I'm a Failure Because...

Let me begin by saying that this is not going to be a very helpful post. I'm warning you (with peace and love): if you're looking for help of any kind, you're probably not going to find it here. If you're looking for advice or good cheer, you've definitely come to the wrong place.

If you're a person who knows even a little about psychology, I'm sure you've heard of the cognitive distortion called "all or nothing thinking." Unfortunately, that's the way my brain works. Everything is either black or white. There's no gray. There's no half-filled glass. It's either full or empty. That's just the way it is.

And when you're a perfectionist on top of it, you're pretty much doomed (at least inside your own head. I suppose I appear relatively "together" on the outside).

So, the other day, I was going about my business when I heard Prickly Dad upstairs, vacuuming the family room. Granted, I was filled with gratitude that he was helping. I have a wonderful husband. But then the cognitive distortion started:

I'm a failure because my husband is doing housework.

And it didn't end there. The thoughts just kept on coming, one after the other...

I'm a failure because I can't keep up with my chores.
I'm a failure because I'm not the perfect wife.
I'm a failure because I can't get this depression cured.
I'm a failure because I'm always tired.
I'm a failure because I don't feel creative.
I'm a failure because my hair looks like a squid.
I'm a failure because my stomach is flabby.
I'm a failure because I can't find a bra to fit these stupid boobs.
I'm a failure because I ate gluten today.
I'm a failure because I can't get my family on a paleo diet.
I'm a failure because I feed my kids Teddy Grahams.
I'm a failure because my kids' nails are too long.
I'm a failure because my kids need haircuts.
I'm a failure because I'm an American and I think consumerism is dumb.
I'm a failure because I can't get motivated.
I'm a failure because I don't feel like playing with the kids.
I'm a failure because these stupid breakfast cookies didn't get made again.
I'm a failure because I'm too sad to appreciate any of this.

Sadly, trains of thought like this are pretty typical for me. As you might know, I've struggled with mood disorders my whole life, so I'm just used to it. I think my defeatist thoughts and plod along as best as I can. The thing is, that night when my husband was upstairs vacuuming, a novel idea popped into my head at the end of that barrage.

What if I were to stick the word "not" in all those sentences? Wouldn't that make all those hateful declarations a little more truthful?

I'm NOT a failure because my husband is doing housework.
I'm NOT a failure because I ate gluten today.
I'm NOT a failure because my kids need haircuts. 

I have to admit, these revised statements are true. Adding "not" to my black-or-white thoughts doesn't automatically make me a smashing success as a mother or as a human being, but none of the things mentioned above is bad enough to warrant labeling myself as a failure.

It's a baby step, but I took a step. I'll try to remind myself that things can be gray.

Do you feel this way, too? I want to share some resources that might help.

• Cognitive Distortions Worksheets
• The Power of Love (make sure to read the "affirmations" part)

Organic Food: I'm Starting to Get It

I love going to Target to see what they have on the "end caps." I don't know why I even know the term "end cap" (I think I learned it from my mom--they're the ends of the aisles closest to the wall...where the store usually puts the clearance items), but it's like knowing some kind of secret shopping jargon. It makes me feel like I have a bargain-hunting superpower (don't worry; I'm just going to burst my own bubble and acknowledge that everyone knows about the end caps at Target, not just Prickly Mom).

Today's big score was Kraft Organic Macaroni & Cheese for $1.24 a box. I don't usually buy organics (unless they're on the end cap)...in fact, until this afternoon, I was still one of those people who rolled her eyes and said "oh brother" when thinking about buying organic foods. But it was on clearance, and I needed macaroni and cheese, so I threw two boxes in the cart.

It's the "organic-i-est"

Now for the backstory. Let me preface this by saying: if the following health information interests you, please follow the links I'm including within this paragraph. I am not a science professional and cannot begin to explain this in the proper way. Please read what the professionals have to say. Anyhoo...I recently found out that I have a double (homozygous) mutation of the gene called MTHFR (for those of you who already know about MTHFR, I have two mutant C677Ts. My A1298Cs are both clean). The MTHFR gene is responsible for a biochemical process called methylation. People with MTHFR mutations are not able to efficiently methylate, which converts folate and B vitamins into their usable forms, and are less able to detoxify the body, which can lead to a plethora of health problems including chronic inflammation, high blood pressure, migraine, increased risk of stroke, neural tube defects, treatment-resistant mood disorders, autism, ADHD, dementia, miscarriages, increased cancer risk, and much more. As such, those of us with any type of MTHFR mutation (which could be up to 40% of the population), need to avoid the typical folic acid and B vitamins sold in stores and added to flours and prepackaged grain-based products (our bodies can't process them efficiently and have trouble getting rid of them) as well as any unnecessary additives and everyday toxins. There are special pre-methylated versions of folate and the B vitamins on the market that I have been taking, which have started to improve my overall health (more on that another time).

