interum

This series of greatest loves posts are taking a little longer than I anticipated.

so, while I work on # 3-5, here's a post I found while searching for something else. I've said it before, but I'm going to say it again, I miss that baby.

Here you go...

5 Great Loves of my life

I was inspired by CJane's post on the 5 greatest Loves of her life in honor of Valentine's Day. Granted she is posting a "Love" per day. I will probably post all five in a single post. Or not. Who knows? It depends on how long this ends up being.

That being said, CJane's post caused me to do some soul searching, and this caused me to have some seriously odd dreams last night - involving a few of my "loves." So, let's begin:

#1. Erin as a Stalker...

I could easily start my great loves with my first kiss. But in the grand scheme of things, Tom Peterson was not a great love. He was my first high-school boyfriend, and a pretty good kisser, but I always knew it would end. You see, I always knew that Tom was just a little too “nerd” for me. He was an okay boyfriend: someone to go to dances with, hang out with, make out with, but I was already in love with someone else. Heck, I was already thinking of breaking up with him when I found out he was also seeing someone else. (The forever difference between us was fidelity – I had it. He didn’t.) So let’s go back to the beginning of my first “love.”

Flash back to the Spring of 1992, I was in the 6^th grade at Lyons Middle School. I wasn’t heavy yet, but I wasn’t thin by any means; I was more of a round shape. Soft and already sporting the family’s troublesome acne, I didn’t have a lot of self confidence. I masked this lack of courage by being talkative and loud – not my finest features. And that mask lasted until college. Anyway, back on track. It was probably April or May, and the school play was going on. Something about a Tumbleweed or something. I don’t remember much except an old Western town, soldiers and Indians. I went because my friends were in it. Anousha was an Indian (because she had black waist-length hair) and some other friends had parts. I remember sitting with my friend Beth and laughing at her brother Bryan dressed as a soldier. And then I saw the other soldier… He was tall, and broad shouldered with short dark hair. He seemed so much older than Bryan, though Bryan was in the 8^th grade. His name was Pete Walker, and this was our beginning. I became acutely aware of him, and he had no idea that I existed.

School ended in June and three months went by in a flash. I don’t remember thinking much of Pete Walker during the 7^th grade. I remember seeing him with other girls at dances, but I was obsessed with my own existence (and Bob Cleppe. I always kept my eggs in a few baskets.)  I forgot about everything older than me during 8^th grade.  It was like Senior Year, round 1; we were the top of the totum pole. Fast-forward to the Fall of 1994. I’m a freshman in high school. And suddenly everything is different: I’m running from class to class all over the school, I’m taking the bus, and I am once again on the bottom of the totum pole.  But things start to look up. I’m a year ahead in math, so when I entered Dr. Dennis’ geometry class I was one of a few freshmen surrounded by sophomores. I took the seat next to my friend’s older sister. As the class begins, we pass back the intro sheet and I turn around to hand it to the person behind me, and who do you think it is? Yep, Pete Walker, except now Pete is even taller and more broad shouldered. He says “Hey” and “Thank you,” while looking directly into my eyes. And I go stupid. My mouth immediately dries up and I can’t even talk. I can feel myself turning bright red and I turn around to face forward. From the corner of my eye, I can see my friend’s sister looking at me like I’ve lost it. Little did I know that Pete and I would sit next to each other in math class for the next 3 years until he graduated. (Thank goodness for not having assigned seating.)

Pete was pretty talkative. And the fact that he got Geometry far better than I did gave me the opening I needed. We became “class friends,” i.e. we’d be friends in class, and occasionally around school, but we didn’t hang out together. And by the time I got high school, Pete was already dating Kara Evans. Kara was petite: shorter than me, but also perfectly proportionate, and beautiful. It’s like she had never seen a blemish. She was the editor of the newspaper the 2 years we went to school together. She was a year older than Pete, thus 2 years older than me. And she was Nice. To everyone. I had no choice but to hate her, which was hard, but I did my best. (Anyone else weirded out by how much I remember 17 years later? OMG.)

My (and often my passengers') view of the Walker house.

