Nobody would blame me

The bottom line, up front, is this: nobody would blame me if I snapped like a dry twig under a bear's paw. Life has handed me a series of sobering trials, lessons, whatever you want to call them. The past four and a half years have been difficult, full of good days and bad, but full of serious trials.

After our son's diagnosis with a serious metabolic condition, our family was sent into a tailspin. We moved across the country nearly over night to get closer to some family who would help us, and to get Cooper a better physician. The move was divinely appointed, and although life was hard, it was good. We struggled with the loss of deep and restorative sleep (a loss that continues, albeit tempered by a new schedule on which he is fed and nourished). We struggled with what I refer to as "continual traumatic stress disorder" in which we couldn't get to the POST part of PTSD, because it never ends. 

Our son has a potential medical emergency every few hours as his body cannot maintain blood sugar in a safe range. He is not diabetic. He is missing a liver enzyme that we all have that keeps us safe. And it means that through the strictest dietary management, he'll be fine - as long as we are able to never miss a beat and never make a mistake in his schedule. Never sleep through an alarm. Never sleep in. Never miss a critical dose of his life sustaining starch treatments.

As he grew, life settled down and we hit our stride a bit, and then BAM! I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And here's the thing about breast cancer, it's not like a one time thing, with a short trial. I'm in the thick of it and have been for nearly three months. Scans, tests, blood work, small surgery to implant a port, chemo (four of sixteen sessions done, twelve to go). Genetic test results should be received this week, then I'll talk to the surgeon about the likelihood of mastectomy vs lumpectomy. We'll talk about risk of recurrence, and we'll talk about whether or not I want reconstruction (is the risk of additional surgeries worth .... boobs? I'm not yet convinced....). Then I'll undergo radiation therapy. Then I'll start the decade long use of hormone blocking medications to keep the chance of recurrence low(er). This battle is long, and it is deeply personal. My hair is gone, my eyebrows and eye lashes are likely going to be lost in the next few weeks. I've lost a bit of weight, and food (in general) doesn't appeal to me.

My children, now 6 and 4 (soon to be 7 and 5), are handling it okay, but seem truly "over it". I worry about my daughter who is more aware of the severity of the situation, and who has been watching us react to (sometimes near constant) emergencies with her brother since he was born. She is sensitive, and quiet, and contemplative, and has been acting out a bit in recent weeks.

I'm currently on anti-viral meds, antibiotics, cough medicine, anxiety medicine, specialized vitamins, and digestive aids. My body seems possessed so many days. Just when I think I've hit my chemo stride and I know how my body will react, something new crops up / goes wrong / rears its ugly head. It's like an on-going riddle that is so ridiculously personal - my skin is involved, my hair is involved, my gut is involved, my heart is involved. I have stopped working (at least temporarily), so my identity as a working mother is in a bit of limbo.

My spouse, now taking on all of our son's overnight needs because I cannot be relied on to wake up and take care of him. He's managing our household because I'm not up to it, can't be in the grocery store during flu season, can't cook most nights, can't stand the smell of cooking food some days. He's managing our finances like a hawk - making sure that my time away from work doesn't spell financial disaster for our household. And he's listening to me when I have my small private breakdowns. All while wondering, no doubt, where did his wife go? Wasn't she just here?

So many of my friends have remarked over the years since our son's diagnosis "I don't know how you do it". And I hate that sentence, but there it is. Their quiet admission that they are glad they don't have to do it. Oh sure, when pressed they wouldn't say that's what they meant, they would say "you're very strong", but I think it all translates to "I would have had a fucking breakdown by now, why haven't you?" So now, layer on the breast cancer diagnosis, and the treatment that I am currently in, the steps that lie ahead and threaten to derail my already delicate state of mind, and I believe - NOBODY WOULD BLAME ME. Nobody would bat an eye if I had a nervous breakdown. Right. Now. I believe that my circle, including those with whom I've shared our "journey" the past few years, have been waiting for it, wondering when I would hit my proverbial breaking point. They know it's there somewhere, and we've been toeing the line for years now.

