate it either, which is a relief. My little man is walking along walls, furniture, your legs, etc. and is the fastest crawler around. He LOVES to feed himself, he has two teeth and his current loves are walks, laughing at his big brother, bath time, nursing, and watching dad walk in the door at the end the day. He's super loud - shrieks in a way that will shatter your eardrum when he's happy and tries to out-yell his older brother. He's a super happy baby who loves to play and hates being made to sit still. I can't imagine our family without him.
2. We have started listening to a children's music CD in the car (thanks, Mother-in-Law!) and I actually have a favourite song. Song 11 on disc one: Down by the Bay. I freaking love it. How #momlife worthy is that?!
3. Today I kneeled down and asked Carter for a hug. He obliged and as I hugged his little body, I told him that I love him. "You love me, Mom?" he said, in that little boy voice of his. "Yes. Very much," I replied. "You going to keep me mom?" I laughed and told him "always." Then we went through all of the people he thought we should keep. Mom, Dad, Grayson, Mother, NanaPe, Nikin, Uncle Joel, Auntie Sarah... and then he got bored of the game. But I know he'd want to keep a couple others (Uncle Curtis and Amma, for sure!). I love that he is at this age where he says these super cute, sometimes hilarious and sometimes strange things. Entertainment and it only cost me my lady parts for a solid six weeks.
4. This is my last week at home with my babies before I head back to work. I am starting a new position as a Communications Assistant for a new employer. The position is part-time, and this was something I was adamant about obtaining when contemplating my return to work. Working full-time leaves so little time with the kids, and I'm unwilling to give up that time. Maybe another blog post about that as a separate topic.
I'm really excited about it because I think Communications is really where I want to be and where my skill set places me, but knowing that this is the last week is a little bittersweet. I feel painfully aware that I am ending a phase of my life and entering into a new one. Never again will I have a maternity leave, and while some days being home on my own with the kids nearly pushes me towards checking myself into a mental institution, I swear, every minute with them, your heart grows a little bigger. So, I'm in a strange place emotionally.
It is now, however, 9:25 and I have a good book and comfy bed waiting for me, so I'm going to cut this short and try to expand on some of these ideas in a later post. This post was really more of a diary-like entry and I just wanted to get some of my thoughts down.
Nighty night!
A.
1. My Grayson James is 11 months old today. I can't believe it. The next month birthday we will celebrate will be his first birthday. That's INSANE. And to celebrate this monthly birthday, he slept through the night last night! Say whaaaaaaaaat?? He went to bed around 7 p.m. and woke up around 11:00 p.m., nursed, and went back to sleep until 6:15 a.m.! It was glorious and my boobs didn't hate it either, which is a relief. My little man is walking along walls, furniture, your legs, etc. and is the fastest crawler around. He LOVES to feed himself, he has two teeth and his current loves are walks, laughing at his big brother, bath time, nursing, and watching dad walk in the door at the end the day. He's super loud - shrieks in a way that will shatter your eardrum when he's happy and tries to out-yell his older brother. He's a super happy baby who loves to play and hates being made to sit still. I can't imagine our family without him.
2. We have started listening to a children's music CD in the car (thanks, Mother-in-Law!) and I actually have a favourite song. Song 11 on disc one: Down by the Bay. I freaking love it. How #momlife worthy is that?!
3. Today I kneeled down and asked Carter for a hug. He obliged and as I hugged his little body, I told him that I love him. "You love me, Mom?" he said, in that little boy voice of his. "Yes. Very much," I replied. "You going to keep me mom?" I laughed and told him "always." Then we went through all of the people he thought we should keep. Mom, Dad, Grayson, Mother, NanaPe, Nikin, Uncle Joel, Auntie Sarah... and then he got bored of the game. But I know he'd want to keep a couple others (Uncle Curtis and Amma, for sure!). I love that he is at this age where he says these super cute, sometimes hilarious and sometimes strange things. Entertainment and it only cost me my lady parts for a solid six weeks.
4. This is my last week at home with my babies before I head back to work. I am starting a new position as a Communications Assistant for a new employer. The position is part-time, and this was something I was adamant about obtaining when contemplating my return to work. Working full-time leaves so little time with the kids, and I'm unwilling to give up that time. Maybe another blog post about that as a separate topic.
