When I Don't Get What I Want

Sometimes I don't get what I want. 

I'd like to be all mature and say that I see these moments as growth opportunities and I'm happy for the person who did get what I wanted.  I'd like to say that I roll with it and get all zen and peaceful and wish the universe well in its grand plan.  I'd like to say all those things, but then I would be lying.

Oh, I've learned to be a good sport when I lose at a game.  Or when we don't go to the restaurant I want.  Or even when someone wakes me up when I wanted to sleep.  (Not all the time, but usually.)

But sometimes I stare the universe in the eye and say, "I want my life to be like THIS.  Exactly like THIS.  Pay attention to what I'm telling you -- make it like THIS!"  I feel like the universe and I understand each other.  I see the universe nodding in agreement.  And then the universe goes and does whatever the heck it wants.

Seriously, it sucks.

I thought the universe and I were friends.  I thought the universe had my best interests at heart.  I thought we were in this together.

But I didn't get what I wanted.  I feel ripped off and picked on.  By the entire universe.

And you know what's worse?  Do you know what the real slap in the face is?  That stupid universe is right.  Like, every single time. 

It never fails.  I am sure I've got it figured out.  I am sure I know what is best for me.  I'm sure I've got the upper hand in my battle with the universe this time.

And before too long I am looking at the universe with its slight, Mona Lisa smile.  And the universe knows it has won again.  It does not brag.  It doesn't need to.  Its power is evident for all to see.

And I am forced to not only humble myself and say, "You were right."  I find myself bowing my head time and again saying, "Thank you."  (But I still mumble under my breath, "Stupid universe.")

Taking Stock of My Progress

It's a good idea to take stock of life every now and then.  I tend to get so focused on the mountain ahead I still have to climb that I forget to look back at how far I've come.  I don't take that moment to look out over the view I've already got because I'm so fixated on getting to the top.  And then I just get frustrated and down on myself.  Plus, if I don't take stock, I don't realize I've left the trail entirely and wandered.

So tonight I'm taking stock.  It's been almost a year since I went to the psychiatrist and she basically told me to change my entire life.  Okay, not really, but it felt like that.  I took it seriously.  I worked really hard at it.  Where am I now?

Let's break it down to the different areas she wanted me to work on:
Sleep:  I am getting more sleep.  I am going to bed earlier (not consistently at the same time, but consistently earlier).  I used to be up until 1 or 2 almost every night, frequently 3 or 4.  I then got up to get the kids off to school and crawled back into bed for a nap -- every day.  Now I shut down for the night around 11:30 or 12 (earlier many nights) and am up at seven.  I get the kids up and off.  Sometimes I go back to bed for a nap, but not every day.  And the waking at seven is consistent.  Even on weekends I wake about that time, without an alarm.  My body is becoming conditioned to it.  It even lasted through the summer last year.  Instead of seeing how well I'm doing, I've been noticing the occasional naps and the inconsistent bedtimes and feeling ashamed of myself.  I really am getting much more sleep and have made great progress toward undoing a lifetime of bad habits.  To the point where my family is feeling the effects.  Most nights our house is completely shut down (lights off, most of us asleep) by 9:30 or 10.  On the weekends it might be 11 or 11:30.  For a house full of teenagers who used to routinely stay up until 11 or later on school nights and whenever during the summer, it's incredible progress.  We are night owls by nature, but we've fought that nature and tamed it enough to be healthy.

Water:  I'm drinking more.  For a long time I was hitting that 96 ounces a day religiously.  I've slipped a bit.  I'm working on this one.  Seriously, the hardest part is to remember to take my water bottle to the kitchen with me and fill it up.  If I get back to my room and realize I didn't, I'll usually just put it off.  That means I don't hit my total for the day.  And, no, my kitchen isn't that far from my room.  It's a very poor excuse.  But I am drinking more than I used to and I am working on it.  I have made progress.

