Why is it so difficult?

Here is a picture of happy coffee because I my brain isn't functioning
at 100% and I can't come up with a creative one to suite the topic.

Here's my question, why is it so difficult for me to spend money on myself? I'll buy stuff for Moose, for Jon, for my family for my friends, but when it comes to me, I feel terribly guilty.

Especially if its a big a purchase. So, why?

Why can't I treat myself?

What if I spend a lot of money on something and then don't use it? What if it's not what I really want, but then can't return it? What if it doesn't last? What if it doesn't work? I could use that money on something more important. It would be selfish if I purchased (insert product here).

How could I spend good money on a yoga membership, or a pedicure, or a new (used) car, or a new computer, or a facial, or new clothes, or a haircut/color when we need a new roof and we need to remodel our master bath, and we need to redo our utility room, and we need to repair my car and Moose would love more toys and Jon would appreciate more bike stuff and I could put that money towards bills and I shouldn't be irresponsible, blah, blah, blah and this and that and so on and so forth....

I wish that just one time I could do or get something without feeling a ridiculous amount of self-inflicted guilt. Would it kill me to be slightly irresponsible? Probably not, but then again, what if something comes up and we could have used that money for something else?

Ugh.... I'm done venting now... Thanks to you, my loyal readers for listening while I have a "poor me" moment. :)

to the moon and back,

Most Days I'm OK

Most days I am ok, lots of days I'm great, but some days my miscarriage still gets to me. I guess that's normal, it's only been a few months, but some people seem to move on so easily. Or at least on the surface they do, I guess I don't know their heart.

Anyway, some days it doesn't even cross my mind, and some days I think, I'd be almost 7 months now which means we would have definitely known what we were having. Some days, I wonder what it would be like.

Those days are fewer and farther between than the beginning, but on those days I beat myself up a little more. Was it the theraflu that I took when I was 4 weeks along because I felt like I was dying from the flu? Did I work out too much? Was I too unsure about it? Was it because I wasn't bonding with the baby or was I not bonding because God wouldn't let me?

I have gotten to where I really love babies, but on those few days, I don't want to talk about babies or baby things. I don't want to hear people complaining about their babies (even though on a normal day it's perfectly fine, moms need to vent).

I don't like having to answer the question "So, are you going to have any more?" by someone who doesn't know. I then feel some absurd need to explain to them how we had tried but I miscarried and now I need a little time. They don't need to know that and I'm sure it makes them feel bad.

Mostly, on those days, I feel bad for feeling bad. I get this little voice in the back of my head that says "Why are you even sad, there was no baby? No baby even developed." Now, I know that regardless of whether there was a baby or not, I was almost 10 weeks at the time and my body was pregnant, but on those days, Satan, gets a foothold and tries to pull me down.

I know that some of these thoughts are still hormonal changes, and to help with that I am doing some natural remedies (acupuncture and Chinese herbs) that I'll blog about later. I know that these are normal thoughts (or at least I think they are) and yet, that doesn't make me feel better at the time.

I'm feeling this way a little tonight, but it will pass. Like I have said before, this blog is more for my therapy, than it is for anything else.

Thanks for sticking around even when I'm gloomy! :)

to the moon and back,

Potty training, schmotty training

Now, I'm the girl who cries at every pivotal (and if we are being totally honest, not so pivotal) moment in Moose's life. He's growing up way to fast for me and every milestone means we are one day closer to adolescence, where I will know nothing and he will know everything and not need me anymore. This current milestone, though, is one that I am ready to be done with... Potty Training.

Boo... That's all I have to say. Boo to potty training.

Moose will be 3 in September and we have been potty training for a few months now. Initially we did the naked method. I have to say, it worked really well to get him recognizing the act of potty-ing.

Most days he does great (nights are a different story, even with cutting off drinks at 7 and putting a diaper on him, there are mornings where it's like he got up and went swimming in his p-jammers and then climbed back into bed). I'll hear, "Mommy, I think I have to go potty."

But, then there are those days (which seem to be the days where I am already at my wits end) that he just doesn't think he needs to use the big boy potty. "Mommy, do I have a diaper on?" "No dear, you never have a diaper on during the day anymore. Did you potty?" "Yeah..." (insert frowny face here). "I poopied mommy." (insert major frowny face here).

