What I Did Over My Thanksgiving Break: The Bad (And Ugly)

This (as always) is so tough to admit.

Depression touched me again. It is no respecter of occasion or holiday. It is always the pink elephant in My room, My mind, My life. It is something, because I have bipolar disorder, I will always have to keep in check.

I had a bout of depression over the Thanksgiving holiday. It wasn’t the worst. I had no suicidal thoughts this time.

But it wasn’t the best. I don’t know why it hit me when I was surrounded by people who loved me.

For those who were there and didn't notice anything, don't worry. For better or worse (usually worse) I put on a "happy" poker face no matter how I feel. For those who were there, and did notice something was up, this was it.

Maybe it’s because we finally weaned me off of antidepressants, so I can be treated solely by mood stabilizers on a daily basis.

Maybe it’s because, even though I LOVE my family, and I LOVE a good party, I’m still an introvert who needs to take a break from the action in order to recharge. And in all the action, I failed to take such a break until it was too late.

Maybe it’s because my two kids only wanted MOMMY, even though there were 4 grandparents, 1 aunt, 2 brothers-in-law, 1 uncle, 3 cousins, and a host of other in-laws and friends who would’ve happily relieved me of my kids for an hour or two.

I was fine Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday it crept up on me. By Friday I broke down, in private with my husband.

Because part of me is still ashamed of my condition. And even though I try so hard, I still am reluctant to show my true face to my loved ones, even though I know they want to know, and they want to help.

I loved my Thanksgiving holiday. But I didn’t love this.

Also, I realize the dearth of pictures with snarky comments in my last few posts. So sheerly for your pleasure, I present this:

The pets asked to be dressed like this, I swear.
Actually, I personally think this image looks shopped.
But the pets asked for it to be Photo Shopped. Really.

Dear Sir and Madame: You Are No Longer Welcome In This Fine Establishment

Baby screams. She screams when we’re out. She screams all about. She screams at home. She screams in a dome (I assume).

Husband and I can no longer stand the screaming, the incessant screaming by Miss Screamy McScreamsalot.

And now it’s come to this: we can no longer go to restaurants.

We were SPOILED by Preschooler who from day one stayed quiet and well-behaved in restaurants, even grown-up restaurants WITH NO CHILDREN’S MENUS.

Baby was ok for about eleven months. No more. By one year she started getting antsy. Then she got squirrely. And then she screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more.

And today, we found ourself at Olive Garden, a place we would’ve scorned with our pretentious asses in college, but now patronize frequently because they bring breadsticks to our table RIGHT AWAY.

And Baby, as is so often the case, started screaming. She screamed so much that the group of four seated next to us asked to be moved. Husband and I looked at each other and realized we have become those parents. The parents with that kid. The parents who apparently can’t or won’t sooth their screaming child.

The parents who should no longer bring their children to sit-down restaurants until the kids are older.

Maybe things will change when Baby is able to communicate more effectively.

Maybe things will change once she is older, and we’re better able to reason with her.

But if anyone knows how to stop the screaming, let me know. Seriously. Because I can no longer stand it.

Not in my home. Not when we roam. And if we stay in, the screaming begins. And then I cry. Seriously.

What I Did Over My Thanksgiving Vacation: The Good

The destination was my Parents’ abode. I haven’t been to my Parents’ Thanksgiving celebration in 3 years. This was not born out of any ill-will, but because it isn’t convenient to drive for 7 hours followed by another 7 hour drive home that same day, because some one (me) had to work the following Friday and Saturday. I know, I don’t know how this happened either.

It need not be said that my children were excited. They knew who Grandma & Grandpa were, and they knew they were a mere 1 1/2 hours away. Previous trips to Grandma & Grandpa’s house used to involve an interminable car ride followed by WTF?! Where’s my house?!

For what it’s worth they would have become just as excited by the prospect of going to Husband’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving, although it’s a 5 hour drive. However, it used to be a 7 hour drive to my parents, plus another 7 hour drive the following day to reach Husband's parents’ house, resulting in a double WTF?! Where’s my house?!

My kids ran around the our house like Dachshunds on crack, except they may have thought they actually were Dachshunds on cracks. WHO KNOWS?

We loaded up and drove to my parents house. We started unpacking to tally up what we forgot to bring. I forgot to bring any bras except the sports bra I was currently wearing. CLASSY!

The actual Thanksgiving celebration was lovely. I made 5 pies and 1 casserole. I ate 1 plate of dinner Thanksgiving evening, and another for lunch the next day. I ate pie for breakfast. Twice.

Friday is traditionally “Movie Day” at my parents, that is the relatives go to the movie theater so we can enjoy each others presence without having to talk to each other for a couple hours. Husband and I saw “Harry Potter And The Deathly Hollows: Part One.” Husband and I were especially excited, because we haven't seen a movie since “The Simpsons” movie which came out in 2007. Again, CLASSY!

All in all, I got to party with my family while enjoying a ridiculously large meal. I saw a movie for the first time in 3 years. My kids stayed up past 10:00 pm each day due to sheer excitement and junk food (resulting in approximately 48 meltdowns.)

I loved every minute of it.

Eat An Extra Piece Of Pie. Really. It's OK

This post is an exercise in brevity, except now that I've written this sentence, I'm no longer being concise.

Crap.

In any case, I wish only two things for you this Thanksgiving:

1) Blood relatives are family. Friends are family. I hope you can find solace in their presence this Thanksgiving. Many are not so lucky.