Exercise:  She wanted me to walk 20 minutes a day 4-5 times a week.  I suck at this one.  I worked hard at it for a while, but it was making my shins hurt.  I looked it up and realized that my lengthened stride (which I remember training into myself in high school when I spent a lot of time walking with a much taller friend) had to be adjusted back to a natural stride.  This helped.  But I have another problem with exercise (other than the tired and lazy part).  Whenever I do anything physical for more than a few minutes, my face and chest flush.  I go bright red and hot.  Not the traditional exercise overheating.  This can come from simply sweeping.  Even singing does it.  Almost like clockwork, at 20 minutes in I flush.  It's very uncomfortable (the doctor has no idea what this is).  The psychiatrist suggest that I do 2 ten-minute sessions instead.  Yeah, use your logic on me.  Some days I do.  Most days I don't.  Walking outside is less likely (which is too bad because I'm sure the vitamin D from the sun would help).  A bit of dancing with Just Dance 4 on the Wii is more likely.  Even though I'm not where I should be, I am still doing it more than I used to.  Tiny progress, but progress nonetheless.

No soda after 3:00pm, because it interferes with sleep:  Yeah, I kind of completely forgot about this one until I just reread my post from a year ago.  Once I started sleeping better I quit worrying about this.  I may or may not take another look at it.

Food:  I still suck at this.  In a big way.  It's still way too easy for me to not eat.  To forget to eat.  Or to decide it's not worth the work of preparing food.  I'm supposed to eat three meals and three snacks a day.  For months after my visit with her I did this meticulously.  I tracked everything I ate, making sure I was eating every two and a half hours.  Tracking how many servings of vegetables and how many of protein and how many of dairy and so on.  I did fabulously!  Seriously, my therapist and the psychiatrist were pretty much speechless at how well I did and how hard I was working.  And I remember when it fell apart.  My best friend got really sick.  I spent a lot of time in the hospital by her bedside.  I was careful even then.  I packed things to take with me so I wasn't dependent on finding something in the cafeteria.  I was still about 90% compliant with what the psychiatrist wanted.  And after my friend went home and I was no longer spending 8 hours a day taking care of her, I felt like I deserved a break.  I felt like it was okay to relax a bit.  I felt like I had earned a week of not tracking, of not being so careful.  And that week turned into another and another.  I tracked here and there but never really got back on it.  While I work to make healthier choices, I'm not doing fabulously.  There is progress.  I usually eat 2 or 3 meals a day and 1 or 2 snacks.  It used to be 1 meal a day and a snack or two on a good day.  And when I eat junk, I eat less of it.  Usually much less.

But the thing that made me slip up on the food is the same thing that makes me slip in the other areas.  There is still a part of me that says I've earned a break.  When I've worked hard or my life is heavy, I feel like I can stop taking care of myself.  Where does that come from?  When you spell it out like that it doesn't even make sense.  When I've worked hard or my life is heavy, I deserve to take better care of myself.  I deserve more of my attention.  I deserve to feel better.

Because those months when I worked my fanny off on this program, I felt better.  Not healed.  Not healthy.  But better.  I keep forgetting I deserve that.  But now that I've taken stock I remember.

When Your Heart Hurts

It's Valentine's Day, so I guess it's the right time to talk about my recent heart scare.  More frustrating than scary, but there's always an element of fear when you know you need to go to the emergency room.

It's safe to say that I've been in a period of high stress these last too weeks, primarily driven by a PTSD episode triggered by a book club discussion I shouldn't have attended.  Two weeks of fear, sobbing, pain, a desire to hide, a desire to hurt myself, an inability to care about or even notice obligations and people around me.  Walking through life like an automaton.  Going through the motions but often not being fully present.  Desperately waiting for my appointment with my therapist.

About a week into this, my chest started hurting.  Not terribly.  Not sharply.  But it hurt.  Being the pain foolish person I can sometimes be, I ignored it as best I could.  It didn't seem bad.  I didn't have time for this.  I was sure it was nothing.  But it was kind of always there.  Sometimes worse, sometimes better.

Until last Saturday.  The day started out well.  No big plans.  It was a relaxing day and my stress levels were pretty good.  I knew I would be seeing my therapist Monday; that was a relief.  My annual physical was also scheduled for Monday so I'd talk to the doctor about the chest pains then.

