Moving

Moving stinks.

I should be packing, but instead I am staying up late and getting drunk. I love to drink. It makes me feel warm and bubbly and good, whereas moving makes me feel sucky.

You see, we move basically every year. Our lease comes up and we decide, "Eh, we'll tr a new place for a while". For us, a new year has become synonymous with finding a cheaper/bigger/better place to live. So, that's nice. But the moving..now that's terrible.

You see, to begin with, we have to pack. Which generally means cleaning. I don't know if you know me...but...homegirl doesn't really clean. I straighten, I do dishes, and I often end up just making piles of things rather than actually putting them away. But when you pack, you can't do that. The piles need to be organized into boxes, and then the space they occupied has to be dusted, swept, mopped, vaccummed, bleached, or otherwise cleaned.

And then you have to put the boxes into a trailer. And because I can't drive, that means paying my dad to come to wherever I am to pull a trailer full of my junk. And convincing my brothers to help load/unload stuff. Which is always a joy.

Sometimes I wonder why we keep moving. Is it really because we want a better place to live? Or just because we're bored where we currently are? Generally it's about money, but sometimes it's about change. I wonder if we'll ever own a place. Maybe just an RV.



...There you go folks. Drunk blogging. :) I should get packing.

I suck & my baby rolls

I suck. It's been forever since I updated. Please forgive me and let me get a bit sappy on you:

Jack, my terribly lazy baby, rolled himself over for the first time today. Back to belly. Well, mostly. His shoulder is still sort of underneath him, but his thumb in is his mouth, so I am going to excuse is. My tiny baby is now a big 4 month old roller! How did this happen? He looks like such a little boy now, and I just don't know what to do, besides cry and hope he slows the fuck down.

In other news:

I was looking through some old photos today. I really, really need to finish some scrapbooking projects, but I haven't scrapped in about 3 years. I guess that's a good SAHM project, huh? I found this picture:

This is a photo of my mother and me at Disneyworld when I was around 2.5, 3 years old. This was before my mom got sick, and we had such a special time. I don't remember a lot of it; PTSD makes you lose a lot of memories, and almost everything before 10 is completely wiped out for me. But I do remember this:

The trip was almost over. We were all tired, hot, and ready to go home. I had yet to see Goofy (he was off that week) and my dad was grumpy. We started to head toward the gate, and my dad decided he needed to go to the bathroom first. He went to stand in the long line (yes, at Disneyworld there are even lines for the guys bathroom), and left my Mom and I alone. We stood there for a moment, then she got this look... she snatched me up and hurried against the flow of traffic toward the middle of the park. Suddenly, we stopped. There was no line; we climbed into a ride car and got strapped in. And then, we took off. We flew over the heads of everyone else, and she squeezed me tightly as Dumbo moved higher and higher into the air. Her smile transformed her face; she delighted in seeing me squeal in surprise, and when the ride slowed, she hugged me tight. She smelled like pears and honey and sunshine. Her hair formed a halo in the setting sunlight, and as we climbed out of the car, she squeezed my hand and said, "We just had to do that one more time."

I hope I never lose this memory, nor the memory of how proud I was tonight of Jack for rolling over. These are the things that Life is all about.

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Oops.

This is why I don't blog. I do well for like, 3 weeks, and then I don't post at all for 3 weeks.

We've been doing a lot offline, since Bun refuses to fix our router. :\ I read the whole Harry Potter series, watched half a season of LOST, and have been working a lot on my writing.

And the doctor hasn't called me yet, like she said she would.

I guess patience is a virtue, but I'm really not into it.

What have you been up to lately?

Boobie Smushing (& Body Image)

I got my first mammogram last week.

I'd always heard that mammograms sucked. I imagined one of the worst pains imaginable; my boobs in a vice, essentially, and being cranked down until they felt like they were about to pop.

Fortunately, that is a lie. It doesn't hurt that bad. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't say it even hurt. It wasn't as bad as a Pap. A little uncomfortable, maybe, but nowhere near internal-at-26-weeks pain, or even relatively close to a magnesium drip for 72 hours.

I will say though, it was awkwarddddd. But not for the reasons you might think. Yes, the technician was an 80 year old woman with the coldest hands of any living being, and yes, it was embarassing when a little left over milk leaked out onto the platform... but the changing room was the most awkward.