Since I have a homozygous (double) mutation at position 677 of the MTHFR gene, that means both of my children automatically have one 677 mutation (I don't know Prickly Dad's status, so I'm just assuming, for now, that he gave them clean copies). This means that my boys are methylating their folate and B vitamins at around 70% capacity at best (I, on the other hand, am only operating at around 10% capacity, at worst. Scary, huh?). As a result of my MTHFR research, I have been making an effort to cut processed food--especially those grain-based foods enriched with folic acid and B vitamins--out of my family's diet. Unfortunately, two big kid-food staples, pasta and breakfast cereal, fall squarely into that no-no category.

Now, back to the organic mac. I had been doing a little unrelated research on un-enriched flours (I want to start baking more in an effort to cut out the pre-packaged treats), and discovered that a lot of "organic" flours seemed to also be un-enriched. Hmmm. So I went to the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese website to compare the ingredients of the organic and regular versions, and lo and behold...unlike the standard "blue box," the stuff I just got off the Target end-cap contains no extra folic acid and Bs! Score!

So today, fellow moms and dads, I apologize for rolling my eyes at organic foods. I finally get it. In addition to lacking the folic acid my boys and I need to avoid, organic foods probably also lack a lot of the additives and chemicals our mutant MTHFR genes have trouble ousting from our cells. Of course this calls for a lot of further research, but I think I made a lot of progress today on my path to better health for my whole family. Thanks, Target!

Tripe, Hernias, and Mommy Burnout

Scroll down for the Sunday Parenting Party.

Today's topic is Mommy Burnout. Let us now read a quote from my esteemed mother, Prickly Grandma (who says it happens to all of us):

"I remember when I used to have 'food slumps,' where I would fall out of my making-meals-day-after-day groove. The absolute worst time was when your sister had food poisoning and your grandma came over to watch you guys so I could take her to the hospital. The only thing I had in the freezer to make a meal was something really odd-ball, like tripe or lamb shanks. I tried to instruct your grandma over the phone on how to make that into a meal...and I was just so exasperated. Looking back, I think: couldn’t she have just ordered a pizza?

"It was probably around that time that I wished I could just go to the hospital for a few days to get some rest. As if on cue, I got a hernia.

"So I got a few days in the hospital, but it was a painful recovery (which made housework and chores that much harder).

"The moral here is: be careful what you wish for."

I love you, Mom.

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

Here are some of my favorite submissions from last week:

• Why Do I Homeschool? (Suzy Homeschooler). I, myself, have not ruled out the option of homeschooling once Bug and Pie get a little older. If we do end up going for it, I hope to have many successful school days like the one Suzy describes at the coffee shop.
• The Year 2059 (Finding Ninee). Take note of Kristi's fine illustration of her dreams for the future, which made me laugh out loud. It's totally me, too. I've been subjecting my boys to all-Metallica, all-the-time for the past three weeks.
• Expectations vs. Reality: A Morning in the ADD Household (The Sadder but Wiser Girl). This one also made me laugh out loud. Sarah's kid dressed himself in shorts and black knee-socks. Enough said.

Explaining Depression to Your Kids

I'm in the middle of another major depressive episode -- and I'm using that term in a clinical sense as well as a literary one. I've been battling mood disorders my whole life, so this isn't anything new. What is making this particular episode different is that I'm realizing it's probably time to explain what's going on to my kids (they're four and almost-six).

I don't want to explain it to the boys ... I'd rather just try to go on as usual and do my best to put on my "happy voice" and muddle through. But I'm starting to get the feeling that they can see through my laughably-bad "normal" act. I know they know something is not right.

Sweethearts, Mommy is sick.

I need to tell them before they think it's their fault (and if they already do think it's their fault, we need to clear that up as soon as possible).