But no.  My body decided otherwise.  By the afternoon my chest was hurting so badly I could hardly do anything.  My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't write.  I looked up the symptoms of a heart attack and found several that kind of fit.  Plus, there's that whole scare factor of knowing my cousin had a major heart attack a couple years ago at age 55.  I'm 43 and not in the best of health.

So after getting several things prepped for my kids for the next few days in case I was in the hospital, I went to my husband and told him I needed to go to the ER.  I didn't think it was anything serious, but felt like it needed to be checked out.  He blinked a couple times, he'd been napping, and tried to process what I was telling him.  A few minutes later we headed out, telling the kids (ages 14-22) that we were running errands (yeah, we got in trouble with them for that later).

The ER was slow that day so I felt a bit too well attended.  (One of the reasons I didn't want to go to the ER is because I hate being the center of attention.)  As they questioned me and took my vitals, my husband checked me in.  My heart rate was 115 (usually in the 70s) and my blood pressure was 158/80 (usually about 110/60).  The blood pressure number scared me.  It's never even been close to that.

They get me back to a room.  Lots of people in and out asking questions.  Me feeling stupid, knowing it's going to turn out to be nothing.

They draw blood and start an IV (in my hand because they couldn't get the vein in my arm).  They put on a blood pressure cuff that runs automatically every so often.  They do an EKG.  They take a chest x-ray.  They think it's an anxiety attack (especially after noticing that I'm on anti-anxiety meds and seeing the scars on my arms).  They ask if I've been diagnosed with anxiety.  I haven't, but I have been diagnosed with PTSD, which I tell them.

But just in case, they give me four baby aspirin to chew and some nitroglycerin under my tongue.  Shortly thereafter I feel like my head is going to explode (a side effect of the nitro) and I'm going to throw up (possibly also a side effect of the nitro).  They give me something in my IV for the nausea.  By this point my heart rate had calmed down to a nice 76ish range and my blood pressure was back down to the 110/60 range.  The labs and x-ray are back and they look good.  They are getting ready to send me home.

And then I get cold and start shaking.  Bad.  One blanket.  Then my coat over me.  Then another blanket.  Then my husband's coat.  I'm still shaking uncontrollably.  Soon I'm roasting but still shaking.  We start peeling the coats and blankets off.  The shaking won't stop.  The nurse checks in.  My husband points out that I'm shaking.  I tell the nurse I'm not cold but can't stop shaking.  My heart rate has gone back up to the 112 range and my blood pressure is back up.  He says, "Hm" and goes to talk to the doctor.  I've now been shaking uncontrollably for about twenty minutes for no discernible reason (my muscles are hurting from all the shaking).  The nurse comes in and gives me a shot of Ativan through my IV (it's like Valium).  He waits a minute.  Still shaking.  He gives me another.  Still shaking.  He goes to talk to the doctor again.  About ten minutes later they come back, find me still shaking, and give me two more shots of Ativan (4 mgs. total now).  Boy, am I getting sleepy at this point.  Finally the shaking stops. 

All the test results are good. My heart rate and blood pressure are back down.  So it's time to send me home (although it's tough to walk now after all that Ativan).  The doctor still thinks it's anxiety.  Just in case, he sends me home with a prescription for Prilosec (in case it's acid reflux), an order for a stress test, and instructions to take an aspirin every day.

The PTSD got better after my extra-long therapy session.  Everything went well at my physical.  I did the stress test yesterday (the EKG looked good, but a cardiologist has to look at it and the images they took of the blood flow in my heart before we really know anything).

And my chest still hurts.  I should be relieved that they didn't find anything wrong with my heart.  I guess I am a bit.  But mostly I am frustrated and depressed.  I see all these expensive tests and still no answers or relief.  One more thing that hurts with no explanation.  Like I needed another one of those.

My Visit to the Psychiatrist

Some of you may remember that at my last physical my doctor suggested I get back into therapy and see a psychiatrist.  I am back in therapy, making progress, and this past Monday I finally met with a psychiatrist.

I've been both eager and anxious about going.  I was eager to feel better and had hopes that she could help me.  And I was very anxious about the medicinal roller coaster of trying new meds until we find something that works or give up in failure.  But I trust my doctor and had a good recommendation for this psychiatrist.  So, off I went.

