Did I mention my calfs are full of spider bite welts?

Earlier today, I was watching a spider.

As it slowly, slooooowly crawled up a wall, I considered my options. We're a "No-Kill Zone" when it comes to spiders in our home; we strictly capture and release.

My husband and I have always made a bit of a deal about it for our kids, "Bye-bye spider! Now you can be outside with your family and friends and not be stuck inside! Have fun!" Yes. We really say that. Honestly.

(Then, since we're already outside, we usually decide to barbeque, generally either tri-tip or ribs. YUMMM!)

Anyway, I'm watching this spider painstakingly make it's way up the wall. It. took. forever. Then, I literally gasped as it suddenly plunged to the floor in front of my eyes.

At that point, I started to feel guilty for the moments I considered grabbing it with a wad of tissue and flushing it down the toilet. (Don't tell anyone, but I sometimes do that when the kids are in bed. In my defense, I say, "I'm sorry spider. I hope you are like Nemo and make your way out of this mess." Yes. I really say that. Honestly.)

But! The spider awoke! It hadn't plummeted to it's death...in fact, as I watched, it made a left turn, trucked along for a while, and made it's way back up the wall.

Ooooooohhhhh....

It was spinning a web.

I'm so freaking out of touch with nature.

Brain Zaps. A tutorial for the rest of you.

So, I'm totally off the Zoloft. It's been a looooooong process.

I started stopping in June, and I just finished stopping last week. I was only on 50 mg daily (which is the starter dose. It worked for me, so I never upped it; the max is 200 mg daily).

My weaning wasn't scientific, but it was gradual. I began every three days or so taking a half pill, or 25 mg. After a few weeks, I upped it to 25 mg every other day. Eventually I was at 50 mg every third day. After a while on that, I went to 25 daily.

Then the process started all over, with me halving the 25's (I asked the pharmacy to give me sixty 25 mg tablets, rather than thirty 50 mg). Once I was on 12.5mg per day, I gradually introduced days that I didn't take anything at all. That's the part that took the longest.

So here I am, five months later. I haven't had a single milligram in about ten days, and so far pretty good.  I'm more emotional than I've been in years...I was never one to cry, and right now I can choke up at the drop of a hat.  Frankly, I am thinking this is a good thing.  More on that another time.

Right now I want to focus on the bizarrest of bizarre withdrawal symptoms.  If you've been on an SSRI, you likely know what I'm talking about.

Yup.  Brain Zaps.

Before I went on Zoloft, nearly three and a half years ago, I read about this phenomenon and thought, "That sounds awful!"  Ironically, the anecdotal accounts I'd ready about it pretty uniformly said something akin to, "They sound awful, but they aren't.  In fact, they are oddly pleasant."

They are tough to describe.  Essentially, for me, a Brain Zap feels like an electrical current briefly runs through my head, starting at the back of my skull.  Not unlike a friction shock, but totally NOT like a friction shock in that it doesn't hurt at all.  Just the fun part of the jolt.  And yes, if you've had a Brain Zap you'd know there IS a fun part.

Brain Zaps were always my cue that I was behind on my Zoloft.  If I missed a day, and went too long the next day, sure enough...zzzzzzzzzzztttttt.  Oh, right, gotta take my Zoly.

The strangest thing about this (and yes, the strangest part is  yet to come), is the physical action that would proceed the BZ.  It seems BZ's require, again, at least for me, a quick eye movement. Not a simple annoyed eye roll (if that were the case, I'd pretty much have them constantly when running low on Zoly).  

No, it requires a faster motion than that.  

A quick over the shoulder glance.

Eyes darting to the other side of the room because I think one of my kids is trying to sneak some cookies.

A sudden look upwards after opening our hall closet because something is about to fall on my head from our overstuffed hall closet that I keep nagging my husband to sort through because I am not tall enough to reach the upper shelf otherwise I'd do it myself.

(oh, sorry for that tangent.)

Anyway, that's the Brain Zaps.  

Here's what I didn't expect.  I am still getting them.

They are, however, far less intense than anything I'd experienced while actually on Zoloft.  There is just this faint little zzzztt.  Kinda like Zoloft is saying Hi!  Remember me?  We used to hang out?  Ummm...thought I'd check in.  