Friends, I'm close. I'm very close. Tomorrow I'll be calling a therapy/counseling center to get my family in for a visit. In the meantime, I've finally let a few of those closest to me see through the chinks in my armor. My husband. My mom. My sisters. A friend back in Texas. They know that I am finally admitting to myself that (a) I do not understand the repeated trials that I must endure, (b) I am committed to continuing to let God shine His light through me, unwavering in my faith, and (c) I am very worn out in every sense of the word.

Nobody would blame me. And yet, the idea of a little breakdown fills me with disdain - it seems a luxury that I cannot afford right now. I'm the thick of battle, but my armor is trusted and proven and my God will not forsake me. Though I am weary, I am not yet broken. And should you cross my path and notice my fatigue, please do not cast a pitying eye my way. But smile, hug me, and ask me if I need a nap. Or perhaps, as my daughter tells me "Go sit on the couch and drink some water, Mom."

I don't know how I do it either...

“I don’t know how you do it” they say. They all say. It’s a simple statement. One that betrays a host of emotions, and one that I have come to loathe on the inside. Oh, I smile, of course, and assure them that I also have “no idea how I do it”. It’s true. I don’t. But I kind of do.

The simple fact that I have read on a thousand blogs is that “you do what your child needs”. And “you would do it too, if you had to.” And that is true, you would. But it goes much deeper than that.

For us, for my husband and I, it has been an exercise in faith. We have seen God move in miraculous ways this past year. He has provided for us, and for our son in tangible ways. This included an unplanned, but intensely successful move across the country that resulted in good jobs, better medical care for our son, and proximity to family that I never dared to dream was possible just a few short months prior. We couldn’t have planned that, let alone orchestrated it. But God could. And He did.

And I have come to decipher the simple phrase, the knee-jerk compliment as something else. “I don’t know how you do it.” I hear you say what you’re thinking. “I don’t think I could do it. I’m glad I don’t have to do it. I can’t believe you haven’t folded. I would have folded. No one would blame you if you folded right now. Or last week. Or last year.”

It’s a short and deep tribute to survival, and a fabulous compliment. And so, instead of my normal responses which included nodding, mumbling “me either” or “it’s not me, it’s God”, I will add another response. It will include a simple “thank you”. Thank you for recognizing that I could have folded, and that I did not. It’s a pat on the back, and I appreciate it.

I do not plan to fold (who does?), but it's nice to know that if I do, you won't judge me. 

((intermission over, curtain rises))

So, pregnant with Cooper so many months ago, I started this blog. I cleared my head, and I'm glad I did. Looking back on it now, it's an interesting stream of conscious. And it's an excellent example of how you can let yourself feel stressed out in the daily grind. And, if you write it down, maybe, just maybe you will tempt fate and life will get immeasurably more full and crazy and hectic and interesting, all the while becoming more and more blessed. And that is just what has happened friends. Life got interesting. So, the intermission is over (for now), and below is some writing that streamed out of my head  a couple of months ago. It's a little outdated tonight, but it's still undeniably juxtaposed to my writings from two years ago....

<<intermission ends; curtain rises>>

I looked at my belly. Full. Loose. Full of love, full of motherhood, full of chocolate snuck late at night while little eyes were sleeping. But loose. Loose with age, loose with neglect, loose with nerves. My son, 19 months old lay sprawled across my belly, himself loose with exhaustion, a pile of wet noodles, as I like to think of gangly children who can’t fight sleep any longer. Oh Cooper. My sweet boy. He is exhausted, but calm. A timer sits on the table behind us, counting down the minutes that I may continue to hold his big little body. Big boy. Little man.

Our life revolves around that timer. My son Cooper, his life revolves around a feeding timer. Where my daughter Dakota taught me to trust instinct, feed when she indicated hunger, and sleep peacefully when she powered down at the end of the day, Cooper has taught me to abolish instinct and live on edge. Forgo rest and worry endlessly.

My son Cooper has a metabolic disorder. Asymptomatic. Evil. Just when you think you’ve discovered his pattern, BAM, dangerous low blood sugar, detectable only by pricking his tiny fat fingers.  His fingers are raw with the testing. I wept quietly, almost imperceptibly this evening as I watched him struggle to grasp a small puzzle piece. He should be able to do this. I didn’t realize he couldn’t. Same thing I told his new pediatrician when we moved to this town, “We spend a lot of time just keeping Cooper alive, so it doesn’t worry me that he’s not pointing at objects yet. It’s not that he’s not cognitively able, it’s that we don’t focus on those things with him. We focus on keeping him alive.” It sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth.

