A Private Room...

in which I can scream at the top of my lungs and no one can hear.

That's what I want.

I love my child more every day. I still don't understand how I am capable of such love, and how I will be able to love baby boy as much as I do Ansley.

But that doesn't change the fact that on nights like tonight, I sometimes wish I didn't have kids. She.was.awful.

I know it was primarily because she was so tired, and she doesn't understand that certain things have to happen so she can go to sleep. But, seriously.

How in the world am I going to handle 2?

If you aren't invited, go home.

We had an unwanted visitor at our house last week. And some of the week before.

And it was not wanted. And it would NOT leave.

Out of no where last Saturday, the kiddo spiked a fever, fell asleep in my lap, and then stopped eating. Occasionally, when the drugs kicked in, she was her normal self, pleading for Legos and M&Ms and her pea-win jom joms (translation: penguin pajamas).

Then, the liquid hit the diaper. And it didn't stop. For a week.

Ansley kept complaining that her stomach hurt, but in the world of a 2 year old, I couldn't tell if it hurt because she was sick or hurt because she hadn't eaten. Either way, she wasn't very pleasant to be around. Both because she was grumpy, and, well, she smelled pretty bad.

Wednesday I woke up feeling... weird. As I ate my Frosted Mini Wheats, my mouth became void of any moisture. And it was weird. And then I understood what Ansley meant when she was telling me her stomach hurt. It felt like someone was digging in my abdomen with a rusty knife. A rusty dull knife.

Luckily, the inside kid decided to chill out and not batter me from the inside at the same time.

Oh, and then, the, um, poospolsions hit. While I was teaching. And was the only girl that had access to a bathroom in a coach's office. And I'm pretty sure the coach was embarrassed for me. And maybe a little impressed.

So I left work and went home. To bed. I left my kid at the sitters and went home.

And I stayed there Thursday. In bed. And couldn't really eat, which worked in my favor by halting the trips to the bathroom.

And they stayed halted. Until today. I finally felt normal today. Ate every meal. Wanted every meal.

The hubs still seems in the clear. No pain. No unusual, um, movements. Hopefully he has escaped the wrath of the 2012 Stomach Bug.

I wouldn't wish is on anyone. Well, maybe a few people.

But no one I really like.

Seriously?

Dear police department that employs my husband,

Could you BACK UP OFF, please?

Listen, I know you guys are understaffed.  But that's what happens when you let 6 officers leave or get fired and you don't replace them!

My husband? He hates to leave people in a crunch. And I love that about him. But, 72 hours in a week? That is ridiculous. You may wonder why he is working so much. It's because your sergeants, who are ON CALL refuse to come in, leaving the hubs to take care of it all.  You know, he has two days off a week.  And when he volunteers to fill in on one of those, it doesn't mean that he's volunteering to fill in on that day for 8 months!

And when Thanksgiving is his day off, not something he asked for specifically, and you make him work it because somebody didn't double check the scheduling and scheduled someone who was out of town, that's your fault. You work it. Don't call my husband in because "you knew you could count on him." That's garbage. He's not even at the bottom of the totem pole!

Don't get me wrong. I am very thankful that my husband is employed. And I am so proud of the work he does. But right now, he's working on about 4 hours of sleep. He worked from 2 p.m. Saturday to 8 a.m. Sunday, and worked 2 p.m. Sunday to 8 a.m. today. And he's home now, taking care of our toddler. And he isn't sleeping!  And he's supposed to go back in at 2? You're kidding me, right?

This is what I don't understand. How come when someone calls out, the hubs is the one stuck filling in, but if he tries to call out he's told "Nope. Sorry. We don't have anyone to cover for you."

I know I'm a little grumpy about it.  But, you know what the worst part is?

Ansley sees less of her parents together than she sees us apart.  And that just isn't cool.

So, would you kindly work something out? Hire some new people? Have your on-call people actually be on call?  I miss my husband terribly, and I'm worried he's making himself sick.  And that just can't be going on in my house. So use your title of Chief or Deputy Chief, flex those muscles, and do something about it, m'kay? I don't want to have to get ugly about it. That just isn't the right thing to do.

And, after all, I am a lady.

Smooches!
Tiffany

Tiffany and the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Yup. That was yesterday.

And what made it so bad, and worthy of such a title? Well, it really wasn't that much.

We were filming a webisode for work. A series of "Good Idea, Bad Idea" snipits.

Good idea: petting a cat. Bad idea: punting a cat.

I must first throw out the disclaimer that no animals were harmed during the filming. However, one educator was, and one pretty little girl is anxiously awaiting the return of her cat.

We were using my cat, er, Ansley's cat, as a prop. Very friendly. Totally on board with the good idea. However, when it came time for the "bad idea" portion and we decided to kick a stuffed cat through the uprights at a local football field, Cat was not on board.

