Warm Hearts Happy Family

I am a strong person, always have been.  I am a problem solver, a solution finder–always.  I am the level headed one, the person people bring their problems to.  The one that can see a situation from all angles, all possibilities, all sides, almost immediately.  I have always put my identity in my strength, in my ability to meet my goals.

So imagine my surprise when I completely fell apart. 

As the cool air started blowing in it’s crisp promises of fall fun, so did it blow away the person I once knew.  No longer did I have things together, but instead I was wasting away in my anxiety.  Somehow my anxiety, always lurking and hiding in the shadows, had found the upper hand.  Had found a weakness in my armor, and had taken over my life.

My most important definition of success–creating a genuinely joyful life for my family–was being tested, strained, and beaten.  I pride myself on finding balance, being a working mom and an attached parent.  I had it figured out, joy and balance is my thing.  How did I lose control? 

Everyday tasks like taking my son to preschool, cleaning up spilled juice, or even getting out of bed became mountains to climb.  The second I woke up, the anxiety began churning–thoughts of what could possibly go wrong that day and how my life seemed so overwhelming.

I didn’t wait very long before seeking help–remember, I am a problem solver at heart.  And I had a big problem.  I took my husband with me to the doctors for support, but mostly so he could hear what was going on straight from the doctor.  Because just as much as I needed a light at the end of the tunnel, so did he.  I know my months of panic attacks that rendered me useless put a huge strain on him.

I also dove right into research to learn about anxiety, to try and put logic into a problem that is anything but logical.  That is when I stumbled upon a word that would connect so many pieces–that would make me feel less crazy–that would give me a feeling of power back into my life.

Emetophobia.

One word answered so many questions and quieted feelings of irrationality and craziness. 

I am on my way back to normal.  After some trial and error with medication, research, and support I am feeling like my old self.  I am feeling back in control, and I am the woman, wife, and mother my family deserves…almost.

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Let me preface by the fact that men have come a long way baby.   There is a culture shift happening–a movement really–in which men  are plugged into their families.  They contribute equally (or in my case more) in the household chores.  That are tender with their children, they are not afraid to let their nurturing underbellies show.  They co-sleep with their children and they really brave few might even be seen wearing their babies.

My man fits most of these yummy qualities.

But a man he still is.

And apparently men still reserve the right to check out and have adult time anytime that meets their man fancy.

Like when we are at a large gathering and all the men disappear into the garage/basement/backyard/anywhere that the women and children are not.  They hoot and holler, drink beer, smoke and just enjoy feeling “free” for a few hours. 

All the while the women are gathered similarly except their time is spent as a human juggle gym, a milk bar, a monster catcher, a boo-boo fixer a spill cleaner-upper and more.

Men gallivant off to play basketball or golf in their free time.  

Women take the kids to the park.

Men escape into their man-rooms of the house when the day has drug on just a few hours too long, while the women fight with over tired kids and bed times.

Men tally up all they have done until they have filled their “time-card” and are eager to punch out…

I think I am going to try these sneaky man tactics.

How about I clean up after dinner, give baths and put on their jammies only to flee as fast as my legs will take me down to the basement so I can turn up the surround sound to drown out all that is happening upstairs.  To drown out the fervent protests to bedtime.  To drown out the sound of a teething baby’s cries.  To drown out the exasperation in my husbands voice.  And to drown out the sound of the SpongeBob SquarePants theme song filling our home for the 1,895,00 time.

Or

I can join a golf league and leave my phone in the car so I am 1,000 percent unreachable because as you know, it is absolutely against golf etiquette to even think about your phone in the presence of the golf gods.  The only way to please these gods are to drink, smoke, tell dirty jokes and scratch your balls.  Shit, I wonder if scratching the sweat between my boobs will suffice.

Or

I can pretend like I am taking out the garbage/getting something out of my car/watering the flowers but really sneak into the neighbors garage to get away and throw back a beer.

Or

I can give my husband my boobs so he can nurse the said teething baby all night long  while I lay there asleep pretending not to hear a thing.

So yes, men have come a long way but still have things pretty damn easy if you ask me.

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I am in a funk.  The deep funk that makes it almost impossible to smile.  Maybe I am being a little dramatic but I feel blah just the same.

I honestly believe that the entire tone of the families dynamic rests with the inner happiness of the primary parent; or both parents as the case may be.  In my family mom is where it’s at.  Dad–by his very nature–is goofy, happy go-lucky, and full of energy.  He has this unique gift of ignoring all of his life stresses and can find his happy place at the snap of a finger.  Me not so much.  I have to actually be happy to find my happy place.  And it is also me that sets our family tone.  I need to crawl out of this bad mood because there is only so much pretending I can do.

What is causing my normally bright optimistic self to have a low burning irritation that is ready to ignite into full blown rage at the most unsuspecting person?  A few things…

1.  I am so tired.  Now that Diva Baby is nursing much less frequently in the middle of the night I decide to start staying up past 11pm.  Party animal I know. 

2.  I am a chronic procrastinator.  I have recognized how much stress this adds to my life and yet I can not seem to get my shit together.  I leave tasks and assignments to pile up until I have so much in front of me I feel like I might explode with anxiety and exasperation mixed with rage and desperation.  Dramatic again?  My bad.

3.  I need to get laid.  Those Hawaiian flowers are divine. 

I am sure I will bounce back to my positive life loving self tomorrow.  Going home to some good snuggle time with the kids, followed by good wine, followed by a much needed good nights sleep.

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Does anybody else feel like vacation is about 90% work and only 10% relaxation? At least when you have small children anyway and you are sharing a small house with lots of extended family. We are back from our ten day excursion and I am ready for my normalcy back.

I always feel so inadequate when around other women who can work a kitchen with ease and grace. I always feel like there are other mothers out there that surely do a better job than me, and I know most moms are much more organized than me. I did my best but still fell short of certain people’s expectations. I have never claimed to be the best house keeper, but I can say with confidence my children are showered with quality time and love. And THAT is what matters to me. Oh well, trying to let it roll off my back.

Anyway, despite both of my children ending up in urgent care, thunderstorms, hail, snow, tornadoes, and sun burns (yes, all in one week people!), mixed with crazy drama, my family had a great time. We did lots of fun activities–I’m talking real memory makers–and spent oodles of quality time together.

Now the unpacking and days of laundry begin, getting the kids back on their routines, and catching up in the workplace. I changed my mind…about 95% work–but so worth it.

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