Dakota did not sleep through the night until she was 14 months old. So when Cooper came along and peacefully, easily slept through the night at three months old, I trusted my instinct which told me that we had earned this. It was time for the easy kid. HA. Ha. ha. Ugh.

At four and a half months old Cooper seemed sick. He was vomiting a lot and seemed to scream in pain periodically. I dropped Dakota off at daycare one morning and headed to the infant room, nursed Cooper like the diligent mother that I was, and went to change his diaper before heading to the office. During the diaper change he exploded. He vomited out more food than I believed he had in his small stomach. It affected me. I didn’t remember Dakota ever being sick like that. Not from ear infections, or strep throat, or stomach bugs. I panicked a little. I left Dakota at school and headed home with Cooper, calling the office to tell them I would not be in that day. I went home and snuggled my little man, savoring his soft little body, sleepy in my arms. I called the doctor and he agreed to see us around midday. I told him I suspected an ear infection or strep. Just as Brandon and I had agreed last night. Last night before I saw him vomit like that. Last night, when I planned to go to work this morning. Last night when everything was still normal.

Mid-day came and I whisked him off to the pediatrician who I had grown so fond of. The one who insisted that I must meet him when pregnant-me had indicated over the phone that I “wasn’t one of those parents”. I didn’t need to interview pediatricians. What on earth would I ask them that they didn’t know better than me? I took a suggestion from my OB and picked the guy. I’m just lucky she thought of him when I asked who she might recommend. God. Sent.

When Dr. Carlson got to the room he checked Cooper’s ears and noted that Cooper did in fact have an ear infection.  He laid Cooper down on the exam table, where just moments before Cooper had played happily on the crisp “doctor paper”, rustling and smiling. He laid my son there and palpitated his mid-section. I’d seen him do it a thousand times before to both Kota and Cooper. Never really cared why. Just trusted him. Today he checked my son’s stomach. He checked the right hand side. He checked it again. He paused thoughtfully and checked it again. On the fourth pass, I asked him nonchalantly (read: not yet worried), “Something wrong?” He nodded and said, “I don’t know. I think his liver is enlarged.” He pointed to Cooper’s bloated right hand side, something I had never stopped to look at before. Still unworried, unaffected, I said “Kota was just like that when she was little. We sure do make some fat bald babies, don’t we?” Dr. Carlson didn’t even grin. He just stared at the right hand side of Cooper’s abdomen and said “Are you sure? That doesn’t look normal to me.”

Who am I to argue with a gray-haired man who has been a pediatrician for decades? I asked him, again, not yet worried, “So, what do we do about that?” Visions of antibiotics or other meds danced through my head as Dr. Carlson shook his head and replied with great honesty, and a little exhaustion, “I don’t know.” He left the room in a hurry and I sat and stared at Cooper. I quickly pulled out my phone and found pictures of Dakota at this age, four months, plump and happy. Mid-section proudly exposed, fat. Just like Cooper. Or was she just like Cooper? I heard nurses rushing past, one popping in to say that Dr. Carlson was on the phone but he would be right back.

I felt stumped and a little curious. I felt perplexed, but not yet worried. How soon does worry really set in, anyway? One must process their confusion before it can melt into grief or fear or pain. The nurse popped in again and said that Dr. Carlson would be back in, he was just waiting for a return call from someone. Odd. Who did this man need to call? He was the expert. He knew kids.

It was only later that my mind would carry me back to Cooper’s birth day. Cooper was born at 8:00 a.m. He was calm, and I congratulated myself. He was nine pounds and I congratulated myself. He was awesome. He was perfect. I congratulated myself. They put me in recovery for this, my second c-section. I asked Brandon to accompany Cooper to the nursery as the nurses took him for tests. Unlike Kota’s birth, where I had panicked and, let’s face it, freaked, with Cooper I had breathed steadily, prayed, and trusted. I stayed calm, and so here I was in c-section recovery, calm, mellow, and just a little queasy with the medication.