Pete and I had English and math classes together. I watched him play football and basketball. I pined for something more than bantering and having fun in class. I had to drive past his house in order to get home from anywhere South of my house. He lived blocks from my bff Anousha. Once I got my license, I drove past his house anytime I was remotely close by, even with friends or my sister in the car. My friends knew how I felt, and they didn’t give me too hard of a time for the public stalking by vehicle, considering that Pete lived across the street from the Courthouse, police station, and jail. My Junior year (and his Senior year) I heard than Pete and Kara had (finally) broken up when she went off to college. I was elated. It was obviously not his decision. That didn’t damper my mood. I was convinced that everything would work out the way it was meant to. We would be high school sweethearts, and it would be like an after-school special. Alas, this was never going to happen.

In the fall of 1996, my foot was broken while messing around with some friends. I was on crutches forever. And Pete volunteered to carry my books to most of my classes. At first, I thought it was because we got out of class early, but it never was. We talked the whole time; he kept pace with my gimpy-ness. I have never been so happy to be on crutches. I thought that this was the perfect time for something, anything, to happen. But it never did. Eventually I was healed, and I no longer needed a hero. A few months later when I fell and broke my wrist, he had a good laugh at my klutziness, and offered to once again carry my books. But since I could walk, the teachers never fell for it. And so it went for the rest of the year. We talked, but nothing more ever happened. Pete had to know how I felt. Or at least have an idea. I was completely obvious. Either that, or he thought I had some special needs. (Cue the Homer Simpson “D’Oh!” moment.)

Pete Walker graduated from Clinton High in 1997. He went away to college, I thought he went to the University of Iowa, but I can’t remember. Every weekend and holiday, I drove past his house. Sometimes I saw him, more often not. In the fall of 1998, I started at Drake University. I didn’t forget Pete. I still drove past his house on holidays home. And then I heard he had moved to Colorado. And that he had become a plumber. His parents sold the house and moved somewhere else within town. The new owners changed things. And suddenly (without social media) he was gone. And I had to find a Real person to fall for. But the idea of Pete Walker lives on in my heart - My first real crush. And if you ask my sister, it lived on well into my 20s, over a decade of Crush-ness.

So this will be a post of only One Great Love... my first, unrequited Love. Who knew it would take so long to write?

and finally the winter Background fits!

So, we're setting up for snow again. It's supposed to rain here today, then turn into snow overnight, and level out at 2-4 inches. The original prediction on Wednesday was 8-12 inches, so I should be happy with the decrease, but in all honesty, I could do without the snow. I have thoroughly enjoyed wearing peep-toe heels and no socks with just a fleece in the morning and short sleeves throughout the day to work. It has been beautiful. I have loved sitting on patios and watching Weston play. It's been a great, light winter. I'm a huge fan!

That being said, my little boy is so anxious to make a snow angel! He told me all about the Groundhog yesterday, and how he saw his shadow so there will be 6 more weeks of winter. And that means it's going to snow. And he and his Baby Bear are going to make Snow Angels. (I think Baby Bear is too stuffed to make a snow angel. I'm going to have to work on making him stay inside.)

My benefit to the snow... I love my boots. I love leggings stuffed into them. And I love how comfortable they are. Little does Shannon know that I plan on wearing them all weekend if we go out.

So bundle up and stay warm readers! It looks like the Groundhog will be bringing Iowa some snow. And the children in Iowa will finally be happy. (But hopefully for less than 2 weeks... I want my peep-toe heels back.)

what if?

My brain moves very fast. I can make pictures out of a scenario in seconds... probably why I am so frightened for Weston all of the time. Because I can see what's going to happen to him seconds after he makes his decision. for example, when he runs out into a parking lot because he is once again not listening, my brains flashes pictures in front of my eyes. From him being hit by a car, to the hospital, to after, to how it affects my marriage... and so on and so forth. (I have a wicked imagination that works at lightning speed.)

