Gorillabuns

celebrations

I/we survived the first minor holiday of many to come. Next week, we will be celebrating Moira's birthday in a half-assed fashion. Next, we will be celebrating what would have been our son's first birthday in two weeks in a no-assed fashion and then onto Christmas and all the details and emotions that this ball of fun entails. 

Good times. Only good times full steam ahead.

I guess I should insert <funny and witty banter here> instead of relaying the bullshit emotions I feel or the shape of things to come so I'll go with the prior thought instead of the sad reality of life in these here parts because quite honestly, I'm bored of sight of my own words.

I have spent most of my time  these days instead of posting, trying to be a good mother by setting up play-dates and volunteering at school. You know, living the glamorous life.

Last Friday, I was cornered by my oldest's teacher in a dead-assed panic. Her substitute teacher for the morning had canceled due to sickness and she needed help, like stat! As I contemplated subbing for a class of 26 1st graders and their ability to smell fear reeking from my pores and taking advantage of this fact and weighing the great need to go and purchase toilet paper for our household, I succumbed to her pleadings and saved the day. or in the words of one of the kids, made their day "the worst day ever!"

Now, remember, my kids go to a Catholic school......

Funny enough, Celia thought it was another day in the neighborhood and was nonplussed as I screamed, shamed and had a meltdown in front of the class. Subsequently, I had many a teacher laughing at my time served. The death toll? One kid sent to the Principal's office for peeing all over the bathroom floor while showing his death defying pee tricks to his brood, pulled "reward cards" for bad behavior, yanked a marble out of the "party" jar for their unruliness, had one kid cry as another told on him for screaming "shut up!" Sadly, I came to his defense (because he was one of the only kids who didn't speak, including my little Angel - Yes, I AM biased) by berating the kid/class that 1) "I abhor tattle-tellers," 2) "his frustration was a symptom of the whole class' poor attitude" 3) told the kids "I knew most of their parents and felt their parents would be incredibly embarrassed if they knew how they acted for their teacher and a sub." 

Yep, as you can guess, all my verbiage was lost on them. Reverse Jedi-mind tricks didn't really work on them.

I may or may not have told one kid "to quit freaking the hell out" because his paper wasn't printed double-sided, may or may not have texted a friend with an S.O.S. code of "FUCK, FUCK!"which happened to be voice delivered in a creepy electronic voice to her home recorder for her two-year-old to hear and dance to, texted the teacher a scathing, "thanks a lot for the math worksheet from Hell!", asked the other 1st grade teacher, "why aren't you an alcoholic after teaching these kids every day? or are you and I just don't know it?", exclaimed "well, shit people!"over said math worksheet when two kids started crying over being totally and completely frustrated (yes, I cried along with them), let the prisoners draw for hours on end because I didn't know shit about the stupid bible lesson I was supposed to be teaching, tried somewhat successfully to not snoop in the teacher's desk and computer while sitting on my hands to not check my Facebook status, read two books to the class in funny, entertaining voices while realizing, Man! I totally have a future in audio books for children and maybe, just maybe, I should be reading more to my own kids, exclaimed to the secretary in the school's office while signing out for penance served, "I almost kicked some asses today!"  

Basically, I expect to be receiving copious amounts of counseling bills for pain and suffering in the not-so-distant future.

timeline

One of the most repeated statements I've heard since Easter has been, "You grieve on your own time. Don't let anyone make you do anything that you don't want to do or deal with things you are not ready to deal with."

If only one could live in this magical dream world of screwing what others thought, let life stand-still at her home and mundanely walk around and skate by the items of remembrance. The last vestiges of a life cut too short.

These past seven months have proven to be a testament of how four people can grieve so differently. Some hide their heads like a turtle in it's unclean shell, others tell everyone and anyone all the information and more - most skewed and incorrect because they are too young to know any differently or able to assimilate the vast jagged shrapnel left behind. Others quickly dart in and out of conversation to let you know they are thinking about it all but then quickly hide for fear of a "sad" reaction they can't handle. Some regress to pooping in their pants, others regress to peeing in their pants. And I'm not just talking about children here..... Procrastination turns into fights, fights turn into standstills, standstills turn into anger. Anger over everything.

I wrote on Facebook the other day "you would be pleased to know, Easter decorations have been discarded." Unwillingly discarded.

Someone later said, "aren't you happy your house is clean?"

In a very short, succinct word: No.