A short time later Brandon came back into the recovery room with a nurse, but no baby. I asked calmly, “Where is Cooper?” Brandon looked at me hesitantly and said, “Everything is fine but they had to take him to the NICU, his blood sugar is very low.” I paused, questions dancing across my sluggish post-op face. “Is he okay?” “Yes.” “How did they know?” “He wasn’t crying like a regular baby, so they checked his blood sugar.” What I realize now, 19 months later, is that the minute they cut the cord, the lifeline that held Cooper to me, his blood sugar began to drop. They suggested that sometimes big babies have trouble maintaining their blood sugar at first. They go to the NICU and have an IV and they’re fine in a few days. And no one knows why. Except maybe now I do.

Dr. Carlson walked back in and handed me a piece of paper. He said that the GI specialist at the Children’s Hospital wanted to see us before the weekend. It was Tuesday. I thanked Dr. Carlson and headed out the door. I don’t remember now, but I imagine I called from the car. We had an appointment at the hospital the next day, Wednesday.

Wednesday came and we shuffled duty to bring Dakota to school, get the hospital, and play tag throughout the day with various doctors, blood work, x-rays, and ultrasounds. A nursing mother, my hormones could not contain themselves as the phlebotomist held my son down to draw his blood.  I had to leave during the mandatory fasting period and pick up Dakota at school. I rushed back to feed my starving baby. I cried. I waited by the phone with baited breath for 24 hours.

On Thursday the hospital called and said that Cooper’s ultrasound showed “no tumors, no mass”. He was cancer free. I sighed relief. A few hours later, they called back to say that his bloodwork had come back and was strongly indicative of Glycogen Storage Disease. They set us up with an appointment the next day, Friday, with a metabolic geneticist. Glycogen? Disease? Geneticist?

So here we are, 15 months later. We have moved across the country. Endured 7.5 months of hard core sleep deprivation while caring for Cooper. Learned more about the medical world than I ever thought I’d need. Welcomed home health nurses into our family to keep Cooper safe, while (can I say something selfish?) forgoing privacy and normalcy in our home. Creating a new normal. Or trying to.

Cooper lives on a timer. He sometimes must eat hourly, sometimes every 3 or 4 hours on a good day, before his blood sugar drops dangerously low, and often precipitously fast. He cannot maintain his own blood sugar and I am weary of people asking if he will outgrow this disease (he will not). I am weary of noting that he looks fine (he does). Our normal is shattered, and although the past 15 months have brought tremendous blessings on our household, we are weary. So weary. We sleep in clips. We trade shifts often. When nursing care is not available (holidays, vacations, etc), we don’t sleep. I worry about the effect that our constant state of urgency will have on my daughter. She’s only three and a half, but she is already so grown up. She knows that she gets less attention. And she’s okay. But it’s a tight rope to walk to keep her on the right track while, let’s face it, keeping Cooper alive.

Rare disease. Metabolic control. Disease management. My lexicon has changed sharply this past year. It has taken on a new sense of importance and urgency. And fear. And sorrow. And anticipatory grief. And learning. And stretching. And growing. And breaking down. It turns out that I can actually have a breakdown right in front of you, internally, and you may never know. I’m not even sure I hide it for my sake, probably more for yours. I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want your sense of shame for me. My life is full and beautiful and amazing. And my children are amazing. And my marriage is stronger than yours may ever need to be. And I already know that if I lose it now, you’ll give me the look. The one that projects pity and shame and sorrow all over me. I don’t need it. I need a nap.

But let’s be practical. Even with a nap I’ll still be tired, so maybe what I really need is for someone to watch my kids for an hour so I can unpack boxes that were packed one year ago as we prepared to follow God’s lead across the country. 1,273.4 miles. We moved that far on hardly any sleep, high stress, with my son seizing in the backseat of the car, me with no voice for nine days, not sure where the UHaul was pointing a week later and only one of us having been given a job on the other side. I was so tired that I didn’t realize I should be afraid. I didn’t realize that I was being faithful to God’s plan. I just moved. I followed instinct. I followed leads. I was too tired to argue with God.

My life is completely unrecognizable from a year ago. I live in a different house. I have a different job. My daughter is in a different school. My son is not in school anymore, he’s at home with nurses who sometimes eat my food, break my toilet seat (it’s happened three times now in just six months), and call in sick at the last minute which means I don’t get to sleep that night or work that day. When Cooper has a cold, a growth spurt, teething pain, or (as is the case right now) exposure to Lyme disease, the whole world goes into slow motion. I cannot react as I would with Kota, or as you might with your “normal” child. I must go into hyper vigilance and high stress.