I've been sick this weekend. I have a pretty nasty cold. And sometimes I sort of Zone Out. I do my best Zoning Out in the shower, and last night's shower was a huge Zone Out - so much so that I had to feel my hair to make sure I'd washed it when i was done. Here's what the voyage through my brain was like:

First I was thinking about Mom writing a letter to her stem cell donor. It's been a year now, and she can make contact by letter if she wants. And then I wondered if I could make contact, and if I did what would I say? Things like, Thank you, just don't seem like enough. Maybe a story about Weston and her being a grandma, or maybe about me calling her almost every day for the last 13+ years. And then my brain went to the phone calls with Mom and how they aren't the same. These calls are better than when she was sick, but they aren't like the "Mom calls" PreCancer. Those calls were great and could go on for over an hour. Now... Mom's done talking to you anywhere from 5-15 minutes. I feel blessed to get 15 minutes now, but then I felt guilty, and that maybe I should be glad that I have a Mom to talk to at all. and then I thought:

what if Mom hadn't beat cancer?

What would my life be like if Mom weren't here? I pictured the numbness, and the constant crying. Of trying to explain Heaven to my little boy who cried for his Mimi. Of my growing silence to everyone including Scott. And how that put stress on our relationship. (I could see it like a movie.)

I could see Nathan and his girlfriend fighting, and their girls wearing ratty clothes because Mom wasn't constantly buying her grandbabies new jammies. I saw trouble there.


What about Shannon? I know that she and Mom don't the need to talk daily like I do, but I know Mom is constantly in Shannon's head.  I saw Shannon getting engaged, her bridal shower, and walking down the aisle... and Mom wasn't there. and Shannon trying to be strong. And me trying to fill the spot where Mom was supposed to be, and failing - because I'm not Mom.

I saw Dad wandering around our old house in Clinton, lost. Then I saw him moving in with us. Not into our tiny apartment, but into a house where he'd have his own space and where I could still keep an eye on him when he was home. I saw myself cooking for him, and him reading books, but always looking so sad, like something was missing from his soul. and I of course knew what was missing, but I couldn't fix it.

I saw Linda traveling with Uncle Dave. I saw her less and less. Like we reminded her of her lost family. And it made me sad.

Now... this entire event took place in brain in under 5 minutes total. But I saw all of this. Obviously I am not going to tell this young 24-ish year old man what he saved my family from. He deserves happiness and praise for his role in saving Mom's life. If I write him a letter, it will be to thank him for the things I used to take for granted: The daily phone calls, the little trinkets and surprises she finds for us, the hugs, how happy she looks when she sees Weston, how happy he is just to see her; there are so many things to be grateful for - enough to push the darkest thoughts away. If I ever get a chance to tell this young man thank you, I'm also going to ask him why? I'm curious to know what touched his life in such a way for him to pay it forward and save my Mom's life. It must have been something miraculous.

the personal pharmacy

My personal pharmacy has increased.

I had my 3mo med check for my diabetic medicine today. Every 3 months, I visit my family doctor, Dr. Stephen Nowak (I love him), to have my eyes and body checked via exam. The the vampire, I mean phlebotomist, comes in and draws 2-3 vials of blood from the top of my hand. Then they run tests to see if I have been behaving over the last 3 months (A1C), blood sugar, cholesterol, etc.

This time though, I had another round of high-ish blood pressure (maybe they should use a proper sized cuff) and I told Terese (my nurse) about my high pulse rate (105) last Tuesday. I generally feel like honesty is the best policy with my doctors. But maybe I was wrong... they didn't like my last 3 blood pressure results, and the pulse rate wasn't good either. So, let's put Erin on more drugs. yea... Not.

I asked Dr. Baby (the Resident doctor who saw me first for his practice, I can't remember his name) if this would effect pregnancy. And suddenly he looks freaked out. So I reassured him that , No, I am not pregnant. But i want to be this year. Would blood pressure medication be a bad idea? Or am I doomed to never have more children. He was worried, so he got Dr. Nowak. Freak me out much? Sheesh.

Dr. Nowak performed the physical exam as Dr. Baby, but with more humor. Thank God. Same results, he wants me on hypertension meds. So we discussed the 5 grades of pregnancy meds:
A. Positive effects on pregnancy
B. Neither good nor bad effects on pregnancy - some bp meds, Tylenol
C. Not good, some mild effects on pregnancy, but generally safe for baby - some bp meds, antibiotics
D. Bad effects on baby - cleft pallet, heart issues, etc.
X. Destructive to reproducing cells - Chemotherapy, etc.

