Day 27: I am Thankful for Victimization

Defense mechanisms.  I seen a few in people.  You've noticed them in others, too.

The negative auto-reflex I can't stand the most is the person who won't take responsibility for his or her own situation.  He blames everyone else.  She can't help the way she is.  This person is a victim.

When I see this person, I want to grab him by the shoulders a shake him.  Then give him a good slap or two for good measure.

Of course, the reason I have such a violent internal reaction to this character is because "I are one." (Must be spoken with Southern unlearned drawl.)  I spent years living this despicable nature out, though, since I'm an introvert most people wouldn't know it.

I can remember as a teen, blaming my parents for my depression.  After I got married, my husband was the more convenient target.  "If they would just..."  "If he would just..."  "If ______________ would just change his behavior then I would be happy, content, and at peace."  I wasn't even that good at passing blame to be honest.  Because I am so icy, I would not vocalize my emotions.  So they would simply stew into bitter with the occasional boil over into rage.

I didn't really recognize what I was doing, but I knew whatever I was doing, it wasn't working.  I was slowly getting sicker and sicker in the brain.

When I started counseling my blasted doctor would not let me sit and complain about my husband for an hour.  I would start up and he would divert, "Well, since we can't do anything to change him, lets see what God wants you to do..."  Then he would proceed to dig.

It took several turned corners before I finally figured out that my unhappiness had absolutely NOTHING to do with whether or not my hubby talked to me, at all times, like a soap-opera-over.  It was a sickness inside me.

I now experience joy that continues beyond the circumstances of my life.  I am not currently depressed and the weird thing is that negative circumstances haven't stopped.  These last couple of months, well, more like the last two years, I have had a child that I can't seem to keep healthy.  Watching him fight sickness after sickness is painful and exhausting.  The medical bills just for him, let alone the other 5 of us, seem overwhelming today. But I still feel joy.

Incidentally, it turns out that by working on me, I made myself much more pleasant to be around.  Naturally, a joyful, congenial wife creates a more joyful, congenial home.  Thus follows a happy husband who just happens to be getting good at soap-opera-lover talk.  (I didn't even ask...blush).

I'm not done...but I'm done for now.


[Bonus schpill: In my blame game, I had a very well thought out list that God needed to fix in my hubby.  But God has His own ideas.  While I was complaining about this or that, God was working on an entirely different level in my husband.  He didn't change what I wanted Him to change.  The Holy Spirit has His own agenda.  It is so much better than anything I can dream up!  This past week, I had the exquisite privilege to go on a trip, just the two of us.  We got to talk, finally, for the 1st time in a really long time.  My spouse had time to share his heart and it turns out it is quite amazing.  I wanted God to fix "A" and instead He fixed "B, G, K and Z."

We're so good at "knowing" what needs to be fixed in others, especially women with their husbands.  But it turns out I am not as wise as the Holy Spirit.  It was my big lesson this week and I thought I'd pass that info on to you.]

'Kay, no, really, I'm done for now.

Day 11: I am Thankful for my Kids

Depression absolutely kills motivation.  One of the quirks about depression is that if you have depression, you are often too depressed to get help for your depression.  I know that when I was at my worst I was completely unable to function.  I had difficulty getting out of bed.  I had difficulty changing my clothes.   I had difficulty taking a shower.  I had difficulty feeding the children. 

I was unable to get help on my own.  I, instead, had a wonderful mother-in-law who called me every ten minutes one day until I made the doctor's appointment.  Then my husband gave me the choice of driving myself to the doctor or he was driving me to the doctor.  I thank them. 

Blessedly, these days I have a few other motivators. 

1. I never, ever, ever, ever want to be in that dark, evil place again.  So I will get help before I get that bad, while I still have the ability to motivate myself towards help. 

2. Their names are Addison, Wyatt, Fischer and Kellen.  Ages 11, 9, 3 and 1.  They deserve to have a mother.  They deserve to have a mother that is engaged and not disconnected.  They deserve to have a mother that is able to reign in her emotions to a healthy level.  The thought of causing them pain because of my pain is terrifying to the core.  

Along with simply getting myself healthy so I can be a first-class mommy, I also want to set an example.  I am aware that statistically, depression runs in families.  I believe there are genetic and spiritual traits that we pass to our children.  If I look backwards, throughout my extended family, I can definitely see the trend in reverse.  The thought that I may pass depression on to my children makes me cold.  The most important thing I can do is to create a healthy environment for them to grow up in.  Their hope is decreased if they have an unstable mother. 