My husband and I are holding it together. In some ways stronger than ever, in other ways just better at fighting fast because we’re too tired to drag it out very long. Our underlying stress level would blow most people’s out of the water, and I feel crazy when people say “I don’t know how you do it”. Guess what? Neither do we. We’re barely doing it. Whatever goes right does so by the Grace of God. 

Whatever goes wrong, we’re often too tired to make you aware. We plod through. We’re okay, but we’re hopeful that GSD is kinder to its parents in the coming years. We’re praying for a cure. In fact, every night I pray for a cure as I rub Cooper’s soft hair and tummy.

Side bar: I know it’s almost time for the timer to go off. I dash off another sentence and turn to the timer behind me. Twenty two seconds remain. I am calibrated to this timer. I am proud of that and fearful. And anxious. And distressed. I need that timer as backup, but I often turn to look at it just as it starts to count down the last 30 seconds before a blood sugar check.

His blood sugar is okay. Not great but okay. I have twenty more minutes before I will check him again, probably administer a feed through a tube in his stomach, and then welcome the night nurse who will talk non-stop for an hour even if I remind her how exhausted I am. She’s part of our story. And she keeps my son alive, so maybe I should let her talk. But I’m tired, and weary and stressed the f*ck out.

You know how your kids go to bed at night and you power down for 12 hours? We don’t. I check on Cooper every 30-90 minutes at night, from the time he goes to sleep until the nurse gets here. When he cries himself to sleep, or he’s right on the cusp of sleep and that timer goes off, I go in there and poke his finger with a needle, and I wake him back up all over again. And he grumbles at me and we do it all again. The crying. The stress. The exhaustion.

I’m not mad that your life is normal, but I’m tired. Tired of GSD. Tired of being tired. Tired of stress. Tired of vigilance. Tired of worrying.

But make no mistake my life is blessed beyond explanation. I just don’t have time to tell you about all the blessings because the timer is going off and the nurse will be here in 11 minutes. Unless she’s late, which she often is.

I'm just the vessel, the very content vessel

My head rolls over, heavily. I hear her happy chatter coming from the nursery. [How long can I call it a nursery if she’s getting so big so fast?] This is the 5^th Saturday in a row that she has slept in, woken up happy, and generally taken it easy on us. [I love this kid.]

I stumble to the bathroom, my bladder being squished by a child I can only hope will be half as lovely as the first, and take 60 seconds to myself. I walk into her room to find her sitting in the crib arranging her stuffed animals and blankies in a lovely circle around herself. Her socks are placed neatly side by side in the formation. [Is she OCD or just developing some random life skill I take for granted every day?]

“Do you want to get up?” I ask her sweetly, holding out my hands to her. Her eyes dart side to side as she considers. “No” she says sweetly, going back to playing with her dolls. It’s a trap I know. My pregnant back doesn’t want to bend down to pick her up. Her toddler self doesn’t want me to walk away and leave her there.  Her cuteness wins me over and I bend down to lift her out of the crib, pausing so that she can grab “Sacha” the doggie and Sacha’s blankie on the way up. Without these, I know that her demeanor will instantly change and I will want only to go back to bed immediately.

One quick diaper change and we’re snuggling onto the rocking chair, as she laughs and asks me to tickle her again. For a kid that squirms to get away from tickles so quickly, she sure does return easily requesting them “again”, no question in her voice (“again?”) just a simple statement of what she knows I will deliver (“again.”).

We play like this for what seems like 5 minutes, but I know is closer to 45. I know the timer on her tummy will soon go off and I must make some headway towards the kitchen. I’m a big supporter of the plan to feed her before she goes crazy, rather than trying to reason with her in the throes of hanger (hunger, anger, hanger). I put in my contacts, brush my teeth, and invite her to go find Daddy. She runs (like a small drunk, torso twisting, arms flailing) into our bedroom, and gleefully yells out “I found you Daddy!” the newest phrase in her growing vocabulary.