I'm really excited about it because I think Communications is really where I want to be and where my skill set places me, but knowing that this is the last week is a little bittersweet. I feel painfully aware that I am ending a phase of my life and entering into a new one. Never again will I have a maternity leave, and while some days being home on my own with the kids nearly pushes me towards checking myself into a mental institution, I swear, every minute with them, your heart grows a little bigger. So, I'm in a strange place emotionally.
It is now, however, 9:25 and I have a good book and comfy bed waiting for me, so I'm going to cut this short and try to expand on some of these ideas in a later post. This post was really more of a diary-like entry and I just wanted to get some of my thoughts down.
Nighty night!
A.
Tuesday, 14 July 2015
The Season That Sucks
Parenthood -- like life -- has seasons. Some seasons are good; some seasons are bad; some are neither. The season of parenthood that I am currently chest deep in is the really shitty one. The one where you just want to scream at the top of your lungs, "I quit!" and storm out with a suitcase and no cell phone. The kind where it's a struggle not to lock yourself in the bathroom and bathe in your own tears (this isn't possible, because who the eff has time to BATHE???). There is not enough chocolate in North America for this season, yo. Not nearly enough.
So here's my shit:
Carter has regressed in potty training. He was trained, people. Fully trained. No accidents in public, at the park, during naps, etc. Nothing has changed in our lives that would explain a setback. He is all over the map - yesterday he went to the bathroom, on his on (without me reminding him or asking him to sit on the potty) a number of times and then, out of the blue, he peed his pants outside). Some days he will be accident-free all day and other days have 5 accidents. Rewards seem to make no difference (either immediate or long-term, with stickers, etc.). Today, he went to the babysitter's. I try to take him once in a while to play with the boys there. She has all boys and I know it's good for him to socialize without me hanging around. He was so excited to go this morning. I told him that if he made one accident in his pants, Judy was supposed to call me and he would be coming home. I was barely home for an hour before she called. We will try that tactic again tomorrow, but at the moment, he doesn't seem to be too upset about being home. Combine this with Grayson's sleep issues and his new 5am wake up time, and I spend a large portion of the day screaming the F word in my head.
Grayson is also at that lovely age where he cannot be unsupervised on his own for ANY time at all. He stands up on everything and, subsequently, falls over and will bang his head/face on our hard bamboo floor. Everything goes in his mouth. Everything. So I have ZERO free time when he is awake because I literally have to be right next to him. This is just that season in his life and, though it is exhausting, because you can kiss whatever free time you had beforehand goodbye and your house looks even worse than it did before (who knew this was possible?!), it isn't stressful. It is just a shit ton of work and it sucks, a little, to be honest, but he's a healthy, growing baby, so it's a good kind of pain in the ass (good thing Jeff's not reading this, because he would add some unsolicited commentary there). However, when I have to throw him in his exersaucer to go deal with a 3.5 year old who crapped his pants for the third time in a day, I start to feel my jaw clench in frustration.
It's just a lot right now. A lot of work. A lot of no time off. A lot of no time for my marriage. A lot of "what did we do wrong to cause a potty regression?" "what did we do wrong to end up with an 8 1/2 month old who still sleeps like shit??". I feel tired, frustrated, exhausted, and at the end of my rope a lot lately. Like, a LOT. I know that being tired makes everything seem worse than it is though and that if I were coming at every day with more sleep under my belt, the challenges wouldn't look so Mount Rushmore-ish.
I tell myself two things to pull me back to sanity: First, this is a hard phase that will pass. Carter won't struggle with this forever. We will figure it out. He will figure it out. Grayson won't sleep like ass for forever. Grayson will continue to grow and develop to the point where I can be more than half a foot away from him while he plays. So, this too shall pass. Like the good moments that you try to stretch out, this time will fade away to introduce a different season. A season where I'm not needed so much and feel sad about it. That's for another blog though.
The other thing that I tell myself is that although, yes, some of this sucks and, yes, I'm allowed to vent frustrations about it, there are many parents of sick children - really sick children - or who have lost their children, who would give anything to be in my place. I have normal, healthy kids. Lots of kids deal with potty regressions (especially for #2), and lots of moms I have talked to aren't anywhere close to sleeping through the night either with their babies. None of that makes my "struggle" easier, but it does put it in perspective. Things aren't that bad. Things could be worse.