I do remember, Zoloft.  You were good to me.  Thanks for all you did.  You helped me at a time when I really needed help.  I'll always remember you fondly.  

Now, Zoly, go work your magic on the next person.  And don't let those Brain Zaps freak them out.

Belly up and hit the tap

Not long ago I was at a friend's house, and my four year-old asked me for a glass of water. I grabbed a cup and headed over to the sink.

"*GASP,*" my friend exclaimed. "Don't use that water, use the drinking water!"

"Oh, yeah, right, I don't know what I was thinking," I mumbled as I made my way towards the water tank I'd use countless times over the years I've known her.

Mere months ago I would have had the same reaction as her. In our last home, we had a state-of-the-art reverse osmosis water filtration system; only the purest of H's and O's made it through to our drinking water. When we moved to our rental home, it didn't have any filtration system at all, so we switched to bottled water.

But the thing is, we are on a budget. A serious budget. The paycheck-to-paycheck kind of budget (and sometimes we don't make it that far). Things have to give; items that were once necessities become luxuries.

Like bottled water.

At first I did the Sacrificial Mom thing and saved the bottled water for my kids, and I started to drink *gasp* tap water. It tasted...weird. Then I thought of how I grew up drinking municipal water (except for those years we had our own well), and how that water probably tasted very similar to what I was presently attempting to choke down.

Then I had a very interesting conversation with a friend in town whose husband is an environmental engineer; he just happens to study water. Guess what he drinks? And his kids?

Water from the tap.

He emphatically states our tap water is perfectly fine, and he knows it as well as anybody, and certainly better than most. He is so confident that it is safe his children have been drinking it from the moment they first swallowed something other than breast milk.

He's not alone; as much as forty percent of bottled water's source is from municipal taps. Furthermore, municipal water is regulated by the EPA...not so with some bottled water. So I started to feel better about drinking tap water and giving it to my kids.

Then I noticed how our recycling container wasn't as full as it had been, and how when I threw a container into it (our city provides each house with 65 gallon curbside recycling bins, half for paper products and half for plastic and glass containers) it tended to crash against glass rather than bounce off plastic. Hmmmmm...

That's right, now that we aren't buying bottled water by the gross we have greatly reduced not only our cash outflow, but also our plastic consumption. And that alone can't be a bad thing.

Good-bye, Yellow Brick Road

Dear Sir Elton John,

I’d like to thank you for helping me when I was in third grade.

There was this talent show thing. I fiercely wanted to be in it, but I didn’t know what my talent might be. I settled on baton twirling, as it was something I had recently taken up and it made me feel kinda cool.

A friend and I decided to try out together, and we chose your song "Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" as our background music. We rocked! AND we were chosen to be in the talent show. Woohoo! Throwing that baton up into the air as I spun around and caught it, while hearing you croon, “Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, that’s all riiiiiiiight!” is truly one of my favorite memories of my school days.

Suffice it to say, I have quite the soft spot for you in my heart.

So, back in 2004, when you accused (United States) American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” because an African American had been eliminated from American Idol Three, I shrugged it off and made apologies for you. I figured your heart was in the right place, and hey! You had my back in third grade.

I know, you don’t need me to make apologies for you, but I did anyway. I’m pretty loyal that way.

Later, when an African American ended up winning that same year you called us racist, I thought you’d retract your accusation. You didn’t. I assumed you were on to better and bigger things.

Fast forward to today. Rather, yesterday. Nearly four years to the day that you accused the American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” (really, a pretty heavy accusation, I must say), you have leveled a new charge against the people of the United States.

So, now, you are calling the people of the United States misogynists. Why? Because Hillary Rodham Clinton isn’t kicking Barack Obama’s ass in the Democratic Primary?

A bit ironic, no? Because, what if she were ahead in the delegate count? Would we then be incredibly racist because Barack is African American?

Sorry, but your accusations are starting to ring hollow, Sir.

But we still have Paris our baton twirling rendez-vous. That was all good. Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,
Christine

Happy birthday to my brother (and other super important things I've neglected recently)!!!

