People told me being pregnant difficult. I realized being pregnant would be especially difficult for me, given my anxiety, the day the test flashed positive.
People told me labor would be difficult. Too many moms took it upon themselves to tell me just how difficult their labor was. Like it's a right of passage: have baby, use experience of labor to terrify mothers-to-be about said labor.
People still tell me parenting is difficult. I tell myself daily that parenting is difficult. It's obvious.
But what people neglected to tell me was just how difficult my post-baby body would become. I expected stretch marks, but lucked out in that department. I'd heard stories of nursing mothers whose breasts resembled socks filled with rocks. Again, I sneak by with a good push-up bra. I even remember my mom telling me her feet grew by 1/2 size. Seemed like a small sacrifice.
But here's what they didn't tell me:
My feet didn't grow a size, but my joints loosened, making my bunions even that more painful. I now have bursitis in my left big toe joint. I've always had hyper-extendable joints, but the pain is just that much more severe. And my joints pop out of place more easily.
My body decided to grown skin tags while I was pregnant. And of course, several of these annoying little tags were in extremely sensitive places. That turned out to be the most embarrassing, and the most painful, dermatologist appointment of my life. And as someone who was on Accutane three times, I've had some awful dermatology experiences.
I've acquired a tire around my midriff. My mother always told me to suck in my tummy, which I did religiously. But sucking in your tummy just doesn't work when you're pregnant. Juni is now 3-years-old, and I'm still retraining my tummy muscles to stay contracted. The tire doesn't help. It's the consistency of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
I realize I'm a prime candidate for some mild body dismorphia, and that other people probably see me as thinner than I see myself in the mirror. But still. Change is change. And this is SO not the body I signed up for.
My left shoulder has a partial sublaxation from repeatedly picking up Juni. It's similar to the muscle strains I'd feel after a week of softball practice, but doesn't go away. Apparently a 31-year-old shoulder just doesn't rebound like it used to. I can't raise my left hand above my shoulder because it just plain hurts.
I have a misaligned bone in my neck, causing inflammation of the surrounding muscle. My massage therapist says this is a very common condition in moms, since picking up children places so much stress on our necks. I find myself continuously trying to stretch the muscles in my neck to make it comfortable. No deal.
My left hip has become lower than my right. This isn't something I can see, it's something my massage therapist noticed. It's from constantly having a baby, and then toddler, propped on my left hip. It also places undue stress on my back and neck.
My lower back is in constant pain. It started while I was pregnant, and worsened since delivery. A this point the pain is so intense that I can't roll over in my sleep without waking up. I can't get out of my son's bed without holding my breath and wincing. I can't bend down and pick up toys on the floor without sharp pains. I've always had a weak back, and am used to some aches. But this is ridiculous. I can't sit on a couch without fidgeting and stretching, trying to make myself comfortable. Driving is painful. Sleeping is painful. Gardening is painful. I'm thinking at this point you realize...my back is painful.
I was thinking that after pregnancy I'd have some weight to loose and some stretch marks...maybe sock-rock boobs. But pain? I thought that ended with the epidural and various other meds. Not so much.
And so, next week I am officially putting all my eggs in the chiropractor's basket. I've tried massage. I've tried medications. I've tried stretching and I've tried yoga. Nothing has worked. I'm banking on the chiropractor to help me get my body back into working order...
Stay tuned for more Stories about the Redneck's Wife:
Scared Sick
Searching for a purpose-driven life (and blaming it on Oprah)
Yes, I'm a writer. And no, I never finished a book in high school
Visions of sugar plums...and dead babies...in my head
Dealing with my Boobie Bandit
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
If you Pee there I will Seriously Kill You
You'd think this story would be about Juni the Toddler. Not so much.
Jasen likes his beer. Every night, he likes his beer. He's definitely a self-described functioning alcoholic. He uses it to relax; take away the stress. I used to argue with him about it, but have since accepted the drinking.
My husband used to drink brown liquor like it was Kool Aid. The night we got engaged, that all stopped. When I have more time, I'll tell that story. But for now, here is one from New Years a few years back.
After our engagement night disaster, Jasen asks me if he can have a few brown liquor drinks every now and then. This particular night, we were at a New Year's party with my dad and his wife, and a very large man with a very large tolerance for all things alcoholic.
Apparently, Jasen and the large man started talking, and of course drinking. Let me make something perfectly clear: Jasen can hold his liquor. In his drinking heyday, I'm sure he could keep pace with the best of them. But after a few years of a beer-only diet, his body doesn't handle the rough stuff like it used to.
We had a great time at the party, and Jasen never showed his evil side that only comes out after a night with Jim Beam. Once we got home I put on the t.v. and Jasen passed out on the couch.
Or so I thought.
Twenty minutes later, Jasen rises. His skin was that pale, green, clammy color people get when they're drop-down drunk or coming down with the flu. Apparently his bladder woke him up. He told me he had to pee.
