Pumpkins & a Group Therapy Pickle

Hope all you kids are going to have a great Halloween weekend. Because the most scintillating thing I do nowadays is shave my legs and take C to the library for story-time, I have of course been invited to no parties. BUT it will be fun taking C trick ‘o treating. I will post some pics later this weekend of our foray, so stay tuned.

So last night I had quite the interesting experience in group therapy. I will admit I am not a fan of group. According to my T I cannot handle “normal human emotion,” which means if you start crying in group I will be mortified for you and consequently want to get up and leave, or stare at the wall and pretend that I am in Fiji parasailing nude. In fact I had sent my T an email last week after group and told her that I wasn’t going to group anymore because when [insert name of cute lady] started to cry last week I kind of wanted to die, and also it’s really hard for me to talk about serious stuff in there and not crack some joke or something; preferably a DIRTY one. …So then she looked at me with her piercing green dagger eyes and made me feel like I’m never gonna recover or whatever if I don’t go, so I guess I’ve decided I’m going to give it a try. Again. Well, at least until last night happened…

We had a new group member. I will call her S, when actually I was so freaked out by the whole thing I’m pretty sure I’ve repressed her name, and that’s not her first initial anyway. She’s just a little baby – only 13. She just got out of treatment in Argentina (don’t ask I don’t know) and has started OP with my T. Well, in productive group therapy, it’s important there be rules, you know? And the GIANT-no-shit-Sherlock rule that should be a no-freakin’ brainer should be no talk about your lowest weight, or what you weigh now, or no talking about specific ED behaviors, etc, because that could get triggering (peew! peew!) and really that’s not helpful or the real issue, anyway.

I don’t think she got it. At first it was funny because she was talking about how in her old group, “There were like ladies that were sooooo old, like TWELVE years older than me!” And I looked at her, and said, “I AM twelve years older than you. Yeah, sorry.” I can’t believe this little toddler had an eating disorder – it made me sad and just seems insane, you know? And then she talked about how she cries when she even has to eat carrot sticks, and then another girl interjected that she’s cried eating marshmallows before, and then they HIGH-FIVED. (and I threw up in my mouth) And I was really anxious and wishing I was nude parasailing and please should I walk out no my T will KILL ME but this sucks what should I do aaeeeeehhhhh…? (shiver.) (and whimper.)

She also asked another chick, “What do you have?” (Meaning are you A or B?) Holy oh my moly if I could have taken a picture of my T’s face and somehow kept it anonymous and posted it on this blog I would have. Because it was a classic.

So now I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to go to group because I especially felt last night that it wasn’t beneficial at all, it was more just listening to this girl’s bragging rights regarding her anorexia. And she’s young, and probably inexperienced, so I probably shouldn’t be too hard on her, and my poor T kept trying to bring it back from “Eating Disorder Land” but really this little fetus gave her a run for her money! And Brie was suuuuuper uncomfy. Like, very much so. What should I do regarding this whole sitch? Discuss.

I will now leave you all with two photos that my sis-in-law texted me last night around midnight. IT MADE MY NIGHT. And even my 3 year old could see how ridiculous Twin looked. See, Brett’s decided he wants to be a pumpkin for Halloween, which really just tickles me because most people over the age of three think that’s really lame. But not Bretty, oh not Bretty.

I especially like the part that snaps under his crotchal region. And getting off pants is hard.

[sorry Brett!]

85% Sure

This morning I had an appointment with my OB.
And, they did an ultrasound.
I was surprised, since I have The One scheduled for next Tuesday, the 3rd, so I wasn't expecting them to whip out the lubricating gel and machine...
The ‘lil sweetie was being incredibly modest, and was chillin’ all Indian style in my uterus, so it was hard to get the clearest picture, but the doc said she is quite certain that I am having a…

(read my comment to find out…)

And I will find out 100% for sure on Tuesday…
AND I am happy. :)

On Crying

I’m pretty sure I’m not being dramatic when I say I’ve cried more these past two weeks than I have in, say, almost the entire year. I jokes you not. I’m like Old Faithful. Only people don’t want to crowd around to watch this train wreck.

Last night Brandon and I were waiting in line at the drive thru at Taco Bell (Fetus LUUUURVES crunchy tacos!) and I told him as much. I was like, “Last night while you were asleep, I wiggled my way into your arms and cried. You didn’t wake up. But that’s okay. Sigh.”

And he was like, “Well you always cry when I can’t see you or know you are or when I’m not even conscious! How am I supposed to know you’re bawling in the shower, or when putting on your shoes, or while watching Dora the Explorer with Cade?” (He is saying this teasingly by the way, not in any way trying to hurt my feelings or anything…)

But I can’t help it! I’m just getting all full of baby and hormones and fluids and fat and tears. There’s a lot of excess, here. …Husband then went on to say that usually when he sees me crying, it’s rare enough that he wants to do whatever he can to help me. But now he thinks me crying is so common it’s just part of the circle of life, and he hopes that particular circle ends soon. Or something. (I thought the circle of life had to do with the birds ‘n the bees or at the very least The Lion King?)