We rouse him just enough to let him know that we’re headed downstairs to make breakfast. He sleepily says he’s right behind us. [God, I love this man. But I know better. He’ll be back asleep in 10 seconds, if he was ever awake to begin with.]

We make our way down the stairs, as she announces “Horsey Cow” that we will be watching Baby Einstein again this morning. [Shocking!] As much as I wish I was annoyed by this daily request, I am ever more grateful for the vocabulary she’s growing and her ability to tell me in (relatively) plain English what she wants and needs. Life is ever-so-much-easier when I know how to keep her even keeled.

I start the DVD, she dances to the intro music, beautifully amazed at the intro credits, completely excited when I offer her a sippy cup of milk.

It’s a good morning. An ordinary morning. But in so many ways, this is a great morning. It took us many months to land here, but the simple quiet and happy love of this child has changed our world forever. She is joy, defined. She is innocence, explained. She is the future, dancing before our very (sleepy) eyes.

I watch her, enraptured with the horses, cows, and pigs on the screen, as if she hasn’t seen them 100 times. I cannot fathom that something this beautiful came forth from two such ordinary, exhausted people as ourselves. Looking at her in awe, I am reminded that while pregnant I confided in my mother that “I can barely make rice, how am I supposed to make a human??” to which she easily replied, “God’s making her, Rachel. You’re just the vessel.”

To which memory I can only reply, “Well done, God. Well done.” 

A day in the life of...*drum roll* WONDER MOM!

4:45 a.m.    Alarm goes off, I stumble to it, my pregnant feet sore as they hit the ground, smack the snooze button un-ceremoniously. [Is that plantar fascitis? Note to self: need to go see a podiatrist.]

4:50 a.m.    Alarm goes off again, I stumble to it, curse at it, and head to the bathroom, tripping on *someone's* steel-toed boots [again].

4:51 a.m.    I start the shower, silently praying that my not-quite-two-year old doesn't wake up before I get my hair dried.

5:01 a.m.    I slather oil on my growing waistline, hoping that the stretch marks absorb it and go (to hell) back where they came from.

5:05 a.m.    I stumble back into the bedroom, feeling refreshed? No. Alert? Not quite. Clean? Yes, okay, that's a good start.

5:10 a.m.    I turn on the hair dryer, and instantly feel my hair go from wet to statickey. [Note to self: need to find a new dryer with a better "low" setting.]

5:20 a.m.    I pull on work clothes which I will wear for the next 15 hours, thanking God for pregnant stretchy panels.

5:30 a.m.    Downstairs to put on shoes, makeup, and a necklace.

5:33 a.m.    [What? You get more than 3 minutes to do your makeup?] Pull out smoothie ingredients, start the blender, and hope once more that she stays asleep through all this racket.

5:35 a.m.    Throw leftovers into lunchbag.

5:38 a.m.    Prenatal vitamins with a small bowl of applesauce and glass of water.

5:40 a.m.    Upstairs to check on toddler and ask husband (B) if he's almost ready [What? You don't make time to bug your husband in the morning? Shame on you. No, I've never been too tired to do so. Not once. He'll vouch for it.]

5:42 a.m.    Back downstairs, take sippy cup, Cheerios, my smoothie, and lunchbag to the car.

5:45 a.m.    Back upstairs, wake up sleepy toddler, somehow magically finding time to tickle her belly button and rub her chilly feet as I get her dressed.

5:55 a.m.    Back downstairs, hand smoothie to B.

5:57 a.m.    Watch B flirt with little toddler girl as she says "Daddy go work". Smile through my exhaustion.

6:00 a.m.    See B out the door.

6:10 a.m.    Where did the last 10 minutes go? [Dangit]

6:11 a.m.    Time to convince her to stand still so that I can put in her pigtails ("pig-tailps") and bows ("boats").

6:16 a.m.    Put her into a jacket, owl-ey hat, and one mitten. She insists I have the other mitten and make a puppet out of it. If I forget or say "later" then I better be prepared for 6:17 a.m. toddler meltdown.

6:20 a.m.    Put on "mommy jacket" and "mommy scarf". Turn out lights, pick up toddler [when did she get so heavy? when did my shoulder start to hurt like that? why do pregnant women get carpal tunnel syndrome?]