It was kind of like going to therapy with a doctor.  Lots of psychological and medical questions.  She took an extensive history and asked follow up questions about my life and behaviors.  The history part took about forty-five minutes.  I'm telling you, she asked questions I've never been asked.  And considering my therapeutic and medical history, that's saying something.  Some of these questions sparked thoughts I hadn't had before.  They changed my perception.

She asked about my sleeping habits.  I don't sleep well.  I haven't for years.  I gave a description of my typical bedtime, rising, and nap habits.  She asked me to quantify it.  In a twenty-four hour period, how many hours do you sleep?  I'd never quantified it before.  I knew my habits were bad.  I knew I should be getting more sleep.  But until she had me add it up I had no idea that I was sleeping only 4-6 hours on a regular basis, including naps.

She asked about my eating habits.  Ugh!  I hate this topic.  I described my general aversion to food and my typical eating patterns.  I knew I didn't eat well.  I had no idea how bad until she asked me to quantify it.  Do you eat enough to sustain life?  Calorically, probably.  Nutritionally, not even close.

Having someone ask that and having to admit how badly I was failing was eye opening.  But not as much as her next statement.  Earlier in the interview, we'd discussed my history with self-harm.  I'd explained that I hadn't purposely hurt myself for over a year, except for once after a particularly difficult therapy session.

She said that sleep deprivation and starvation are forms of self-injury (common with a history like mine).

Now, I don't know if that hit you hard, but it hit me hard.  I had never thought of those behaviors as self-harm.  But after considering it for a few moments I realized that she was absolutely right.  It didn't mean I was converted and ready to change in that instant, but it made an impact.

She also said that sleeping during the day is a self-soothing strategy.  An unhealthy one.

Again, not something I'd thought of.  (After thinking of that and the other bomb shell I spent a lot of time over the next few days wondering why I am self-injuring and self-soothing my way through my life.  I guess I still have lots of work to do.)

She said she wouldn't think of trying meds until I start sleeping.  So many of my symptoms could be sleep related.  Also, she'd like to build on success rather than failure.  In other words, let's try something we know will help instead of working our way through things that might not.  Once we fix the sleep problems we can see if we still have things to work on.

Of course, she doesn't simply want to work on the sleep problem.  That's just the beginning.  Basically, my life is in complete overhaul.  She wants me to change several of my behavior patterns.  She was very direct and specific.  She said I am well on my way to an eating disorder (something I'd actually considered before).  And then she gave me the following goals.

*  I am to eat three meals and three snacks a day, on schedule.
*  I am to sleep 7-8 hours a night, going to bed and getting up at the same time each day -- zero naps!  (Melatonin is allowed)
*  I am to drink 96 oz. of water a day.
*  I am to walk at least 20 minutes a day 4-5 times a week.
*  No soda after 3:00pm, as the carbonation interferes with sleep.

Having her spell it out so definitively is helpful.  No thinking on my part, just follow through.  She set standards.  It's my job to do my best to meet them.  It was also helpful when she told me that changing patterns like this can take 3-6 weeks.  You see, I've done it for a month at a time before and seen no change.  It helped to have a time frame.

I agreed to do my best.  I will go back and see her in two months.  She also ordered a sleep study; I meet with that doctor next week.

She works in the same office as my therapist.  I saw him a couple of days later.  I am not exaggerating to say that he was tickled pink with how well it went and that I was taking it seriously.  He said only about 30% of patients follow through with a plan like this.  They both also agreed that whether these changes take away all my symptoms or not, they will help my therapy to be more successful.  I know that's true.  Therapy always goes better when I feel better, especially when I have the energy needed to maintain boundaries.

I expected sleep to be the toughest one.  It's not.  Not by a long shot. 

Walking is tough because I have a bit of a social phobia thing happening right now.  The idea of going out and walking through my neighborhood makes me anxious.  It doesn't mean I won't do it, but it's tough.