I want to create an environment within my home where getting help is honestly not a big deal.  Life can be hard.  Life will be hard.  I want to get them help when it's hard without making them feel like they are failing.

"Direct your children onto the right path,

and when they are older, they will not leave it." 

Proverbs 22:6 (NLT)

God honestly didn't mean for us to do this life business on our own.  He created this concept of community. 

I'm not done but I'm done for now. 

How to Sanitize Your Floors in 3 Easy Steps.

Step 1: 

I had to run to Wal-mart.  (Ewww.)  I got back a couple of minutes after 8 pm.  8:00 o'clock is bedtime.  While I was gone the babies, ages 3 and 21 months, found a way to run naked.  They seem to do this when I leave them home with Dad.  It can result in disaster.  I came back home to my husband spraying the kitchen floor with bleach.  The conversation went something like this:

Derick: "Be careful where you step!  I'm not sure if I got it all!"

Me: "What happened?"

Derick: "Well, Fischer told me he peed.  I was distracted.  I didn't really believe him.  Then I heard giggles in the kitchen.  Fischer said, 'Daddy, we're jumping over my pee-pee.  Well, Kellen's just walking over it'." (Ewww.)

Derick face-palmed and looked at me sort of desperately. 

Me: "You get the floor, I'll bathe the kids."

Step 2:

I went to bathe the children.  I turned on the water and made sure the temperature was friendly.  I then placed the babies in the tub as it filled up. I turned my back to get a washcloth from the basket on the counter.  Screams, terrified screams, erupted from the bathtub.  The 1-year-old played with the faucet and turned the shower on.  They were both standing up in the tub and screaming in terror.  I quickly turned the shower off and I laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Kellen was DONE with bath time (maybe for forever).  I had to wrestle him to get him very quickly soaped up and rinsed off.  I was soaking wet in the 2 minutes it took to get him semi-clean.  He is too short to climb out of the tub on his own very well but I caught him as he jumped out.  Poor child is traumatized.

Step 3:

As soon as I got the kids dried off, Fischer eyes grew to saucers, "I need to poop!"  So I pointed back at the soaking wet bathroom.  Kellen, adores his big brother and wants to be with him at all times, including pooping time.  Fischer decided that he didn't want Kellen in the bathroom with him, so he got off the potty to push Kellen out of the bathroom and shut the door.  Then I heard a wail emanate from the bathroom.  Went in to to investigate and Fischer had been unable to make it BACK to the potty in time.  (Again, Ewww.)  Now I have to clean up the mess in the bathroom and sanitize the floors.  I also have to fold the laundry in the dryer so I can rotate the laundry around and wash the bathmats.   I am once again super thankful for the "Sanitary" cycle on my washing machine. 

I got the babies jammied and put on Little Einsteins while I finished cleaning up.  It normally takes about 20 minutes for me to get Fischer into bed.  Last night it took an hour and a half.  But, hey, at least my floors were clean.

Day 7: I am Thankful for My Husband

Oh, the cheese factor will be big...

For the most part, I have and will continue to keep most of my "thankfuls" relevent to anyone suffering with depression.  But, for today, I am going to endulge myself. 

I met my husband at a Bible college.  He knew before we married that depression was something I struggled with.  I don't think he knew how much or how bad it could get, but he stuck with me.  He has continued to stick with me.

It can't be easy being the partner of someone with depression.  I know he has longed to make everything better, but since he's not the cause of the depression, he's unable to fix the problem by himself.

He has done a couple of things right for me. 

1) As previously stated, we met in Bible college.  It's unfortunate, but also true, that church ministry can be very image conscious.  I can look back and see leanings in both of us to try to "look the part."  You know the part: all polished and pretty and put together:

(Please note that I am neither endorsing nor criticizing the Osteens.  I have heard him say one thing I greatly disagree with and other things I don't have a problem accepting.  But they are very much the image sought after by many Pentecostal Bible students in the 1990's.  They help make my point.)

See how polished and pretty they are.  See how nicely they are put together.  They may, indeed, be genuinely polished, pretty and put together.  Bully for them.  I am not.  (Let's be honest, with my curly hair, I've never been described as "polished." At least not without a couple of hours and a flat iron...) And 10 years ago, when my husband was a minister in a church we were very much pressured to put forth such an image.  A wife battling depression and on anti-depressants does not line up. 

