Computers are baffling me!  Funny, since a large part of my degree deals with computer programming and I am actually gunning to be classified as a “Computer Scientist” by the government (ie, my job).  But really, they suck.  Yeah, they are handy and all in a totally-addictive-can’t-function-without sort of way, but seriously.  Computers.  Suck. 

I cleaned the basement this weekend.  I know, WTF?  She was just talking about computers?  But, bear with me…

So I cleaned the basement.  (Yeah, I know I mentioned this already, but really, bear with me)

Yep, cleaned the basement.  (are you annoyed yet?  Mouse inching towards that ‘x’ in the top corner of your screen?)  Cleaned it, organized it, threw a bunch of crap out of it, and my laundry room looks totally fab.  Like, huge.  Like we could throw a party in there huge.  (Seriously, an option for the girl’s upcoming birthday festivities.  Not really.  Maybe…)  During my cleaning, of course, I had to have some music going, and finding my giant book of CDs (remember those? you know those round shiny things that we used to use before iTunes and iPods took over the universe) I busted out some of my old jams and was like, awwww, yeah, jamming along with my bad self.  Nothing says “get to cleaning, beotch” like that old really bad rap from the early nineties.  I’m not talking Snoop or Dre, but like those one-hit rap wonders from back in the day…you know, like Back in the Day, by Ahmad.  Remember that one?  Awwww, yeah, boy!  Anyway.  So I’m cleaning and jamming, and finish the laundry room, so I move into the other room (teenager hangout/bedroom/computer room/Mr. W’s space).  Let’s call it the multi-function room, now to be known as the MFing room!  Yeah, that’s where my troubles began. 

First I make the beds.  No harm done there.  Well, until I adjust the cable for the newly-installed Direct TV (Yea! NFL Ticket!  IN HD, YA’LL!) and knock the crappy plug to the crappy surge protector out of the crappy wall socket, cutting off my tunes, putting a cramp in my grooves.  But all is fine.  I plug it back in and reboot.  In the meantime, I realize there is a CRAP LOAD (that’s a lot for those of you not in the know) of dust behind the Man’s desk.  So as I’m waiting for the reboot, I get under there and get my dust on…knocking the plug loose again.  Ah well.  I figure I will point out the crappy-ness of the whole set up to Mr. W when he gets back in town and let him deal with it.  Reboot again.

When the computer comes back up, I put in the password and go to restart the tunes when, oops, mouse stopped working.  WTF?  Ok, no prob.  I fiddle with the connection.  No dice.  Hmmm…I should take a moment her to explain the little computer setup we have in the basement.  His computer setup.  The one that involves his old, super-geeky gaming machine, with 20″ flat screen monitor, that he built, which is aptly named “The Green Machine.”  (great movie by the way… if you haven’t seen it, watch it.  Still not convinced? It has Jason Strathem in it.  Yeah, now you’ll go watch it!)  Anyway, so there is ”The Green Machine” on the right.  On the left we have the “new” computer.  The “new” computer he bought because it is has some number of cores that is more than normal and is impressive if you run in those circles (I have no clue) and can run duel monitors, and play some game that none of the other computers can. (yeah, that’s the real reason.  I’m sure of it.)  The ”new” computer that is not an Apple, or a Mac, or an iMac, or any form of non-PC-ness.  (Totally not bitter about that…really…)  And did I mention it can run duel monitors.  Well, then of course it does.  Two 19″ HD, LCD, (probably some other letters too) flat panel monitors, next to the 20″ connected to ”The Green Machine.”  Yeah, there are a lot of cables behind that desk, with the 8 lbs of dust, mind you.  *cough*cough*wheeze*  Besides all that, there are two additional flat panels sitting on the floor in the vicinity, and two additional PCs (and like 3 keyboards, twelve mice, and a partridge in a pear tree…)  One of the PCs and one of the flat panels don’t have power supplies (how that happens, I haven’t a clue) and the other PC won’t boot (not entirely sure what that means either.) 

So, with all all the wires and cables and computer paraphernalia laying around, Mr. W in all his genius tried to streamline by attaching some mouse/keyboard switchy do-hickey to both the “new” super computer and “The Green Machine” for saved desk space.  That’s too high on the technology ladder for little old me to figure/fiddle with, so I unplug the whole lot and refit the keyboard and mouse plugs separately, but directly into the super computer, and of course knock the plug loose again. 