We simply wanted to show him being dropped while being held. Kinda like he was about to be drop kicked. And since we don't have a football field in our back yard (much to the hub's dismay), my coworkers wanted to take Cat just down the street. Not very far.

His freaking out in the car should have been my first clue. He made noises that I've never heard him make. Once the car stopped just down the street from the house, Cat jumped out and took off.

I was able to round him up, and decided to walk him just up the street to the house. However, he was not too excited about that. At.All.

He clawed. He moaned.

Once we got to the main intersection, that was it. He tore me to shreds and jumped out of my arms.

And he still isn't home. I have puncture wounds on my shoulders, and scratches all over my arms and neck. I have the most painful cut in between my fingers, and even one in my ear. Yes, inside my ear.

I know I've had even worse days. But, not only am I covered in battle wounds, and not only is my daughter's favorite ball o'fluff not home, but there was another casualty. My shirt. A favorite Old Navy shirt. Shredded.

And, if that can't qualify as a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day, then I don't know what can.

Moving Forward

I am not one to air my laundry in front of people, be it dirty or clean. But I finally feel like I'm making progress, and that needs to be celebrated.

To understand my excitement, you'll have to venture back with me to that time of swollen joy, aka: pregnancy.

Near the end of my pregnancy, actually, at my 34 week check-up, my blood pressure was a little high, and my right leg was swollen. My doctor decided he wanted to send me for an ultrasound on my leg to check for any potential clots since only one leg was swollen. He also wanted my blood pressure to be monitored, fearing that I may have been developing pre-e.

So, I was sent to the hospital, where my leg u/s checked out fine (it was actually a pretty cool experience overall, minus the whole being pantless while a reformed hippy, complete with his long locks, squeezed my leg for about an hour). I was then hooked up to a blood pressure cuff, told to get comfy, and settled in for 23 hours of monitoring.

My BP stayed elevated, and it wasn't a very restful evening, because every time I would hear the cuff begin to tighten, I also felt my heart start to race.

Anyhoo, after 23 hours of monitoring, I was given a prescription for BP, then sent home to rest. My water broke just three days later.

Well, my BP ended up staying "elevated" (you'll understand the quotes soon) even up to my 6 week pp appointment. So, I made myself an appointment with my family care doc to figure out what was going on.

As a pregnant woman herself, the doc felt that I had developed "white coat hypertension" during my pregnancy, in that I had a perfect pregnancy up to that point, and had explained the stress involved with the 23 hour observation. She suggested to monitor the BP at home, and let her know the results.

After a few good results, I was free! Or, so I thought. I got a high reading, and that's when I think my downward spiral started, or, at least came to the surface.

I totally freaked out. I started shaking, I couldn't concentrate and just kept thinking that something awful was going to happen and no one would know. I couldn't calm Ansley down, and in turn couldn't calm myslef. I ended up calling my dad over, at 9:30 p.m., to sit with me until the hubby got home from work.

And, it happened again, the next day. We were traveling two hours for a wedding, and I freaked out in the car. I couldn't sit still. I felt like my heart was racing and my throat was closing up. I needed room to stretch my legs, and felt trapped in the car. That night, I decided something had to be done.

After talking with a family friend, it was suggested that I see my family doctor regarding what she, as a NP, felt was an anxiety issue.

To make an already long story seem a little shorter, we realized that I had been struggling with anxiety for a while, and pregnancy only helped me realize it.

I can now say, that after 6 months on a low-dose SRI (seratonin re-uptake inhibitor), I've now been given the go ahead to come off of it! I've developed this sense of freedom. I no longer have to go through certain steps to calm myself, such as driving by my house whenever I hear a fire alarm, or checking five times to make sure I locked the doors, or pulling to the side of the road to make sure my tailpipe wasn't smashed in, leaking car exhaust into my vehicle which would kill me and my daughter.

I no longer have to go into her room every hour to make sure her chest is still rising and falling, and feel her face to make sure it is warm. I don't have to get sick to my stomach whenever it starts to rain in fear that a tornado will surely come and rip my house apart.

And, it feels good. It actually felt good to know that the high BP was a result of the anxiety that developed and my tendency to fixate on the problem. It feels good to know that there was actually more going on than mere lack of faith. And it feels good to know that I may have reprogramed my thought process.

For a while, I've known that I was much more than a worry wart, but felt ashamed admitting it, especially when Ansley came along.

I was worried that people would judge me, especially my friends who are very strong in their faith. I was worried that I was making it up, and it bothered me that I couldn't just "get over it" as people would tell me.

Will I come of the meds? I don't know. It is something that the hubs and I will have to talk long and hard about. But, I feel like we're moving in the right direction. I feel encouraged that this isn't simply a lack of faith, though one can never have to much of that. And, with each step I take, I am constantly reminded that I'm not in this alone.

As cheesy as it sounds, I feel like I'm kicking anxiety's booty. It wore me down for a little while, but I'm finally starting to figure out it's moves. Watch out, anxiety. Tiffany has got your number.