The Snuggie helped, though. :)

And when Big B or the Snuggie are not around to help, Bobbi’s around. The other day she lumbered on my lap and so graciously offered her back as a tissue. I grabbed her love rolls and hung on and buried my face in her fur and bawled. As soon as I was done she had two giant wet spots on her fur.
It totally made her purr. My pain made her purr. She’s so selfish. But I love her anyway, holy oh my moly, I love her anyway.

Snuggie me Happy

Husband knows I've been down lately. So what does he bring to my work to surprise me?
A snuggie.
Not flowers, not chocolates. A freakin' snuggie! He knows how to win my heart. Flowers die, but America's favorite blankie with sleeves lives forever.


I know what I'm being for Halloween, by the way. A Jedi Sith, man. It's gonna be SICK.

Reconsidering

I mentioned that I’ve been reading a lot of books because it’s a good distraction and its fun so you know.

Well, last night I finished a book, Flowers in the Attic. Do any of you remember this book? This was the book you read as teenagers, and hid from your parents because you knew it was weird and creepily indulgent and that they would not approve? I saw it at the library the other day and thought, “Holy heck this book is psycho and I don’t know why but I need to read it again!” And read it I did, my friends, read it I did.

So, briefly: four kids in the family. Mom and dad and kids, living in the 50’s; a happy typical nuclear family. But then Dad dies in a fiery car crash. And Mom can’t afford to live on her own with the kids, so she moves them all to their mysterious grandmother’s house that they’ve never met or heard anything about.

They are kept in the attic because the grandmother is a psycho hose beast who doesn’t want her husband to know they exist, you see, because their mother had run off with her half-uncle and married him (her dad’s younger half-brother) and he couldn’t forgive that nor would he want to meet the “Devil’s spawn.” (aka half-inbred kids.) So they’re kept up in the attic, never allowed to go outside or even leave the room, and they say they can come down when the grandfather dies, which is supposed to be any day now. Only he never dies, and the kids stay in there for years. The two twins who are five stop thriving and growing and eating. The older two, a boy and a girl, start going through puberty and dealing with their burgeoning sexuality and it’s getting smothered because they can never be around people or date or interact with anyone, and well, they kinda start falling in love with each other. Or really I should say lusting with each other?

And then the grandma like beats them for doing that and withholds food for them and even puts tar in their hair and THEN the mom stops loving them and wants the inheritance she’ll get if she keeps them hidden so she starts slowly putting arsenic in their food to poison them so they'll die and then she runs off with a newer, handsomer husband, and they’re all dying and like incestuous, and they eventually find a way to escape. And when they do, they are motherless, fatherless, one sibling has died, they’re small and sick and malnourished, and are completely alone with no family or money or anything. Plus they had sex. I can’t get over that part.

And I think I’m reconsidering. My life could be waaaaaay worse, right? Read the book if you think your life sucks, cuz boy it doesn’t suck till your brother gives you a line like “I’m so sorry I raped you” and you answer back, “Oh it’s alright, I think I could have stopped you if I really wanted to.” (Now let’s kiss and make up.)

The book was, well, incredibly creepy. But I couldn’t stop turning the pages, like the sick bastard I am. GROSS AND OMG WOW pretty much sums up the book.

But my life? I really do feel better about it. Cuz at least I ain’t no flower in the attic.

I Kind of Want to Die

A co-worker just told me that I didn't really look pregnant, I just look kinda chunky.

Kill me.

NOW.

The Weekend was Spent:

1. Buying UGLY maternity clothes.
2. Buying C cute little hoodies from The Gap (he is so much more stylin’ than me!)
3. Suffering from Buyer’s Remorse.
4. Reading 4 books to avoid mi vida.
5. Waking up to go to church and realizing my lips were white and ringed with a little blue.
6. Going to the ER to breathe which involved steroids, breathing treatments, x-rays, etc, you know, The Norm for me.
7. Giving C meds that I think (I hope!) are already helping his little kidneys. But also, as a side-effect of the meds, changing S E V E R A L blowout diarrhea poops. Getting said poo on my fingernail.
8. Drinking far too much Diet Coke.
9. Not sleeping well.
10. Still feeling angry, but not so angry where I want to rip off my shirt and jump off my in-laws roof and go on walks at midnight without shoes, mittens, or underwear on.

So really, it could’ve gone better. I'm thinking.

On Anger

I’m not really a very angry person. I’m pretty equable. If I’m feeling angry, 75% of the time it is directed toward yours truly. And, the remaining 25% of it is directed at Dear Husband because he’s married to me for all eternity and has to deal with my bitch fests. It’s part of the deal. Really it is. Also, ask my sisters. They get in cat fights, and I watch from the sidelines, amused. I just don’t get riled that easily.

But lately, I’ve been feeling so FREAKING PISSED. And by lately, I mean more in the past 24 hours or so. And do you want to know what is bringing on this anger? It’s helplessness. I’m feeling so damn helpless, it’s making me angry.