I have been so out of it it's not even funny. Saturday was a HUGE day for me; I chaired the fundraising auction at my daughter's preschool. Five years ago I wouldn't have known what that meant, but ever since my son started school I've been intimately involved in them, and even chaired one two years ago.

I worked fifteen-plus hours straight on the event Saturday. Twelve hours the three days prior, and it the time commitment dwindles backwards from there (all the way back to when I took on the gig back in August).

Eggs. Ahhh. Sting!

It was a resounding success, and we made tens of thousands for our little cooperative school. I need tens of thousands of hours of sleep to make up for the deficit I've created...and me loves me my sleep.

There are also more irons in the fire for me...I've been doing some home staging for Realtor friends who need a boost in this buyer's market. I'll tell you more about that later, but for now I'll just say that I can't believe people pay me to go into their homes and decorate (I'd do it for free...shhhhhhhhh!).

And (I do know you aren't supposed to start a sentence with "And"...I am so rebellious) there is this exciting new venture:



Who's Fancy? I'm Fancy! I'm an *ahem* Editor (note capitalization); I'll be writing about health and related issues. Might as well make use of that neglected medical degree! It's a great site, and there are other bloggy names that you already know (and if you don't, you're in for a treat) contributing. Come join us! It's a great community.

For now, sleep calls.

But first...Happy Birthday, Bro'. I love you tons! You are The Great.

Seriously, he might have been Santa

Today was Christmas tree day in our household. We hopped into my minivan (Yes, minivan. My ego is not tied up with my vehicle. Plus there is TONS of room for crap to accumulate and I need that because decluttering my car is a pain as I keep my car in a constant state of pigsty) to Silveyville Tree Farm...it's been a tradition of ours for years. It's a cut your own tree farm; let me tell you that it is highly entertaining to see people wandering around with scythes slung over their shoulders; there was one family whose teenage son was using theirs like a cane. The hood on his red sweatshirt was covering most of his face; my husband pointed out to me, "He's like the Grim Reaper, but cheery because he's wearing red. He's the Cheer Reaper." I tried to one-up him, but all I came up with was Great Reaper, which wasn't any better at all.

I always have visions of these family excursions as being all postcardy and fuzzy around the edges...we all hold hands and smile at each other and enjoy the crisp air scented with a variety of pine trees. I know that's ridiculous, but I want it; I want my kids to have those memories.

Of course, this is reality not a perfume commercial, so while we did hold hands and smile at each other and the air was wonderfully crisp and scented with a variety of pine trees, other things were happening as well. I twisted my ankle muddling through the Scotch Pines, our daughter whined because she wanted to just PICK A TREE ALREADY so she could climb on the hay bales. Our son reminded us of things we already knew, and I'm sure my husband was cold because he let me wear his coat even though he only had on a long sleeved tee while I had on a sweatshirt over my tee.

But, still, we picked the best tree ever aka Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot (and found another perfect baby tree that will be ready for us in a few years, more about that later), and my manly man husband CHOPPED IT DOWN! He could totally take care of us in the woods.

While we waited for the nice people at the tree farm shake it to get rid it of loose needles, we hopped on an ATV train, climbed hay bales, rode on an antique sleigh, checked out the life size nativity scene, played on the hay bale reindeer, took pictures, huddled near the crackling fire, and met Santa. They say he wasn't the real Santa, but the brother of a couple of people who work there. They say he is actually a trucker and that they had to bleach his hair to whiten it. They say that it took them a few years to convince him to 'play' Santa there. I say he was such a dead ringer for the real deal that I think they doth protest too much.

At the end of the day, I'm sure my minivan looked pretty ding dang cool with our tree strapped to the luggage rack, and if I'm not mistaken a few fellow highway travelers looked longingly at our Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot. Our daughter was giddy with the tree trimming festivities, and we did the whole holding her up to put the star on the top of the tree thang. Yes, her eyes sparkled with the wonder and joy.

Later, at dinner, we chatted about how much we enjoyed the activities at the farm. I asked my daughter what her favorite part of being there was. She looked off into the distance for a moment, and then answered, "Picking our tree."

Maybe their memories will be postcardy and fuzzy around the edges after all.