The water has been relatively easy.  A lemon Propel Zero packet in my water bottle and I'm good to go.  It's also cut way down on my Diet Coke consumption.  I am making a lot of trips to the bathroom, but that is supposed to level out over time.

The biggest difficulty for me has been food.  I really had no idea it could possibly be so hard to eat.  I eat every two and a half hours now.  Meal, snack, meal, snack, meal, snack.  I have to set an alarm on my phone to keep myself on schedule.  I try to make healthy choices, but I'm not working super hard on balance throughout the day yet.  Right now the goal is to teach myself to be hungry and respond to it.

I did okay for the first few days.  I ate on schedule.  I made healthy choices.  But it got harder yesterday.

It was time to eat lunch.  I went to the kitchen and tried to find something that looked good.  Nothing.  So then I looked for something that would meet the basic needs of a meal.  I ended up choosing a peanut butter on wheat sandwich and yogurt.  As I took my first bite I started crying.  I desperately didn't want to eat this food.  It didn't taste bad, I just didn't want to eat it.  I forced my way through.  It was hard just to open my mouth and put the food in.  I sometimes gagged as I swallowed.  And I cried the whole time, but I did it.  Then I was super nauseous afterward.  For several hours.

The high and determination I felt those first few days seems to be gone.  Now it's just a chore.  It's so hard to find food that I like.  It always has been.  I prefer somewhat bland food with few ingredients.  Today, as I make up the grocery list, I find myself struggling to think of things to put on it that I will eat.

It sucks.  It seems like I spend my whole day thinking about food.  What am I going to eat next?  With all these changes I'm working on, I'm struggling to even think about anything else.  I'm not taking on anything new or making any other plans for a while.  I just don't have the time and mental energy to do one more thing.

But I am doing my best.  I have always been one to do my homework.  I just hope it's worth it.

**********
To see how it was all going a year later read this.

Shut Up, Stupid Brain!

It's after four in the morning.  I'm tired.  It's dark and quiet.  Why won't you let me sleep?

Don't you understand what tomorrow will be like for me?  I have things to do and people counting on me.  I want to sleep.  Why can't you shut up?

I know you have a million ideas.  I know you want to plan for tomorrow, which chores we'll do and which errands we need to run. 

I know you want to review today, thinking about what we got done.  And, more importantly, what we didn't.  Yes, I know there is still so much to do.  But it's four in the morning; we really can't do it now.

If I go out and start cleaning the living room and sorting the books and toys one of two things will happen.  I will wake someone else up and they will be miserable, too.  Or, it will just make me even more awake and I won't get any sleep at all tonight.

It's easy for you.  You don't have to worry about limited energy.  Why are you the only part of me that never seems to get tired?

And why do you take such pleasure in torturing me?  Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from keeping me up all night?  Is there a battle being waged between you and my body?

It's not fair, you know.  I am trapped in the middle.  Trying to maintain the peace.  Trying to meet your needs and my body's needs.  Do you have any idea how difficult that is?

Of course not.  You worry only about yourself.  It's all about you.  "Look at what I can do," and then you take the stage.  Performing songs, stories, and wondrous feats to dazzle the mind.  To occupy the thoughts and senses.  To stimulate the body into producing adrenaline.  Because you are afraid that if I go to sleep you will lose your audience.

I guess that's kind of true.  You go on performing while I sleep, and when I wake up I have no memory of all you've done.  Sometimes I have a slight memory of the shows you put on while I sleep.  Quite the imagination, you have there.  They are fantastical shows.

If I promise to try to remember, will you let me sleep?  Let's give it a shot.  I will listen and watch while I sleep.  You put on your best show.  And in the morning we'll review.  Do we have a deal?

Lost My Footing

When I was a kid summertime meant freedom. Roaming. Exploring. And one place my friends and I spent time was the creek.

Early summer would find it still deep enough to come up to my thighs. And, man, was it cold.

We would walk up the creek, marveling at the wonders around us. Finding cool rocks. Talking about life.

But when I wasn't careful I would lose my footing. I'd step on a wobbly rock or a slippery one and down I'd go. Sometimes I got caught in the current and was carried a ways downstream before I could get my feet under me again.