Mommy has an illness called depression. It's kind of different from other sicknesses because you can't see it from the outside. I'm going to get better, but right now, my brain isn't working properly. it's kind of like there's a door in my brain that is stuck shut and none of the "happy" can get out. That makes it easy for all the "sad" and "angry" to take over my brain and make me cry and yell more than I should. My doctors are giving me medicine that will help un-stick the brain door so the "happy" can get out, but it might take a while for the treatment to work. I'm probably going to need to rest more than usual until I feel better. I need you to understand that I love you no matter what. My sickness is making me cry, not you. I still want you to be good boys and follow the rules, but I also want you to remember that it's all the the extra "angries" in my brain that are making me get so upset. I still love you no matter what, and I'm really looking forward to getting better so I can be Regular Mommy again.

More resources:

• 6 Things Every Kid Should Know About a Parent's Depression (this is a MUST-READ)
• Depressed Parents and the Effects on Their Children
• Helping Children Understand and Cope with Parental Depression
• How Depression Affects Your Family

That's It ... No More Carnivals

It's times like this that make me think of a classic episode of The Simpsons, in which Homer, upon the family's return from their latest disastrous outing, states something along the lines of, "I think we should all agree to disband as a family."

Totally.

Of course, I'm not serious. I love Prickly Dad. I love Bug and Pie. I love this little family we have built. But I have to be blunt about one thing: I can't do carnivals. I, the mom, have a meltdown. Then one or both kids have a meltdown. Then Prickly Dad gets angry. This is the way it goes pretty much every time.

Why does this happen to me? There are too many variables and too many snap decisions that have to be made. Where is the ticket booth? How long is the line? How much are the tickets? How many tickets am I going to need? Do I buy a whole sheet now and risk having a bunch of leftovers, or do we buy a few now and a few later? Why is my 40" tall kid not allowed to go on the swing ride at this carnival when he was allowed to go on the same, exact ride at the other carnival, and how am I supposed to explain it to him? Why does this ride cost two tickets and this other ride cost three tickets? Why are none of the entrances to the rides clearly marked? Where do you line up? Where is the food truck that has plain hot dogs for the kids? How do I tell the boys they can't keep playing the carnival games because they're fixed and overpriced, and we could just as easily stop at the dollar store to get a cheap stuffed duck? Why don't they put lids on the lemonade (isn't this chaotic cluster-eff supposed to be for kids? Kids need lids)? And where the hell are the porta-potties?

On top of all this chaos, my boys, as is to be expected, want to do everything now, now, now ... and I can't respond to them properly because I'm having a meltdown myself.

I'm a "Highly Sensitive Person" (someone who, these days, might be diagnosed with a sensory processing issue). I don't do loud well. I don't do chaos well. I don't do over-stimulation well. I have a hard time making decisions under normal circumstances, let alone amidst the sensory bedlam of a carnival.

Prickly Dad tried to placate me last month at the State Fair with a deep-fried Reese's Peanut Butter Cup on a stick (I have to admit, it was heavenly), and I tried my best to stay calm. (Sidebar: I have to give a major shout-out to Wade Shows, the outfit that ran the carnival at this summer's fair -- they replaced the ticket system with swipe-cards and had excellent signage throughout the midway that clearly showed prices and entrance and exit points for each ride. They obviously understand frazzled parents.)

I wish I liked going to carnivals, but I just don't -- and we're going to have to figure out a way to be okay with that. Prickly Dad can take the kids on his own if he really wants to go. Or if he absolutely needs me to go, I can take a time-out and sit under a tree until I calm down if I need to (I had to do this recently with Bug -- he's been mentioning lately that he doesn't care for carnivals either). Everybody can't like everything, right?

That way, we don't have to disband as a family. Yet.

Some helpful links:
Characteristics of Highly Sensitive People
10 Tips for Highly Sensitive People
Planning a Disney Trip with Sensory Processing Precautions
SPD Kids and Amusement Parks

And now to the Sunday Parenting Party!

Last week was my debut as a co-hostess of one of my favorite blog linkups, and I was happy to discover another great mom blogger, Hannah, from Paint on the Ceiling, who submitted a post called "9 Things I've Changed My Mind About." Chelsea, from Moments a Day (who I discovered through Pinterest a few weeks ago), submitted "10 Life Lessons for Kids," which is also applicable to grown-ups. Thanks for posting, ladies!

An InLinkz Link-up

If Only We'd Had the Internet...

Al Gore's dilly-dallying had a major effect on my childhood.

Wait a minute...what? Dilly-dallying? Al Gore? Has Prickly Mom finally gone completely cuckoo-bananas?

Let's think about it. In this day and age, the Internet is a major player in any mother's life. We turn to it when our littles have anything from a tummy-ache to a string of temper tantrums. Now, I'm not knocking the library or the brick-and-mortar bookstore (which I still visit regularly), but let's face it: the Internet is always there the instant you need it. It's become an integral part of our lives.