My wonderful husband, did not hesitate to tarnish his own pastoral image.  He was more concerned for my well-being than how I made him look.  He would rather I get happy and healthy than pretend.  I don't know if very many of you, my readers, will understand that that took a special kind of bravery.  Such bravery was rare in our circles.

Thankfully, like me with this blog, I see many ministers and ministering families throwing open the doors and showing all the ugly in all it's glory.  I believe that showing how Christ works through our weaknesses vs. pretending we have it together is the way to reach hurting people.

2). He's my best friend.  And when I say he is my friend, I mean that he's a real friend.  He's probably a better friend than I am. He is willing to push me.  He is willing to tell me the truth instead of telling me what will make me feel better at the moment.  He was willing to get me to help when I didn't have the ability to get help on my own.

I know not everyone has a husband like mine.  But almost all of you know SOMEONE who you suspect of being depressed.  Perhaps you can be a friend like my spouse is and push them to get help.  Perhaps you can be their friend when times are ugly & not just when times are easy.

I am thankful for my husband.

I'm not done yet, but I'm done for now.

That Sound, That Horrible Sound!

Night before last, my 3-year-old, Fischer, woke me up about 2:00 a.m.  "Mommy, my tummy hurts. Can I sleep in your bed?"

First of all, the answer was, "No."  But we happen to have a random crib in our bedroom in which I placed him.  So he was sort of sleeping with us.  And sure enough, I checked his forehead and he was running a fever.  Gave him some Ibuprofen and rolled back into bed.  Just long enough to doze off before the 1-year-old started crying...typical night at our house.

Secondly, BLESS HIM for giving me warning.  He ended up never being tummy sick that night, but many of you mothers and fathers have been there...

I mentioned in a previous blog that I don't do anything quickly.  I move like molasses.  I think like molasses.  Until I started writing no one ever accused me of being funny because I thought of all my witty comebacks after the conversation was over and everyone had left the room.

But it only takes one time of waking up with vomit in your hair, of needing to replace every pillow you own, and of a disgusting brown stain forever on your mattress to train your body to move like lightning...

It's not unusual for my little ones to end up in bed with us before the night is over.  It results in disaster from on occasion.  Sometimes my husband wakes up to a backache from getting kicked throughout the night.  Sometimes I end up with a blinding headache from a head-butt that made me cry out in agony. (And yet Kellen didn't even break rhythm in his snore.)  Other days it's a diaper that leaked on your freshly washed sheets.  These first few mentioned...are disasters for pansies.  

The apocalypse of bedtime disaster is throw up.  I have become so trained that I can be in the most beautiful, deep, hard sleep and my brain WILL register the sound of a tummy rumble as it comes up the esophogus.  0.08 seconds after it starts my husband & I can be up out of bed, yelling, and running with the baby to the bathtub.  I'm really surprised I haven't face planted a baby into the wall because I've managed to have them into the bathroom before I've managed to actually pry my eyelids apart or have flipped a light switch.

Then you get to spend an hour or two cleaning up.  Usually I end up cleaning the baby and the bathroom while my sweet husband drunkedly scrubs the carpet and the bed.

It really does make for an adventurous evening as you collapse in exhaustion on top of a mattress covered in towels and wrap yourself in a musty blanket from the linen closet and pray that it doesn't happen again.

Thank you, Lord, for my wonderful washing machine with a "Sanitary" cycle.

Parenting changes everything to the core or your DNA.  It can make a slow person fast.

I No Longer Know Kung Fu

In a previous post, I bragged about my potato-peelin', potato-choppin', potato wranglin' skills.

See My New Ninja Skill.

I briefly mentioned my one and only other quick skill....typing.  I have, for years, been able to type faster than a Pentecostal, Holy Spirit hop kick dance in the center aisle at one of those services where they end up never preaching just singing the whole time.  (It's okay.  I can tease them because I've done the dance.)

I have sadly, lost this amazing ability.

I am currently on the hunt to trace the origin of the problem.  My finger joints aren't swollen and my arms aren't paralyzed, so it's not physical.  Perhaps it's mental because typing most definitely requires more concentration than before.  I can still type with my eyes closed, so I still have something jiggling around up there in my head.  It hasn't all falled out.