-------------------------------

Can I tell you how excited I am about this? I wasn't nominated last year...I did a bit of nominating of others, but wasn't honored myself. I honestly have no idea what this means in the big scheme of things, but I am flattered and humbled nonetheless. And I'm also laughing that the only one with any votes is hottest mommy blogger. HA!

Still thankful...

I love NaBloPoMo...it has forced me to document days that I thought at the time I'd rather forget.

If you look closely at the photo to the left, you can see the image of the Golden Gate Bridge in the reflection of the glass. I didn't see that when I took the picture...similarly, as I reread some of my posts from these past weeks, I am discovering the beauty of my every day life I missed the first time around. I'm loving NaBloPoMo.

Blogging and friendships and networking, oh my!

Blogging to me started out as a way for me to organize my thoughts and put my writing out there...I've always had journals, I've always written, but I'd never shared them before. This blog came about once I was ready to share...scared to put myself out there, but ready for the challenge. Sometimes my posts are like this one, just blathering about stuff. Other times I'm feeling a bit more introspective, and my posts reflect that. No matter what, each and every time I hit that 'publish post' button I feel vulnerable. I'm putting ME out THERE.

It's been amazing. I had no idea how many friends I'd make with the push of that button, real friends. It's not about my Technorati score, it's not about how many comments per day I get (although I do love them, of course, and the more the merrier!!!), or emails from readers, Google rank, or what my stats are per my counter. It's about connecting. Sure scores and rankings and comments and whatnot are an indication of that connecting...but they don't reflect the depth of friendships made, and that's what I'm finding I love about this blogging world. REAL connections, not stats.

You've perhaps heard the buzz about cre8Buzz (Novembrance termed it "Facebook for grownups"...couldn't have said it better myself). I've mentioned them once before (because they allow images of moms breastfeeding!). Over the past few months this social networking site has also become a place where I 'get together' with some of the friends I've made here, and a place where I've made new friends. It's also been a place where I've connected with photographers around the world, which has been indescribably inspiring. I've even started a monthly photo assignment, where over the course of a week members of the photo community (and moms community, and women's community, and others!) take photographs on a specific theme and then we share our images. Cre8Buzz is going live tomorrow...participation is still by invite only (I have invites, so let me know if you're interested) but will be viewable by anyone. I'm thrilled and honored to have been a beta user (thank you Suburban Oblivion for the invite), and excited to see what the future holds. Stop by tomorrow, surf around the profiles and communities. You can start with mine!

P.S.: Thought I'd cozy up the joint for autumn.

From the peanut gallery

My son's kindergarten year was just over a month along; I was at pick-up, waiting for him to come out of his classroom, walk under the rose covered trellis in the center of the kindergarten courtyard, and run up to me for a big hug and flash me one of his broad grins.

I was chatting with the other moms, still getting to know this new world of School as Parent Not A Student. Another mom came up and thanked me for some graphic design work I'd done for a charity dear to her heart, a physical and behavioral therapy center for children handicapped either physically or mentally. We went on to discuss my pregnancy (I was seven months pregnant with my daughter) and her other children.

Her youngest had just started preschool. She loved the place, but was considering switching schools, "We got a notice in the mail just before school started; the preschool campus is peanut free because some kid has an allergy. That's ridiculous! My daughter loves peanut butter and jelly. Why should I be inconvenienced because of someone else's kid's problem? I don't care. I'm still sending in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

The words are burned into my memory because I was so incredulous. This is a woman who's middle child, most unfortunately, was born with a constellation of issues which left her developmentally disabled in a variety of ways. This is also a woman who is extremely wealthy, and whose other children attend a very expensive, elite, private school. This is a woman who put her disadvantaged child into the public school system and lobbied heavily (to the point of a lawsuit) for said school system to provide this child with every possible intervention. This is a woman who put this child into kindergarten before this child was remotely ready, with the full intention of having her repeat kindergarten. This is a woman who understood that her child was disruptive in the classroom and whose private aids were a huge financial drain, but felt it was important for her child to be mainstreamed because the other children learn compassion.

This is a woman who told me all of the above. I didn't disagree with her decisions...every parent needs to be an advocate for their children, and needs to follow their conscience to that end.

