I KNOW lots of other women do it, but

Let's go back....to 1938.

My mom's dad died at age 40, leaving my grandmother with a newborn, a 3-year-old and four other kids.  She had to work, and my mother knew it. But I spent my formative years hearing the story of how my mom loved the days when her mom was off of work because her mom was home when she got in from school.  This experience in my mom's life made her insist on being at home with her kids during their formative years. She worked part-time at my elementary school after my brother started school for many years until her breast cancer diagnosis in 1996. 

If there is any other refrain that still plays in my head, it is my mother saying repeatedly, "I will NOT raise my grandkids." This was part of her badger-your-daughter-to-death-so-she-doesn't-accidentally-get-pregnant" plan.

Fast forward to me.  I didn't even want kids when I married, nor did D, but we adopted my mom's advice to live on one salary from the second we married so that IF we ever had kids, I could stay home with them IF I wanted to.

I didn't think about childcare until I was newly pregnant with N and did some summer portfolio scoring with another newly pregnant teacher who also had an 18-month-old.  It was then that my eyes were opened to the "You mean I have to pay a daycare in the summer even though I'm not working during the summer?" situation.

By the time I told others I was pregnant, I had decided to be a stay-at-home mom. I knew the grandparents would not "raise" my kids, and I knew I didn't trust anyone else besides myself to do it well. 

Being a stay-at-home mom was the best and the suckiest experience of my life. It gifted me years of time with my children and stole years of salary and professional experience from me. 

I have spent this past school year subbing pretty frequently at my former middle school---three days this week--and it has made me miss it terribly.  

But not terribly enough to go back full-time.  

When I am asked about returning full-time (and I am, often), I come out with a comment like,
"I'm still freakishly attached to my children."  And that is true.  This morning, M called my cell phone because he misses me when I sub too many early mornings in a row, and it killed my heart a little bit to know this. 

And subbing is not my only job.  I want to teach at the cottage school because of the freedom I have there.  And I want to write for the magazines because I love to write. And I want the flexibility of being able to visit with my mom, who just turned 79 and will not live forever.

I think I feel like I'm letting someone down, even though I'm not.  Some group of nebulous students who don't know they miss having me as a teacher?  A group of teachers who might like the idea of working with me because I seem pretty great?  Is that why I feel guilt, like I'm letting them down because I am not working with them full-time?  It is stupid to feel guilty for feeling this way, but I think I do.  

Maybe guilt isn't even what I'm feeling.  If that is the case, then I don't know what to call it.  

Maybe longing is the right word.  I feel a longing to do something I left a long time ago but don't want to do full-time, at least not right now. 

When I think about my experience, and I think about what I will tell my own daughter about her own career path and her parenthood path (if she chooses it), I'm not sure what to tell her.

You can have it all, but not all at once?

You can have it all, but you will be freaking tired and feel like you're not giving anything 100%?

You can have most of it, but you will still feel guilt and longing and like you missed out on something even though you wouldn't change it if you could go back again?

Just give up the idea that you can have it all because no one has ever had it all in the history of humankind.  It is a myth?

And I know that LOTS and LOTS of other women have been teachers and have managed to do it, but I haven't managed to do it, which makes me feel like maybe I suck.  Hell, I haven't even tried to do it. I just flat out said, "I'm not even going to try because I think it would be dismal for me and my family because I know how I am." 

(I'm the sub who left sub plans for tomorrow's sub---that is how freakishly organized and anal I am.)

Maybe I'm just a big pussy? Maybe that is what I feel?  Ashamed?  

But this that I am doing, this cottage school teaching and this minimal subbing and this freelance writing, is as close to having it all as I can figure out at the moment.  

Grieving and guilt

I have been thinking about Papaw a lot.  Not in a crying way, or even in a teary way.  Just in a thinking about a lot way.

Of course, a few days after his funeral, I went to the grocery early in the morning and did become a little teary seeing all the old people doing their shopping.  I have such a sweet spot for old folks.

I began to feel guilty because I didn't do this when D's dad died in 2004....or at least I think I didn't.  I've had 12 years to forget how sad I felt then, so maybe I did feel this way and just don't remember.

When D's dad died, it was a complete shock.  He was only 58 years old.  We were all stunned to the core.  That made a difference in how we processed everything, I think.

And I was in the thick of my own mental health breakdown then, so I don't know that I felt anything accurately.  By the time T passed away on Dec 8, I was on medication (though considerably under-dosed) so I think I just felt a sad numbness.  Whatever I felt grief-wise probably got mixed in with what I was feeling or not feeling anyway--it was just a terrible time.

When T died, N was only 9 months old so we'd had very little time to develop a relationship with T as a grandpa.  He was very independent.  He and my MIL went on vacations with their friends and had their own active lives.  As a result of T dying, we enveloped my MIL, having her come to the house one night a week for dinner and going on vacations with us.  I'm certain we'd have a good relationship with my MIL even if T hadn't died, but I'm not sure it would be as tight as it is now.

I think after T died, we all pulled in as a family.  Papaw became the especially special grandpa because he was the only one on that side of the family; he was already loved, but I think in a sense he became revered in T's absence.  For the longest time, my kids didn't understand that Papaw wasn't married to Mamaw; that he was her daddy.  While we only had 9 months of Tommy as grandpa, we had 12, almost 13, years of Papaw as grandpa.

D and I were married 6 years when T passed away; we were married 19 years when Papaw passed.  In addition to 13 years of having him as grandpa to my kids and developing those memories, I knew Papaw almost 3 times as long as T.  That was 3 times as many Christmases and Easters and summer Sundays eating meals together.

I didn't come up with all this explanation on my own.  My feelings of guilt were really bothering me because I felt like I was dishonoring T so I talked to both D and my MIL about it, and they were the ones who kinda went, "Well, duh....this explains it."

Euthanasia blues

The week before our Good Friday and Spring Break vacations from the cottage school, I asked my students to respond to the creative writing prompt:

You try a button on your new cell phone and it opens up a channel of communication between you and the Lord. What do you talk to Him/Her about?

I was surprised by the responses of my 11th/12th graders.  I guess I assume that most Christian homeschooled kids are pretty firm in their beliefs, so I was a bit shocked that rather than praising God, they were questioning, asking why are things this way?  Why do things feel unfair?  Would you really deny salvation to those who have different beliefs?  They sounded like questions I would pose to God.