As a little girl growing up in the 1970s and '80s, I had stomach aches all the time. I cried when I had to go to school. I remember being 12 or 13 years old and checking and re-checking to make sure there were no people hiding in my closet or under my bed, even though I was in my bedroom alone with my door locked. For a while there, I was convinced my teeth were falling out. And I continued to play sick or be sick so I could stay home from school. I was still throwing fits at age 14.

Looking back, I'm sure my mom knew there was something wrong with me. She took me to the pediatrician a lot for my stomach aches and filled scores of useless antibiotic prescriptions (our small town had one of those doctors who gave out an amoxicillin script at every visit, regardless of what your problem was). As I entered my pre-teen years, my mom started taking me to a string of social workers who tried talk therapy, and even took me into the city once to visit what I'm assuming was some kind of neurological clinic. Unfortunately, during that time period, none of those doctors was insightful enough to put two and two together: probably because childhood mental illness wasn't even on anyone's radar (think about it--if adolescent depression had been an issue back then, wouldn't there have been a Judy Blume novel about it? There wasn't. Touche).

I know now that I grew up with clinical depression and anxiety (with an obvious peppering of OCD in there with the teeth-falling-out thing).

Dang that Al Gore...if he had just started inventing the Internet 10 years earlier, the medical community could have been sharing information more readily and worried '70s moms like mine could have had access to more research and anecdotal evidence--as well as access to other moms around the globe with the same concerns about their kids. My mom would have logged on to AskJeeves or Dogpile and found that a child's complaints of feeling sick, refusing to go to school, clinginess, sulking, and crabbiness can all be signs of childhood depression (according to this NIMH fact sheet).

Thankfully, things started to come together for us in 1992 when my mom, after probably her millionth semi-futile phone call to the hundredth health-care agency, was put in touch with a psychiatrist who diagnosed my depression and put me on my first anti-depressant. Yes, I was a legal adult by then, and took charge of much of my own mental health adventure from that point on, but it was my mom who finally got me on the right track after wandering down dead ends for decades in search of help.

So later today, when you're Googling "stomachache tantrums behavior" for the zillionth time, say a little thank you to our fore-mothers who had to drive to the library and make phone call after phone call (on a rotary, curly-corded phone) for years on end to figure out how to help their kids. And say a little prayer of gratitude that now we have the Internet to help us.

Tantrums: Am I Part of the Problem?

(Editor's note [the editor being, well, me]: for some reason, the working title of this post--which has taken me over two weeks to write--was "Raising Little Jerks." I can't remember why. I thought y'all would find that interesting.)

I know I've been MIA for a while. To be completely honest (like I'm ever not completely honest), I've been trying to wrap my head around something that is very troubling to me as a mother.

Most of my recent posts have been about the issues surrounding my little Pie (who just turned four) and his meltdowns. He, like me, has an intense and gregarious personality. And he, also like me, doesn't know how to rein it in much of the time. So he's still having tantrums--not only at home, but at school.

After a big internal struggle, I finally decided to take the advice of Pie's school counselor and an administrator, and consulted a child psychologist. When the school staff first broached the topic, I admit my first thoughts were that they wanted me to get a label slapped on my little guy ASAP so he could be held back, medicated, kicked out of school...or who knows what else. I had been thinking he may have a sensory processing issue or, again like me, be a Highly Sensitive Person. I thought I might be able to solve Pie's problems myself with positive parenting concepts or a "Caught Ya Being Good" jar.

As a mother, my number one priority is to never, ever, ever allow my children to feel misunderstood (untreated anxiety and clinical depression totally effed up my childhood). Now, I'm all about acknowledging every utterance that passes their lips, validating every feeling they have, struggling to understand, examine, and rectify any internal battle they may be fighting. My boys will not have their childhoods marred by an undiagnosed or misunderstood cognitive or brain chemistry issue. Period. End of story.

I had been researching attachment parenting/positive discipline and reading Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids: How to Stop Yelling and Start Connecting. I was really digging the "time in" concept and teaching coping skills rather than sending my preschoolers into exile and expecting them to figure out how to deal with their emotions by themselves. I wanted to make sure they knew that I understood what they were going through.

So sometimes when Pie would have a meltdown over not getting his way, Prickly Dad would scoop him up, march him upstairs, deposit him in his room, and shut the door. On some level I was all for this, but I could only hack about 20 minutes of screaming before I would want to swoop in and comfort him and try to validate his feelings. A lot of times I'd go into his room and hold him tightly and whisper soothing words until he calmed down. Sometimes we'd end up playing or reading a story.