–intermission/cigarette/severe cursing break–

And we’re back.  I plug it all back in again, rechecking all the connections before rebooting, again.  And then, it just loads, and loads, and loads…yeah, you know that little sideways scrolling bar thing that comes up when you boot Windows.  Well, me and that little guy spent some serious time staring at each other.  Like hours.  Seriously.  Hours!  And still, nothing.  WTF!!!???  (yes, I understand my overuse of punctuation may offend some, but this situation definitely calls for it.)  So I gave up and will leave the whole mess for Mr. W to deal with when he gets home next week.  Yeah, I feel bad about breaking his baby, but that’s what he does (not the breaking part, but the computer geekery part) so it’s less terrible, sorta.

So after being totally frustrated at all that, and realizing I’m a terrible mother at 6:45pm and still haven’t fed the boy, I pry him from my laptop (on which he had been playing Jumpstart, and educational online game that only partially promotes bugging your parents to pay money to sign up for more, more, more…) and headed for McD’s drive-through.  (Have I mentioned I’m up for mother of the year? Not.)  Got him home, fed, showered, and in bed and settled in to check my Facebook before True Blood began.  Which begins the next chapter of my technological breakdown.  The scrolly part of my mouse-pad-thingy stopped scrolling.  In the absence of a real mouse I heavily depend on this function, so my recently recovered from frustration began to rear it’s ugly head once again.  Control panel, mouse functions, no luck.  Internet tools, mouse functions, no luck.  Clicking randomly and beating on the mouse pad, no luck.  The little icon thingy in the corner showed I was indeed making a scrolling motion so this clearly wasn’t a problem of physical dexterity.  No.  It’s technology hating me.  Clearly. 

And I just know that it’s my new high-techy-iPod alarm clock that kept me up til after midnight.  It is clearly causing my insomnia.  Damn the technology!  Damn it all!

Just like most little girls, when I was young I believed whole-heartedly in fairytales and “Happily Ever Afters.”  Despite my parents’ efforts and a long (really long) string of bad relationships and broken hearts, my dreams of happily-ever-after continued through my teen years into my early twenties.  Then I met ex#1.  Sometime during our twisted courtship (probably having something to do with my dorm-dazed, alcohol-soaked, man (boy)-crazed, promiscuous tendencies) fairytales drifted off and left me in the “real world.”  When I finally got that (less-than) fairytale proposal, my thoughts weren’t of birds singing and how I’d be “Happily Ever After,” they were of “would I learn to love this man” and “will he ever hurt me.” Yeah, true love in it’s finest hour, right?  But all wasn’t lost, yet.  There was hope.  There was possibility.  Wasn’t there?

Maybe not.  We tried to get pregnant (yeah, I know…the horribly misguided thoughts of desperate couples looking for a way to make it work).  We didn’t get pregnant.  For months we didn’t get pregnant.  Then we separated.  First by our hearts, then our minds, then we made it official and we both moved out.  And then I got pregnant! Figures, right.  By that point, alone, pregnant, failed marriage, the last glimmer of “fairytales” faded into the night.  I had my beautiful son and realized no one wants a twenty-something single mom so I settled for who I thought was the first decent guy to show interest in me.  He had a daughter and a failed marriage too, so he understood and would love me…right?  We got pregnant, got married, and got unhappy very quickly and with the birth of my little girl, I realized I couldn’t teach her about fairytales because quite frankly I didn’t have a clue what they were anymore.  I even decorated her room with Tinkerbell, because Tink gets her heart broken, but is still sassy and happy and totally fabulous.  But, much like my parents before me, I failed and the girl is totally obsessed with Princesses and all that fairytale crap.

Yes, I’ve found my prince charming, finally, in Mr. W, but fairytales? Can I get behind them again?  Can any woman, no, mother in this day and age?  I specify mothers because as a woman, there is still hope.  There is still freedom to dream and fantasize about the possibility.  But with motherhood comes responsibility, the all powerful time suck.  When there are diapers and sleep deprivation and cooking and cleaning and laundry and school lunches and homework and activities and “mommy, mommy, mommy…” around the clock, there leaves little time, or energy for dreaming.  When you become a mother, there is just no room for being a princess.

Let’s look at Disney, the king of fairytale princesses, responsible for bringing them full-force into our hearts and minds today.  When “she” finally gets her “he,” that’s usually the end of the story.  If we are given a glimpse into their life together, it is just that.  A glimpse.  And then it’s with dogs.  You know, Perdita and Pongo meet, fall in true love, “marry,” and then they have kids (in the end 99 of them) but that’s it.  No follow up.  Lady and the Tramp have kids at the end of their “fairytale” romance.  End of movie.  What happens next?  Ah, but then Disney gives us the sequels, the not-quite-as-good-but-still-Disney-Magic follow-ups.  There is Scamp, Mr. and Mrs. Tramp’s little scoundrel who gets into an adventure all his own…but wait, where are the parents?  What happened to them?  Arial and her Mister get married and apparently have a little princess of their very own, who we meet in another wonderful sequel.  But wait.  Ariel is the princess (of the sea) and the queen (of the people-world), right?  Shouldn’t she be a little more than a side-note to this story?  Even in the great fairytale world of Disney, you become a mother and all that princess-ly wonder goes right out the window.  (Lady and Ariel are probably doing their very romantic laundry and making meatloaf filled with sweet songs of love.)