So, the plan is to go on a type C blood pressure medication, and be checked monthly. And then once we start "Trying to Conceive" we step back to a Type B medication. And I have to work on losing weight. though no one said a single word about my losing 5 pounds. Over the Holiday Season too, Dammit. Someone should praise that one.

So... I'm adding another medication. And all it does is stress me out and piss me off. Neither of which are good things for my high blood pressure. and you know what? When I tell Mom... first words out of her mouth will be about losing weight. Bet you $100. And I wonder what she'll say after I tell her I've lost 5 pounds? that might be worth seeing. Hmm...

Mommydom over the weekend

So last Friday's post stuck with me. The guilt did too, but not as much as the words.

I was looking forward to going out with a girlfriend Friday night and basically unloading all of my issues onto a real person. But she cancelled (her house in now the House of Ick.) So I asked my husband and son if they wanted to run some errands with me.

We went to Hobby Lobby and did some exchanges. And then we went to dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, one of my favorite chain restaurants, and boy, do my guys like it too. We had a nice night. Weston wasn't listening as much as I would have liked... but he's 3. Since dinner took a while we opted out of the playground at the mall, and went home, per Weston's request.

On the way home, Scott asked what was wrong... bad timing on his part since I was rereading my last blog post in my head. So I let him have it. I told him how I felt like a failure, and how I felt like a single parent, etc. (Just read the previous post if you need a reminder.) Any way, I let it all out. And he didn't really say anything in return. When we got home and into bed, his sudden comment was, "Well you got a lot off your chest tonight." Um, I guess you could say that. By the way, do you have anything else to add? (snoring) Guess not. And that was the conversation. Seriously. And then he proceeded to walk on egg shells around me. Like I was a bomb or something.

Weston did great potty training this weekend! It was awesome. And I have to thank Scott for stepping up! He helped Weston go potty, and reminded him all the time. It was nice that Daddy took care of this part. And that it went well. We aren't 100%, but at least we're working on it.

"I need my Big Boy Pants on!"

That's what woke up to at 3am. Weston yelling to put his underpants on - only to discover that he was still sound asleep. How funny that my baby is dreaming about potty training! And he's moving in the right direction!

So, I let all my thoughts into the open. I am not sure if it did any good, but I stand behind my feelings. Not that they are understood or appreciated all that much. Onto to more potty training tonight! And hopefully we'll segue into a bedtime and his own bed after that. I choose to fight one battle at a time.

Failure in Mommydom

So… I had a rough day yesterday. Ok, let’s be honest, I’ll say it’s been rough lately, most of the last couple of months and definitely since Sunday night.

I’ll admit it. I made a Mommy Mistake. When Weston was a baby, we were so grateful to have him. (Don’t worry, we still are.) And he was sick a lot that first year. Nothing serious, but he had Bronchiolitis and a variety of viruses…. When he had to sleep upright, we put him in a car seat by my side of the bed so I could listen to him breathe. Sometimes he slept with us when he was sick so we could sleep too. (The sheer exhaustion of parenting is a white lie no one talks about. I have been tired for 4 years now, ever since I got pregnant. It hasn’t gotten better.) When he was healthy, and he’d wake up in the morning, we’d bring him into our bed. And we’d cuddle and play. We wouldn’t always go back to sleep, we’d have fun. So, Weston got used to being in our bed – 1^st part of the Big Mistake.