We talked about how faith, how living, is all about hard questions, complexities that are not easily remedied.  Well, I guess they would be easily remedied if we could all just snap our fingers and "be like Jesus," but that isn't very easy for regular ole humans.   I told them that one of the most maddening things for me, personally, are those people who claim to have a sure answer.  Answers are easy, at least in theory, for them.

For me, life is far too complicated and weird for there to be a pat answer to anything.  We like to think we can live in a black & white world, but most things are grey.

How, for example, do I decide when and if to euthanize our 17-year-old cat, who is absolute skin and bones, and has been in decline for months?  Last night, I came to the basement to find every cushion on the two couches and one overstuffed chair with large urine splotches on them, and Shanks lying in one.  His tummy rumbles like it is going to explode, like I may not want to sit too closely or I might be bathed in cat digestive juices.  He is wobbly on his feet, although he can still make it to his food.

I spoke to an end-of-life vet today.  She says most cats his age have kidney failure.  Cats with a history of chronic vomiting (as he has) often develop intestinal lymphoma (which may be the crazy rumbling/gurgling).

He is not going to "get better."  We're on the downhill slide, and as I know from when Gonzo passed two years ago, there is a very short slip between "seems tolerable" and "Get a vet here this second to put him out of his misery."

There isn't an easy answer to this.  If he couldn't walk or eat, it would be simpler, although Gonzo got like that and it still took us 2 days to call the vet because there is always that hope....that "maybe he'll rally and have a little bit of time left."  I spoon fed Gonzo soft cat food and water trying to help him stick around longer.  I didn't want to make a hard decision.

No one likes to make hard decisions...the grey decisions...the ones most of life is about.  The ones I might like to ask God about if my new smartphone ever opens up that special link of communication. 

Cat poop=OCD explosion=flooring=money anxiety=Christmas

Our cat, Shanks, is approaching 17 years, but I doubt very seriously that he will last much into 2015.  He is absolute skin and bones, and I can tell it is getting harder for him to climb the steps.  Still, he is spirited enough to jump onto the toilet and then the countertop in the kids' bathroom in the hope of getting to sip water from the faucet.

This week he had an episode of diarrhea in the basement, where we keep him at night.
Now I can handle blood.
I can handle vomit.
I can handle snot.
I can handle pus.
I CANNOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES HANDLE POOP.
Basically, anytime I have to deal with poop, be it human or animal, I fight the urge to douse myself from head to toe in isopropyl alcohol.

My brain cannot get poop out of its network, and our light beige 14-year-old Berber carpet in the basement cannot get poop out of its fibers.  Basically, from here on out anytime I see the basement carpet poop stains from our cat, I'm going to go all heeby-jeeby just thinking about the lingering E. coli.

I had already told D that as soon as (like seconds after) Shanks bit the dust, I was going to get new, darker, less-likely-to-show-every-stain carpet in the basement, but this poop thing has changed the plan.  We're getting laminate tile in the basement.  Like now.

The best thing we ever did in this house is pull up the light beige carpet on the main floor and put in hardwood.  (I'm reading Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry right now, and I'm really thinking life was much better in the days before carpet.  Packed dirt floor or wood planks=wonderful concept.)

So, the good thing is new flooring that will clean easier.

The bad thing is that spending money (especially a sizable chunk of change) always, always puts me in a different kind of anxiety spin.  Even when we have the money to spend.  Even though we live in such a way that we don't have any debt except our house payment.

I always think to myself that we're right-smack-in-the-middle-middle class.  But I recently had to admit to myself that we're upper middle class.  Maybe even rich.

I don't like admitting that.  I don't want to be that.

That sounds idiotic.  I want the security that comes with having savings, that comes with money.  I guess what I mean is that I don't want to lose sight of "there but for the grace of God go I."  I don't want to lose sight of other people's struggle, of those I know who are working poor.  Who work hard but live paycheck to paycheck for a variety of reasons.  

And I think having money, having security, makes you lose sight of other people's struggle.  You take for granted all the things you have, and you're not even away that you are taking it for granted.  You are just used to what you know.  Then, when you have occasion to visit someone who lives very, very differently from you, you are reminded:  "We have so much."

For me, the guilt comes next.  Even though I know that D and I make choices to live as we do, I also am fully aware that we were lucky.  We had functional families, not broken by divorce, which in and of itself, changes the economic dynamic of a person.  We had parents who did everything in their power to support our education: encouraging us, paying for it.  We were given a foundation that automatically gave us a leg up over others.

We didn't have unanticipated pregnancies when we were starting out or health issues or anything beyond our control that can lead to financial problems.

So even though we try to make smart financial choices now, and have been trying to for the past 17 years of our marriage, we had decades of fortune behind us that were often out of our control.

And, perhaps, this is one of the reasons why I struggle so with Christmas, with the story of Christmas, of the poor couple coming with virtually nothing into an unknown land, an unanticipated pregnancy, with everything hopeful that such a story could entail....of being cared for by others.

But along with that the knowledge that Christmas has become such a materialistic, consumer-driven, outdoing others, look-at-what-I-got occasion that drives so many people into debt, further into living paycheck-to-paycheck.

This is how my brain operates.  Cat poop leads to all this thinking.  

School lunches

Once a week G hassles me to come eat lunch with him.  So I do.

And sadly it is sort of a treat for me to eat a public school lunch.  

I dislike kitchen work to the extent that I don't even want to fix myself a sandwich.  

(For those of my friends who are amazed at how much "energy" I have because I write and read books and do house-related projects, I want you to let that sentence sink in: 

Too lazy to fix own sandwich.)

School lunches get a lot of flack for being tasteless or unhealthy, but I haven't found them to be that way.  

I'm in no way suggesting it is the stuff of Michelin-starred restaurants, but they are better than some of the crap I see kids bring from home.

Today I noticed the boy across from me was eating a Lunchable that included Oreo cookies.  

Now I am not a fan of Lunchables mostly because I can give my kids pepperoni and crackers for WAY less than $4.  I also don't think they are a terribly healthy choice since if they come with a fruit or vegetable at all it is an overprocessed one.  (N is allowed 1 Lunchable per year; G and M don't know what they are.)

But one Lunchable in and of itself is not the end of a kid's nutritional life.  

However, what I really noticed was that the kid also had a container of Hunts puddling, a sandwich baggie of Fruit Loops, and a package of fruit chew snacks in his lunch box.

It was at that point that I thought, "Holy f*cking cow!  That is a lot of junk in one lunch."