Since he said he had to pee, I thought it odd that he didn't take his post on our front porch, as was custom before we had Juni. And yes, I feel bad for our neighbors when he reverts to his old ways and whips it out without warning. But I digress.
It was odd, because instead of passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, he stopped at the refrigerator first. Did he really need a snack for the bathroom? Nope. He opened the bottom veggie drawer, and I heard his zipper.
What the hell are you doing? That is NOT a bathroom. That's the refrigerator you jackass! If you pee there, I will seriously kill you...
Jasen stumbled around, and shut the refrigerator door. And then I heard it. That sound of pee hitting something that obviously was not the toilet. It was the outside of our $200 stainless steel trashcan we'd bought the week before. The trashcan he insisted we needed. The trashcan that was now covered in Jim Beam-laden urine.
And there was my husband, in all his redneck glory, jeans around his ankles, eyes glossy and completely unconscious to the world around him. He slept on the couch that night, and was not at all pleased about the mess all over the kitchen. He had no recollection.
He also spent the next hour apologizing for defacing our kitchen, and cleaning his prized trash can.
Jasen likes his beer. Every night, he likes his beer. He's definitely a self-described functioning alcoholic. He uses it to relax; take away the stress. I used to argue with him about it, but have since accepted the drinking.
My husband used to drink brown liquor like it was Kool Aid. The night we got engaged, that all stopped. When I have more time, I'll tell that story. But for now, here is one from New Years a few years back.
After our engagement night disaster, Jasen asks me if he can have a few brown liquor drinks every now and then. This particular night, we were at a New Year's party with my dad and his wife, and a very large man with a very large tolerance for all things alcoholic.
Apparently, Jasen and the large man started talking, and of course drinking. Let me make something perfectly clear: Jasen can hold his liquor. In his drinking heyday, I'm sure he could keep pace with the best of them. But after a few years of a beer-only diet, his body doesn't handle the rough stuff like it used to.
We had a great time at the party, and Jasen never showed his evil side that only comes out after a night with Jim Beam. Once we got home I put on the t.v. and Jasen passed out on the couch.
Or so I thought.
Twenty minutes later, Jasen rises. His skin was that pale, green, clammy color people get when they're drop-down drunk or coming down with the flu. Apparently his bladder woke him up. He told me he had to pee.
Since he said he had to pee, I thought it odd that he didn't take his post on our front porch, as was custom before we had Juni. And yes, I feel bad for our neighbors when he reverts to his old ways and whips it out without warning. But I digress.
It was odd, because instead of passing through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, he stopped at the refrigerator first. Did he really need a snack for the bathroom? Nope. He opened the bottom veggie drawer, and I heard his zipper.
What the hell are you doing? That is NOT a bathroom. That's the refrigerator you jackass! If you pee there, I will seriously kill you...
Jasen stumbled around, and shut the refrigerator door. And then I heard it. That sound of pee hitting something that obviously was not the toilet. It was the outside of our $200 stainless steel trashcan we'd bought the week before. The trashcan he insisted we needed. The trashcan that was now covered in Jim Beam-laden urine.
And there was my husband, in all his redneck glory, jeans around his ankles, eyes glossy and completely unconscious to the world around him. He slept on the couch that night, and was not at all pleased about the mess all over the kitchen. He had no recollection.
He also spent the next hour apologizing for defacing our kitchen, and cleaning his prized trash can.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Is it Too Much to Ask to NOT Have Two Dead Cows in the Backyard? apparently....yes...
We have about 15 cows. It keeps the land under agricultural use, so we can afford the taxes. Buddy, Jasen's grandfather, has always taken care of the cows. But he's getting older, and showing the beginning effects of Alzheimer's Disease. He turns 85 next month.
Keeping the cows fed, the weeds in the fields down and the fences up is work enough. But every so often a calf dies. Here is the latest story...
One of the older cows gave birth to an unusually small calf last week. It seemed healthy, but very small. The mother looked horrible after the birth ... skin and bones. There's not much we can do except give the mother extra hay, unless one of us had time to bottle-feed the baby. I've done this before. It's not fun. It's literally equivalent to taking care of a newborn, and with a toddler and husband working 12-hour days seven days a week, I just didn't have time.
So the calf died three days ago. I didn't know it until I saw it half-buried in the hay barn. Buddy originally said he pulled it there out of the field, but then totally forgot all about it. He forgot the calf had died. So two days after it died, I found it. With Juni. Luckily Juni doesn't understand yet, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Anyway, I told Buddy about the calf. Five minutes later he'd forget. So I showed him the calf, had him get the tractor, and pull it out of the barn. He promised me he'd take it to the woods, where Jasen could later bury it. So I didn't think anymore about it. Until yesterday.
I needed to worm the cows, since Buddy obviously wasn't going to do it. I had Juni in the buggy, and the medicine with me. Then I saw it...the mother. Dead. With her head on top of her dead calf, which was still in the field. It was horrible. She'd died, still trying to get her calf to stand.