Then there's me asking "Moose, do you have to potty?" "Mmm, nope!" again, "Moose, let's try to go potty" "But I don't have to go." Then two minutes later, "Mommy, my feet are cold." Really? Could that be because you are standing in a puddle of pee?

Naps are the same. Some days he will take his normal 3 to 4 hour nap (he's an anomaly, I know) and wake up bone dry, but other days, he's soaked after an hour.

Then, two weeks will go by with no accidents (cue the "Hallelujah" music) and just when I think, "By Jove, I think he's got it!" we have another day filled with accidents.

Don't get me wrong, he's only 2 (I tend to forget that because he is a very big kid as well as very mature and well behaved for his age, no one believes us when we say he's not even 3) and I know that accidents happen, but there are days that I would so much rather clean up a dirty diaper than a dirty pair of underwear. Especially when we are out and about.

The part that gets me is the in-between. He's not fully potty trained, but definitely not in a diaper anymore.

This too shall pass...

to the moon and back...

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Potty Time!

Wasn't this just last week?

My baby is growing up... it's bitter sweet. I am so proud of him and I am thrilled at how he is developing, but it means he's slowly becoming a little boy and less a baby. Yes, I am one of those mothers. I cried at his first steps, I cried when he didn't need his pacie, I cry when I even think about turning his crib into a toddler bed (yes, he is still in a crib, don't judge me, he's never tried to climb out). Heck, I bawl my eyes out at the thought of him being a teenager and not needing his mommy and some teenage chick replaces me as the love of his life. Wow, that's incredibly sappy and yet, I as I typed it, my eyes started watering. I know, I'm ridiculous. Let's just accept that and move on.

Where did this wobbling 1 year old go?

The milestone that he crossed tonight was going pee-pee on the potty. Since Monday we have been working with him and trying to get him him used to the idea of going on the "big boy" potty. He has been wearing "big boy" underpants at Mamaw's and she has been encouraging him to pee in the shower and in the yard (don't ask, she lives in the country, no one can see him). Well he has managed to soak her recliner, leave puddles on the floor and create a mess on the porch at which point he quickly told her that she had to clean it up. Still no interest in the potty.

I would pick him up after work and bring him home and put him down for a nap (in a diaper) and as soon as he would wake, I'd run him to the potty (all the while feeling the warmth grow in his diaper). In the 30 seconds it took me to get him from his room to the potty, he had already gone.

Who is this little boy?? Where has the time gone?

Well, today while at my moms, he actually acknowledged when he was going. Yay! He was so excited to tell me about it when I got there to pick him up.

When he woke up from his nap today, we missed it again and he went before I got him to the potty. So I changed him and we went to a friends birthday dinner. We left the house around 5:30pm and didn't get home until around 9:00pm (we had to stop by the store). When we walked in, I said "Moose, do you need to go potty?" and he actually said "YES!"

I said "Ok, lets get to the bathroom, quick! Quick!" we ran down the hall and I got his pants off and pulled his diaper off. It was completely dry! I set him on the potty and said "Ok, you can go!" He got a huge smile on his face and said "Ok"

**Tinkle Tinkle** "Oh Moose! What's that?" He said "I'm going pee-pee!" and then squealed and got an even bigger grin on his face! He yelled for daddy to come and when the hubby got there Moose screamed "I going potty!!!"

I think we all screamed and there were high-fives thrown around and then a naked toddler running through the house asking to call everyone he knows so he can tell them. It was the most precious thing ever. To see the pride in his eyes and to see how excited he was took my breath away. I know it sounds incredibly silly to say that my son peeing on the potty would take my breath away, but if you could have seen the look on his face, it was priceless.

We have an amazing little boy, who will one day be an even more amazing man and while I want it to take a very long time getting here, I am excited to see the person he will become.

I love you, Moose....

To the moon and back,

Postpartum Depression... Shhh... It's a secret...

Bear with me, this one may be a little lengthy...

Anyone who knows me, knows that I suffered from Postpartum Depression. And no, it's not just because I was an uncontrollable mess 24/7, it's because I talked about it. Ok, well maybe not to everyone in the beginning, but eventually I did and if you hang out with me too long, I'll probably tell you about it too.