I'm a label reader for one reason:  my gestational diabetes when I was pregnant with N.  It changed me for life.  I also happen to be writing an article about kids and nutrition for a local magazine, so it is on my mind.

It is my nature to internally rag myself about what I could be doing better as a mom and as a person, in general, which is probably everything.  

But I now try to use comparative analysis to help me feel like I suck a little less.  

When I feel like I'm not a very fit person, I read this, even though I know it is geared to an older population.  But hey, I'm 40 now.  

When I feel like a terrible dresser, I read this.  (Although I should probably review my state just to make sure I haven't actually made the site with my own brand of "I don't care what I throw on.")  

When I feel like a terrible mom for fussing at my kids, I read (WARNING: if you have postpartum mood issues and aren't in full recovery, you better skip) this.  

And evidently, when I feel like I'm not feeding my kids all that is good and wholesome, I just need to go eat lunch with my kindergartener.  

Wrestling with lack of sympathy

Our neighborhood is very quiet, so the police cars, ambulance and blocking off of the south entrance with police tape this past week was cause for much discussion.

During the night, a guy and gal in their early twenties were apparently riding a motorcycle/motorbike down the parkway that parallels our neighborhood, doing excessive speed (I've heard suggestions of 120 mph).  The driver lost control of the bike, his passenger hit the sound barrier and died instantly (we are told).  He continued on the bike, knocked over a small evergreen tree as he drove behind the sound barrier, was thrown or fell off the bike (which then continued on until it, too, fell over).

The neighbor noticed the bodies early the next morning.  No helmets.

The site of the accident, specifically the sound barrier and the destroyed evergreen, have become the homes of makeshift memorials.  Cemetery flowers, small balloons, homemade crosses.

People have been visiting the site, parking along the entrance of the neighborhood.

This morning the friends and family of the victims will be participating in a funeral ride of ATVs, motorbikes, motorcycles on the way to the funeral home, which will include passing by and stopping at the accident site.

And I know this is wrong, I know my feelings are not charitable or sympathetic or kind, but the whole thing really aggravates me.

First, the shallow thing.

I hate, hate makeshift memorials that I see lining highways and expressways.  Aside from looking tacky, they are a distraction to drivers, as if drivers need any more distractions besides their cell phones.

Second, the annoying thing.

In general, even in circumstances that are not this particular one, I'm not sure I understand the need to see the accident site of fatalities.  When family dies in the hospital, it is not customary to visit the hospital room in which the person died.  We have funeral homes and cemeteries for this purpose, to pay respect to the dead and to support the family.  I suspect it is the shock of the event that causes people to feel the need to see "where it happened."  Having never experienced this, I have a hard time understanding this need.

The annoying thing, for me anyway, is that the site of this accident is not a highway or expressway.  It is a neighborhood.  People parking right at the entrance and wandering around is both distracting and dangerous to the drivers who are pulling into the neighborhood.  As much as I hate that I feel annoyed by these folks, who are doing what they feel they need to do to assuage their grief, I feel annoyed nonetheless.

Third, the "this just makes me an asshole" thing.

If there is anyone for whom I feel great sympathy, it is the child of the motorbike driver, whom I believe is 4 years old.  Not only do I feel sympathy for her because she lost her dad, I feel sympathy for her because I wonder how secure her life has been up to this point.  Her dad was 18 when she was born, and I don't think anyone is ready for the responsibility of parenthood when still a teenager.  I'm 40, and I have many times when I think I am not ready for this responsibility.
It makes me angry that this guy did have a daughter and yet was running around on a Monday night in the wee hours with his girlfriend, driving without a helmet on a motorbike, using excessive speed.  I can't muster a whole lot of sympathy for the victims.  It was an accident waiting to happen.

And I feel guilty for thinking all this stuff.

Thinking things Lenten

Prior to today, it had been since early February that I made it to church with the kids so Lent snuck up on me.  The only reason I knew it was coming was from Facebook, the only place I ever find out what is going on culturally/socially.  Not watching televised news tends to keep a person one step behind the masses, which is not really a bad thing.

A number of people I know have given up Facebook for Lent, while others are giving up beer or whatever vice or distraction rings important to them.

I, however, do not ever give up anything for Lent.  Ever.

I very much remember in college fasting on Ash Wednesday(s) which made me, an already moody individual, feel like I was going off the chain.  A hungry moody person is the pits.

So much of my relationship with religion has been doing things I didn't want to do only out of guilt or pressure, and I have come to the place now where I think that is a really shitty way of trying to be a better person and forging a sense of conscience, morality and Jesus-like-ness.

I tend to live a pretty moderate life.  I don't drink alcohol with any great frequency. I don't smoke.  I don't spend money on purses or shoes or jewelry or going out to movies.  My time on Facebook tends to be pretty limited most days, unless it is a snow-day in which case FB acts as the barrier that keeps me and Child Protective Services apart (and that, no doubt, is a good thing).

If I did give up something, I would be doing it only out of guilt.  And I won't do that anymore.

For me to adopt things I should do instead of things I shouldn't do.....well, I try to do that anyway.  I try to be as nice and supportive of people as I can.  I try to be thoughtful and give to others of my time and talents.  If I gave too much of my treasure, I would be doing so out of guilt....and, to reiterate, I'm not following that path anymore.

I am a problem-child, for sure.

..........Seque.........

N asked me the other day if we are Catholic or Christian since a school friend of hers asked.  I said that I was raised Catholic, and we attend a Christian church.  I could have gone into much further explanation of how she is not an official Christian because she hasn't been baptized, that according to the "rules" I am the only one in the household who will go to heaven because I am the only one who has been baptized, although this would be Catholic heaven, and I can't speak to whether I would go to Christian heaven.  I could have explained how Catholic falls under the umbrella of Christian, that they are not mutually exclusive but to instead think of them as the brand names of belief.

But I didn't because she is 10.  I think so much of this is rubbish myself so why strap that to her back?

......Segue......again......

As an English teacher, I find myself getting bound up in the language of religion, a real sticking point with me sometimes.  I recently read this article, which I enjoyed and agreed with.  Feeling blessed or being blessed is the trend phrase of the moment, like "just sayin" or "I KNOW, right?"  As with those, I become very tired of "blessed" and its overuse.

Blessed is something done TO someone.  When I sneeze, someone blesses me.  If I went to service or mass, I would be blessed by the priest or minister.