I have been a little more pressed for time this past week due to having sick kiddos and being sick myself, but in the past, not having as much time has always sped me up, not slowed me down.  I type well under pressure.

Ah HA!

Bingo!  I figured it out.  Move over Sherlock Holmes, this new detective has passed elementary.

It's the kids.  The reason I no longer type quickly is simply because I had kids.  It's all their fault!

See?

Kids are awesome...and expensive...they sure can be expensive.

My New Ninja Skill

For the most part, my husband, Derick, stays away from my on-line life.  He loves & supports me in my silly hobby but it's not really his thing.  

But something happened & he said, “Blog about it.  You need to blog about it.” 

The event? 

I peeled & cut up a potato in less than two minutes.

I.am.a.potato.ninja.

To truly appreciate my prowess you have to know that I’m a slow cook.  Whatever amount of time the recipe card says it’s going to take…for me…I gotta double it.   

You see, I’m a slow walker.  I’m a slow cleaner.  I’m a slow launderer.  I’m a slow shopper.  I'm a slow driver.  I'm a slow bill payer (the time it takes to organize & do it, not necessarily when it's paid.)  You see the pattern. 

The only thing I have ever, ever done quickly in my entire life is type.  I can type like Speedy Gonazales. 

Now there are two things I do fast. 

Celebrate the little victories.

Instant potatoes, Schminstant potatoes. 

Counter Productive Motherhood

I love my boys.  I often joke that my entire purpose is to make sure the boys arrive at the age of 18 and post-high school graduate alive.  Of course, we all know it’s a little more complicated than that, but there are definitely days I decide to keep it simple. 

So, why did I go shopping with my eight-year-old, Wyatt, to buy a skateboard? 

Cons:

1.  He’s fearless.  When they boys go snowboarding or sledding, it’s Wyatt who screams, “Whoo HOOOOoooo….,” as he goes flying by.  It’s so funny to watch the 10-year-old, Addison, observe, sigh, & then repeat the same action just because he can’t let Wyatt show him up completely.

2.  We live on a hill.  There’s even a street on this hill that runs in front of our house.  (Imagine that).  Even worse, cars occasionally drive on said street. 

3. He dresses and looks like a skater.  I’m only encouraging him.  It won’t be long before he starts saying, “Dude” and listening to hard rock music. 

I suppose there are also Pros:

1.  He’s fearless.  I’ve watched him repeatedly pull of stunts that I didn’t think possible for a skin and bones little boy.  Maybe, some of this courage can cross over into other areas of his life as he grows and faces challenges.  And I’ve already seen one example of how he encourages those  around him to push themselves a little harder. 

2.  We live on a hill.  I remember being 8.  It’s a God given slide, a playground.  We’re in a neighborhood teeming with a plethora of children that make use of the hill out front and the creek at the bottom.  Thankfully, the streets curvy and crowded and it’s virtually impossible to speed through it. 

3.  He dresses and looks like a skater.  He has always danced to a different drum than the boys around him.  He has long hair and he loves to cook…and play football (especially if tackling’s involved.  I mean, LEGAL, ENCOURAGED hitting?  Awesome!)  It won’t be long before he starts saying, “Dude” and listening to hard rock music.  But we’re kinda West Coast so I think, “Dude” is inevitable.  And then we can chat because I love hard rock music. 

On a mommy note: I did make him buy pads with his own money.  I am shooting for 18 after all. 

Oprah Butter

So I’m really into real food.  I wanna be able to pronounce it.  I wanna be able to, at least theoretically go outside and pick it or kill it.

It started when my husband was diagnosed with diabetes.  I started reading labels for sugar contents.  I quickly learned that our entire culture is has two settings:  Vibrate and crash.  There’s a copious amount of sugar in everything.  It’s entirely too ridiculous. 

Reading labels for sugar soon led to reading for other ingredients and I grew more and more indignant.  How dare they.  For further reading into angerhood check out: Weird Food Additives by Marye Audet-White

So after creeping myself out with the lurid details of processed food, I learned to cook more & more healthy, natural.  Until I was bucked off my single ingredient high horse by….THE BUDGET.

Completely necessary for our family’s financial well-being, I’ve been cooking more and more from scratch.  I got creative.  The Internet is the best resource for how to make your own EVERYTHING! 

But, as y’all all know [I know, but I’m a native Texan], gas prices have gone up driving up the price of everything else.  Living in Alaska, we can really feel the crunch.  The salaries, according to the talking heads, haven’t kept up.  Our household reflects this trend, despite my hubby’s butt busting at a good, stable job. 