Well, I've lost my footing. I was going along okay, but I guess I wasn't watching where I was going. Suddenly I was down and going the wrong direction. I was cold and floundering. I think I've stopped losing ground and I'm very carefully trying to get back on my feet.

This happens. Over and over this happens. It's so frustrating. And sometimes it's very scary. What if I can't catch myself this time? What if I float so far away no one can find me? What if I drown?

I have always found my footing in the past. I believe I will this time as well. The sun will come out and begin to warm me as it dries my clothes. I will find my way back to my friends.

But right now I'm just stepping oh so carefully. One wrong move and I'll be down again. And I don't want to be down again; the fight to get back up can be so hard.

Why Did I Get Out of Bed?

Let me set the stage a little.  I was very dizzy yesterday so I took some anti-dizzy medication.  Mixed with the Xanax I am taking let's just say I was VERY tired.  However, I still didn't get to bed until about 12:30am. 

Since I am the human alarm clock in my house, my day started at 5:00am.  Wake up one daughter so she can study for a test.  6:30am start waking other kids.  7:00am wake son.  7:07 wake son again.  And 7:14.  And 7:21.  Son is already grounded from the computer for other infractions, so what do I threaten him with now?  Finally scare son enough (pretty loud yelling) that he gets out of bed at 7:28am.  Keep in mind that I have to walk down the hall on my very painful foot each time to do this.  To say that I am irritated with him does not come close.

Spend the next twenty minutes trying to get him to move faster than a sloth so that he will be ready when his ride comes.  As he purposely pushes every single one of his sister's buttons.  When his ride comes he makes them wait a minute or so while he hunts for his jacket.  I am just glad to have him out of my house.

I lock the doors and go back to bed.  I can barely keep my eyes open.  I am still feeling the effects of yesterday's medications.  I set my alarm for noon.  I will surely be able to get up by then.  Or not.  Many snoozes and alarm changes later, I finally get up at about 1:30pm.  My foot hurts so bad I can barely walk.  I have to eat something so I can take some anti-inflammatory meds without extreme stomach pain.  I stumble to the kitchen and have a bowl of cereal (after I wash a bowl and spoon because the dishes have stacked up -- again).  Of course, the kitchen smells of something really nasty that I'm sure is buried under all the dishes.  I get my frozen water bottle and take it to my room so I can put my foot on it.  I try to catch up on some blog reading.

Half an hour later, I take the water bottle back to the freezer.  Passing through the living room on my way back to unlock the door so the children can get in, I notice a discoloration on the carpet.  Not a subtle one.  Cat puke.  Of course.  So I limp into the kitchen and get what I need to clean up the cat puke.

I get a text message telling me my daughter is on no-credit status because of unexcused absences or tardies (which I know I have called and excused).  I get an email that another daugher is failing one or more of her classes (she says the teacher hasn't entered all her make up work).  I find myself in the basement looking for something and can smell cat poop.  Somehow, as strong as the smell is, I can't find it.  I eventually have to give up and decide to try again later.

One daughter comes home, very sick.  I send her to bed.  It's her turn for dinner so now I have that as well.  Did I mention that my foot is killing me and my meds are sending me into a depression?  Just walking around my own house is hard.  I need a shower.  But now I have to go out in public.

Two more daughters come home.  Aside from their irritating cheerfulness, things seem to be okay with them.  I realize it's getting kind of late and I haven't heard from my son.  I decide to give him a little more time to check in.

Oldest daughter comes home and collapses on my bed.  Super tired and stressed because it's finals week at college and she is pushing every limit she's got.

Finally decide I can't wait any longer and I have to track down my son.  I try to call the only friend I can think of and their phone isn't working.  I decide I'm going to have to drive to his house.  I look like death warmed over.  I drive up there.  She says they were there but they went to do parkour somewhere.  She doesn't know where.  She can tell by my face that he's in trouble.  We each promise that whoever finds them first will make them contact home.  It is now 2 1/2 hours since school ended and since it's winter it's dark.  He's fourteen.