Grateful/thankful is something experienced by us.  God does what God does, and we can be thankful for it.  But if God blesses my family with good health, is God then cursing another family whose child died of leukemia?

Without meaning to, the overuse of the word blessing has perpetuated the idea of the "haves" and "have-nots."

Yes, it is splitting hairs, but as teaching English again reminds me, so many of the words we use paint a picture that we may not fully understand.

To go along with this is my great dislike of the phrase "too blessed to be stressed."

I could go on and on (and I have, in this blog) about feeling like because of happenstance, being born in the US in the historical time I was born in to parents who raised me as they did, I am not allowed to feel whatever it is I feel at any given time.  As if having running water and food in the fridge makes me utterly immune to grief or despair or anger or anxiety or any of the negatives associated with just.simply.being.human.

To continue this discussion of religious semantics, another phrase that weirds me out is when people say things like "God spoke to me and told me...."

By saying "God told me to," it removes the individual's own free will from the discussion. Doing what God says is all well and good until and unless someone says "God told me to......hijack an airplane."  And this is why I have a problem with this line of speaking.  Too many people do (and have done) too many terrible things in the name of God.  So when I hear someone speak in this way, even though they are probably very good people who mean no ill by it, it makes me think they are Crusaders and generally pretty extreme.....and generally should be avoided.

It makes me want to ask (which I never do), does God tell you everything to do?  Did God tell you to paint your wall eggplant instead of fuschia?  How do you know it was actually God and not your own sense of self, your own desires which are strong enough that they might seem like God directly whispering into your ear?  Having OCD I know that just because something pings in my head 10,000 times doesn't mean it is God going, "Carrie, listen to me!!  Carrie, listen to me!!"  That is just my brain on its OCD rotation.

We are all guilty of thinking we know what God wants for us, which makes us all a little too big for our collective britches. I tend to believe God has bigger and better things on his omniscient plate than me and my piddly issues, and so for this reason, I have a world of uncomfortable feelings whenever I hear someone speak this way.

Sometimes it is laughable how hung up I get over authority, control and semantics when it comes to God.  It's not you, God....it's me.

OT update and pursuing psychological tests

G has been doing OT for about a month and enjoys it, which is good since there is no convincing I have to do to get him to go without a fight.

I was finally able to speak with a high school friend of mine whose son also has sensory issues (we had been trying to coordinate a phone chat but snow days kept hindering our ability to speak without little ears around).  She was willing to lend me her expertise, which I appreciate tremendously.  Based on her suggestion, I have decided to pursue psychological testing, if for no other reason than to rule out what G isn't experiencing and make sure we aren't missing anything, like a learning disability.

As hesitant as I am to "label" him with anything, I also know what a relief it was for me to finally get a "label" at age 30 when I was diagnosed with OCD and generalized anxiety. It gave me a place to hang my hat, in a sense, a way to know what to manage in myself and how.  For me and D, I think knowing a diagnosis will help us better understand how to help him and hopefully keep us more patient.  Plus, the only way for G to get help, if he needs anything beyond what we're already doing, like an IEP at school, is to have that clinical diagnosis.

The other thing we're going to do is have G's occupational therapist work with him on feeding issues (another suggestion my friend made).  His food repertoire is terribly small. For health and social reasons, it will benefit him to expand his palate.

As much as I appreciate my friend's advice, the bigger thing I appreciate is her empathy.  I have a terrible tolerance for handling things (hmmmm, I wonder where my kid gets it?), but I don't always think people understand how challenging it can be to have a child with sensory issues, especially when the child seems relatively "normal" out in public.  I have much greater understanding of parents whose kids are more on the "weirder" edge of normal spectrum.

In the battery of forms you fill out when a child is experiencing developmental issues, there are constant questions about what the pregnancy was like and what the birth was like, all of which intimately involve me.  For better or worse, a mother can't help but wonder, "What did I do? What did I not do that I should have?"  For me, because of my antidepressant use, there is always that worry whether those impacted G in some way.  My friend was very quick to remind me that 1. it isn't me and 2. living with kids who have these issues is a challenge for anyone.

Thursday morning, after Monday's snow day and Tuesday's early dismissal and Wednesday's snow day, was a nightmare.  A full 40 minutes (not 5 minutes that feels like 40) was a screaming, crying, hitting and kicking at me tantrum by G who said repeatedly, "The roads look exactly the same as they did yesterday when we didn't have school!"  I couldn't argue with him because the roads did look exactly the same, but factors beyond his control and my control (the school district) decided school was a "go."  It took both D and me to wrestle him into his clothes.  G's frustration sends him directly into his id, his caveman instinct to fight or flee, and it takes much time and patience to get him back into homo sapiens sapiens mode.  (This is why I'm wearing an occlusal guard so I don't crack any more teeth.)

This caveman behavior is typical in a 3-year-old.  It lessens as a child gets to be 4 and 5.  But in a tall kid, half my size who is 6, he needs to be moving more into better ways to funnel his feelings, and he is not.  On top of this is the sensory persnicketiness.  Screaming if shoes aren't tied tightly enough.  Tantrums if clothes rub him the wrong way.  Certain perseverating behaviors that will drive a person who already has OCD almost insane.  Hence the OT and the psychologist visits and the move for testing.

Raising a child is always a balancing act between tending to his/her needs/issues while still keeping the parent's needs/issues in check.  Any kind of anomaly or abnormality or difficulty ramps that challenge up.  

Within the realm of normal and hazy parenting filters

From my own personal experience, I know there is a fine line between quirky and mental illness, and I suspect the same can be said of behavior disorders.

G has his share of quirks but most of the time the odder ones happen every few months which is just enough time in between for me to forget the previous one.  Recently, though, he had two episodes within a 24-hour-period.

He has issues with museums or anyplace that has 1. dark spaces and 2. life-style statues.  We have learned to adjust.  Either G closes his eyes and allows us to guide him through or he calmly refuses to go and either D or I goes with the kid(s) who want to continue.  A few weeks ago he did the closed eyes/guide "dog" routine at a national park's visitor center.

The following day, however, he really and truly freaked out when I took him, N and one of her friends to the movie theater.  By the time we got there, the previews were on.  We started climbing the steps to the stadium-like seats and G freaked out--screaming, covering his ears with his hands, squinching his eyes tightly shut.  He has seen movies in a theater before but never after the lights dimmed and the images were on the screen.  I got N and her friend settled and then removed G.  He was perfectly fine once we were in the lobby.

