Tired of Tired

Seriously.  Whenever anyone in the last, oh, two years has asked me, “how are you doing?” the automatic response is, “I’m tired.”  At which point people nod along and say, “Well, you’re ________.”  (responses may include: pregnant, moving, solo-parenting, dealing with another newborn, the mom of two young kids, crazy)

Or, I’ll get a wary look.  A look of, “your baby isn’t a newborn anymore, get over it,” kind of look. 

Here’s the thing:  I am more tired now than I have ever been in my life.  Every cell in my body is screaming at me on a daily basis I am so fatigued. 

I don’t have time for this. I certainly don’t have the patience for it.  And for a long time, I simply tried to ignore it.  I figured that once Sophie slept better (and for the most part, she sleeps well now), I would somehow follow suit and begin to sleep through the night.  No dice.  Basically, since I became pregnant with Eli, I haven’t slept through a night.  Worse, I haven’t slept longer than a five-ish hour stretch.  That ain’t right.

Look, I don’t want to tell you I’m tired.  I know you don’t want to hear it.  No one wants to hear it, least of all me.  But I can’t avoid it.  It follows me through my days and nights.  I try to beat it.  I try to trick it.  I try to make myself so tired that there is no way humanly possible that I won’t sleep through the night.  And then I don’t.

It’s easy to say I have insomnia, and that wouldn’t be untrue.  But this thing, this tired thing, goes beyond that.  Sure, there are all the usual suspects that I’ve covered countless times in other blog posts.  But surely, most of those challenges have passed, so what gives?

I’ve been seeing an acupuncturist for several months now, for lots of reasons, one of which is: Make me feel like my old self.  Or at least a version of my former self. 

I had to laugh a few weeks back when Kristen, my acupuncturist, said to me, “You sure are an interesting little mix of things.”  I know she was referring to all the various, sometimes disparate things happening in my body that she is constantly trying to pinpoint, rein in, calm down, etc.  But I took it to heart, and wholeheartedly agree that in general, yes, I’m a mix.  Interesting?  Maybe.

Our talk continued beyond that, and although it was something she had brought up before, we hadn’t really talked in length about adrenal fatigue.  She says I have adrenal fatigue, without a doubt.  What is adrenal fatigue?  In its simplest explanation, it is the fatigue of your adrenal glands due to prolonged stress on your body (and this “stress” could be from any number of factors).  For more info, go here.

It’s also worth noting that Western medicine rarely, if ever, recognizes adrenal fatigue, rather attributing it to something naturalists have dreamed up to sell more supplements, etc.  This attitude is insulting on many levels, least of which is the habit of Western medicine to slap a convenient “diagnosis” on you and then prescribe some kind of bullshit medication for you to take the rest of your life.

But I digress.  It’s always a relief to finally figure out what is happening in your body, to have something to point to and say YES! that is exactly how I am feeling.  Of course this is quickly followed up with, “Well, now what?  What can I do to feel better?”

Most treatment for adrenal fatigue is practical advice along the lines of “getting a lot of rest, reducing stress in your life, simplifying your life, gentle exercise, supplements, healthy diet.”  Nothing too shocking, but somewhat laughable when you live in a household with two small children. 

The most important part of this treatment is diet.  So for the time being I am doing my absolute best to not eat: gluten, dairy, pork, most red meat, sugar, potatoes, corn, tomatoes (NOOOOOOO! This has honestly been one of the bigger challenges), and peanuts.  I have also had to swear off (again) Diet Coke.  People, you know this is my vice.  If I go out to eat Mexican food there damn well better be a fountain Coke to go with that meal.  These are the dilemmas I face, and I have to admit, it’s getting easier.

I’ll delve more into the dietary issues and the complications that arise in another post.

Beyond the changes in diet, my biggest “change” has been trying to cultivate consistent quiet and/or down time in the evenings.  As anyone with children can appreciate, the evening hours are my now-it’s-finally-quiet-I-can-get-shit-done time.  For the longest time I would spend every evening getting all the household stuff done, or working to check some other random task off my To-Do list. 

 

Most nights, all I really want to do is lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling (there may or may not be drool involved).  Or maybe I just want to watch a movie.  Or read a book.  Or go outside and simply sit.  It frustrates me that I have let myself get to a place where I feel guilty for relaxing, for taking a quiet moment for myself.  It’s tough to turn off that obnoxious little voice in my head that starts in, “You know… you really should be doing ________.” 