I am a pretty relaxed parent in many ways.  My kids get away with a lot.  But I have one major rule (other than don't kill anyone) and that is that I must know where you are and who you are with.  Always.  You do not leave the school to go anywhere but home unless you call first.  You do not stay at the school to practice your instrument or work out in the weight room unless you call first.  You do not say you are going one place and then go to another place without checking in first.  You do not leave me wondering where you are.  Especially if you already ticked me off that day.

I drive around for half an hour checking parks.  No sign of him.  The street lights are now on.  I go buy Little Caesar's pizza because I'm in charge of dinner now.  Still looking like garbage.

I decide to go home and wait it out.  On my way, he calls.  Our conversation goes like this:

"Hi, mom." (sounding cheery and nonchalant)
"Are you at T's house?"
"Yeah."
"Get your binder (which he left there last week).  I will be there in five minutes to pick you up."  (It's now three hours since school has been out.)
"You mean I can't stay?"
"GET YOUR BINDER.  I WILL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES TO PICK YOU UP.  ARE WE CLEAR NOW?"
"Yup."

I pick him up.  I can't even speak because I am so angry.  (Okay, fine, the meds may have something to do with my aggression.  But this is also not a first offense for this boy.  He's been warned and grounded before.  Several times.  I have had it!)

We get home.  I kick his sister off the computer and tell him to log into his facebook account.  Then I send him to take out the over-flowing trash.  As he does that I change his facebook status to:  "This is Nik's mom.  He is grounded from any contact with friends for the next two weeks.  Do not invite him to do anything or call until after Christmas.  He is unavailable.  Thank you."

I go in to make sure he puts a new liner in the trash can only to find that someone spilled something nasty in the trash earlier when it didn't have a liner and just put a new one in anyway.  So whatever they spilled has now fermented.  I get the Lysol and paper towels and start to clean it out, only to find that there is also an entire serving of mashed potatoes in the bottom of the trash can.  Soft and gooey mashed potatoes.  This is a 30-gallon trash can so I have to practically climb inside to clean it.  Awful smell.  And now choking on the Lysol.

People eat their pizza.  Husband finally gets home.  I am a little irritated at him, too.  He forgot to charge his phone last night so it's been dead all day.  This means I couldn't call and ask him for help finding my son, to pick up dinner on his way home, or complain about the horrible day I was having.

I finally take a bath.  Now I no longer look like an unearthed zombie with a hangover.  I head into the kitchen to see if there's anything I can eat (I hate Little Caesar's pizza).  I finally make a couple peanut butter and honey sandwiches.  I go back into the kitchen to put my dishes away.  I don't have the heart to make the daughter in charge of dishes do them because she's the one studying like crazy for finals.  I have other daughter unload the dishwasher and I load.  In the process I find that both sides of the sink are clogged because my family simply cannot resist the urge to throw solid food into the sink.  Our disposal has been broken for over a year.  I have been lecturing for about that long.  They aren't getting it.  As I do the dishes I find chunks of curdled milk, soggy Cheerios, sandwich baggies, a box top, the sharp removed top of a tin can, and bits and pieces of no-one-wants-to-guess.  And a seriously disgusting rag that could easily be used for a science project in its current state of stench.  I end up using our mini-plunger just to get the sinks to drain.

My head is killing me.  I'm tired.  I have zero patience.  I have done no Christmas shopping because my foot hurts so bad and my meds are playing havoc with my system.  We don't even have a Christmas tree.

And my daughter just sent me a text asking me to wake her at 5:30 tomorrow morning.

Today, I am Scrooge.  And I am completely and 100% okay with that.  Wake me up in January; I'm skipping the rest of this holiday.

Pedmeregocide

Last Sunday was a little ugly.  I'm not afraid to admit it.

We're a go-to-church-every-Sunday family.  (Except for dad, although that only plays a small part in the story.)

I got up early to work on my lesson.  I'd been up for an hour or so showering, curling my hair, making cute little handouts.  Things like that.  I was in a pretty good mood.  It was going to be a lovely day at church.