After spending about twenty minutes in the office with a young lady that assured me several times that she had no clue why health insurance companies hire foreign call centers, I went into this tiny closet to change. I took off my shirt and bra, and wiped my deoderant off with a baby wipe (all the while thanking the powers that be that I shaved under my arms that day, quite the feat at this point in my life). I put on this little cape... and had to hold my boobs up underneath it because they are so large you could see them hanging. That was quite attractive, I assure you. Good heavens I love Lane Bryant and their super bras.

I turned to the mirror, and saw myself in a very different way than I usually do. Above the high rise of my jeans, a dark purple line snaked up the center of my belly. Jagged lines like tiger scretches covered my sides. My skin was loose; it hung off of my body in the least flattering way possible. The light, flourescent and damning, highlighted every bump and blemish.

My body felt... ugly.

And at that point I heard them call my name, and got back to reality. How worried would I be about my stretch marks and c-section scar if I was going into that room because I'd found something, and not because I'm paranoid? How much of my "fight" is just me taking the advice of a few doctors and over dramatizing it to the point that I feel it is life or death?

And how much of it is that I hate my body so much, I'll do anything to change it?

....And why the HELL do they put mirrors in those changing rooms?

Mother's Day

Mother's Day has always been a day of strange emotions for me. It was the last day that my mother was alive.

She was so vibrant and full of life that day, after months of being unable to leave her bed and eating only chocolate ice cream. Our family came to our home, and she cooked lunch. I was 13. She asked me after everyone left if I wanted to play cards with her.

"I think I can remember how to count now..." She was an accountant, and the cancer had hurt her so much that she couldn't count to 12 in order to play Skip Bo.

"I don't think so." I was busy chatting with my e-friends. Even at that age, I looked better in writing.

"Oh..." I could tell how disappointed she was.

"Mom, I am too old to play cards with you."

It was the last thing I ever said to her.

I had no clue that she would die the next day. I thought I had more time. I thought I had days, even weeks, left to spend with her..but the next morning, it was over. I never got to say goodbye. I never said "I love you". I never said "I wish we'd had more time".

I'd like to think that I've lived the rest of my life saying those things, over and over. I am Agnostic; I do not believe that there is some sentient spirit of my mother living in Heaven, watching over me and waiting for me to get to her. But sometimes I have these dreams, and they are so real... I think there must be something of her left.

Today was my first Mother's Day. But again, the strange mix of emotions: guilt, sadness, fear, anger...and this time around, happiness. Sheer joy to be spending this day with my son.

Some things never change. Thankfully, this did.

Appointment Update

I met with the oncological geneticist today. She's the same one that did my BRAC testing two years ago. We talked at length about the recommendations of the two OB/GYNs I saw, and my risk for cancer.

Essentially, the geneticist said that my risk for cancer is only slightly higher than the risk for the general population. But, when I started describing to her the way I felt about possibly getting cancer, she immediately saw red flags. We discussed my anxiety about the situation and she explained that, while I had been diagnosed with GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) it was quite likely that I actually suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
After I sobbed hysterically while repeating "I just can't do that to him" over and over again for about half an hour, she told me that we would do whatever we could to get rid of this elevated risk. I went for my first mammogram and am going to see a surgeon later in the month.

I'll write more concerning this topic later. For now, I've just dropped my baby off for his first night out of my sight since we left the hospital, and I am going a little crazy. I think I need a hot bath and a cold drink.

Shredded

I am a hypocrite.

I am so worried about cancer that I'm willing to give up any hope for future children, my breasts, and precious weeks spent with my infant son in order to improve my chances. And yet, I don't eat right or exercise.

Blame it on my childhood; I never did find a therapist I liked. Blame it on my family; we all use food as a coping mechanism, a comfort, an obsession. Blame it on hormones; birth control is a bitch. But mostly, blame it on me; I have zero willpower and am pretty lazy.

So, today I got my roommate to do the 30 Day Shred with me for the first time. I feel...tired. Sore. Hot. Like Jillian Michaels looks like a man. But, somehow a little bit accomplished too.

I can't say that I'll do this every day. Or even every other day. But I am going to make an effort to do SOMETHING active every day. Here's to being healthy in more ways than one.