I described my "method" to the psychologist (along with the reason I was so compelled to make sure the boys knew I understood their feelings). Long story short...she wondered if I was unintentionally rewarding Pie's behavior. She suggested I consider leaving him in his room and letting him ride it out (coincidentally, Pie's teacher had suggested a similar strategy and recommended I read Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood).

I'm not going to say I was devastated, but my core was was pretty shaken for the next several days. Could it be that my insistence on validating my boys' feelings was turning them into little monsters? Was I a failure as a mother? (The answer to that question is obviously no, as my own therapist helped me figure out a few days later. I'm big into catastrophizing, all-or-nothing thinking, and sundry other cognitive distortions).

Unfortunately, I don't have an ending, happy or otherwise, for this story right now. I finished reading the Love and Logic book, plan on reading another one, and realize in my heart that no matter what I do, my boys know that they are loved, valued, and respected. That's the best spin I can put on it while I figure out what to do about Pie's tantrums.

Featured in The Sunday Parenting Party

Anatomy of a Transition Meltdown

I had sort of an "a-ha!" moment the other night while I was putting away the dishes.

I don't know about other people, but I have my "way" of unloading the dishwasher. I spray and wipe down the counter to make sure it's clean. Then I unload the top rack first, setting the clean glasses on the counter to my left, the coffee mugs toward the back, and all the straw-cup and Take-and-Toss parts front-and-center to be stacked or reassembled and put back in the cabinet. Then I put the big knives back in the knife block. Sometimes there is a stray, dirty teaspoon by the coffee maker or a still-in-use glass on the counter with the "cleans," but I make a mental note of where they are in relation to everything else. There. Top rack cleared out. Drinkware gets put away, then the bottom rack gets unloaded, stacked on counter, and put away.

While I was performing my dish ritual (I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this...OCD behavior, anyone?) the other night, I was compiling to-do lists in my head. I knew Prickly Dad needed stamps and strawberry Atkins shakes. I was figuring I would have to stop and get gas at some point. I knew I had to go online and decide what we were going to do in Savannah next month, what we were going to do in Virginia on Tuesday, and why our annual state park passes hadn't come in the mail yet. I was reminding myself that it was getting to be the drop-dead hour for ordering a birthday present to be delivered to my sister on time.  I needed to remember to portion out and re-wrap the meat in the fridge and get it in the freezer. Oh yeah, and those red peppers in there n--

"Where is today's mail?" Prickly Dad suddenly asked as he started rifling through a pile of papers that were dangerously close to my perfectly-arranged lineup of dishes.

I wholeheartedly admit it: I kind of lost it at that point. "HANG ON! JUST HANG ON! I'LL FIND IT!" I dropped everything and scurried around the kitchen, stopping at various piles of junk mail and opened envelopes (that should have been thrown in the recycle bin). In that split second, I had become angry and defensive, and felt hurt, violated, dismissed, and misunderstood (plus, I couldn't find the specific pile of mail that had just come in a couple hours before).

Prickly Dad, understandably irritated with my behavior, herded the boys out of the kitchen and upstairs to the family room as I cried, "I'LL BRING IT TO YOU AS SOON AS I FIND IT! I'LL BRING IT UP TO YOU!"

What the hell just happened?

Let me back up a second and talk about what's been going on with Pie (he's currently 3.75 and is in the three-year-old class in preschool). For the past several weeks, his teachers have let me know that they're concerned about his transition-related meltdowns. According to the school staff, he doesn't move as easily from center to center and activity to activity as the other kids in his class. He wakes up from naptime angry, has a fit if he can't zipper his coat, acts defiant and surly if he doesn't want to go outside for recess. On the other hand, he loves painting. He enjoys helping the teacher clean up. He takes pride in being a good line leader or snack helper. He's apparently above average in math. But the teachers tell me the transition issue is a big problem (they want me to take him to see a child psychologist, but that's a whole 'nother post).

Back to my kitchen meltdown. I have been doing a lot of reading lately on transition strategies, the highly sensitive personality, introversion, the "Autism Spectrum," sensory processing, obsessive-compulsive behaviors, and so on (remember, I just recently decided to embrace my introversion/sensory issues and find coping strategies instead of beating myself up or wishing away the traits that God gave me). As soon as I was able to get back to putting away my dishes and, more importantly, my thoughts, I realized that I had just had a transition-related meltdown--probably the very same kind my little Pie is struggling with!