No, no I shouldn’t. 

So even though I have babes that certainly aren’t newborns, I have tried to revert back to some of the suggestions given during that time, namely: rest when they rest.  This was easy to do when I was sick and could barely move off the couch anyways, so naptime became my rest time, too.  In fact, getting sick and having it take four weeks to feel better has been the eye opener I needed to truly admit to myself: Your body is shutting down.  Stop ignoring it.

I’m only a few weeks into consciously “treating” my adrenal fatigue.  It’s daunting when you look at the recovery time associated with severe adrenal fatigue (18-24 months).  Despite this, I am so desperate to feel rested that I would do anything to move towards recovery, however long it may take.

So you’ve been warned.  I may give the annoying “I’m tired” response for a bit longer, but as soon as I feel even a little bit better I’m sure I’ll be coming up with all kinds of ridiculous things to say to you.  Aren’t you excited?  

Screw Absence ... And Green Grass, Too

Vinny left for L.A. today.  This time, it’s only for three weeks.  I put the “only” in there to comfort myself, to remind myself that it’s not four—or worse—six weeks again.  Just three.

Still… it’s a long time, for all of us.  And unfortunately, he will be there when Sophie has her next eye surgery later this month.  It’s almost the exact same procedure she had done last time, so at least I know what to expect.  But I know the wait while she’s in surgery isn’t going to be any easier to sit through this time around.

Thankfully, no one has come at me with the ever annoying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” adage (so if you were thinking about it, here’s a hint: Don’t.).

Here’s the thing.  Vinny and I have done the long-distance routine.  More times than either of us would like to recount.  In our pre-children days, it was a major annoyance and strain, to be sure.  From my vantage point, it was always easier to be the one leaving to go on the job.  I’ve lived both roles, and even though location work can be isolating and terribly lonely, it’s just somehow easier to be the one working nonstop in an unfamiliar place.  Doesn’t make much sense, but there you go.

There is part of me that always struggles not to get resentful towards Vinny during these stretches.  Taking care of the kids on my own gets old, quickly.  As Vinny hasn’t cared for the kids for more than three days in a row on his own, I know he cannot fully appreciate what it feels like.

It wasn’t until yesterday that I shook myself out of my pity-party-for-one.  It’s easy to get myself into a funk, to wallow in how hard it’s going to be, how long it’s going to feel, how much I am going to miss seeing/talking/laughing/yada-yada-yada with Vinny.  I like to think we keep each other sane in our insane world.

The longest stretch I’ve gone without seeing the kids was three days.  And that was a L-O-N-G three days.  I missed them terribly after the first day (though I do not regret for one second my decision to attend AWP with my colleagues/peers/bad-ass Fast Forward Press cohorts). 

On occasion we leave with the kids with my parents for a night so that we might enjoy an evening out, a day spent running around the house trying to tackle ten different projects in less than 24-hours.  Yes, it’s comical and ridiculous.

There was a moment yesterday when it hit me like a brick: As much as Vinny may not comprehend what it’s like to be home with the kids for so long, I cannot (nor do I want to) imagine what it would be like to not see them for three, four, six weeks at a stretch.  Just thinking about it made me incredibly sad.

It was a humbling moment.  It woke me up, shook me out of my funk in a hurry.  It was the exact attitude check I needed to help me through my day yesterday and to drop Vinny off at the airport today. 

I will inundate Vinny with photos, texts, and videos for the next three weeks.  We will use the shit out of Facetime, though the kids are often less than interested in seeing who’s on the other end of the phone. 

I still can’t fathom how hard it is going to be for him.  These kids may drive us crazy on a nearly daily basis, but we are also crazy for them on a daily basis.  It never fails that, on the day after we’ve sent them off to my parents, as we wait to pick them up or for their arrival, one of us will invariably ask the other, “Do you miss the kids yet?”  The other one always smiles and says, almost sheepishly, “Yeah.”

So even though I am jealous that Vinny gets a “break” from home, gets to see our L.A. friends (I miss you all, terribly), and gets to eat at all our favorite restaurants without me (and will recount each and every delicious meal to me in torturous detail, thanks), I still wouldn’t want to trade places with him for a second.  At least, not without the kids in tow.

You know that other annoying adage?  “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence?”  If no one’s told you this before, let me:  It’s not.

Almost Does Count

One moment can set us on a dramatically different course.