I remember that when I was pregnant with Cade, I couldn’t wait to just have him. To give birth and to love him and feed him and kiss him and get my body back so I didn’t waddle around, feeling like I was squeezing a cantaloupe between my legs. But now that he’s here, and he’s out of me; his own person, I can’t protect him like I could when he was inside me. I just wish I could shove him back up my vag and tell him that I’ll keep him safe from harm. But I can't. I'm just learning this.

Caden has a kidney disease. Hydronephrosis. And lately I’ve had to watch my baby boy be in pain. To be scared. To be traumatized. And the pain he I see in his eyes I sometimes am convinced is mirrored ten times that in my own.

I know what it’s like to be in the hospital; to be surrounded by doctors and not know what the hell is going on and why I am sick and scared and I just want my mom please I want to just go home. At five years old I was preparing to die. I didn’t really know what dying entailed, but I did know that it would mean I would miss my mom and my twin brother and my dog and I would go to Heaven to be with Jesus. I was very scared. At five I learned that the world wasn’t safe; it was volatile and mean as hell and this wasn’t just a boo-boo that my mom could kiss better and put a band-aid on.

And Cade is learning this, too. And I’m so ANGRY he has to learn this like I did; way too young. It makes me feel helpless. He had to get a test done yesterday afternoon at the hospital, a test we were told would be painful and scary but would most likely be the last test in a very long time. It was supposed to take ten minutes. After thirty minutes, they still couldn’t get what they needed. Know why? Because my baby was too scared. He was too tense. Brandon and I were up near his head, and Brandon was pinning down his arms because I couldn’t bear to pin them myself knowing how scary that feels. And I was stroking his hair and murmuring to him that I loved him and that he was being very brave. And he was bright red, and sweating, and screaming. And looking at his mother with his big blue eyes and asking me to help him, to make it stop hurting. I stayed strong, initially. I didn’t cry. I was being brave like him.

But then I had to leave the room for a moment because they were doing x-rays, and being pregnant, I could not be exposed to them. So I watched my baby boy from a little window. And as the x-ray machine hovered over him, he screamed and screamed and begged his daddy to move it because it was going to smash him. And that’s when I lost it. I completely lost it. I started to sob. And the doctor came to talk to me and told me that after all this; they didn’t get “what we need.” She gently suggested I reschedule this procedure, but to do so under sedation. I agreed. I just needed to get my baby off of that table and into my arms.

So Brandon rescheduled as I pretended to look at a bulletin board and get my sobs under control. We learned they didn’t have any openings for THREE WEEKS. That is three more weeks of dragging this out. Three more weeks of my baby being in pain. Three weeks where I will have to wait, and worry. And I started to cry harder. Because I was angry. And I was helpless.

As we were walking out of the hospital, Cade was in Brandon’s arms. I was still crying silently, because I couldn’t get myself under control. And Cade looked at me, and put his hand on my cheek. And he said, “Mama, its okay. I love you. You are so pretty.” And I smiled at him, and then cried harder. Because just then, for a fleeting moment, my son could give me what I can’t give him: hope. And reassurance.
But now, once again, I feel so futile, so helpless, and so angry.
And I can’t get those feelings to go away. I can’t get that hope, and that reassurance that everything will be okay. I can’t find it.

Diarrhea Boxes

Yesterday afternoon I had an appointment with my dietician, E. She asks me questions I’ve never previously had a dietician ask, and believe me, I’ve seen more than my fair share of them - and consequently heard more than my fair share of odd questions.

She likes to ask a lot about my bowel movements. They seem to fascinate her. Every week, like clockwork, she’ll ask, “How are your B.M’s? Are you constipated? Do you have diarrhea?” And as I answer the question, my cheeks burning and my hands fluttering nervously, she’ll nod attentively and type (I’m sure, verbatim) what I say on her little Mac laptop where my chart lurks.

So lately I’ve been having diarrhea, okay? It’s an anxiety thing. And it doesn’t just stop there, when I tell her I’ve got da runs. She asks the frequency, the consistency, is there digested or un-digested food in it? Blood? Coloring? FOR.CRYING.OUT.LOUD. My hell. Does she need to know all this? I hope she’s not a gossip monger.

So yesterday? When I was telling her about my #2sies, she told me that she wants me to keep track of my diarrhea. ON MY MEALPLAN. And I thought, “Damn. I have food boxes, and fluid boxes. Now I’m going to have to add diarrhea boxes?”

(As an aside, I've never personally kept track of something like this. When I was IP at CFC, they certainly kept track for you of when you "voided" and had a "B.M." I had my favorite (or least favorite, bwahahaha) care tech that I'd save my poops for so she'd have to flush them. I always got extreme satisfaction watching her wearily pull out the "B.M. binder" and mark that Brie had a "really big one.")

So anyway back to what I was saying: I’ve never heard of diarrhea boxes. And keeping track of that on the same paper as what I track what I eat? Sick, dude.

Those will pry be the only boxes I can consistently mark off; my damn diarrhea boxes. Go me.