2) Eat an extra slice of pie. Really. You'll thank yourself the next day. Also, pie is always a breakfast food. Don't forget.

I'll be back by Monday. Happy Thanksgiving to all! And to my Canadian readers, Happy Belated Thanksgiving!

I'm Not Outside That Stupid Box!

I enjoy a good glass of beer. So I was really excited to see the premier of the new Discovery Channel show “Brew Masters.”

Husband and I hunkered down with the remote and...

The opening credits started. Ooooohhh look, shiny copper things! Hops! People walking! (We’re easily impressed.)

But then, right in the opening credits, they had to go and use the phrase “outside the box.” As in, “I wasn’t satisfied with the traditional beers on the market, so I decided to think outside the box.”

I grimaced. Husband shuddered.

We watched about 5 minutes and changed the channel to something more enlightening:

This is the only reason I know what a Snooki is

I hate the phrase “outside the box.” It is trite, vague, and condescending. He could’ve said “I decided to try something different,” or “I thought I’d start something new.”

Outside the box - what the hell does that imply?

I know conventional wisdom claims it means that, if you’re “inside the box,” you’re just thinking of or accepting current norms. You need to try something new. But really, why can’t you just say that? You don’t need a “catchphrase” to say, “We need to try something different.”

Furthermore, implying you’re inside the box is also an indirect way of saying “I think you’re a mime.” And who wants that?

I know it’s you...

Now, let’s tackle being “outside of the box.” Yes, I know it’s just a way of saying you are being innovative, and thinking of new solutions for old problems. But again, why can’t you just say that? You don’t need a “catchphrase” to say “That was a great idea! We haven’t tried that before!”

Furthermore, if it is implied that you are “outside the box,” then where exactly are you? Uncharted territory? The 4th dimension? No. Most likely you are in your living room, or maybe the garage or the post office.

You are probably not here

Honestly, I think catchphrases like this are designed only for filler in lackluster resumes and insipid powerpoint presentations. I know, this is kind of a cruel thing to say.

I guess I’m just not thinking “outside the box.” No wait, I’m actually just ranting on about a stupid catchphrase. Either way.

Death Awaits You All With Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth

Baby is teething. She gums everything. Lately she has taken to gumming my toes. I’ll be sitting with my feet up on the ottoman, and she’ll just come by and start gnawing on my big toe like a tiny curly-headed piranha.

It sort of tickles. I laugh.

But recently Baby approached Preschooler and started nibbling on her toes.

“MOMMY! HELP!” Preschooler cried. “SHE’S EATING ME!”

I stifled my laughter, and gently chided Baby (mostly to mollify Preschooler), “We don’t bite. Biting hurts.”

But then those little love nibbles on my toes turned into actual bites with sharp, little teeth. The gentle chiding turned into an all out, “OW! We Don’t Bite. Biting Hurts.”

One day was particularly trying. Baby was running her reign of terror. Having been scolded for biting approximately 392 times for biting, she was now upturning all my baskets, ripping up all my books, eating all my power cords, and generally being a nuisance.

To make matters worse, Baby seemed hellbent on antagonizing Preschooler, and every time she approached Preschooler, Preschooler would scream, “NOOOOOO!!! Go Away! Mama, Baby Is Getting Me!”

By about 8 pm, Baby turbo-crawled towards Preschooler, who was pinned against the wall crying, “Mama, stop her!”

And it hit me.

“Preschooler,” I asked. “Are you afraid Baby will bite you?”

Preschooler nodded, tears running down her face.

“Oh honey,” I said, helping her onto my lap. “I promise, I’ll never let Baby bite you.”

“And you too, Mommy?”

“Yes, I promise, I’ll never let Baby bite me either.”

And then she was ok. She got off my lap, and started playing with Baby, who only wanted Preschooler’s attention in the first place.

In conclusion, I let Baby continue biting. Bad. I reassured Preschooler that, as the parent, I’ll always protect her. Good. But, if had never let Baby bite, Preschooler would never need assurance in the first place.

Crap, I’m still not doing this parenting thing right.

What Is It With My Kids And Dogs, WE DON'T EVEN HAVE A DOG!!!!

Preschooler has spent all day, every day, for the past month-and-a-half pretending she is a doggie. She crawls, pants, and whines. I have to address her as “little doggie” to convince her to do anything. For example, I might say, "Preschooler, go eat your lunch. It’s on the kitchen table."

Preschooler interprets this command as “Go eat your poison. It’s on the burning pyre of doom.”

But if I say, “Little doggie, go eat your doggie lunch at the doggie table,” she will smile and happily eat her lunch. Thank God she hasn’t started smashing her head into her cereal bowl in effort to also eat like a doggie.

It’s a win-lose situation. On one hand, indulging in he fantasy convinces her to do what I want. On the other hand, having to play the explicit role of “Mommy Doggie” for 45 days straight has slowly caused me to go insane.

Alas, Baby seems to think she is a doggie. She chews on the following items:

Not food.

Not food. Except for cannibals.

Not food. Also, pay your bills on time, lest they destroy your
everlasting soul with their oppressive glare of doom.

She plays with the dirty laundry, and gets into the wastebaskets. She literally sits on top of your feet while you try to pay bills, cook dinner, or write your autobiography. She steals toys from her sister, and immediately tears them up.

So which is worse - the child who knows she is only pretending to be a doggie and prefers it that way, or the child who possibly thinks she is a doggie and doesn’t understand she is a human child.

Thank god they’re cute. My kids that is. And dogs. But not my kids when they think they're dogs. Or something like that.