Then it was time to wake others.  One daughter was out of town.  That took a little pressure off.  One daughter was exhausted from performing in the orchestra for her school play the night before, but she's kind of a morning person (at least compared to the rest of us) so she groaned and got up.  One daughter is in college.  She got up, looked at the clock, and said she was going to be late (I'm thinking, "Then why don't you get yourself up in time to get ready like an adult?" *grrr*).

The morning started to turn at this point.  Oh, did I mention that I started new meds a day or two before that have been affecting my moods?  No.  Well, that could possibly have played a part in the day as well.

Last two.  These two are the toughest.  They have never been morning people anyway and are both at that age when their bodies need a lot more sleep.  And they haven't gotten to the point where they will get up and do something they aren't dying to do if they are still tired.

I wake my son.  Four times.  Every five minutes or so.  The last time I am not pleasant.  "Get up here now or you are grounded from the computer for a week!"  (You've got to know their currency.)  He stumbles upstairs like the living dead.  I tell him to find his clothes before he eats.  He groans an assent.

I wake my youngest.  She tells me she is *cough, cough* sick.  I tell her she is tired and to get up.  We argue back a forth a bit, me getting more impatient every minute. 

My husband and I have a deal that I won't force the kids to go to church.  (And really, if you're forcing someone to go to church will they be getting much out of it?  The gospel isn't really about force; it's about choosing.)  I agree with this in theory but it's a little tougher to live up to Sunday morning as my stress is climbing.

I tell her that it can't be a decision every Sunday.  You just have to plan to go.  Otherwise you're going to choose to sleep in more often than you think.  Soon you won't be going at all.

I hear my son eating.  I ask if he found his clothes.  He tells me he did.  (Let me add here that he has grown many inches lately and now only has one pair of church pants and one church shirt.  I know, I need to get on that.)

The daughter refuses to go.  We are both grumpy and snapping at each other now (fairly loudly).  I tell her I am leaving and I am disappointed that she won't go.  Son is still eating.  I tell him he's going to be walking (only a few blocks) and he'd better get there soon to do his duties.  Two older daughters are ready and head out to the car with me.  As I pull out of the driveway son peeks his head out the door, gets my attention, and tells me he can't find his shirt.  I tell him good luck and he'd better look harder.  I drive away.  (I am now cursing my sleeping husband for not being up to help me.)

Youngest daughter gets to church just as it's starting and tells me her brother still can't find his shirt.  (I'm fairly certain there is smoke coming out of my ears now.)  I get in the car, drive back home, and start hunting.  I can't find it either.  He gets a lecture for lying to me about having found his clothes.  And another one about learning to put his clothes away. At rather high volume.  He finally ends up wearing one of dad's dress shirts (at least four sizes too big).

We drive back to church (son has missed his duties) and I am trying desperately to let it all go so that I can get something from the meeting.

Throughout this morning the thought that kept running through my head was, "I'm going to kill him/her."  I must have thought that ten times.  Maybe not the best mood to go to church in.  But, if you're in that mood, I guess church is the best place to go.

At this point, the wordsmith part of my brain kicks in.  What's the word for wanting to kill your child?  Homicidal is too general.  Fratricidal is wanting to kill your brother.  There's got to be one for wanting to kill your kid(s).  I can't come up with anything.

After the meeting, and before the others, I speak to a couple of my friends I know pay attention to Greek and Latin roots, like me.  I ask if either of them can think of anything.  They can't.  Although we consider Youth-anasia.  (I know, it's only funny if you're a nerd.)

By the time I get home I still don't have a word, but I've come up with a complex.  I declare that I have a Medea complex, which still doesn't entirely apply because she just killed her sons and I have daughters involved.

I mention to my oldest that I've been trying to come up with a word and does she have any idea.  (She's an English major so she's dealt with root words more recently than I have.)  She starts working on it.  Soon my other daughter and son are working on it as well.  They are on the computer, looking up root words.

And I just start laughing.  I have just told my children that I spent the day wanting to kill them and they are working to figure out what to call it.  As if I've just asked them to define the word shoe.

They said they knew I didn't mean it.  And that makes me happy.

The final word they came up with was pedmeregocide, a mix of Greek and Latin roots.  Ped - child, mere - part, ego - self, cide - kill.

And that's what teamwork looks like in our family.