Guts over Glory

Last night I logged onto Myspace for the first time in oh, about a year. I decided to peruse my old photo albums there, because they are a lot more organized and well-stocked than my Facebook pictures, which I’ve never bothered to categorize into albums, because Facebook can still stymie me. (But that’s another post. User friendly my arse!)

I was a little blown away. There were so many old modeling photos that I hadn’t seen in ages. My modeling portfolio is nestled away, somewhere dark and cavernous and hidden, so I don’t have easy access to it to look at it and ache to go back to those moments where I felt a high, where I felt beautiful and thin and powerful and unstoppable.

And then I looked down and saw this:


And then I went like this:
And realized that right now, at this moment, for better or worse, I chose motherhood over modeling. I chose to carry and make a little widget that will give me stretch marks and make me a little flabby and turn my belly-button into a snooze button. I went guts over glory, man.

And I sat for awhile, pondering (entire unhealthily, I realize) if I would still look that thin if I could erase the baby bump. Would my collar-bones jut out just so; would my bowed thighs and the hollows of my cheeks match up? Or would I need to lose a few pounds first?

...And why the hell does it matter? And why do I think that fat and pregnant are synonymous? I’ve got what you’d call a perception problem.

So I left my old modeling album, and clicked on an album that said “Cade and the Fam.” And in it I saw this


and this


and this.

And I decided, quite satisfied, that I’d choose this

Over this

Any day.

This isn’t fat. Right? Don’t you just wanna hug this big ‘ol barrel of love? ;)

Cinnamon Stupid

If you look up "cinnamon challenge" on youtube, you will find a myriad of folks who think they can beat it. But they can't. It's impossible.

Brett, the twin brother, is incredibly smart. Logical. Level-headed. And I'm kinda scratching my head right now, because every once in awhile, he does the stupidest things you could ever imagine. (Any old high school buddies remember when he and his friends were voted "Boner of the Month" on X96 for "hazing"?)

So Brett and his buddy Jonny decided they were going to step up to the cinnamon challenge (which consists of putting an entire tablespoon of cinnamon in your mouth at once and swallowing it without spitting it out). Seems easy, right? Apparently not, as the cinnamon turns to paste and coats your throat and nasal passages and elicits a pretty immediate inability to breathe.

Brett's friend captured about 1 1/2 minutes (is all) of the about 30 minute ordeal, so you will miss the projectile vomiting, (which is still frozen in his backyard, by the way) and the blowing their noses and having cinnamon snot, etc, but you will laugh (a lot) I'm sure.

Check out Brett 'n Ang's blog to see the video.
Brett is the one on the right in the vid, and Jonny is on the left...

16 Weeks

The bump's almost as big as my boobs. That's quite the accomplishment!

So Sue Me

About a year ago, Brandon, in frustration, after looking at our financial records, and realizing that I was spending more than $50 a month on books, asked me, “Haven’t you ever heard of the library?” (Frustrated sigh.)

Huh. The library. Though I’ll admit touching yucky pages that can sometimes have that ominous red or green stain on them can be pretty grody, I though, Wow! The library. I can save money and read as much as I want! Now I don’t have to force myself to slow down when reading a book so I finish it in two days instead of one so I can get my $15 out of it and not feel guilty! Whammo.

So I went to the library, like, every other day. And I partook of their amazingness.

And then we moved.

And Breezy lost looooots of books en transit. And a couple DVD’s. And the library kept sending me hate emails, telling me that my materials were overdue. (And I'm like shutup I KNOW stop reminding me!) And then they told me they were lost, and they were angry, and they were charging me the book fees, plus the lost fees, and before I knew it, I had like a $250 FINE.

Well, HELL NO. I just decided to repress the whole bad library sitch and go back to buying. For real, right?

And then, in August, we got a letter from The State. As in, Utah. And they informed me that the library was SUING ME. Are you effing kidding me? The library was suing me for a couple of missing books? How nerdy is that?

So I (Well, Brandon. An unhappy Brandon.) paid the outstanding amount, and the library got over it, and we were all square.

Only, when I tried to access my library account online, it wouldn’t recognize it. And I was sad because even though I’d paid my debt to the frickin’ state of Utah and the library and like society, they still hated me and wouldn’t let me check out books, and I was kinda thinking that was lame. I felt so rejected.

But on Friday, on a whim, I went to the website. Entered in my library information. And I was back, baby. The library no longer hates me! It has welcomed me back into its fold again. I am now free to check out books and worry about germies and read read read as fast as I can.

So on Saturday, I went and got two books. Just two, my gentle readers, because I didn’t want to go crazy and get 3847 books and lose them all again. I had them both finished by last night. (No guilt necessary!) Today I am going back within those beloved walls and checking out more. And I will read them, and be happy. And frolic. And use hand sanitizer liberally.

And I’m sure the library looks forward to suing me. Again. Soon.