The 2^nd part of said Mistake was not instituting a bedtime. Weston was one of those babies who was awake every 3 hours to eat. It was routine and didn’t change much as he got older. My friend’s baby who was sleeping through the night by 3 months with a bedtime of 8 pm that started at 3wks, no problems. That never happened for us. I kept asking our daycare when we should start a bedtime. She said 6-9 months depending on the baby. That was 3 years ago next week. And I tried. I decided on 8:30 pm. The first week, Weston was asleep by 8:15 every single night. In my arms. No self-soothing in the bed. The next week, he cried and cried and cried. I’d lay him down and he’d scream. After 15 minutes, we’d go in and try to help. After a days of this, I asked daycare again what to do. She said not to talk to him or pick him up – to rub his back and sit by the crib. And he would cry forever! It was horrible and heartbreaking to hear. And inevitably, we’d pick him up. And the bedtime never worked. And it was my fault. Scott works late, sometimes past 9pm. I was alone in the bedtime rituals as I am in the dinners, and pretty much most other things. So… as time goes by, we moved into a craptastic apartment on Des Moines’ NE side. Weston again had his own room. He would fall asleep in our room, and we would move him to his crib at night. About 2 or so months after moving there, we transitioned his crib into the toddler bed, because he was trying to climb out. And every night since, Weston has gotten out of his bed, and climbed into ours. And for the longest time, I would try to walk him back to his bed. And he would cry and come back. And then we’d wait for him to be asleep for about 10 minutes, and then we’d take him back to his bed. And about 6 out of 7 nights, I’d wake up in the morning to find him right next to me. At some point, we just became too tired to move him. Or he comes in, and I don’t even wake up any more. He crawls over me to the middle of the bed and I have no idea he is there until morning. I hate sleeping with a toddler. He’s more than half my height now. So there are legs everywhere! Knees planted in the middle of my back. Arms flung over me like I’m his latest favorite stuffed animal. And Scott’s a bed-hog too. So Scott has his half of the bed, and 75% of the covers, and Weston is trying to take my half of the bed. It’s no wonder that I am exhausted and not sleeping well. All I want is my own bed. And I will never have it. I am trying to figure out a way to get Weston to sleep in his own room. I am thinking of trying out his Twin bed in the room we decorated for his birthday. I wonder what he’d think if I slept in there? So, to wrap the Mistakes up… It’s my fault that Weston doesn’t have a bedtime, and it’s also probably my fault that I do not get up constantly to put him back in his own bed. So, now I need to find a way to remedy this…. Sunday I had knees in my back the whole night. Wednesday he wouldn’t go to sleep. He cried because I wouldn’t turn the tv on. And all Scott said was that he needed to be quiet because people were sleeping. Yeah, Scott was sleeping and had been for over an hour – when it was his job to get Weston to sleep that night. Weston and I made up stories to get him to stop crying, and then until he was ready to fall asleep (in my bed.) I calmed him down and got him to sleep in about 20 minutes. And I wonder why I feel all the burden and responsibility for his behavior and actions? Hmmm…

Weston is not potty trained.

I take that back, partially. He is potty trained at daycare. He’s had maybe 2 real accidents in the last 8 months, and maybe 2 other random “I peed on my clothes while peeing” accidents. It’s a boy thing, trust me. Once, about a month ago, I thought we were in for the home stretch. He woke up and went potty in my potty! Before school, no problems, we were all so very excited. He got to pick a prize (Yes, I am to bribery now) and he took a whole big package of name-brand Goldfish to daycare to share with his friends for snack time. And then he got sick over the weekend… so all training went out the window. I decided to be firm last night. I picked him up from daycare. He was in Big Boy underpants. We went to the chiropractor. He begged me for a pull-up or a diaper. I said no. I held firm. We went to the bathroom. He wouldn’t go. I tried going in front of him. He didn’t care. I held firm, we left the bathroom. 20 minutes of begging ended in crying. Horrible, gut-wrenching crying and screaming and sobbing - it was torture for me. I was sad that he was crying and embarrassed because I knew there were massage therapists trying to invoke peace and relaxation and my son was ruining it. I was angry at him for not making this an easy and simple experience. He does it so easily at school. The pure exhaustion of the week, and then dealing with the potty training… I was so mad yesterday. At the situation, at Weston for never listening, at Scott for not helping with the important stuff but having the nerve to want another baby, at the world and everyone in front of me for being there. I cried from the chiropractor’s office to the mall because of my guilt over my anger at my little boy. I almost cried trying to explain it to Shannon in the Playground at the mall. No one understands around me, and I feel like anytime I say anything, I am just being a nagging bitch. Scott won’t listen when I try to talk to him. It’s like if he doesn’t hear it, then it doesn’t exist. And I hate living in oblivion.

I have to get going… but still, I just had to explain myself. I feel guilty all the time for my frustration, anger, and the inability to change things. I feel like my world is spinning out of control, and that I am failing at everything. And I need someone to catch me. To help me. Please? I love my little family more than anything, but I feel like we need to be a better family. And I'm not sure how to do it.