Think about it: there I was, performing a task (putting the dishes away), that required a slight amount of brain power to keep track of what was clean and what was dirty (i.e. there was an order to things in my mind). While that was going on, the majority of my energy was engaged in mentally compiling and organizing a list of things that needed to be done to keep the household running smoothly. Then all heck broke loose when Prickly Dad approached and asked about the mail: I interpreted it as am invasion of my space and my "order" of things...and as a demand to set aside the tasks I was currently invested in (invested enough to be in a "groove," which is generally a good thing) and do what he was telling me to do instead. Sort of upsetting, right? Now think about the same situation going down for a preschooler. I don't know what they do immediately before recess or dismissal, for example (or how transition times are handled in general), but who's to say Pie isn't totally engaged in the physical act of painting (with his tools and media arranged just so), while mentally challenging himself to count to 100, when a teacher suddenly demands he get out of his groove because it's time to put on his coat? I'd get angry too (and feel disrespected and run around aimlessly and yell, as I just described above)! Can you blame him?

Wow...so I think I have experienced firsthand what it must be like for the millions of kids who don't "do" transitions well. Unfortunately, I don't think I (personally) ever learned the appropriate "coping strategies" to get through these situations with my dignity intact, so I obviously can't effectively help my little boy--at this point. The great news, though, is that I had this little epiphany. Now I feel confident that I will be able to find the proper help and best resources so little Pie and I can both figure out the best way to handle transition times without melting down.

In the meantime, stay away from my dishes!

My Life in Tabs

Is it just me, or do other people keep track of what they need to do by opening up a new browser tab?

It's kind of like a snapshot of my brain...a window into my soul...the story of my life at the moment. But after a while, there are too many tabs to fit on one screen, and some of them have to be closed. So what do I do? Write a blog post, of course (come on...'tis the season for the "roundup," right?).

Here's what's on my plate during Christmastime, 2012...

Natural Stress Relief: I really want to learn Transcendental Meditation, but it's just way too expensive (over $1,000). This alternative method claims to teach a similar technique for $25. I have to get my stress and anxiety under control.

Pinterest | Search Results for "Self Regulation": I recently discovered what is termed "self-regulation" in the autism community--the ability to conduct yourself appropriately in a given situation despite an overflow of emotions. I, myself, never learned how to effectively self-regulate. Now my son is struggling with impulse control and I need some ideas (for both of us).

Sears Home Services: Our ice maker has been dead for a month.

Victoria's Secret Kiss Tees: I have boobs that are way too big for my body (I'm 5'2" and 125 lbs. and take a DD). Who deals with giant hooters better than Victoria's Secret? Their T-shirts are cut in such a way that flatters my figure without making me look like a freak (or a "ho"...or pregnant).

Seasons Pizza: I guess I can close this tab. (BTW, if you're gluten-free and you're ever in Delaware or Maryland, their GF crust is fantastic. Just sayin'.)

Money Saving Mom | How to Develop a Routine that Works--and Stick to It: I'm currently working on her plan. She's all about starting small and building on your successes.

Pendle Hill Retreat: A mom friend of mine recently attended a weekend workshop here and I want to do one, too. I need some restoring...badly. For those of you across the Atlantic, I've discovered through Google that there's also a Pendle Hill in England...that's haunted. I'd like to hit that up sometime, too!

And last but not least, everybody's favorite site, Amazon.com. What are they suggesting for me today? Meditation books for kids...a balance board...a butter lamb mold...Walking Dead comic books...oh dear...I think they've figured out how to mind-meld with me. I'm going to go downstairs now and make myself a tin-foil hat. Happy holidays!

On Being the Grown-Up

I've been with my current therapist a pretty long time. I don't know the exact length off the top of my head (and I'm not going all the way down to the kitchen to get my therapy notebook out of my purse to check), but it's probably been close to two years.

And we're just now, finally, starting to get somewhere.

I've learned a lot from this therapist, which is why I've stuck it out this long. We've come to dumb, everyday realizations like always offer your husband a sauce with his dinner if he likes sauce so much…even with dishes that aren't supposed to have sauce and it's not realistic to expect a two-year-old to sit quietly on a train, so it's better for your stress level to adjust your expectations. And we've come to core-shaking realizations, like this one:

I don't want to be the grown-up. I want my preschoolers to be more sensitive to my needs. 

But recognizing and admitting these feelings is supposedly a big step.