So even in the dawn of true love, there is no fairytale left for me.  It’s all rather disappointing isn’t it.  Well, at times, yes.  But not always.  While I may not have that fairytale whirlwind romance going on.  While I may not be able to let go and be totally wrapped up in the moment with my very own Mr. Wonderful.  While I may not live a care-free and glamorous life full of romance, there is still beauty.  I have two beautiful babies.  Just looking at them makes my heart leap and flutter.  I have a wonderful man.  He treats me like a princess whenever life allows, even when I’m not acting much like a princess.  And I have hope for our future, all of our futures.  In the still of the night, when the babies are sleeping and there is no laundry to do or lunches to make, I can sit back an dream about the possibility of a fairytale ending for us all…maybe.

So I’m home sick again.  again.  again.  When will it end?  Yesterday I was nauseous all day, which led into me passing out on the couch (literally) when I got home, which led to me feeling (and sounding) like crap for the entire evening yet not being able to go to bed early because of said nap, which led to me feeling like more crap this morning.  Yea!

But sitting here today, I’ve been thinking:  How would it be to be a SAHM (Stay at home mom)?  I wonder if I would like it, or more to the point, if I could handle it.  I’ve been working pretty much constantly since I was 15 years old taking breaks only for 6 weeks following the birth of my kids and the occasional week or two for vacations.  Those second six weeks following the birth of my daughter had me firmly believing that I would never be a SAHM.  Never. I spent most of the time at ex#2′s parent’s house (chaos), dealing with post-partum that I hadn’t yet figured out, with two children who didn’t sleep through the night, one of them being really colicky (or maybe it was just her reacting to all the chaos and negativity around her), and my marriage was falling apart.  When I went back to work it was a heavenly escape from the absolute hell that was my home life.  But now things are different.

One concern I have is that I’m really lazy because I’m tired all the time. Or possibly I’m tired because I’m lazy…-but anyway.  The time that I have taken off work has historically been filled with a whole lot of nothing.  Well, there has been extended sleeping and naps, catching up on mindless tv and romantic comedies via On-Demand programming, and, yeah, that’s about it.  So if I was a SAHM, would my life slip even more into a endless pit of laziness, or is my laziness a product of my working 9 hours a day for the last 2 years and at least 6 hours a day, plus school, for the last 15 years.  (Or maybe I’m just lazy…)

But theoretically, if I wasn’t lazy, life could be great! First and foremost, I would easily have the girl full time, maybe even without the need to move.  I would be able to take care of my house properly.  Without the assistance of a maid (yeah, we still have her.  I know my previous justification was that Mr. W was gone, but I really hate cleaning bathrooms!  I’m sure the conversation is coming on dropping her services in the near future…).  I could take my kids to and from school.  We (as a family) would have more time and energy to do extracurriculars and I could actually take part in them (you know, the time and energy thing).  Now that the kids are in school, I could take time for myself as well.  I could work on my photography, maybe take a class, find some new material.  I could exercise during the day, work on my health, maybe take a yoga class a couple times a week.  With my recent sick-i-ness, I could use a little more time in my day to get adequate rest and work in some exercise, not really an option with my current schedule.  I’ve even played with the idea of taking a leave of absence from work and taking time off from school to work on my self…of course, that would mean no paycheck and no education assistance check from the VA, so, yeah, maybe not an option…

Yep, it all comes down to the fact that I/we desperately need to win the lottery. 

Picture this:

jeans that are:

• a size too big, but shrunken to fit some areas while leaving others unattractively lumpy
• used to be fashionably-faded dark blue, but are now so old they are simply faded
• too long to wear with flats, but too frayed and old to be appropriate with heels

black and white Payless specials that are trying really hard to be Converse…but totally failing

(eghad!) a brown belt

a red, slouchy, 3/4 sleeve shirt with ribbing at the bottom that makes it ride up around my waist (exposing the brown belt), and which my boobs are totally not big enough to fill out properly

hair pulled back into a 2″ ponytail that has its very own bi-polar personality disorder with bangs too short to make it and too long to leave down (solution: a head-band…brown, you know, to match the belt…)  can you say “fly-aways”

and while I could swear I put makeup on this morning, apparently it didn’t make it out of the house with me…

Yep, I’m not a pretty sight today.  But considering the amount of pain I am in and the amount of sleep I didn’t get last night, I think I have successfully pulled of an appropriate amount of “I just don’t give a -bleep-” today.