So I had to lower my standards.  It KILLED me but, I started buying “fruit juice drinks” instead of 100% juice for my kid’s school lunches.  I switched to less than 100% whole wheat bread.

Oh, the humanity!

I finally made a switch that puts me on par with the devil.  I dropped real butter.   I bought “spread.”  To know what this change means to me…my dairy farmer Granddaddy did not just roll over in his grave.  He’s break dancing. 

When my parents divorced, I was a teenager and the one thing I asked my mother not to change, “Please, keep buying real butter,” and she did. 

BUT, I bought Country Crock and, meh.  But Country Crock is the most expensive fake butter so I got and even cheaper spread.  I was scared but it turned out that it was not horrible.  

I got The Best Life buttery spread.  Derick opened the fridge and declared, “You got Oprah butter.” 

Yes, our family is eating Oprah butter.  Even Fischer calls it Opwah butt-o. 

So all that to say, I prefer butter, real butter.  Please choose butter.  But if y’all need an alternative, Oprah butter can be an option.  

One Thing I Totally Don't Get

WWE, Smackdown, RAW, etc.

This oddity is a primarily masculine American cultural phenomenon.  The speeches between the wrestling matches sound like testosterone laden soap operas.  I do NOT get it but my boys eat it like candy.

Speaking of candy, do you know researchers say that sugar doesn't actually affect children's behavior? 
[Whew, that was a nice rolling of the floor laughing moment.  I'm wiping tears from my eyes]  I remember the first time I let Wyatt drink a Sprite...non-caffeinated, high-fructose liquefied carbonated sugar.  The result was something like this...minus the creepy...add giggles.

Researchers are wrong, I don't care what their data says.

Researchers also say that there's no correlation between teething and snotty noses in babies.  Cue the rolling of mommy's eyes.  Kellen is teething now and he's snotty.  Maybe it is just a coincidence but there has been an awful lot of repetition of this exact coincidence.

Researchers are wrong, I don't care what their data says. 

Now, researchers say there's a correlation between watching entertainment wrestling shows and increased violent behavior of boys. 

Researchers.are.dead.on.

I can be in my bedroom and know the moment Derick & the boys start watching WWE in the living room.  The house begins to shake.  It's a physical impossibility for the kids to sit still and watch this show.  My poor ottoman receives so much abuse.  Kellen, the 13-month-old can hardly toddle, but in my imagination I've seen him tap the underside of his elbow and pile drive into his older brothers.

But Derick and the boys love this stuff.  It's something they enjoy doing together and can talk about together so I'm not going to complain too much.  Plus, I tend to get more housework done while they pummel each other..er...watch WWE.  

Meanwhile, I am so thankful we live in an earthquake prone area.  We live in a duplex style house & I'm crossing my fingers that the neighbors blame nature.  I'm fooling myself, but denial can be great.

Addendum (December 2011): The neighbors moved.

Alone Time

My husband braved watching the four boys without me so I could get "alone time."  Don't tell the kids, 'cause I'm pretty sure they'd hunt me down.  They cannot stand the thought of my being alone.  Ever.  Ever.  Ever.

Other moms will know what I'm talking about.  You see Sheldon made it funny to everyone else, but I think - not so much.

Knock, knock. "Penny!"  Knock, knock, "Penny!"  Knock, knock "Penny!"

Except in the scene in my house, I'm not in my own apartment but I'm daring a trip alone to the bathroom:

Knock, knock. "Mom!"  Knock, knock. "Mom!"  Knock, knock.  "Mom!"

"What?!"

Pause..."Whatcha doin?"

"I'm using the bathroom."

"Can I have a ____ ?"  [Insert snack option that inevitably requires my help.  This is not the time, say, to request of glass of water.  No, at this time the boy on the other side of the door will ask for milk...from the new jug.   This beverage is, of course, too heavy for him to pour himself.]

"Isn't your dad in the kitchen?"

"Oh, I didn't think of that."

At this point I smack my hand to my forehead.  I'm supposed to raise these kids to a relative expectancy of adult self-sufficiency right?  My work is cut out.


BUT - today, my husband let me leave, God bless him.  So I'm drinking a latte and enjoying my freedom and not listening to the one-year-old whimper on the other side of the door because he's on the other side of the door.