Top 10 Things NOT to do if you are a Therapist

(and want to keep your clientele)
(this coming from personal experience)

Ahem:

1. Do not wear plaid one-size-fits-all dresses AND Napoleon Dynamite moon-boots. Especially in the summer.
2. Do not draw fat people on your white board when experimenting with Exposure Therapy.
3. Stuffed moose in your office that occupy an entire rocking chair and are bigger than me are smelly and creepy and intimidating. What are you, four?
4. Don’t take calls from your kids in the middle of session. Do not hash out the fight between your kids involving mowing the lawn and piano lessons and if you don’t do it you can’t go play at your friends listen to your mother!
5. Do not tell me that I need to sit through my feelings. Pish WHAT IS UP with that?
6. Oh and also don’t set a timer that DINGS! when the 60 minutes are up. I understand the need to be aware of the time, but please, do so discreetly.
7. Don’t tell your client that you were assigned to them because “…no one else wanted to deal with you.” Ouchies.
8. Try to ignore the urge to wear socks with Tivas.
9. Bitch Boots are scary. But they’re kinda cute; hey, I’ve got a couple pair! But don’t wear them EVERYDAY because it’s a proven fact that stilettos, when worn on a kinda-haughty-by-nature person, can make one seem unapproachable. And as a therapist, wouldn’t you find being approachable, you know, kind of an asset?
10. Don’t fire me. Seriously, guys, it’s getting old! Guys? Guys…?

Who else has got some to contribute? I want to hear your ideas and input!

Counter-intuitive

Many of us begin our eating disorders (not intentionally, of course) out of self-preservation. We do it because we feel like we have to do it to survive and to function. Because it keeps us calm and in control. It gives us a high, it makes us feel alive.

But before too long, it starts to kill us. Our personalities and our smiles and our skin and our hair and our very bodies begin to fade. Soon the addiction switch is stuck to ON HIGH and we are out of control. We are barely functioning, barely surviving, yet we refuse to let go of the one thing we think will save us, keep us sane, when in reality we are dying; for our eating disorders are killing us.

I have been dead-alive for so long. You know, that state where you are breathing and blinking and going to work and being a robot and getting through the day, but you are not smiling and feeling and experiencing. Anorexia did this to me.

As Caden is sick right now with his kidney problems, I have been really struggling. His pain and his medical problems have brought up a lot of really scary and traumatic memories for me, particularly in relation to when I was in the hospital at the age of five, preparing to die. I see him screaming in pain and the doctors holding him down doing things to him that he doesn't realize are to help him get better, and him looking at me with his big blue eyes screaming MOMMY HELP ME and he doesn't understand he's where he is because I'm trying to help him. And I go home and I cry because I don't want him to think the only thing there is to him is being sick, like I grew up thinking. I don't want him to realize so early that the world is scary and that you could be taken from it at any time. I want to protect him, dammit, and I can't.

I was telling this to W yesterday in therapy, and I was telling her that to cope with these helpless feelings of motherhood and being unable to protect my son, and how I feel scared and am hurting so desperately for my baby, I wanted to screw my mealplan and eat (or not eat) whatever I wanted. I want to stop taking my meds (particularly my life-saving lung meds) and I want to run away and stop going to all my appointments, too. I know I was being entirely irrational but I just thought that I would feel better, more in control, if I could do things my way, because hell, a lot of things aren't going my way, my dear son's health being one of them; and I wanna be holding the reins on something in my life.

And that's when she looked at me and said something like this:

"Do you realize how counter-intuitive your anorexia is? Do you realize you want to run back to something that will make you sick and numb and weak, and you will grow ill and unable to take care of your son, which you've spent all session telling me you want to do, and you somehow think that by starving yourself you'll be better equipped to do this; to handle his medical problems? How the hell does that work? If you get sick, you can't be there for him, physically or emotionally. If you don't take your lung meds, you will be in the hospital within a few days, not taking care of him. are you getting this??"

And, yeah. I think I'm getting this.

Beat it, anorexia. You've stolen too much of my life and my time and my health and my sanity.

I'm going to go take my lung meds now. And eat.
And then I'm going to leave work and take care of my perfect little boy.

10K Steps: a New Dilemma

Well drat. I did indeed procure a note to get out of the competition. I asked my T not to mention that pesky little word, anorexia, in the note to HR, as they don’t “officially” know I am, like, MENTALLY ILL. They can guess all they want (having multiple feeding tubes is pry a great indication) but I have never officially come out of the Eating Disorder Closet. So when W wrote the note, she conceded and did not mention it.

Which was nice.

HOWEVER.

On her letterhead, it clearly says that she is a licensed clinical psychologist, and then she lists her website, www.utaheatingdisorder.com.
Suck.

I haven’t turned it into HR yet. I’s scared.

photo: don't my eyebrows look delicious?

I Call Thief!

Some little effer at work stole my lean pocket. I even wrote my NAME on it with a sharpie! How desperate do you have to be to steal a 0.75 cent rubbery breakfast pastry from some poor anorexic girl? I mean really?

My co-worker C had quiche yesterday, and she set it in the fridge in the breakroom with her name on her plate. The culprit yoinked her quiche but kindly left her empty plate in the fridge. And they’ve stolen several of my Diet Cokes. I have a feeling this jerkface was the bully in kindergarten who rifled through my lunch and stole my oatmeal cream pies, too.