I informed N' friend's mom of the incident because I didn't want the girl saying something on the order of, "N's mom left us in the movie alone," or something of that nature and the girl's mom worrying.  To make a long story short, the mom asked if I had ever considered getting G evaluated for a sensory processing disorder.

G certainly has his fair share of sensory issues (demands seamless socks, must have tennis shoes extremely tight on his feet, has texture issues with food, etc), so I began a short period of worry over whether G needs occupational therapy.  Fortunately my worry was short-lived.  Talking with his preschool teacher and an OT specialist at the public school system helped me feel better that, despite his peculiarities, G is within the realm of normal.

To be sure, about a month into kindergarten, an OT will come to G's classroom to observe him and consult with his teacher to ensure everything is ok, but I feel better after hearing someone who deals with a large number of children tell me G sounds like a normal kid with normal fears and relatively minor sensory issues.

A few days ago I attended a parenting seminar at N's school, and this too, helped me see G through a slightly different and hopefully clearer lens.  What the child psychologist said wasn't anything I haven't already heard or read before, but something just clicked for me while listening to him speak, as well we the experiences of some of the other parents.

Of the three kids, at this point in time, G is my challenge, and in all honesty he has been for a number of years. I think that this has caused me to have a "Difficult Child Filter" that comes over my vision whenever G does anything.  Even if he is not being challenging or difficult, I tend to think whatever he is doing is more challenging and difficult just because it is G doing it.

Aside from causing me a lot of angst, this filter is unfair to G because it taints my experiences with him and how I view him in the grand scheme of our family life.

Listening to some of the other parents discuss their children's "issues," such as a child throwing such loud and disruptive tantrums in elementary class that she has to be removed almost every day, helped me see that while G can be annoying, he is not a "problem" child in the least.  The biggest problem for awhile, I think, has been my perception of G.

I have felt relief at these "revelations" about G and myself, even though I also feel like a bit of a turd for having been wearing such a filter.  Of course I didn't intentionally wear it or even understand that I was wearing it, but momma guilt is gonna have its way with me regardless.

Perhaps it was this relief that made G's "graduation" from preschool last night so meaningful to me.  He was SUCH a corker, smiling with a mile-wide grin on the stage, waving to me and M and N during the performance, wearing his blue tie and looking like such a handsome little man.  I cannot help but adore all the strange little quirks that make him the interesting, funny and sometimes annoying little boy he is.

I was (and am) so immensely proud of him.

You're still allowed to wallow even after tragedy strikes others

There are times when it takes everything in me not to fall apart.

The tragedies are not mine, but between the Boston Marathon bombing and the suicide of a 13-year-old girl who attended a nearby school, I feel tremendous sadness.

I momentarily think I should not complain about being woken up 4 times between 5:20 a.m. and 5:37 a.m. today.

But I decide that while I am grieving for others inside, I am not going to discount my feelings about my own life.  It is possible to feel gratitude for my life and still want to scream at my temporary dissatisfaction with my life at the same time.  If there is anything I've learned since having children, it is that feeling two diametrically opposed emotions concurrently is not only possible, it is par for the parenting course.  Maybe I always understood this, but being a mother makes me understand it to a degree I didn't comprehend in my childless days.

I think that if any of us could speak to our ancestors they would probably smack our cheeks and call us pussies.  Even those among us who have suffered terrible things would likely be put in our places by our ancestors.  Parents who have lost a child might feel their grief pales in comparison to parents of old who lost 4 and 5 children to measles or diptheria.  People who work two jobs to maintain their health insurance might feel their fatigue pales in comparison to people of old who began working at age 6 in the mines.

Shoot, we don't even have to look as far as our own history.  We can look at millions of people who live in the world in this day and age and find plenty of opportunities to discredit any feeling we might have that isn't constant gratitude.

But I refuse to disavow my own experience because I don't suffer as deeply or as long or in the same way as others.

I hope there is wisdom in being able to hold all these oppositional emotions and recognize that each of them, in their own way, has value.  

Oh, the raising of sons

I hear people lament the difficulty of raising girls, but for me, for now, my challenge is these boys.  I should have known what was to come when G moved so much in utero at 15 weeks of pregnancy that I became motion sick.

Today I began reading, Wild Things:  The Art of Nurturing Boys, and I have to say that it made me feel tremendously better to read the following on page xi:

Plato, the ancient Greek philosopher writes, 'Of all animals, the boy is the most unmanageable, inasmuch as he has the fountain of reason in him not yet regulated.' Can we get an amen?  As a general rule, boys are more difficult to rear than girls.  They are tougher to parent.  They are tougher to teach.  They are tougher to relate with.  They are tougher to mentor and coach.

This winter has been a real challenge for me.  It has been difficult to get out to do active things with them, and keeping them inside while I try to tend to household chores is just giving myself more work to do.

My boys, and I daresay most boys, are roughnecks, with me and each other.  Rather than hug me, they run at me and jump into my chest and arms.  They smack my butt and punch my belly, and while they do it with love and affection, it gets oh so tiring.

When they are not being physically rough, they are yelling or roaring or growling at the top of their lungs.  Every day of my life is an experience in sensory overload.

I have moments of brilliance when I feel like I am being a really good mom of boys.

Like Monday, when I needed to clean the master bathroom and decided to try to contain the chaos and mess in one room (since normally as I clean up one room they destroy 3 other rooms of the house).  I had the boys strip to their undies/diapers and get into their bathtub sitting on a large towel.  I filled their bath toy bowls with shaving cream and let them have at it.  The only rule was that they could not get out of the tub.

Later on during that freakishly warm February day I took them to the park where they ran themselves ragged on the playground equipment, and we walked around exploring rocks and trees.

But most of the time I feel like I'm not meeting their needs and being worn down to a nub in the process.  

The longest "job" I've ever had

It occurred to me yesterday that being a stay-at-home mom is the longest job I've ever had.  After college, I was an editor at an online publishing company for 5 years, then a 6th grade Language Arts teacher for 4.  In February 2013, I will have been staying at home as long as my first two "careers" combined.

I feel that I'm burnt out, but my burn out is mostly with summer....the endless fucking summer.  I suspect that once school begins and the season begins to change and I have a routine back, I will snap out of this funk.