You see, said my therapist, a parent will usually reflect on his or her childhood and think, "I had grown-ups around me who met my needs. I felt safe and validated. Now it's my job to recreate that environment for my children so they can grow up to be well-adjusted adults."

In contrast, when one of my boys asks me for a cup of milk, I immediately twist it all up and think, "you want me to get you something again? Do you know how tired I am? Do you know how upsetting your noisiness is to me? Look at everything I do for you. Can't you let me just sit down for one minute? Why doesn't anyone ever care about my feelings?"

My therapist told me to step back and examine the actual situation: yes, a three- and five-year-old have a lot of demands, but they are little dependent creatures, not mini-adults. They look to their Mommy to help them and provide for them. Counting on you to help them survive is the only way they know.

Then it hit me: my goal here as a mother is to raise well-adjusted human beings. With that in mind, it would totally behoove me to be there to meet their needs without copping an attitude: to provide milk, food, hugs, a feeling of security and a sense of importance. So they can grow up and look back on their childhoods and remember an environment in which they felt safe and nurtured and validated. Plus, this new attitude might actually be reflected back at me at some point, which would address a host of other problems.

Wow…I have some really heavy stuff to think about. But I'm starting to think I might be ready to be a grown-up now.

Why Do I Write this Blog?

I hope I'm not the only blogger who has had this thought. I've considered wiping the whole thing out several times after feeling a mixture of personal defeat and narcissism ("our society is getting too voyeuristic, and you're just adding to the problem. Get over yourself!" and/or "how could a basket case like you help anybody?").

I've struggled with chronic mood disorders my entire life (moderate-to-severe depression and anxiety). Being a stay-at-home-mom with two preschool-aged boys has been the biggest challenge I've ever faced (and the mental-health issues coupled with my introversion and injected with an intense personality don't make things any easier).

I'm determined to use my talents as a writer (and artist when I can get motivated) to help the world at large move past the stigma of mood disorders. I mean...our ailments aren't any less legitimate than a physical one...and most of us are productive members of society, right? I write this blog for any mom out there who feels like she's the only one struggling with psychiatric issues and little ones at the same time. To that mom I say: I know how hard it is…and to prove it, let me share my own struggles and triumphs. Hopefully something I say will make your day a little better or give you a little glimmer of hope.

All right then, girls…let's get our Mom hats on and do this thing!

Deep Thoughts

The Power of 100

This all just came together so beautifully. The other day I was cooking dinner, and Pie was whining and demanding I do something right now. "How much I count to?" he asked after I told him I'd help him in five minutes. "Oh, about 100," I replied in exasperation, just wanting to get some food on the table before one of us had a meltdown.

As he started counting into the high 20s, I realized he probably wouldn't remember what came after 29, so I started to count with him: "30...31...32...33...34..." until we made it all the way to 100. And I realized, I was calmer. Calmer because of the joy I felt in seeing my little guy exercising his giant brain (as Daddy likes to say), and calmer because I had successfully shifted my focus to something other than my frazzled nerves.

I've been trying for years to figure out ways to diffuse my ragged emotions in the split second between "last straw" and "screaming banshee." It usually happens so fast, and the standard calming technique of counting to 10 just always seemed to stupid and hokey to make me actually try it more than once. But that's the thing: I guess for my temper, 10 might not be enough to work. My wits might be so far gone that I, personally, need to go all the way to 100.

You know what? Even though it might make me sound like a complete nutcase, I don't care. I found a strategy that kept me from yelling, was educational for my son, and brought us closer together. Score!

(Read more about my ongoing struggle with anger management here: Getting Advice from the Airlines.) 

I'm Busy Getting a Plan

Things have been improving over here at Prickly House since I wrote "I Don't Even Have a Plan A." I have a few variables in play: I have mega-upped my B-vitamin intake*, I'm making an attempt to cut down on processed foods, and I think I like the boys' current ages (3.25 and 4.75) better than I've liked any since they were rock-to-sleep-with-a-bottle age. So I'm unsure whether it's the vitamins, the diet, or the age factor--but I've been yelling less and enjoying my kids more (which is something I've been trying very hard to work on before it's too late).