Aren’t we all adults here? Holy smokes.

I just made Twin go to the grocery store to get me a maple bar and a banana. It’s no lean pocket, but meh, it’ll do.

Anyway I’m thinking about disguising myself behind the recycling bins in there to see who the thief is – just wait ‘em out, because as assuredly as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, this little punk will steal someone else’s hard-worked for lunch. Maybe I could get a promotion or a trophy out of it or something…I could bring my iPod and my DS and my detective novel. Fun!

Anyway I can’t because I have work to do and I’m growing faint with hunger.

GROW UP LOSER.
and
[take my lean pocket again and DIE]

Well Hello Again

Alright I’ll give you scavengers a meaty update. It’s about time, right?

Well, we finally gave Cade a much needed haircut. We bribed him by telling him that right after the haircut, we’d take him to the store to buy a Thomas the Tank Engine. So he readily agreed. So I sat him on my lap, and Bran got the razor/shaver thingy ready. As soon as he turned it on the kid started to howl. I had NO IDEA that getting into a wrestling match with a 35 lb toddler could be so evenly matched. Seriously. C was yowling so loud that my dad turned the volume on the TV up to level 64 to hear The O'Reilly Factor (That’s LOUD. Seriously try it on your TV.) and my mom was talking to my aunt on the phone and she thought that we were dealing with a home invasion or something. I had to keep reminding him he was getting a toy out of this, but his memory span was SHORT and so I just started repeating it over and over, YOU’RE GOING TO GET A TRAIN THAT’S AWESOME BE BRAVE YOU’RE GOING TO GET A TRAIN THAT’S AWESOME BE BRAVE. So he looks better, but it’s still a tad uneven. He kind of looks like one of the Boxcar Children, but slightly better dressed. Sigh. I seriously don’t know what to do with the kid. Next time he needs a haircut we may need to put him under sedation; it’s awful. But now that he’s got his new choo choo he’s fine.

We’re taking him to Primary Children’s today to get a test done on his kidneys. His kidney infection just isn’t going away, even after two rounds of antibiotics, so they’re concerned there might be something else going on. Between the haircut, all the doctor’s visits and tests, and now this test today, he’s amassing quite the collection of trains. (News flash: bribery works AND wards off fear!) Seriously there’s like 17 trains snaking all over our house with a massive train track that’s pretty close to the size of my uterus winding around everywhere. It’s hard to not step on, and every time I do, I get a warning from Cade, “Mom get OFF my track!” The cats love to lay on it I swear because they know it bugs him. He’ll drive his trains into their fat bellies over and over while he says (quite menacingly) "Bobbi (or Hairy) get OFF my track!" And they just look at him blandly, as if they’re saying, “Yeah, MAKE me move, kid.” (And he can’t. They weight more than he does.) Silly tike. So anyway keep him in your prayers or thoughts or whatever that everything is okay. Mama's worried.

Therapy stuff is moving along, I suppose. I have the toughest treatment team, like, EVER, and I will be the first to admit that had I known they were going to open up a can of whoop ass on me every week, I honestly wouldn’t have started seeing them. (I’m a coward.) The Briester is not used to being pushed this hard unless I am in inpatient. I know it’s good for me, definitely, but if sure doesn’t make things any easier. My D raised my mealplan because my needs have gone up or whatever since I’m now in my 2nd trimester, and I’ve got like this hardcore plan that involves not being able to eat alone “for accountability” ‘n stuff, and I will say that I am not used to this. I haven’t had to have people stare over me while I eat since I was 1) a minor, under my parent’s dominion and/or 2) in inpatient treatment, under my therapist’s dominion. So this is all definitely involving eating a giant piece of humble pie, which really, let’s be honest, NEVER tastes good. To me, it kind of tastes like Rhubarb Pie. Shivers.

Tummy is getting bigger; definitely even bigger since I posted that last pic of me where my boobs looked good but I still looked sub-par next to the model. I will post a pic soon. Because I’m sure you ALL LOVE to see it, ha. (I'm not even sure at this point if I'm talking about my boobs OR my bump. Whatevs.)

Does anyone wanna hang out? Man, between having my BFF back in treatment, and my mom in Europe for a month, I have like no friends or anything to do. We should play.

Okay, best be off soon to take the little man to the hospital for those tests. Wish us luck!!

LOVE YOU.

Lost

So I just went to check how many steps I’ve walked so far on my pedometer, only to find it isn’t there. I lost it. Seriously, guys. I didn’t “lose” it; I really did lose it.

Who wants to tell HR for me?

Rubberbanding

Nothing chews up and spits out (then takes a dump on) your self-esteem more than the phenomenon knows are “RUBBERBANDING YOUR PANTS.” Yes, ‘tis true. One pair of work pants suffocates Baby when I button them, and thus they remain unzipped and unbuttoned, only held together with a rubber-band. Sadness.