All I was going to post this week was: I am (happily) spending the week in Northern Michigan with family and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and time with loved ones. 

Then, we almost got in a horrible car wreck on the way up here.  So now I have a little more I’d like to say.

I’m not sure why it takes those near-miss events in our life to shake us up, but boy, was I shaken to the core on Saturday. 

We were heading north on the highway when we noticed traffic had come to a stand-still up ahead (it looked to be construction-related).  Vinny made the quick decision to pull off to the shoulder of the exit ramp we were passing.  We were going to consult our map and see if it made more sense to get off the highway and find a way around the back-up. 

It wasn’t ten seconds later that two cars barreled past us at top speed, neither of them seeming to notice the back-up just ahead.  My stomach lurched. 

I watched in horror as the two cars slammed into the stopped traffic.  Of course, because the two morons in those cars hadn’t slowed down, neither had some of the cars behind them.  Soon, there were cars crashing into each other, flying off onto the median and the shoulder of the highway, with approaching cars flying off the road to avoid the oncoming mess.  It was something you’d see in a movie for sure, except this time it was real.

Partway through all of this Vinny decided we needed to get moving down the exit ramp to remain safe, so we did.  I have no idea how much worse the scene became.  The event was already seared into my brain.

For the next couple hours I felt sick to my stomach.  I was shaky.  I couldn’t look at the kids without becoming teary.  What would have happened if that had been us?  Then I couldn’t stop thinking, “Well, who was in those cars?  Did they have small children, too?  Was everyone okay?”  A thousand nightmare scenarios raced through my mind. 

This much is certain: if Vinny hadn’t made that split-second decision we would have been rear ended at high speed.  

So when I say we were almost in a horrible car wreck, suddenly the word “almost” becomes so much more meaningful than it ever has before.  Especially when I go on to consider that I was almost the one driving and I am almost certain that I wouldn't have had the quick wit to pull off the highway.

And it’s not surprising that my initial thought in all of this was, “the kids.”  Not that I wouldn’t be concerned about what might have happened to Vinny or I, but... it’s like that doesn’t even register anymore.  No, the instinctual response is always, “the kids!” 

So much of it is the fact that I have no control over their wellbeing in instances like that.  And no matter what, I would have felt guilty on some level, even though it would have been no fault of our own.  I would have felt like I needed to do a better job to protect my chickens.

But all this is for naught, right?  We weren’t in that accident, someone else was.  We continued on our journey safely, albeit shaken.  For the rest of the day (and beyond) I thought about how our lives could have drastically changed in that one instant.  It’s scary to think that way.

And on many levels, pointless.  Horrible things could happen any second of any day.  Thankfully they almost never do (notice that word almost again).  It’s just that sometimes, the balance tips, the almost disappears, and you are left with the aftermath of whatever that almost didn’t prevent.

On this day we were spared.  I could not be more thankful, grateful … relieved.  But then I have to remember that someone else was not so lucky, so then I pull my family closer.  I hug them harder.  Look at them longer.  Linger in the little moments that happen every day, but that I sometimes lose sight of because days are long, I get tired, and it’s all I can do to make it until bedtime. 

So what began as a short “have a good week” post has morphed into something much more meaningful for me.  How often are we bombarded with the “don’t take life for granted” “live life to its fullest” “don’t forget to tell your loved ones how much you love them” sentiments?  Sometimes we take these credos to heart.  Most times we don’t.  It’s easy to nod along, yeah, yeah, yeah, and then go about our day. 

I don’t often make requests here.  Who am I to tell you to do anything?  Well, I’m going to do it anyways.   

When you are done reading this post please walk over to or phone someone you love dearly and give them a squeeze or a kind word of love or a statement of gratitude.  Feel that moment with all your heart.  Then have a nice holiday ;)

It's Just Stuff

Except when it’s not.  A few weeks back one of my best friends mentioned she was going to have a yard sale.  Did I want to bring some stuff over to sell?

The baby stuff has been piling up in our attic since we moved in.  I’ve passed some stuff along here and there, but otherwise have been reluctant to unload the bulk of it so far.  I chose to look at the yard sale as motivation to free up space and get over what’s left of my lingering sadness over not having any more babies. 

I have to point out that I’m not a pack rat.  After moving countless times growing up I am very accustomed to getting rid of, well, pretty much everything.  There are a few items that have made it through the many moves, but for the most part I do not get sentimental over “stuff.”