My brain has just totally fogged over.  It seems any time I am away from the computer, going through life as it were, I think of a million really fantastic blog posts.  Seriously.  Wonderous.  I compose them with perfect diction and clarity in my head, all prepared for the next time I’m able to sit down in front of the screen for a bit…and then I do…and…nothing.  Nada.  Dammit.  I blame it on the brain fog.  But where is this brain fog coming from?  Is it the Lyme disease?  Is it one of the 500 (actually 18) pills I take a day?  Is it the fact that little miss princess has walked into my room almost every night this week at 3am not wanting to sleep by herself, which means she wants to climb into bed with me and fidget for an hour an a half until I kick her out of the bed, then she cries, then I feel bad and go to her room to comfort her, then she finally falls asleep and I am able to crawl out of her too-small-for-two-if-one-of-them-is-a-30-lb-bed-hog and back into my room just in time for the alarm to go off?

Co-sleeping.  I really don’t know what to do about it.  3am is one of those hours that no one should ever really know exists.  It’s too late to stay up, and too early to get up.  It should remain in the realm of Santa Claus and $40 billion (you know, we all know they exist but no one has actually seen them).  3am is an evil time.  Possibly even worse than 2am, and we all know how I feel about that.  The girl begs every night to sleep with me, or for me to sleep with her and every night I say no.  But why?  Well, I do know I don’t sleep as well with her in bed with me.  She is a teeth grinder and a kicker.  I’m pretty positive she has RLS.  For the first hour, at least, after going to bed her legs seem like they are in their own private marathon.  It’s constant.  Then she passes out.  I’ve never seen someone fight sleep so hard with their whole existence as she does.  And once asleep, she grinds.   Really.  LOUD!  Wakes me up out of a dead sleep.  Wakes her dad up even, and he just doesn’t wake up.  Ever.  The sound is something like a jackhammer with nails on it being dragged across a chalkboard.  Horrible.  I don’t know how she sleeps through it!  Hmmm, maybe that’s why she wakes up at 3am every night…

3am is “liver time” according to my acupuncturist.  While I’m not totally sure what that means, I know I too used to wake up at 3am every night until she put some needles in some part of me connected to my “liver channel” and now I don’t.  (I then started waking up at 1am, which is apparently “lung time” so she fixed that last week too.)  Well, I don’t wake  up by my body’s fault.  Now it’s just to some dark mass of a figure standing over the bed like a bad dream…

Let me explain:  Mr. W and I have a fabulous platform-type bed from Ikea which sits much lower than a traditional bed.  The girl generally creeps silently into the bedroom (we leave our door open so no noise there) and brings her fluffy blanket with her.  She then stands on one side of the bed or another, wrapped in her fluffy blanket and just waits.  I assume she’s waiting for someone to move over so she can climb in, which she also does in complete silence.  I have actually woken up in the morning jammed in the middle of Mr. W and the girl having no idea she was even there.  But, if I do wake up (as happened Sunday) and she is in just the right spot between me and the faint light shining through the air conditioning window unit, she freaks me the hell out!!  And then I have to get up and get my heart out from under my bed and back down my throat…damn you 3am!

Mr. W actually gave me a hard time for awhile about not letting the kids sleep with me.  He convinced me those hours during the night are “invaluable bonding opportunities” that shouldn’t be wasted.  And then I started to let the leg-kicking, teeth-grinding, fidgeting, sleep-fighting little princess into bed.  Yeah, one night on the couch and I think he has completely rethought his theory on bonding. 

So all you co-sleeping parents out there:  how do you do it?  How do you get them to fall asleep?  How do you get to sleep and stay that way with a twisty turny toddler wrapped up next to you?  How do you get sound sleep without the worry of rolling over on her or accidentally pushing her out of bed?  How do you fit that many bodies in a queen sized bed?  Or failing all else, how do you function without actually sleeping?

I get tons of entertainment from my kids!  They really do say the darnedest things sometimes.  But it’s all probably a reflection of their upbringing in the end.