I thought about taking a picture and posting it but that would strip me of the little dignity I’m clinging to. Sorry. A mental picture is all you get.

I’m going to go buy some maternity pants now.

10K Steps & 14 Weeks

OMG you guys, your comments from my last post have entertained me endlessly. I am so grateful for your outrage on my part, your advice on what I should do, and your creative expletives used in describing the fact I have to participate in the competition. You truly almost made the fact I have to participate worthwhile – just to see everybody jump so quickly and viciously to my defense. In a bar fight, I’d DEFINITELY want you all on my side. :)

Yesterday while in an appt with E, the dietish, I asked her quite innocently and out of the blue, “Am I allowed to exercise?” And she just looked at me like I was a moron and said, ABSOLUTELY NOT. So I told her the deets of what had gone down that day re: the competition at work, and she was just astounded and seriously pissed. She wanted to email the HR director right then and there, but I convinced her not to. She was like, “They want a doctor’s note? They’ll GET A DOCTOR’S NOTE. They’ll get more than they BARGAINED FOR! How would you like a note from me, W (my therapist), your high-risk OB, your ED doc, your gastro, your pulmonologist, and your allergist? Will that satisfy them!?” She was trying to get me to take the pedometer off right then and there, but I said I’d wait for a note. So I’m pretty sure I’m going to be giving them a few more than they bargained for, lol. This oughta be good! I will keep you in the loop.

So, here’s a pic of the belly today. (14 weeks) I made my coworker take it because I’m wearing the cute shirt that I posted a couple weeks ago that I wanted to buy. (And comprar it I did!) I don’t look as cute as the model (my boobies look better though) but hey the lightings bad, my eyes are a little swollen from allergies, and I’m actually pregnant, as opposed to the fact the skinny brat is pry just wearing a fake belly. Do not judge too harshly!


I still need to find a new fetus widget. And I find out in 3 ½ weeks if I’m having a boy or a girl, and from the looks of the poll, the overwhelming majority think I’m going to have a little hija! We will see my pretties, we will see…

LOVE YOU.

10,000 Steps to Relapsing

Currently at [company where I work], Corporate is sponsoring a competition called 10,000 Steps. M_____ Healthcare(s) from every state are participating in this competition to lose weight and get healthy. It’s a month long competition, and it consists of wearing a pedometer all day, every day, to track your steps walked (and thus miles walked throughout the day). The goal is to get 10,000 steps a day, which is roughly the equivalent of 5 miles walked daily.

I decided I didn’t want to participate in this competition. 1) I’m pregnant. That’s an excuse (and a damn good one!) right there. 2) Having a former/recovering anorexic wear a pedometer and get obsessed with miles walked and calories burned isn’t exactly conducive to recovery. 3) I know my treatment team wouldn’t really approve of my getting in 10,000 steps a day. Pretty sure they’re unhappy if I get in more than, like, 10ish. (There are about 13 from the sofa to the fridge, which, really, is pushing it.)

We’re split into teams according to our department. I’m on the Finance Team, even though my job requires nothing finance-related at all. (Which is good because even long division is pretty tough for me.) There is a community spreadsheet that everybody logs their steps onto, and I got an email from a chick in my department yesterday asking me to log my steps. I emailed back, telling her that I wasn’t participating in the competition, and she responded by telling me she was glad I had let her know.

So I leave work for the day.

I get in this morning, and have an email from her. She said that HR had said that if I wasn’t going to participate, then I needed a frigging DOCTOR’S NOTE stating whether or not I could or could not participate - and why. What? Since when is it mandatory to participate in stuff like this? I can imagine my doctor’s note going something like this:

To Whom It May Concern:

I, Dr. C_____, hereby give my permission for Brie to become absorbed in needless calorie burning. Brie used to have an OCD problem with numbers and exercising and losing weight, nearly died from it, but REALLY I think it’s fantastic she is being pressured at work to wear a pedometer that will broadcast to herself and the rest of her co-workers how many calories she’s burning and miles she is walking - and getting competitive over it. We look forward to your insurance paying for her inpatient hospital bill.

Regards,

Dr C_____

Bah!

And then, I got an email from someone in HR a couple hours later, telling me that they’d talked it over, and instead of a doctor’s note telling me I couldn’t (or could) participate, that, well, I just needed to. Pariticpate. So would I kindly stop by his office and pick up a free (UGLY) t-shirt and pedometer? I don’t need to walk the 10,000 steps daily, but I do need to keep track of and log the steps I do take.

How many steps will it take you to walk over to my desk and kiss my big, fat, pregnancy-induced growing butt? Oh, just 17? BRING IT.

On TV

I need ya’ll to help me with these burning questions.

Is Hilary Duff going to become a regular on Gossip Girl? Am I now going to be forced to watch Lizzie Mcguire: the Grown Up Years? (coughpleasepleasenocough)

Riddle me this, riddle me that: how does one make your Tivo record all the shows packed in on Thursday night? And why are The Office, Project Runway, and Grey’s Anatomy all on at 8 pm? Why must I pick and choose? I live in a world where I can use mustard readily and buy skater shoes and flush my pee pee away with the flick of a wrist and I can’t even watch 3 shows at once? WTF?