Hiding behind memories and clutter has guaranteed people won't come over and if they do, maybe, just maybe, I've left this shit around to remind others that I'm not okay. I'm sad. I'm mad! Why don't you people remember him? Why the fuck are you over here in the first place? Cleaning up my fucking house doesn't bring me back my child. It only reminds me more that he's gone because the last moments I had with him are gone. Well, minus the baby swing at the foot of our bed. The dead flowers are gone. The car seat carrier has been donated. The box full of prayer cards and condolences are shoved underneath our bed. Replacing it all with a dead, haphazard Thanksgiving centerpiece.

In truth, I have many things to be thankful for including; loving, healthy, for the most part, happy children and a husband who only hates me 1/3 of the time. Pretty good percentages if you think about it compared to most.

I'm writing this statement so maybe I'll feel it: "I'm going to "try" to be happy, healthy and rejoiceful this Thanksgiving week."

I said I'd try and I'm not promising anything. Also, I'll be having a little heave-ho, help with my best friend, Xanax and his little friend, Vodka.   

May you not need any of these crutches to celebrate with you and yours and if you do, makes sure you don't end up in prison after it's all said and done. Because that would be so very sad and well, you would be far removed from all your vices for quite awhile.

random rambles from Crazy Town

Today is my Mother's birthday. I hope she doesn't mind me saying this but I'm going to anyway. She turns 61 today. Might I add, she looks light years younger than her age and has better taste in music than I. Sometimes I feel like my mother and I live a "Freaky Friday" kind of existence. Thinking about what my life might be like at her age, I'm blown away at the differences. A) Celia will be 26 and Moira 25 and probably still living with us. B) Can't think of a B. All I know is, I don't feel 40 so I can only imagine how she feels at 61.

Aging is such a bitch. Too bad we can't stay 25 forever. I'll even take 30.

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I have successfully/unsuccessfully blurted out in the past few days that I have a dead son at which point, I made one of the ladies bust out crying. My "frankness" or as most would say "directness," sometimes/most of the time gets in the way of how I deliver or probably shouldn't deliver this piece of news.

I really need to work on my delivery. Maybe I can find a class on "tact" at the local Community College.

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A teacher asked if I wanted to substitute teach her First grade class tomorrow. I looked around to make sure she was really talking to me because, are you really asking me? I'm not a kid person, well other people's kids I should say. I laughed and said, "Sure! If you want me to pass out gin shots to all the kids and dissect the inner workings of the dramatic love scenes on General Hospital!" Funny thing is, I think she'd be okay with my lesson plan.

Need I remind you, my kids go to a Catholic school.

yabba dabba doo!

Today I went to a Reproductive Endocrinologist. You know, the voodoo doc of fertility. After a few spiritual chantings, aura cleansing and three waves of his magic wand, I'm cured of all that ails me. Well, not-so-much. I really wish it were all so easy. Instead, I left my consultation more confused than before with only a few snip-its ingrained into my pee-sized brain.

Thankfully, I had a friend go with me who has gone this route before so she could decipher, take cliff-notes and well, basically listen to everything that did not filter through my ears and hit the save button. In essence, I was working on operation overload in which all I heard was "yadda, yadda, yadda, your are old, bibbity, bobbity-boo! Why are you taking Xanax? yabba, dabba, doo! 40% chance of miscarriage because you are old, blah, blah, blah, blah, So! we'll see you when you start your period next."

What?

Seriously, I have a degree. A couple of them with an almost Masters. Seriously, I WAS a drug rep and know how to communicate with Doctors, their jargon and upspeak but when it comes to something as freaky as having to discuss my expired eggs, I go into a semi-comatose state in which I barely know my name and just nod, and nod and nod as if I understand what the hell he's saying.

After the appointment in the comfort of my friend's car, I asked her to tell me "really, tell me straight. What did he say?" Because, you know, I'm 10 years old and have to have my mother take care of me since I don't know which way is up these days. A damn fine mother she is let me say because she dumbed it all down for me so I could recite passages to my husband without faltering too much.

Basically, in a nut-shell - I don't think the dude is TOO worried about me. Well, about my eggs that is but maybe about my mental state. When I'm ready and bleeding like a stuck pig, I'm to call and have him do an ultrasound on my innards to see if this hen should be dressed and primed for next Sunday's special meal or should be shot full of unnatural hormones for laying three-legged eggs for the next circus run. 

The one thing I am VERY happy about is he didn't berate me about my weight because seriously, it's not like I don't know I'm heavy and quite honestly, this large and in charge beast hasn't let weight get in the way of getting knocked up the past two times. He also was not very concerned with my "slightly elevated" FSH numbers. If you want to know what this means? Don't ask me as I didn't pay a bit of attention. All I heard was something to do with "foot on the pedal to make the car run."  Yes, my reproductive unit is defined as either an awesome muscle car or a bad, run-down Nova.