When a calf dies or leaves, the mother will mourn for days. She cries, moos, doesn't eat. She stands above her deceased calf, apparently trying to wake them. It's horrible. Last year when Daisy's calf died, Jasen had to keep her away with a shovel while he drug the calf into the woods. She wouldn't let him take the calf away.
So I wormed the cows, which is not easy, and left. That night Jasen got home and I told him about it. He was so stressed from work, but seriously...two dead cows? No way can I take care of that myself, and Buddy is in no condition. So it was up to me to either hire someone, which Jasen vehemently opposed, or for him to suck it up and do it himself. He was NOT happy about the situation., but did it anyway.
Here's my take on the situation: yes, Jasen is working like crazy, and yes, i need to step up and do as much as possible. But there are some responsibilities that he just has to take care of, despite the situation at work. Two dead cows in the backyard is definitely one of them in my book...
Keeping the cows fed, the weeds in the fields down and the fences up is work enough. But every so often a calf dies. Here is the latest story...
One of the older cows gave birth to an unusually small calf last week. It seemed healthy, but very small. The mother looked horrible after the birth ... skin and bones. There's not much we can do except give the mother extra hay, unless one of us had time to bottle-feed the baby. I've done this before. It's not fun. It's literally equivalent to taking care of a newborn, and with a toddler and husband working 12-hour days seven days a week, I just didn't have time.
So the calf died three days ago. I didn't know it until I saw it half-buried in the hay barn. Buddy originally said he pulled it there out of the field, but then totally forgot all about it. He forgot the calf had died. So two days after it died, I found it. With Juni. Luckily Juni doesn't understand yet, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Anyway, I told Buddy about the calf. Five minutes later he'd forget. So I showed him the calf, had him get the tractor, and pull it out of the barn. He promised me he'd take it to the woods, where Jasen could later bury it. So I didn't think anymore about it. Until yesterday.
I needed to worm the cows, since Buddy obviously wasn't going to do it. I had Juni in the buggy, and the medicine with me. Then I saw it...the mother. Dead. With her head on top of her dead calf, which was still in the field. It was horrible. She'd died, still trying to get her calf to stand.
When a calf dies or leaves, the mother will mourn for days. She cries, moos, doesn't eat. She stands above her deceased calf, apparently trying to wake them. It's horrible. Last year when Daisy's calf died, Jasen had to keep her away with a shovel while he drug the calf into the woods. She wouldn't let him take the calf away.
So I wormed the cows, which is not easy, and left. That night Jasen got home and I told him about it. He was so stressed from work, but seriously...two dead cows? No way can I take care of that myself, and Buddy is in no condition. So it was up to me to either hire someone, which Jasen vehemently opposed, or for him to suck it up and do it himself. He was NOT happy about the situation., but did it anyway.
Here's my take on the situation: yes, Jasen is working like crazy, and yes, i need to step up and do as much as possible. But there are some responsibilities that he just has to take care of, despite the situation at work. Two dead cows in the backyard is definitely one of them in my book...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Jackass
When we had Juni, I definitely felt worried about Jasen's language. He's a four-letter word lover. So I'm seeing myself constantly picking at him, telling him not to teach Juni to say this or that. So of course it would be me that taught him my favorite word...
Jackass
I call Jasen a jackass at least 3 times a week. This is down from 5 times a day before Juni and I visited my dad, and this happened:
Juni wanted to go outside. My dad didn't. He told him to wait patiently. Juni looked at my dad, gave him a pout face, turned around on his heels and said (with my kind of attitude) "jackass." My dad, his wife and I couldn't help but laugh. Still...did jackass have to be the first rude word he learned? Couldn't it have been one of Jasen's favorites? argh.
Jackass
I call Jasen a jackass at least 3 times a week. This is down from 5 times a day before Juni and I visited my dad, and this happened:
Juni wanted to go outside. My dad didn't. He told him to wait patiently. Juni looked at my dad, gave him a pout face, turned around on his heels and said (with my kind of attitude) "jackass." My dad, his wife and I couldn't help but laugh. Still...did jackass have to be the first rude word he learned? Couldn't it have been one of Jasen's favorites? argh.
You Must've been a Real Heifer
I recently lost about 20 pounds. I'd still like to loose 1o more, but still....20 pounds is 20 pounds. The other day Jasen looked at me and said "So how much weight have you lost?" I answered. "Wow babe. You must've been a real heifer before! I never noticed..."
Okay. so how am I supposed to take that?
My problem with weight is that no matter how much or how little the scale reads, I'll never feel happy inside my skin. Never have, never will. I've realized this, and decided to try and move on. But seriously. Calling me a cow? Not helping!
Okay. so how am I supposed to take that?
My problem with weight is that no matter how much or how little the scale reads, I'll never feel happy inside my skin. Never have, never will. I've realized this, and decided to try and move on. But seriously. Calling me a cow? Not helping!
Are you Kidding Me?
I just have to say...Juni just crawled under my computer chair, plopped down on a blanket and fell asleep on the wood floor. With his butt crack showing...
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