6:22 a.m.    Load her into carseat, trying to convince her to keep her jacket and shoes on, and hoping that her tears dry quickly when she sees her morning cup of Cheerios sitting there awaiting her hungry little grab.

6:24 a.m.    Close the car door and enjoy approximately 5 seconds of silence. Climb into my seat, crank the heat, entertain a request from the backseat that I turn on "funny song". Put the car in drive.

6:25 a.m.    Play the "Light/Dark" and "Stop/Go" game on the way out of the neighborhood, hoping that the three minutes I just put in count as parental investment in her growing mind. What better time to show her LIGHT vs DARK than in the pre-sunrise hours of our commute? And STOP vs GO, that's too easy. "Again" she chimes from the backseat.

6:28 a.m.    Explain to toddler that we left the neighborhood without slowing to say hi to the "bear" and "goose" statues in the neighbors' yards because it's too dark out [and Mommy forgot, okay, she f'ing forgot]

6:33 a.m.    Pull onto the highway. "Good morning clouds" "Good morning cars" "Hi big truck". [Zone out] "More airplanes please"

7:00 a.m.    Pull into Starbucks drive-through. “What’s that?” she asks, every time, pointing to the Starbucks logo sign. “Starbucks Lady” I tell her. “Ooooo Starbucks lady’s coming” she tells me.

7:07 a.m.    Receive one hot chocolate [damn I miss espresso] and breakfast sandwich. “More” she implores, asking for my breakfast as I pull out into traffic. “Oh, remember you’re going to eat more at school? What else are you going to do at school?” [How long will this distraction tactic work?]

7:21 a.m.    Pull up to gate at military base, say "Hi airplane" to the fighter jet static display.

7:24 a.m.    Driving through the base listen to her say good morning to "Airplane" "Big helicopter" "Gazebo on the grass" and "Cannon" [Do all 22 month olds know about cannons or is it just mine? Should I tell her the name of the giant bomb sitting on display? I think better of this.]

7:27 a.m.    Pull up at daycare, ready to unload her. Where is her sock? Her shoe? Her foot is freezing. Where are the bows we so carefully placed in her hair? Her body is littered with Cheerios. “Cheerios DOWN” she gleefully exclaims, grabbing for as many as she can find and vacuuming them into her little hungry mouth.

7:30 a.m.    Make our way into the daycare, where we must stop to say hi to the fishies (fissies) and guinea pigs (piggies).

7:32 a.m.    Make our way down the hall to the classroom. Lift small body onto changing table, change wet diaper. Wash hands. Fill out paperwork. Coax her towards the teacher while she cries “Mommmmmmmy”. [Thank God for Miss S. who distracts toddler long enough for me to leave without seeing toddler face twist into tears and make me feel like I’m abandoning her.]

7:37 a.m.    Arrive at office, with my now-cold hot chocolate and breakfast sandwich enticing me with their sweet aroma all the way into my office. Turn on computer, put lunch in fridge, sit down for first time in three hours. [No, driving does not count as sitting.]

7:40 a.m.    Email loads. First bite of sandwich. Still quasi-warm, nice surprise. See email from “colleague” I haven’t met yet rescheduling lunch and noting that “Flexible’s my middle name ;-)” [When did it become okay to use emoticons in work email? Oh, right, it didn’t.] Try to decide if he’s creepy or just weird.

8:00 a.m.    Having replied to emails, look at pile of paperwork on desk and realize I need some water.

8:01 a.m.    Cup of water in hand, I realize I need to pee.

8:05 a.m.    Having peed, I realize I need to get to work.

8:06 a.m.    Realize iPod is playing C-Lo “F YOU” a bit too loud. [Zone out]

8:47 a.m.    Where am I? Did I just check the FAA website and legal ads in the paper? I guess so. Notes are updated.

9:00 a.m.    Telecon with PITA (pain in the ass) regional colleague. Put her on speakerphone so I can some work done while she rambles. Periodically find myself flipping her off.

9:17 a.m.    Time to start my online training courses. Only 37.5 hours to go. [How will I get all of this B.S. done before maternity leave?]

11:00 a.m.  Brain dead from training, should I get lunch? Is it too early? I can go buy some wide width boots for cold weather pregnant feet. Oh wait. I packed lunch. That’s right, I can just work through lunch. Then I can leave earlier today. Hmmm…something to think about.