That is, until I had kids.  I don’t know what the hell happens in your body after having children but I transformed from someone who rarely cried at movies, someone who didn’t dissolve into teary-eyed nostalgia over anything, really … into someone that can barely keep it together looking at an outfit Eli wore as a baby, or at a maternity t-shirt I wore, or at photos of either of the kids right after they were born, or some dumb-ass commercial that’s supposed to make you laugh.

Just this morning I went into Sophie’s room and saw that Eli had set the couch out from her little dollhouse and set the Mama and Papa bear together on the couch.  It was so cute I nearly started bawling when I looked at it.  Seriously?  What is wrong with me?

So it shouldn’t have surprised me that I would have a difficult time getting rid of things.  No, that’s not true.  I would say that 90% of the stuff was easy to part with.  But that other 10%...

I have a bin of clothes/shoes/etc. containing baby things that I won’t get rid of.  I’ve always known I would do that.  A couple outfits and the like to show the kids when they get older, to pass along to them if they have kids (or if they don’t).  That stuff makes sense to me. 

But then there are my maternity clothes.  Most of them I cannot get rid of fast enough.  Tried as I might to find maternity clothes that were flattering (an oxymoron if there ever was one) or that were at least “me” was more challenging that I had anticipated.  As a result, I hated at least half my maternity clothes with a passion. 

However, as I sorted through the box of clothes there were a few items I just couldn’t put in the “sell” pile.  My favorite jeans.  The t-shirt I wore when Vinny photographed me, two days before I went into labor with Eli.  The tank top that kept me from having a heat stroke during the summer months.  The clothes that kept me feeling like myself, the clothes I was so happy to be pregnant in.  The clothes that remind me of the sheer joy of being pregnant, remembering what it was like to carry both of my children around in my belly. 

Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was pregnant.  It’s hard to believe it’s only been a little over a year. 

I can’t let go of the memories those clothes stir up, yet.  They are still too near and dear to my heart. 

So even though my upbringing equipped me with a “you don’t need that” attitude that I have carried into adulthood, there are moments when I can’t part with “things.” 

I’m okay with this.  I’m sure as time passes it will be easier to part with more of this stuff.  Maybe not.  Maybe there will always be a special box in the attic, just for me.  So I can sneak up there once in awhile and remember how happy I was growing my children.  So I can marvel over how little my babies were when they fit into those tiny onesies (okay, who am I kidding… neither of my children were ever tiny, but they were still newborns). 

Sometimes, we need “things” to stir memories, to take us back to a time we are happy to re-live, to remind us of the distances we’ve come.  As time propels us forward, pulls us further away from these treasured memories, it’s nice to have something as simple as a t-shirt to pull me back.

The "V" Word

And no, I’m not talking vagina.  Vasectomy.  If you’re a guy, you’re probably wincing in imagined pain right now, and I feel you.  If you’re a woman that’s been through childbirth you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Hell yes.  Let him have a taste of the pain…” 

But I digress.

Vinny opted for this procedure since we are done having kids.  At least, we say we’re done having kids.  Vinny has always said we’ll have two and that’s it.  I’ve always said we’d take it on a case-by-case basis.  I never had a specific number of children in mind.  What if I had a baby and then decided I didn’t love being a mom as much as I thought I would, or if the baby was particularly demanding, or we didn’t have the money, or…  It never seemed right to put any kind of parameters on the potential size of our family.

Vinny’s stance has never changed.  As for me… it’s not as simple.

Almost immediately after Sophie’s birth I said, “I’m done.”  My children seem to have a harrowing (to me) way of arriving into this world, and there is a part of me that does not want to press my luck.  We’ve all come through unscathed so far and I am thankful each and every day that Eli, Sophie and myself came through those experiences in good health.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the part of me that longs to be younger and richer so we could have more kids.  At this point we’re comfortable with two so it seems a bit impractical to push things that way. 

And then there’s the matter of actually caring for these children.  They’re exhausting.  I already feel guilt on some days because I rarely get to spend any one-on-one time with each child and feel as though my attention is usually in ten different places.  I’ve had several people say to me, “After two kids it doesn’t matter, it’s all really the same,” but I can’t get behind that statement. 

When I think of my attention being divided further by another child I wonder how I would actually do it.  Check that.  I know I could do it, but whether or not I would do it happily is another question.

So there are all these reasons not to have another child.  And they are good, solid reasons.  To be honest, there is no further justification needed beyond Vinny not wanting more children because, really, we both need to be on board for a decision of that magnitude.