The doctor went on to say he would give it a year with whatever measures we were going to take. Wait? What? Doesn't he know I'm going to be 41 soon? A year? I'm so not a patient woman. Aren't we supposed to move, like fast? Super, warp-speed fast?

Quite honestly, I think he, my friend and well, everyone in the free world thinks if I would calm the fuck down, I might actually get pregnant.  In the end, I think my eggs are too shaken up with frustration and performance anxiety to do their job properly. Maybe they need to take some Xanax. Maybe they should just enjoy the free ride for awhile. A lesson I should be taking at the moment as well.

repeat with me, "breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out....."

good grief

I should be happy with the end of my maturational years resulting in three, two beautiful children in our midst but sadly, I am not. I have three, two relatively healthy and happy children. Children I would give life and limb for their lives, health and subsequent happiness. Children I truly feel grateful for being a part of their lives but in the end I am left wanting and yearning. I'd say for a third child but since we've already traveled down this fucked up, non-paved, dead-end road of confusion, I'm wanting another chance. Just ONE MORE FUCKING CHANCE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,I SWEAR! I'LL DONATE MY EARTHLY PLEASURES TO CAPTURE ONE MORE CHANCE OF HAPPINESS! To feel complete as both a woman and as a mother.

It seems based on medical testing, naturally, I'm on the road to ruin and dilapidated sludge. Basically, I'm not 20 anymore. Who knew after carelessly throwing caution to the wind and successfully dropping eggs on the lawn of pleasure and paradise like an Easter bunny on a massive frenzied drug induced chase - the eggs I now have left have been left sitting in the hot and stuffy glove compartment a tad too long. Long enough to emit a gaseous presence but just that. Spoiled and overly ripe and well, not perfect.

After receiving such awesomely mind-numbing news this week minutes before a Girl Scout function that my FSH is now over the legal limit to operate a vehicle after sun down under the right road conditions - I now have the option of going to an infertility specialist. To, I don't know, charge us a fuck-load in tests, shoot me full of more hormonally imbalanced shit into my cavernous cavity of unstable negative/positive corroded battery charges. In essence, I've received the dreaded news. I'm old as fuck and if I have the mental stability and drive, I can continue onto another path of more frustration and despair. 

Quite honestly, this road trip I've been traveling for these past fews months is making me car sick  for me to accept and all I really want to do is get off this mother fucking ghoulish merry-go-round and travel a path of absolutes and certainties. A path I know that has been covered up in brambles and dried leaves with small twigs leading a way only noticeable to the lucky little leprechauns where their fine fortunes may be hidden for their freakish ever-knowing families to only relish in. Not available to people like me. Man, I really fucking hate those creepy fucking Keebler elves. and their fucking shitty cookies.

So now, I enter a new uncharted territory of pain, grief and suffering. Holidays have started to arrive with a vengeance. Painfully, I watch my husband trying to grasp someone else's child who is two months older than Thalon and I find myself turning away from response a- both for himself and myself. Trying to keep the "situation" light, normal and well, non-creepy. Mainly because if I didn't like these people so much, I would steal their beautiful child. "My Steadfast friend," you know I'm only slightly joking here. I didn't steal him when I watched him a few weeks ago. Personally, I hope you or no other person I know has to go through this hot and cold grief. Grief that comes out of no where. Hyperventilated sentences mixed with hysterical crying over the most bullshit of situations known to man because you can't find a parking place or you don't know what the fuck everyone else's thinking but only yourself. Because, truly, my mind can only take so much tension and complication. Choosing the "correct" brand of Chocolate milk sends me into the corner of the butter aisle - sucking my thumb for someone to make a GD decision so I don't have to.  So, if you are asking me if I'm on edge of a very rusty and overused razor long ready for disposable, then yes, I am. My husband is on the proverbial edge and my girls are on the edge but way too smart to get too close. I feel they are the only ones that have a chance of escaping all of this with only a minor year or two years of therapy. To me? This sounds like good news and sadly, I think they are the most sane of us all.

I do believe my husband and I would like to "check out" from the next few months of festivities of joy, celebrations, would-be celebrations and well, remembrances. Remembrances that I feel will completely kill me when they get here because, quite honestly, I don't know how we are going to make it through it all in one piece or at the very least slightly cracked - even Super Glue may not be strong enough to fix.