But in response to her peanut allergy outburst, I said, "You do understand that while it might be a matter of inconvenience to you, it might literally be a matter of life and death for this child, right? A peanut allergy isn't something to mess around with."

"Whatever. It's not my responsibility."

Yup. Hypocrisy incarnate.

During this conversation my hand went protectively to my belly, hugely swollen with pregnancy. This reflexive gesture is one innumerable women throughout the ages have lovingly performed as they carry babies in their wombs, silently and ever so fervently wishing for them to be healthy and happy forever.

My daughter is healthy and infectiously happy.

She does, however, have a peanut allergy (we have no family history, so it was quite the surprise). It sucks so bad.

I'm not one to ask others to sacrifice for my sake. I chose a preschool for her because it is a cooperative and I am allowed to be there with her every day; as I signed her up I knew I could monitor what the other kids ate. I would be there with an Epi Pen if she suffered an anaphylactic reaction and couldn't breath. I could watch her, take care of her, be responsible for her.

As I walked through the gate on the first day of preschool I was thrilled -and nervous- to see a sign loudly proclaiming, "THIS IS A PEANUT FREE SITE."

I had checked a box on one of the bazillion of forms that yes, she has an allergy. I'd noted in the blank, peanuts. That's it, that's all I'd done. Had I raised a red flag that had altered this preschool campus? I didn't want that.

As it turns out there are two other kids at that site with peanut allergies, kids whose parents had advocated for them and requested that peanuts be restricted from snacks served. The school went further than that and asked that on the rare occasion food is sent in with a child that it be peanut free. I cannot tell you the piece of mind that this has brought me. I still am there at snack time, every day (I am almost always there, all day every day)...just in case.

Peanut allergies just aren't seen as serious, for some reason (links are from a blog new to me, these posts of hers prompted me to write about my daughter's peanut allergy). I have my theories as to why that is, but I'm sure it is a conglomeration of issues. That being said, I simply want my daughter to be safe in school.

I hate feeling defensive about my daughter's condition. As if it weren't real. As if I was just being hysterical. It's just Skippy, right?

Ugly green monster, please exit stage left

The other day I was walking down our street with my kids and Cutest Puppy Ever. We were heading to a park to vacate our house while it was being shown. I'd just spent a stressful few hours getting ready for these looky-loos potential buyers...all the more annoying because we have an accepted offer, but as it is still in a contingency period we're keeping our options open.

Anyway, as we strolled down our street my daughter was workin' her Dora scooter, my son was walking our dog, and I was luxuriating in not having to be cleaning anything. Some neighbors a couple of blocks away were hanging in their front yard; while the girls played the husband washed their minivan and the wife deadheaded some roses. I smiled and waved as we approached them, and in one unexpected swarm the four of them, along with their big dog, descended upon us in a flurry of wagging tails, giggles, and...questions, Where are you moving? You're renting? Why? Oh. We'll miss you. Have a nice walk. Bye!

The girls, who are about six and nine, went back to their yard, giggling and squealing with delight as they took turns chasing and then being chased by their dog. I watched them, and my head flashed into a power-point of their future in this house, this neighborhood...holidays, summer days, celebrations, arguments, proms, broken hearts, all set within the backdrop of this home, this family home. This is, of course, in contrast to our own situation which is uncertain, which continues to STUN me when I really stop and consider it.

And in that moment, I did consider it, and I experienced a pang of guilt, fear, and regret so powerful I hesitated mid-breath...and then (hold on) an ugly, little, hypocritical thought regarding those two little girls surprised me as it flashed through my head, "Princesses!"

Whoa.

For a split second I channeled all of my angst and focussed it on two innocents who were simply enjoying a late summer evening with their family. Jealousy is ugly, even if it is brief, silent, and regretted.

Then I looked at my kids as they whooped and hollered on the way to the park, our pup's tail wagging in delight. They are happy, we are together, we are happy together. That's all that matters, I know.

It's just hard when dreams die.