Mr. W found a beautiful dead butterfly laying in the parking lot on the way out of Starbucks last week.  Picking it up to show the girl, he explained that it was dead, so she could touch it.  Of course my mommy-senses perked up at all the possibilities of where this conversation was going to end up, you know, with a DEAD butterfly and all, but thankfully the girl was satisfied in the knowledge that we were going to take it home and love it so it can be all-better.  awwww.  Then she left it in the car.  In 95 degree weather.  For 3 days.  Yeah, if that butterfly ever did have a chance in being loved back to all-better-ness, that went out the window with the first temp above 80, my dear.  And then she stepped on it.  Crumpled butterfly wing-fragments all over my carpet.  She was sweet enough to tell me that she found this pretty butterfly (apparently forgetting I was there) and it was for me, but she stepped on it so it’s dead now.  awwww. 

The next day in the car with my friend Y, apparently she brought up the butterfly again and asked what dead meant.  The boy, being all old and wise and stuff, piped up and said, “Well, it’s when you go to sleep and don’t wake up again.”  Wha?  Y freaked at this, waiting patiently for the howling fear to commence, wondering how I would react to a clearly terrified daughter when I returned to my children (I think I was in the rest stop or something on our road trip), hoping the terror wouldn’t strike until bedtime that night so she could claim ignorance to the whole situation from the safety of her own home.  Thankfully, the girl is a sometimes little slow because she hasn’t yet realized that, yeah, she is forced to go to sleep every night…

On this same trip, iPod on shuffle, Fergie’s London Bridge begins.  You know, the one that starts “Oh shit.  oh shit.  oh shit…”  Doesn’t she realize that horrible moms like me allow our children to listen to this stuff?!  So the kids begin singing along because that’s what they do, and the lyrics are oh so clear and simple.  The boy, realizing the words he’s saying, pipes up that “shit” is indeed a bad word.  And the conversation commences.  “Shit is a bad word.”  “Shit is a bad word?” “Yes, shit is a bad word.  Right mommy?  Shit is a bad word, right?”  “Yes, hon.  Don’t say that word.” “See [sister], shit is a bad word.”  “Shit is a bad word.” “oh, shit.  oh shit…”  “Shit is a bad word.”  I don’t think I have ever heard “shit” said so many times in so many completely serious, yet totally comical ways in my life.  Y and I were doing our damnedest to not bust out laughing right there, thereby encouraging even more use of the word. 

Some may argue that I shouldn’t let my children listen to such obscene music anyway and it’s my own darn fault (yes, I’m assuming these are the same people that say things like darn and drat and oh, sugar).  So let me WOW you with some more mommy-of-the-year stuff.  My kids have seen both AVP movies (Alien vs. Predator) and thought they were completely hilarious, they enjoy music not only by Fergie, but also Eminem and Disturbed, they’ve been known to miss breakfast completely, then eat nothing but cereal and French toast all weekend, I read them both George’s Marvelous Medicine (the one where George, the precocious little 8 year old, replaces his grandmother’s medicine with a mixture of every chemical, cleaner, cosmetic, and animal pill he can find in his house, boiling it on the stove no less, which results in complete hilarity instead of the imminent death such antics would actually cause) over the summer, and last night we all played Quake (a first person shooter in which you and umpteen other people compete with random levels of weapons to kill each other as many times as possible in some sort of multi-level arena.  First with 25 kills wins) together, in full gore mode.  It was actually pretty cute as the girl wanted nothing more but to see all the blood when you blow someone’s body up after killing them, and the boy let out an evil little chuckle every time he managed to kill one of us.  They make mama proud!  Now where is my darn award!

Ok, all that is actually true, but seriously.  I don’t believe in sheltering my kids forever.  Or at all, it seems… When they started to eat solid food and began to cough a little on a piece of rice or something, to the horror of ex#2 I let them go for a minute.  Of course, if they stopped breathing or turned blue or something I would intervene, but a little cough?  Come on!  How the hell are they going to learn if I cut their rice (and grapes and hot-dog slices and baby carrots…ex#2′s mom…) in to quarters. (no really, she does. quarters.)  If I protect them from all that is make-believe now, they won’t know what’s real later.  And I’m truly convinced if I make them listen to nothing but Barney they will undoubtedly grow up to be serial killers (but then I’d be completely insane by then so it won’t matter to me, right?).  Besides, I grew up on Led Zeppelin and Beverly Hills Cop, all of them, and I turned out just fine.  (something about that last sentence just screams for me to close comments on this one…)

The boy is signed up for Tae Kwon Do for the school year and yesterday I took him to the Dojang to pick up his uniform.  When he walked in, his eyes simply lit up as he spied all the trophies and medals that decorate the office area.  (He has a thing for trophies at the moment.  Ok, cyber-trophies on his plethora of video games, but trophies nonetheless.)  I initially signed him up in hopes that his I can’t attitude would be adjusted, as well as to give him a much needed boost to his self-confidence.  He is a shy, sensitive sort of kid, quiet and reserved around anyone he isn’t completely familiar with.  That and he has no athletic prowess whatsoever.  Seriously.  To watch the boy run is completely comical, bordering on just sad.  I honestly think he walks faster than he runs.  Really. 