Who is LOVING Biggest Loser this year? Who just wants Coach Mo to be their grandpa and give you a big ‘ol bear hug? (I will make no Jillian is hot comments. I will make no Jillian is hot comments. I will make no Jillian is hot comments.)

And, Glee? Um, the best new show out there? Hellz yes! Normally musicals make me feel weird sometimes due to the corniness factor but this is just too edgy and hilarious to pass up. The OCD school counselor cracks me up. I mean, that is just a sexy carrot I can’t pass up.

What about the short season of ANTM? I like it more than I thought I would, though every year Tyra gets more and more dramatic and over the top and I feel sorry for her. Well, I don’t really feel sorry for her. She’s a multi-millionaire hot supermodel. I don’t feel sorry for that kind.

What other shows am I missing that are a must watch? I must admit that I am watching the Vampire Diaries, too. It’s no Twilight, but it’s kind of scintillating, in a guilty pleasure sort of way.

Jillian is so hot.

Complaining

Hi people. What’s up? How’s everybody? So I’m going to complain now.

I’m good, eh. I don’t know, I mean I really don’t have much of an update other than complaining about pregnancy stuff. The morning sickness is more or less gone (unless I go too long without eating, that’s an excellent way to plummet my blood sugar and make me pukey) but the need to pee is actually, really, incredible. I should win an award for this, no kidding. I mean, my baby’s the size of a lemon (and how does that consequently make my bladder the size of a thimble?) – and how am I peeing so much? It’s actually maybe the single most annoying thing I have to deal with, especially because this frequent urination thing means that I usually have to go in public bathrooms, and really, those are never fun. You should be happy the majority of you are not graced with my freaking-out-OMG-I’m-in-the-bathroom-as-I-write-this-texts-HELP-MEEEEEEE!!!

Also, I have a headache. Or maybe headaches, I’m not sure. It’s like this big long continual one, so I’m not sure how that works. And I really don’t know if it’s a pregnancy symptom, or an ED-related symptom, or what. But only being able to take Tylenol is entirely unhelpful. Sometimes taking Diet Coke helps, which I’m trying now, (with Tylenol) but it’s just sucky because it usually puts me in a pretty rotten mood; not being able to shake this headache. It’s about the size of China, I’d say, and is gaining size and momentum. Soon it’ll be roughly the size of the entire Asian Continent. Boo.

Also, fatigue. Now, if you know me well, you’ll know that I love to nap, pretty much have to, and do, all the time. But the normal fatigue that comes with pregnancy isn’t going away; it’s only significantly making everything worse. I could nap every day for seriously like 4 hours if I didn’t have a semi-life and child to take care of. As it is, every day I nap for two hours – and I don’t mean to be lazy, but really I don’t think I could function if I didn’t – I for realsies mean it. It’s horrible.

Still have a small bump that hasn’t yet turned into a big bump which really only means that it looks like I drank one too many beers, and me no likey the look. If I’m gonna be bigger, I’d rather be big enough that people knew I was pregnant, and not nursing a secret alcohol addiction. It’s annoying.

Still working on eating. I mean, I’m eating, of course, but eating enough to check off all my maddening little boxes. It’s definitely a work in progress, a slow, laborious, work in progress. A miserable, looooooong, torturous, exasperating, frustrating, upsetting, work in progress. You know.

New, official pregnancy craving of fury: SOUR PATCH KIDS. I mean, I’m craving these puppies so much I went to Costco on Saturday and bought an entire giant box of them – for only $12.88, I bought happiness. Who knew, huh? Also, the Sour Patch Kids taste best when eaten with a tuna melt and Cheetos. If you are my friend on Facebook, you know this.

Okay, well there’s my update. I haven’t complained in like a whole week, so I figured it was time again. It’s been rough holding back.

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No News is Good News?

Okay, well, hi. I didn’t find out el sexo of the baby yesterday. How lame is that? I thought they’d do an ultrasound, since they’ve done one at every other appt I’ve gone to, but apparently they’re not going to do another one until Nov 3rd, unless there is something wrong before then. So it looks like I’ve still got some sad waiting to do.

For some good news, I totally lied and got out of my schmear yesterday. But I’m not worried because I don’t think I have pap smear cancer or whatever the hell it is they check you “down there” for.

In other news, there is no news. Just working and being a single mom a lot since B is so busy with work and school, and eating and sleeping and trying to breathe.

Yesterday I was explaining to C (yet again) that there was a baby in my tummy, and I showed him a pic of an ultrasound I’d had done. I said, “See, that’s a picture of the baby!” and he looked at the blurry blob, and then looked at me like I was crazy. “No Mama,” he says. “that’s a baby!” and he points to a picture of himself hanging on the wall that was taken when he was 3 months old. He then looks at the ultrasound picture and finally concludes, “You’re having a funny baby. This is a funny baby.” It made me smile.

At least he didn’t see the freaky baby widget on my blog, eh?