Why? Because too many women don't. They feel like it's something they should be ashamed of (like they can really control it), like they did something wrong, like they are a failure, or all of the above. Or maybe that's just how it was for me. Maybe it's different for everyone.

All I know is that it was miserable, I was miserable, until I got help. At first I didn't know what was wrong with me. It really started before I even left the hospital. I was 3 days overdue and they said they had to induce. I didn't want to induce, I didn't want drugs, I wanted it as natural as possible. I felt like I got robbed of the full experience. (Now, I'm not coming down on anyone who is pro-drug, pro-c-section, etc... this is just how I felt about my situation.) I really felt like he wasn't ready (and he wasn't I gave birth 47 hours and 45 minutes after they began the induction) and I didn't want to rush it.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my son, but I didn't feel an instant bond (gasp!) with him. I had a flood of emotions and guilt and loneliness and doubt and every other bad emotion you can imagine and then I felt guilty for for feeling bad. It was such a vicious cycle.

Each day after I had Moose, my appetite was less and less and I wasn't getting any sleep. Not just from the newborn (he was actually doing great), but from the nurses in and out, checking on me, checking on Moose, sending in student nurses, banging the cabinets in the room next to us. That in itself was enough to drive me crazy. The night before I was discharged, friends brought us dinner at that point, I just sorta pushed it around and forced a few fries down. The next morning the midwife came in looked at me and asked "How are you doing?" I said "Fine, Moose has been doing great." She said "No, how are YOU doing?" I lost it. First off, I felt like that was the first time since he was born that someone asked how I was really doing. Tears started streaming down my face. Blubbering (I am a crier after all), I said something like "I'm just so tired, there is someone in here every 20 minutes. I haven't slept since Thurs night (it was now Tuesday) and I am just a mess." She hugged me and reassured me and I think I felt better for a bit.

The next two kind of run together. I remember spending alot of time on the recliner, not leaving the house much, crying uncontrollably a and really just going through the motions. I did it cause I had to, I knew that much, but I didn't want to be around anyone but Jon. When he went back to work, I balled my eyes out, and called him several times begging him to come home, to take vacation time and stay home a little longer.

As I stated in one of my other blogs, I lost 30lbs in less than two weeks. I didn't eat and I breastfed (in hindsight, probably not a good combination). Speaking of breastfeeding... It was so hard... I feel like no one really tells you that and the first doctor we took Moose to freaked us out saying she didn't think he was eating enough and we needed to supplement with xx amount of formula. I went home and cried (notice a theme here?). Blubbering questions to Jon (that he didn't have an answer for, of course) like "Why do we have to supplement?" "What happens if he forgets how to nurse?" "Why can't I provide enough for my son?" As I said, it was horrible...

Then on the other side of that, a week later, breast feeding became overwhelming so I switched to pumping (I have no idea why that seemed easier, looking back) every 3 to 4 hours. On a Saturday night, it got so bad that Jon took me to the emergency room. Not because I wanted to hurt myself or my son (that seemed to be the "it" question at the ER), but because I literally could not stop crying and I felt so terrible. She did a psych evaluation (which, in my opinion, make you feel like a criminal) and decided to release me to the care of my husband as long as I went to my doctor first thing Monday morning. Sunday was the longest day ever.

Monday came and I went to the doctor (it worked out well, cause it was the same day as Moose's circ) and he asked what was bothering me. My response? Uncontrollable crying, again... He got the gist of it and set me up with a prescription. Yes, I was medicated for about 6 months. Boy did it help. I am so thankful that I didn't let it drag on. I truly don't know how some women hold it in, I couldn't have stayed that way for long.

My happy, healthy, handsome man

I did continue to breastfeed Moose until he was 13 months old and I am happy to report that he successfully latched back on and I actually nursed him. When the 6 months was up, I went off the meds. I feel like that was the best decision for me, but I have to admit, I still have bad days every once in a while. I feel like that's normal though. Life is a journey of ups and downs and I prefer it that way, who just wants to ride in a straight line? :)

I hope that my sharing this helps bring to light that PPD is nothing to be ashamed of, that it's not anyone's fault.