So I signed him up for the before-and-after care program that includes transportation to and from school, help with homework, and a 1 1/2 hour class daily.  He’s excited, for now, and so am I.  Of course, now the girl wants to go too.  Yeah, sorry chica.  Totally not going to happen, ever. 

The girl does cheerleading.  Not by my influence at all, but her by father (and aunt and grandmother and grandfather…).  Ex#2′s mom runs/owns a gym and her main focus is all-star cheer.  That’s all well and good, and her teams are absolutely fantastic.  The girl enjoys it, sort of, and it’s a good activity for her, I guess.  But cheerleading just isn’t her.  She lacks the focus or willingness to do the routines, and since she is the granddaughter, none of the coaches push her.  Beyond that, cheerleading doesn’t match her normal level of activity.  Unlike the boy, she is constantly going.  Climbing, jumping, dancing, running, just moving freely.  The girl never stops.  Ever.  There is too much down time and stillness in cheerleading.  Too much structure.  Plus she’s a little rough-and-tumble.  Gymnastics may be a better fit, but I worry about her age with that.  Dance would work, but they don’t offer it there.  And martial arts would be perfect, but, alas, things such as that don’t fit into ex#2′s image of his perfect little princess.

Ex#2 has already planned out her life.  From birth he has insisted on dressing her in nothing but pink, frilly dresses, despite her affinaty for dirt and falling down (on any given day she has at least 2 bruises somewhere on her body and more than a couple scrapes/scabs).  He put her in competative cheer with the idea that she will continue through high school (that’s 14 years from now), pick up a cheer scholarship to a local university, go to law school and be a DA.  Have I mentioned she’s 3 (well, almost 4)??  He pays zero attention to who she is and what she wants and is intent on forcing her into this little mold that represents what he thinks a woman should be: long haired, big busted (yes, he has articulated this specifically), quiet and reserved, perfectly-pressed-black-skirt-and-white-collared-shirt wearing, fancy-leather-seated-car driving District Attorney.  While she may turn out to be just that in the end, it’s not who she is today, at 3 years old.  For that matter, it’s not who she has been yet.  Today she is a tom-boy.  Today she likes to run and climb and jump and fall.  Today she likes motorcycles and big trucks.  Today she is enamoured with Star Wars (yea!) and Transformers.  Today she wants to do Tae Kwon Do with her brother.  Today she wants her hair cut short because it just gets in her way.  Today she wants to dress herself in pants and skirts and T-shirts with robots on them that totally don’t match.  Today she wants to sing and dance.  She just wants to be her which is totally annoying to him, but to me, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that!

My kids couldn’t be more different.  While I have dreams of what they could be and ideas of what they “should” be, I do my damnedest every day to keep those ideas to myself and let them just be.  Ex#2, not so much.  Even ex#1 has his moments with the boy, but not nearly as bad.  And you think it’s bad with the girl?  With the boy it’s worse!

• The boy got a mohawk, because he wanted a mohawk.  Ex#2 wouldn’t take him outside the house because he was too embarrassed and chastised the boy about his hair.  The boy is 5.
• The boy is a sensitive and peaceful soul and it’s not unusual for him to cry at the first sign of conflict or displeasure with him.  Ex#2 articulated that he thinks something is wrong with him.
• The boy plays with dolls, with his sister.  They play house and he plays the daddy and she plays the mommy.  Ex#2 insists he’s gay.

These are only a couple examples of 5 years of degrading comments and horrible judgements  made on my child.  Yeah, I really know how to pick them!  If there was a way to get him completely out of both my children’s lives, I would do it, immediately.  I don’t blame him entirely as I know how he and his sister grew up.  But I see who they have become (generally unhappy, insecure, and angry people with very low self-esteem who tend to prey on others to build themselves up) and I do not want that for my children.  That’s the biggest reason I left in the first place!

But for now, I’m working with the boy, attempting to help him build his self-esteem before anyone else can stomp on it.  As far as the girl, all I can do is support her for who she is as much as possible and hope her innate strength continues long enough to stand up to her father.  In all the hopes and dreams I have for my children, that their strength, independence, and self-worth hold strong is my number one wish. 