Back to Basics

If the eight year-old me could attend one of today's average birthday parties, it would blow my mind. Today's celebrations...the overly orchestrated and elaborate events with their back-to-back scheduled activities, professional entertainment and trucked in hardware like bouncy houses, trampolines, and ponies. Then there's the complete alteration of the backyard or rented hall with an explosion of coordinated decorations (and I'm not kidding, I've been to one done by a hired professional party planner; it was for a ONE YEAR-OLD).

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand the party favors. Like the cost of your attendance at a wedding, you have to take the party favors into consideration when selecting your gift for the birthday kid; you don't want to be the chump that walks leaving the host in the red.

Now, to me, a homemade cake always meant love (it's the secret ingredient...ssshhhhh). But to many it seems that a homemade cake signals that the parents were too cheap to spend the big bucks on a three-tiered cake with their little darlings images prancing around with their fave Sprout character on each level. Or something like that.

I understand it's pretty easy as a parent to adopt that model to one extent or another..you want to create a wonderful birthday memory for your kids. But the bar keeps getting raised with each successive party the kids attend, "Mom, Jackson had a climbing wall at his party! It was so COOL! Can we get one for my party?!?!?!"

I haven't totally bought into that whole world, but I have succumbed a bit in the past. I still make my cakes, but now I get all elaborate with them. I plan activities and decorate, usually with a theme of some sort. Or I rent some time at a gymnastics center and let them handle it all.

So it was so refreshing the other day to get a call from a friend who confessed to me that she was considering a totally non-conventional recognition of her son's ninth birthday party. No bouncy house, no caterers, no entertainment, no organized activities...just a few friends over to play.

It was awesome. Six boys hanging out, shooting hoops, playing with water guns, throwing balls, kicking a soccer ball, doing whatever they wanted for a few hours after school. There was pizza to eat, smores instead of a cake, bottles of water and juice boxes in a tub that the kids grabbed whenever.

I was there helping my friend manage the chaos, and towards the end of the party I overheard the birthday boy exclaim, "Mom, this is the best birthday party EVER!"

I know what I am doing for my kid's next party.

Human parents of human babies

Many years ago, I frequented a board for new moms...I found it crazily helpful and much needed.

My son, who is now 8, was an infant; I was struggling with so many things, things which I now realize are normal for a new mom, but at the time made me feel like I was alone in my uncertainty. After all, shouldn't I ONLY be REJOICING in my newborn? Why am I struggling with things like nursing, and sleeping, and my body image (that is, the fat I retained after his birth and how oddly it was distributed...how can I be so shallow as to care about my body when I have this amazing baby boy?), and my new role in society (that is, from a very well respected professional to 'just' a SAHM), and being bummed that I wasn't going to the concert that my best friend was attending (I don't need to see Jane's Addiction, I should be content to stare at his beautiful face all evening), and the unexpected BOREDOM of spending hours on end with a person who can't speak.

There must be something wrong with me, I thought, how can I not love every single second with this precious babe that I love more that I ever thought I could love anyone?

The guilt was excruciating at times.

If you are a parent, you know.

Why is it that when it comes to parenting we expect things to be all good, all the time? I've seen friends suffer disappointments that come from having such unrealistic, fuzzy bordered expectations of embarking on the parenting journey...not getting pregnant as easily as hoped, losing pregnancies, pregnancies being difficult for one reason or another, births going a direction unexpected and perhaps disappointing, hospitalizations being less than ideal to say the least, postpartum periods consisting of depression and sleeplessness, and more.

What I don't know is how to talk to friends who are having their first. On the one hand, I have a desire to warn pregnant friends that despite the fact that they are embarking on the most wonderful time of their lives, that despite the unfathamable joy they will experience becoming a parent, despite the fact that having children truely taught me the meaning of life, it isn't all Hallmarky-card all the time. But let's face it, they don't want to hear it. And what kind of a jerk tells people who are about to enter parenthood, "It ain't all roses. Just you wait!" That's the bitter old person in the office who says with a superior smirk, "Sleep now. Once that baby is here you won't sleep for years." I don't want to be that person. That person annoyed the piss out of me.

If we had more realistic expectations about parenthood, like we do in other aspects of our life, we could save ourselves so much pain borne out of that feeling of loneliness.

And even in writing that sentence I feel a bit guilty.