Still, I know that I don't have the energy, motivation or patience that I did when I first began this "job" 8.5 years ago.  Although I feel a tremendous amount of guilt that I lack the enthusiasm I felt when I was a mom of only 1 child, I think in some ways the kids are better for it.  I don't think I did N any favors by being completely obsessed with her and "in.her.face." constantly.  There's something to be said for children understanding that their parents have their own personal needs and interests outside of the kids.

Despite this burnout, I don't want to work outside the home....not for another few years and probably not on a full-time basis until the kids are in college.  I don't think my mental state, my stress level, my patience, would be any better if I spent all day away from my kids, in the classroom working with other kids, and then coming home to my kids, attempting to meet all their needs and then managing the teaching-related stuff I'd have after hours.

And financially, it simply doesn't make sense for me to pay for childcare just so I can go make minimum wage at Old Navy and know that I am away from my children so that I can fold clothes, which I will then have to do at home later on, after my shift is over.

Over the past 2-3 weeks, I had had at least 3 dreams in which I'm fretting over what job I will get because in the dream I've just been let go from another job.

Clearly, I've got a lot stirring under my cap.  

I don't have to do it all

N's elementary school is having their winter festival this weekend.  For weeks we've been getting information about volunteering to work at the festival, sending in goodies for the cake walks, donating 2-liters for the ring toss game, donating items for the class gift baskets.  The festival is a ton of work, and I am forever amazed at the time and energy the festival chair and her helpers give for its success.

I worked the first year N attended school there, when M was a baby, mostly because he was immobile and therefore much less work for D and the grandparents (who have always gone to the festival with us).  Last year and this year, I've donated items.

This go round I donated a game from my gift box stash (N's class has a "Game Night" basket to be auctioned off).  Today I am making 2 cakes for the cake walks.  I already sent in two 2-liter bottles of soda.

Yesterday, a red URGENT sheet was sent home saying more items are needed for the class auction baskets.  Every class and their respective basket themes were listed.  So I called the class mom to see if our class basket really needs something since the sheet was so urgently general.

She said she didn't know, and that I should check with the teacher.

Now having been a teacher, I know that Mrs. B. has far more important  things to do than rummage through donations to see just how floofed out the class auction basket will be.  I am not going to bother her with this.

So I debated whether to go to Target and purchase something else, or whether to sort through my gift box to see if I could find another game to donate.

And I decided to do neither.

Because I already donated.
Because I am not the only parent with children in that class (or in that school).
Because I couldn't get an answer on whether or not something was actually truly needed for N's class basket.

While I think all of these are valid reasons to not go above & beyond, I still feel a little guilty.

Which is stupid.

Is there a purpose in judgment and guilt?

Well, once again, without intending to, I posted a quote and caused a little stir on Facebook.  I think my epithet will be something along the lines of.....

She had OCD and GAD.

She tried to be a good mom.

She posted Facebook comments that incited the masses.  

My comment was a quote by Elizabeth Gene:  

"Women should not feel guilty if they are unable to nurse their baby, but they should feel guilty if they are unwilling to do so, and they should be intellectually honest enough to know the difference." ~ 

And the comments that resulted from this status update have had me thinking all day about guilt, making judgments about others, and the purposes these two things serve.   Or if there is a purpose.

I. The Reason I Posted the Quote

If you know me at all, you know I am an ardent breastfeeding supporter.  Breastfeeding is what nature intended for babies to have.  We have not evolved enough for this to no longer be true.  Breastfeeding is normal and natural, and modern life has screwed with the process.  Women were designed to be with their babies (or very near their babies) pretty much constantly....but that is not the way life is anymore...for better or worse.

So here is basically where I stand---

Do I think breastfeeding is what nature intended for babies to have and is better than the alternatives?  Yes, I do. 

Do I think moms who don't breastfeed are bad moms?  No, I don't.

Do I think breastfeeding is the be-all and end-all of motherhood and determines whether a child develops into a wonderful person?  No, I don't.

Do I think some women really give it everything they have and simply cannot produce enough milk?  Yes, I do.

Do I think some women can and do produce enough milk and choose not to breastfeed because it is time-consuming and initially inconvenient?  Yes, I do.

Do I wish women would be honest enough to say the truth of their breastfeeding experience, such as "I have a medical condition that made me unable to breastfeed even though I would have liked to" or "I didn't want to breastfeed and I don't feel guilty about it."  Yes, I do.

Because what most women say is "I couldn't breastfeed," which lumps everyone together.  Those women who really, really desperately wanted to but who's milk supply dried up and physically couldn't do it.  Those women who think breasts are solely for sex and were disgusted by the idea of their baby suckling.  Those women who only did it for 2 weeks and stopped because they were tired of having their baby constantly want to suckle and preferred for someone else to be able to give the baby a bottle so they could get out.  

There is an ocean-size difference between couldn't and didn't want to.  And I think this is the real gist of the quote I posted.  

The sad thing is that when everyone is lumped together like this, those women who really, really wanted to but really physically couldn't don't get the supportive comments, the consideration of their grief (which is what they experience when they didn't get to breastfeed), the encouragement from moms who also shared similar experiences or moms who had successful breastfeeding experiences and could potentially help them out.  

II. Guilt

I know moms who breastfed, moms who couldn't breastfeed, and moms who didn't want to breastfeed.  I think these moms are all good, caring, dedicated, loving moms.  While I do not necessarily understand not wanting to breastfeed or stopping after 2-3 weeks, this doesn't make me think any less of these moms.  

I only wish that everyone could be fortunate enough to be able to experience a close, successful breastfeeding relationship because my experience has been so wonderful.  I know that not everyone can, and some people simply don't want, an experience like mine.  But I can still wish.  

If moms feel any guilt related to breastfeeding or anything else they do as a mom, it is not because I and my opinion (which in reality is only important to me) have anything to do with it.  Guilt comes from within.  As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."  I think this applies to guilt.  Lord knows I guilt myself into plenty without anyone having to say a single, solitary word to me.  

III.  Judging Others

Everyone judges people.  It is human nature.  I make judgments all the time.  I judge people who don't recycle when I know they can afford to.  People who don't take care of weeding their front flower beds.  People who register as Republicans.  People who spend as much money sending their kids to Christian K-12 schools as I will sending 3 kids to college.  People who think Tom Cruise is a great actor.  People who smoke.  People who are overweight.  People who have pets and allow them to run loose in the neighborhood.  

I know that everyone has their own reasons for making the choices they do.  And I am not privy to those reasons.