Last night I dreamt that Mr. W was cheating on me…with me!  WTF?!  Talk about twisted and waaay too real!  Yeah, at one point, we were *getting cuddly* (really good cuddly I might add) in one room of a house I have never seen or been to before, while I -the being cheated on I- was in another room only half aware of the steaminess going on a room away with me.   Poor Mr. W woke up to me half pissed and half lusty at him.  Both halves perched tentatively on the bed waiting for the faintest eye-flicker of consciousness so we could pounce on him and tell him all about it.  He (sleepily) deduced that either I am suffering from a split personality, or he is.  Hmmm. 

This is slightly better than the dream I had a couple nights ago in which Mr. W had agreed to marry some sexy starlet up-and-coming actress for her publicity, and then got mad at me for refusing to come to the wedding.  He insisted it was only for 2 years and then he would marry me.  The worst part of the dream was that no matter how many times I woke up upset, I fell right back into the dream as soon as I fell back to sleep.  Even during my afternoon nap!  Of course I was (unjustifiably) pissed at him for most of the day.  Sorry, hon! 

So over coffee this morning, Mr. W declared that he will no longer allow me to be mad at him over my dreams.  Ok.  While I really do realize that any feelings that stem simply from a dream are completely irrational and unfair, they are still feelings.  I can’t just turn them off.  I have to let them play out, or fade with time, or just dissipate.  It’s not my fault what my subconscious mind does when left unchaperoned!  He doesn’t get it.  Of course, he doesn’t dream either which means he also doesn’t randomly get pissed at me over something I was totally uninvolved in…… –but still! 

I wonder if he’d object as much if I dreamt of simply *cuddling* instead, leaving me breathless and frisky upon waking… 

Well, last night went well, I have to say.  The entire day went on without so much as a word from Mr. W, dispite my frequent prodding for some sort of answer (read: assurance of complete love and utter devotion).  I got nothing.  So I went home and had some sort of breakdown that causes an undenyable need to clean.  Yeah, totally not me, but I did nonetheless.  I did the dishes, cleaned the dog crate, cleaned the kitchen counters, stove, and floor, lit candles for some nice smells, cleared off the clutter on the kitchen island, dining room side board, and entertainment center, dusted (with Pledge even!), arranged the tables.  Wow!  Mr. W came home somewhere in the midst of it all and very smartly steered clear of my cleaning whirlwind, waiting for it to pass.  He mentioned casually that he would like to take me out to dinner, then pick up his kids to get ice-cream.  I reluctantly agreed and changed.  Just before walking out the door, he grabbed me (seriously, like something out of a sappy romance movie) and told me, really told me that he isn’t leaving and neither am I.  And then he kissed me.  Ok, all better!    We chatted a bit over the course of the evening, straightening some things out.  Seems we have very different ways of dealing with this sort of thing.  Really different.  Like completly opposite sides of the universe different.  But that’s ok.  With communication comes understanding and compromise.  We’re all good!  The night ended early with some *ahem* natural endorphin enhancing activities and I woke up mostly pain-free.  Always a good start to a good day!

But, alas, it did not last.  I don’t feel as bad as I have been.  Not nearly, but still, there is pain and tingling in my right arm and hand, and my left leg from the knee down.  I’ve taken my pain pill (Tramidol, pill number 1), which coincidentally does little for the pain.  It just kinda makes me forget about it for awhile.  Well, whatever works right.  At least it doesn’t knock me out!  And I updated my new planner with times and symptoms. 

The doc suggested I keep track of my symptoms from day to day as part of the Lyme thing.  Apparently symptoms tend to come in cycles of four-ish weeks, which is part of the reason I never went in to the doc when I had Lymish symptoms in the past: swollen glands, stiff neck, blurred vision, urinary issues, brain fog, memory issues, etc.  They were never severe enough to warrent an immediate visit, and they never stuck around long enough to worry me.  The other stuff (depression, anxiety, knee pain, persistant headaches, frequent UTIs, etc) were easily explained away by doctors who just didn’t care enough, although never really helped with varioius meds, therapies, or time.  Hmmm, go figure.  10 years later…

So I picked up a planner for only medical/Lyme related stuff.  I opted for the middle sized thinking the small, cutsie one wouldn’t give me enough room to write and the bigger, practical one was a little to big to be convenient to carry.  I am now rethinking that decision as I’m filling up my daily block about 4 days out of a week.  I’m trying to develop codes to save space, but I think I’m just confusing myself more (brain fog).  The doc (and numerous blogs, groups, reports, etc) have said that even though I’m on meds (antibiotics: Doxycyclene, pill number 2) I will most likely get worse before I get better. “Jarisch-Herxheimer reaction” they call it.  Nice.  Something to look forward to.  Besides that little gem, I can’t go out in the sun without a “Crazy Lady” hat, long sleves, and massive amounts of sunblock as my skin quite litteraly burns within minutes.  Yeah, summertime is a blast!  And then there are all the other joys of being on antibiotics, you know, stomach issues, lady-parts issues, etc.  I’ve started taking probiotics to counter the effects of the antibiotics (pill number 3). 