And yet…

When I think about not having that moment of learning I am pregnant again, I get sad.

When I think about not feeling a little babe kick/move/punch/roll around in my belly again, I get sad.

When I look at my maternity clothes and remember being pregnant with Eli and Sophie, I get sad (and nostalgic).

When I think about how awesome our kids are, how good we are at making kick-ass babies, and then realize we aren’t going to do it again, I get really, really sad.

For some crazy reason I like being pregnant and having babies.  Nevermind the insomnia, morning sickness, insane heartburn, carpal tunnel, massive weight gain, general aches and pains, etc.  I love it.  And I have to add that I do have easy pregnancies, despite those ailments.  Really.  I am lucky.

In spite of all these things I know the best decision for us is to not have more babies. 

It doesn’t mean I still can’t be sad about it.

I never anticipated being the one leaving the urologist’s office in tears (and for those of you that know Vinny, you will appreciate that statement to the fullest ... and for the record he did fine).  But there you go.  As we drove home from Vinny’s procedure last week I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face.  It was a bittersweet moment for both of us.  Then Vinny managed to lighten it with a joke: “I’m not sure if I just did that because I don’t want more kids, or because of the ones we already have.” 

It didn’t stop my tears, but it did put a smile on my face.

A Dose of Anxiety

And, it’s done.  Just like that.  Sophie had eye surgery this morning.  A simple procedure, but one that required her being put under. 

This was the real issue.  Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve been a wreck.

The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.  Then, a call late last Thursday wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.  It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah, blah, but yes, let’s move it up.  Less time to think about it.

And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was fine.  Then, the nurse called on Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof, thankfully).  It was going well until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.  And bring her favorite stuffed toy or blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re frightened.”

The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was enough to turn on the instant tears.  The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.  “She’ll be fine.  Really.  It’s so much harder for us parents then it is for them.”  

I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a clue what was coming and I did.  I was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.

We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.  I had experienced this long before ever having children.  However, after having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.  And not just stronger, but ferocious, too. 

There have been several instances when I have felt threats to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face (please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.  Things of that nature.

Never before have I had to turn over either of my children to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.  This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.  Because really, at the end of the day what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility. 

Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with the utmost care.  I don’t doubt their intentions or capabilities.  But, mistakes happen.  Unpredictable reactions can occur.  There is an unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say, “yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”  It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the slight possibility of that even happening. 

Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten myself up over signing such a document.  Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.  She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose (poor girl), but she was a total champ today.

And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit by a truck.  I’m exhausted.  I forget how we hold fear and anxiety in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we robbed it of rest and peace of mind.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do differently.  Saying, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.  There are some things I cannot force my body to do.  It’s okay.  Sometimes surrendering to the emotion is much less tiresome than fighting it.

In this instance it didn’t matter.  It drained me.  It won.  But I don’t mind.  Even when Sophie could barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your tickies (our term for her toes)?”  She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her toes in the air.  Somehow, that one small act reassured both of us that she was fine.  We needed it.  Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us with a smile.

The day has only gotten better.  We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either: One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.  I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have come along with a woozy Sophie.  You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.  

I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain

It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant). 

In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight, something I had never done in the sixteen years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr. Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head on the pillow.  That is, until I became pregnant.

Hello, Pregnancy Brain.  Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).

Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would have gotten pregnant.  Sure enough, after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain, that’s all.”

So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that kid out all would return to normal.  I was wrong.  Not only has my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie. 

For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand this.  You won’t be able to fathom what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen? 

It goes on.  And on.  And on.

You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they take away your car keys and put you in a home.

The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses. 

No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.  I’m not talking tough, life-changing decisions.  I’m talking…

Vinny:  “Babe, do you want some cheese?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Babe?  Cheese?

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Umm, it’s a yes or no question?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . . I don’t know?”

It’s annoying, for everyone involved.  The questions are “easy,” and yet, my brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.  I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese. 

Every decision feels momentous.  Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!” regardless if it’s what I want or not.  At least it’s an answer.

Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt that Pregnancy Brain exists (go here).  They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up.  

As is often the case, I try to find something positive in the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished mental capacities.  Sure, it makes for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember most of those moments…

But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.  I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.  If it isn’t written down (and sometimes, even when it is), it doesn’t exist.  If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays, reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal level in our house.  But if I can’t…

So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday, anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know each other.  It’s not personal.  I promise.