So there are my ramblings for the day. And now, it's time to put Carter down for a nap. Grayson is sleeping and has been for nearly an hour. This means that he will likely wake up as soon as I put Carter down. The hopeful part of me says, "lay down and sleep and maybe Grayson will give you an hour," and the cynical part of me laughs at that thought. I could also use a shower. See how neither of those options involved sitting on the couch to watch last night's episode of The Bachelorette?? Decisions, decisions.
The good news is that I think I am going to Magic Mike XXL tonight. Take it off, Channing. Take it off.
So here's my shit:
Carter has regressed in potty training. He was trained, people. Fully trained. No accidents in public, at the park, during naps, etc. Nothing has changed in our lives that would explain a setback. He is all over the map - yesterday he went to the bathroom, on his on (without me reminding him or asking him to sit on the potty) a number of times and then, out of the blue, he peed his pants outside). Some days he will be accident-free all day and other days have 5 accidents. Rewards seem to make no difference (either immediate or long-term, with stickers, etc.). Today, he went to the babysitter's. I try to take him once in a while to play with the boys there. She has all boys and I know it's good for him to socialize without me hanging around. He was so excited to go this morning. I told him that if he made one accident in his pants, Judy was supposed to call me and he would be coming home. I was barely home for an hour before she called. We will try that tactic again tomorrow, but at the moment, he doesn't seem to be too upset about being home. Combine this with Grayson's sleep issues and his new 5am wake up time, and I spend a large portion of the day screaming the F word in my head.
Grayson is also at that lovely age where he cannot be unsupervised on his own for ANY time at all. He stands up on everything and, subsequently, falls over and will bang his head/face on our hard bamboo floor. Everything goes in his mouth. Everything. So I have ZERO free time when he is awake because I literally have to be right next to him. This is just that season in his life and, though it is exhausting, because you can kiss whatever free time you had beforehand goodbye and your house looks even worse than it did before (who knew this was possible?!), it isn't stressful. It is just a shit ton of work and it sucks, a little, to be honest, but he's a healthy, growing baby, so it's a good kind of pain in the ass (good thing Jeff's not reading this, because he would add some unsolicited commentary there). However, when I have to throw him in his exersaucer to go deal with a 3.5 year old who crapped his pants for the third time in a day, I start to feel my jaw clench in frustration.
It's just a lot right now. A lot of work. A lot of no time off. A lot of no time for my marriage. A lot of "what did we do wrong to cause a potty regression?" "what did we do wrong to end up with an 8 1/2 month old who still sleeps like shit??". I feel tired, frustrated, exhausted, and at the end of my rope a lot lately. Like, a LOT. I know that being tired makes everything seem worse than it is though and that if I were coming at every day with more sleep under my belt, the challenges wouldn't look so Mount Rushmore-ish.
I tell myself two things to pull me back to sanity: First, this is a hard phase that will pass. Carter won't struggle with this forever. We will figure it out. He will figure it out. Grayson won't sleep like ass for forever. Grayson will continue to grow and develop to the point where I can be more than half a foot away from him while he plays. So, this too shall pass. Like the good moments that you try to stretch out, this time will fade away to introduce a different season. A season where I'm not needed so much and feel sad about it. That's for another blog though.
The other thing that I tell myself is that although, yes, some of this sucks and, yes, I'm allowed to vent frustrations about it, there are many parents of sick children - really sick children - or who have lost their children, who would give anything to be in my place. I have normal, healthy kids. Lots of kids deal with potty regressions (especially for #2), and lots of moms I have talked to aren't anywhere close to sleeping through the night either with their babies. None of that makes my "struggle" easier, but it does put it in perspective. Things aren't that bad. Things could be worse.
So there are my ramblings for the day. And now, it's time to put Carter down for a nap. Grayson is sleeping and has been for nearly an hour. This means that he will likely wake up as soon as I put Carter down. The hopeful part of me says, "lay down and sleep and maybe Grayson will give you an hour," and the cynical part of me laughs at that thought. I could also use a shower. See how neither of those options involved sitting on the couch to watch last night's episode of The Bachelorette?? Decisions, decisions.
The good news is that I think I am going to Magic Mike XXL tonight. Take it off, Channing. Take it off.
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