My acupuncturist said she would bring me some Chinese herbal stuff (as she is an herbalist too) to today’s appointment to help with the pain and stiffness, and maybe she’ll have some more when I tell her my actual diagnosis.  (pills number 4, 5, ?)  I also have a long list for the health food store tomorrow, collected from various locations, on things that may help lessen the individual symptoms:

• more probiotics (to counter the antibiotics)
• Vitamin B complex  – for neural function (Brain fog, concentration)
• Ginko Biloba – for memory (forgetting words, intentions, short-term memory loss)
• Grapefruit seed extract – general Lyme (recommended by my doc)
• Flax oil & Glucosamine Sulfate – joints (achy, stiff joints…all of them!)
• Spirulina/Chlorella/Blue-Green Algae  (more for Brain fog)
• Coral Calcium (for digestion, bone health, PMS)
• plus Vitamin C and a good multi for general health

Looks like I’ll be investing in one of those old-lady pill organizers! 

I’m hoping some of those come in liquid form because I simply cannot swallow that many pills in a day.  My throat tends to close up and everything just stays in my mouth, dissolving, tasting mostly awful, usually causing vomiting, or at least gagging.  Not fun. 

I can’t help but imagine all those chemicals and forign substances in my body are somehow going to merge and bond and mutate into something terrible…

Mr. W and I haven’t been doing so well as of late.  No fighting per se.  Actually, no anything.  That’s what worries me.  We sit separately in silence most of the time as I anxiously await the news that he has had enough of this and is moving on, without me.  I couldn’t blame him of course.  I mean, look what he has gotten himself into.  I’m not the easiest person to get along with.  While I would love to blame the Lyme and all it’s mood-altering ill-effects, I have to quietly admit that this may just be me.  The way I am.  Myself.  Also, I have two not-so-easy little kids.  They are wonderful, but I  am well aware that they can be brats, and stressful, and difficult.  And then there is their fathers, the ex-men.  Yeah, things are better (right now) with ex#1, but the impending legal fight, no battle, no war with ex#2 draws closer with every day that passes.  Not something to look forward to in the least.  And their not even Mr. W’s kids, so, yeah, it’s a lot to put on him.  And now.  Now I have Lyme disease.  It’s bad at the moment, and while I have high hopes things will get better, I realize they could also get worse first.  Or just worse.  He has been absolutely fabulous throughout.  He takes wonderful care of me.  He worries incessantly.  He does everything he can to make me feel physically better, or at least comfortable.  physically.  When the possibility of MS was on the horizon, he even insisted that 1) I don’t have it, but 2) if I do, we will immediately get married and he will join the military so we never have to worry about medical care and the associated cost.  If that isn’t dedication, I don’t know what is.  Of course, I had to explain that I don’t need unending medical care, but rather I need him.  Joining the military would no doubt take him away from me more often than I am willing to bear, so, no.  No military.  We would figure out another way.  But, yeah.  We aren’t doing so well.

This morning I sent him an email (since actually talking has suddenly escaped our repertoire) giving him an out.  I don’t judge him, and would never let anyone else judge him, but if he can’t do this, I asked that he let me know in no uncertain terms so I can make plans, maybe for the two weeks at the end of the month when he is away on travel.  I love him too much to put him through this pain, or make him do something his heart just isn’t into.  I’m sure his response will be something along the lines of how wonderful he has been to me through all this, and how dare I, and how all he’s done is try to take care of me…but…I don’t want a nurse-maid, I want a fiancee!  I want my Mr. W.  I want the crazy, undying love and affection that two engaged individuals should (and used to not so long ago) have.  I can hire a dozen nurses, but I can only find one of him and him is what I so desperately need right now.  And always.

So I wonder, to any of you who have gone through something like this with a significant other, gone through some disease or sickness or circumstance that has affected your relationship in some way.  I mean something that alters one’s way of living, quality of life, that sort of thing, be it by physical inability, degradation, paralysis, etc, or mental instability (or loss), why do you stay?  When did you decide to stay, and was it a decision at all?  I mean, at some point you have to realize that life would be so much easier, and possibly probably better if you were to just move on without him or her.  It just makes sense.  So why?  I truly would like to have some insight here.