So maybe the very overweight person in front of me in the grocery line has rheumatoid arthritis and difficulty managing pain, thereby making it nearly impossible to exercise.  Do I eye their food choices questioningly when I see lots of chips and soft drinks?  Yes, I do.  Because my wish is that people will eat healthier in general and exercise more (to feel better, to lower health care costs.)  Do I get frustrated when I see people in my neighborhood not recycling?  Yes, I do.  Because my wish is that we all become more careful about reducing our waste.  

I know that I am judged for the things I do or don't do.  For having a crucifix hanging in my hall when I refuse to attend any kind of church.  For not getting "fixed up" to go out in public.  For being pro-Obama.  For being something of a dowdy housewife who's mental energy is probably more wrapped up in her children's lives than it should be.

And so sometimes I think maybe I shouldn't say what I think.  Maybe I should just keep my thoughts to myself.  I mean, I have this blog, right?  Isn't that enough?

For me, though, Facebook is a quick little 5-minute escape from the monotony of fixing cheese sandwiches every day, reading the same Diego book 40 times a day, dealing with the sassiness of my 6-year-old, being stuck inside on a rainy day.

As much as I hate the idea of sparking conflict, it does me a world of good to occasionally have something poignant or heated to think about.  To assess my feelings and thoughts and beliefs.  To reflect on what kind of person I really am at heart.  To understand where another person is coming from.

This blog serves that same purpose but I've been crafting this particular post for almost 3 hours now.  Interrupted hours, but hours nonetheless.

Facebook is the only kind of quickie I do right now.

A plethora of frustration

I have a hard time reconciling myself to my emotions, how they can be all over the map on any given day.  And by this I mean any given completely uneventful day, a day chock full of normalcy.
When life throws me unexpected curveballs or is in any way out of the routine, I become emotionally sunk, unable to manage the complexities of what I am feeling.

How can I be doing exactly what I want to do and still feel pangs of misery at the same time?
How can I possibly feel guilt and a profound sense of no-guilt at the exact same moment?
It completely defies all logic to me.
Hence, my emotional state.

Towards the end of high school and into college I went through a stage of reading E.M. Forster novels, and one of the things I so related to in the characters was how mixed up and emotionally discombobulated they were.  Like them, I am muddled.

Two months out, D is still having pain and discomfort from his vasectomy.  He is going for an ultrasound on Tuesday and a follow-up with the urologist on Thursday of next week.  Depending on what the u/s finds, he may have to have more surgery.  What we have always heard as being a quick, almost pain-free in-office procedure has turned into a small nightmare for both of us (large nightmare for him since he is the one suffering from discomfort).  There is an actual condition called Post-Vasectomy Pain Syndrome (PVP).  How nice of life to allow us to become aware of this highly uncommon acronym.

I keep thinking maybe I should have had my tubes tied in October.  Or maybe I should have looked into Essure.  But I know my brain, and I know my body.  Had I gotten my tubes tied immediately after M's birth, my anxiety over "what if something happens to the baby?" would have been through the roof.  And if I have learned anything about myself in the past 6 years, it is do whatever I can to minimize my anxiety.  Don't purposely do things to increase it.

And in terms of physical side effects, I can't even wear earrings or use sunscreen/most types of soap without having unpleasant allergic reactions to the metals and/or chemicals in them.  Let's block my fallopian tubes with a metal clip or other foreign substance and see what happens.  I never even considered an IUD because of the metal and what havoc the hormones would play on my mind.  I would have gone back on the pill but D doesn't trust that anymore (a'la Unexpected Baby M).  And what married couple likes the idea of using condoms until menopause is good and complete?

I have talked to enough of my mom friends to know that I am not alone is being mostly (95%) uninterested in sex.  So it just felt like why should I be responsible for preventing pregnancy anymore?  I keep asking myself if I was selfish in not taking steps to become sterile.  Maybe I was.  And so I feel guilt.  But didn't want to be and don't want to be responsible for this anymore.  And so I don't feel guilt at the exact same time.

But I want D to feel better.  To not be in pain.  To feel as he did on April 29th.  Except be completely sterile.

And then there is the frustration of being a SAHM mom in the summer.  I want to be a stay-at-home mom.  I love my kids.  I would not want to deal with all the logistics and exhaustion of having to work outside the home and still be responsible for 98% of work inside the home.  I am doing exactly what I want to do....being able to witness and experience my children growing up on a daily basis.

But sometimes I just want a minute's peace.  I just want a string of a couple days in which there is no sleep-deprivation coupled with little one's boo-boos and bad moods and fights over toys and teething.  I get tired of meeting my family's needs for clean laundry, stocked groceries in the cupboard, warm meals every night, and the desire for me to tend to their emotional and physical needs without allowing for me to tend to my own with any regularity.

How can I be mostly content and somewhat miserable at the same time?

My parents are going on a 2-week vacation this month, and my MIL will be out of town for a bit as well (plus she has responsibilities of owning her own business), so the folks on whom I ask for help will be unavailable.  And D has enough on his plate at the moment without me asking him for help because in addition to his condition he has jury duty the next 2 weeks.

So I feel the heaviness of my village temporarily picking up and moving, leaving me solely responsible for tending to the children.  The follow-up tube surgery visit, the 9-month well visit, the 9-month pictures, the annual cats' vet visit, and the sundry details of just normal life without all these extra goings-on.  Throw in a possible surgery for D just to fray the ends of my nerves a little more?

And what makes me especially angry with myself is that none of this is life-threatening.  The end of days is not nigh.

It is normal stressors with a few curveballs.

Making me face up to how poorly I deal.

The summer shouldas

Alas, it is the start of summer break from school so in addition to tending to the littles, I am playing concierge to the 6-year-old in an attempt to keep her occupied.  So that she doesn't drive me to drink before 10:00 a.m.


I have been reading some of my mom friends' blogs, and they are so "on it" in terms of their summer scheduling and planning.  Like every day of the week has a theme, like Field-Trip Fridays.  And they have arts & craft activities planned for their children.  And chores for them to do every day.  

And even though this planning sounds REALLY appealing to me, as I am hyper-organized in most every respect, I just can't stomach the idea of being this organized in terms of my stay-at-home routine.  Or lack of routine.

Whenever I read one of their posts, I think, "I should really try to do (whatever it is my friends have been doing.)"  But then I am hit with a wave of anxiety and stress at the prospect of planning much of anything.

I am a little jealous of their preparation and execution, even if the plan doesn't turn out exactly as they want.