Pie likes his homemade Alphabetti-Os

I'm slowly but surely "getting a plan," one aspect of which I've been totally jazzed about lately: the cook-n-freeze menus over at Once-a-Month Mom. (Uh-oh...this is going to start sounding like a sponsored post. It's not! I'm a copy editor and writer by profession...so I sort of can't help it. Sorry.) It's all about getting your cooking out of the way and into the freezer so you're not stressing every single day about what you're going to make, and God knows, I need to cut some stress out of my daily routine. This afternoon I made a big honking pot of Homemade Spaghetti-Os and Meatballs: the meatballs actually had the consistency of the brand-name, canned "junk balls" (as my mom used to call them), and I can happily give it to the boys, because I know what's in it. Little Pie could barely wait for it to cool down before he started to gobble it up. A great aspect of this "OAMM" blog is the choice of diets: my favorites being the "kid friendly" (in my family, this includes my picky husband), "whole foods," and "Paleo." It's just a meal-planning strategy that looks like it might seriously help me regain my sanity.

*About the B-vitamins: I've been doing some independent research on vitamins and brain health, which I want to write about in a future post. Apparently there are studies out there linking the Bs and other vitamins with mood disorders (depression, anxiety, etc.). Just something to think about.

I Don't Even Have a "Plan A"

It's raining today, the boys aren't cooperating, Pie's month-long tantrum continues, Bug is screaming because he got play dough in his eye. And I'm exhausted. Yes, Pie (aka "The Little Dictator") had me up and down all night, but it's not even that: I'm exhausted on every plane: physically, mentally, spiritually...and any other planes that might exist.

Today's last straw was when I finally found a minute to sit down on the couch. Pie found me immediately and demanded another scrambled egg right now. I started to explain to (read: plead with) him that I needed a minute to sit down; he could eat anything else on his plate while he was waiting...blah, blah, blah. Then it hit me: he doesn't care. He. Wants. His. Egg. All I am to him at the moment is a scrambled-egg dispenser, not a separate individual with her own needs and feelings.

While the second egg was in the microwave, I made notes on the back of an envelope: try to find out how to deal with feelings of being overwhelmed, feelings that it's me against them, and the realization that I'm responsible for what kind of tone I'm setting for myself (and in turn, the kids)--there's no one here to help me.

One of my go-to bloggers, Meagan Francis of The Happiest Mom, sums up my current state of mind almost exactly:

In my post a couple of weeks ago about obstacles to happiness as a mom, I listed “being overwhelmed” as one of my top 5. While commenters chimed in with a whole list of other obstacles–things like lack of time for oneself, loss of control, and unrealistic expectations–I reflected about how all of those things can, for me, lead to feeling overwhelmed. So maybe being overwhelmed isn’t so much a single obstacle as it is the end result of many of the things that are part and parcel of a mom’s life: noise, mess, chaos, ever-changing routines, an incredible sense of responsibility, never enough time in the day…etc.

Francis suggests identifying your triggers and getting a plan (at least that was my personal take-away). So now I'm revisiting a concept I've put off again and again for over four years now: getting the boys and myself on a schedule. Another blogger I read today (Mommy Ponders) wrote a post about getting on a schedule and planning an activity (which flopped that day)--and not having a "Plan B." Then something else hit me: I don't even have a freakin' "Plan A!" Could that be the heart of my problem?

I seriously don't think I can conquer these feelings of utter exhaustion unless I do something, and maybe putting a plan or a schedule in place is what that "something" is. That, and coming to terms with my principal role as scrambled-egg provider. Bawk.

(Post-script, September 2012: I hashed these thoughts out with my therapist soon after writing this post, and discovered that things weren't as bleak as they appeared. I will write a more in-depth update on this soon. Eggs to you!)

Getting Advice from the Airlines

Print this and post it on the fridge.

Have you ever listened to the safety spiel they give on an airplane as you're waiting on the runway to take off? No, I don't mean taking in every ninth word an you consider whether you should really order the Miracle Tank Top Bra for $75 from the copy of SkyMall you pulled out of your seat-back. I mean really listen (well, at least to one very important statement).

"Make sure to secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others."

Okay, if you're anything like me (high-strung,  a "Highly Sensitive Person," chronically anxious or depressed, etc., etc.), you know about this piece of advice. However, when my mom pointed it out to me a few years ago, it actually sunk in for some reason. I'm not saying I follow this principle like I should, but at least I know I should.

Am I Some Sort of Clown?

As Joe Pesci asked incredulously in Goodfellas, "I'm here to [effin'] amuse you?"

I've asked myself this question many times during my career as a mom (with or without the F-word, depending on the mood).

I clearly remember calling my mom--probably around the time Bug was 18 months old--to ask about the mechanics of keeping him occupied all day (with the added burden of being a chronically low-energy, depressed woman who was also nine months pregnant, but I digress). Her answer, which I will never forget, was, "it's not your job to entertain him."