I just don't have it in me, which is really funny because I used to be SUCH a planner.  I'd call friends to make plans to have dinner like 6 weeks' out when there was absolutely no reason to do so.  Not like we were going to the trendiest restaurant in town or anything.

So I get a slight case of the "shouldas," thinking I should be more like my mom friends, even though it wouldn't provide me any pleasure or ease to do so.

I marvel at how much being a mom has changed me.  And how super freaking awesome antidepressant medication can be for helping a Type-A gal chill the hell out.

Gimme Whipper

I discourage my children from getting the gimmes.  My refrain is, "You can ask for x, y or z for your birthday or Christmas."  Those are the times when you get stuff.

Lord knows, my kids don't do without.  They have clothes, and they can always finagle books out of me.  But I don't buy them toys or other things with any regularity.

Whipping the gimmes out of myself is also something I've done for years and years.  And I'm so good at it that when I do decide that I really, really, really want something.....like new flooring on my main floor of the house....it is like a constant battle in my head.

The Gimme Whipper has plenty of ammo to discourage me from getting the floor.  The earthquake in Haiti is a constant reminder of how wasteful it is to get new flooring when so many people have nothing, absolutely nothing.

The Gimme Whipper also uses possible health care scenarios as fear tactics to make me reconsider flooring.  Like if M has to have tubes put in later this year (since at 3-months-old he is on his 2nd ear infection).  It would be more prudent to hang onto the money for surgery expenses than a new floor.

But I really want new flooring.  And I keep telling the GW that I'm not going into debt so I'm not being irresponsible.  And that getting rid of the carpet might actually help our allergies (since G and M are likely going to have problems with allergies as well, if they don't already).  And that I'm being very diligent about trying to really save so that I won't deplete every penny in our account to get new flooring.

Gimme Whipper doesn't care.  He just keeps beating and beating the desire right outta me.

Mother guilt=insomnia

Today D stayed home from work with the intent to get some fix-it things done around the house. I was gonna take N and G to the pool. N wanted D to go with us, so honey-dos were put on hold for awhile.

I guess with D being home, I was out of my normal "get the kids ready for the pool" routine. N got sunburned on her shoulders, arms and neck. All evening, I have been thinking, "I need to get better sunscreen," and "I need to reapply to her more often while we're in the water."

It just occurred to me and D that I didn't put sunscreen on her AT ALL! I did her face but completely forgot the rest of her body. I told D to do G, so he is fine, but N looks like a little lobster. Of course, D says to me in a kind-of exasperated, I can't believe you did something so stupid voice, "Well, Carrie," making me feel even worse (but I have to remind myself that he could have taken the initiative and done her after he finished G so I'll take 95% of the blame but not the full load).

Ohhhh, the GUILT!!! I am so upset now after realizing that she didn't have any sunscreen on. I honestly don't think I'll be able to sleep. I'll have to go to WebMD and research sunburns and skin cancer risk. Tomorrow I'm going out first thing and buying a boat-fucking-load of sunscreen.

Ohhh, my heart seriously hurts over this. I know it sounds like I am exaggerating but I totally feel rotten. How could I have forgotten? DUMB! DUMB! DUMB!

A true range of emotions

In a perfect world, I would have no need for my antidepressant. I wouldn't have OCD or GAD or the depression that sneaks along with them when they get bad. But there is no perfect world, so I take my antidepressant and apply my skills from therapy to help me get through my anxious moments and crazy moods. There are very few times when I wonder whether my AD is a good thing for me, but sometimes I have a momentary doubt as I did yesterday. (And then I regain my senses, fortunately.)

N wouldn't take a nap. Lord knows she needed one and I needed some quiet time, but I guess we missed the window of opportunity by taking too long at Target. When she refuses to nap it always puts me in an irritable mood. Before my staying at home, I remember how long work days felt when I didn't get a lunch break in, but this is worse because at least in an outside-the-house job, I knew it was over at 5:00 or when the school bell rang. The mommy job doesn't have such a neat fixed daily timeline.

Now when I have had my quiet time and she has rested, I am able to withstand her saying, "Mommy watch this" 200 times without breaking a sweat. And I just move around her if she is under my feet. However, on a no-nap, no-break day, I am far less patient with her...much more snippy or critical, I guess.

And this is where it comes in.... THE GUILT. Yes, stupid guilt over feeling an emotion that is not all light and roses because I worry what N seeing me have that negative emotion is going to do to her. As if it is healthy for her to see her mother NEVER get tired or frustrated or irritable. Hell, did 2 years of therapy teach me nothing????? How is she ever going to learn that her emotions are normal and acceptable if I never allow mine to appear in their full range and have N see how I cope or struggle to cope. Isn't this a wonderful teachable moment for both of us???

Of course, this guilt is 2-faced because then I think, "Maybe it is bad for me to take my AD because N doesn't get to see a fuller range of moods because the AD keeps me more stable than the yo-yo I would be otherwise?" Wait a minute!!! Didn't the guilt just try to make me feel badly about having a negative emotion, but now it suggests I should go off my AD and let N experience lots of my bad emotions??? What the fuck???

And then I decide that I need to take control of this situation in my head because my brain has gotten way too out of sorts. I have to talk myself down. Geez, it is a lot of work being in my head. OK, you stupid brain...listen up!

Everybody needs a break in a workday, especially stay-at-home moms. That quiet time is golden and it fucks my routine when I don't get it (and it is ok to be pissed that N won't nap), and it is ok to feel irritable and snippy with her. Doesn't she get irritable and snippy with me when she is tired and needs a break? She will survive me being a little irritable with her, and she will forgive me, just as I forgive her when she is being a turd and it is directed towards me.

The worst thing I could do is go off myAD and slide back into obsessive intrusive thoughts and overwhelming anxiety and depression because N would know I was struggling and she would know that I was trying to fake happiness and amusement and lightness. And it wouldn't be fair to me to lose the enjoyment I have. Remember those 8 months of being under-medicated when the time each day drug by so slowly and I just felt constantly low? Remember feeling like I had to force a smile for my 15-month-old daughter and "pretend" to be a happy mom? Remember how something as simple as having N's birthday party threw off my sleep for weeks? Remember how I developed new symptoms after going so long without what I needed?

So, as usual, I give myself a good talking to once and then must repeat it over and over again for many days until it sinks in good and deep. I guess anyone with OCD knows a big part of their life is "Repeat as necessary."