11:02 a.m.  Heat up lunch in microwave. Scarf it down. Dang I needed that.

11:22 a.m.  Realize I cannot keep working. Must leave to get more water and possibly some caffeine. [How much Dr Pepper is “bad” for a baby in my belly? The web says I can have 200 mg a day which equates to 57 ounces of Dr P, but the doctor says 1 serving per day. The truth must lie somewhere in the middle. Like maybe 56 ounces…]

11:31 a.m.  Back at my desk, wondering if my 9 minute break to get beverages should count against my time sheet [yes, I am that OCD], silently calculating my co-workers’ 30 minute smoke breaks taken once an hour. Surely if she can take those breaks then I can just stop worrying…? [Still worrying. Don’t know how to stop.]

11:47 a.m.  Realize that my personal to do list is falling by the wayside. Must make holiday dish, do I have all the ingredients? I will *not* go to the grocery store the night before Thanksgiving. Do I even know how to make baked mac and cheese? How hard can it be? Better re-check the recipe. [Doesn't this $4!+ come in a box??]

11:48 a.m.  [Oh shit] I forgot to make the thank you gifts for the daycare teachers this past weekend. Must get to the store. Maybe I should take a lunch break to go to the craft store. But then I’ll have to work later and get stuck in more traffic.

11:49 a.m.  [Oh shit] I forgot to pick up toddler’s allergy medicine at pharmacy this weekend. Must do that too.

11:50 a.m.  Well I guess if we’re going to Catholic church now then I need to get an Advent wreath. Maybe I’ll find time to do that too.

11:51 a.m.  [Eureka! Ask for help!] Text husband, ask if he can watch toddler after dinner so I can run some errands.

11:53 a.m.  Receive text back reading “Roj”. Roger. He’s on it. He’s probably surprised and glad I asked. No doubt looking forward to getting to be alone with toddler in the absence of all of Mommy’s rules.

11:55 a.m.  [Do I have too many rules? Are they important, useful, arbitrary? Note to self: consider reading up on parenting in my sparetime. Then I’ll know how many rules and parameters to set. Yes, that’s it. In my sparetime.]

11:57 a.m.  [Oh shit] do I need to sign up for any prenatal classes at the hospital this time around or am I a pro now? Oh look, I can do the breastfeeding class as a refresher online for free. Okay. I’ll do that in my sparetime too.

12:00 a.m.  Did I eat lunch? Golly I’m hungry.

12:57 a.m.  Get ready for meeting.

1:00 p.m.    Go to meeting. Try to stay awake.

2:00 p.m.    More emails. A phone call. Yawning.

3:30 p.m.    Time to get out of here. Pack up car, head to daycare.

3:40 p.m.    Walk into daycare. [Note to self, don’t forget the Thanksgiving thank you gifts tonight!] Get a little helpful turnover information. “Please bring more wipes tomorrow, she’s almost out. She had a good day {pause} but she hasn’t been cooperating lately and she tried to bite another child three times today and she was kissing E again today and she hit Miss S in the face during a diaper change.” [Is she a monster? Is she mine? Is this normal? Are they lying about my angel??]

3:43 p.m.    Realize her diaper is wet again, lift her to the changing table, change her, wash her hands, put on the jacket, put on the hat, walk down the hall, time to say hi and bye to the piggies and fissies again.

3:47 p.m.    Get to car.  Load her. Provide snack. Provide water. Provide a book.

3:50 p.m.    Leave the base, saying goodbye to all the airplanes, gazebos, and helicopters on the way.

3:58 p.m.    Pull onto the highway, hoping for no traffic. Traffic. [Shit. This is why I get up early so I can beat the traffic, get done with work early and beat it again.]

4:23 p.m.    Pull into the driveway. Take bags into house. Take toddler into house. Get mail key, walk down the street to check the mail.

4:27 p.m.    Turn on TV. She asks for a video. It’s Baby Einstein. That’s educational right? I’m not a bad mom, am I? [AM I?????]

4:29 p.m.    Go to the bathroom while she’s not paying attention. Feels like vacation. [Oh vacation, that sounds nice. When will I get to do that? Oh, right. In my sparetime with all those extra vacation days I’ll have saved up after maternity leave.]

4:33 p.m.    Daddy is home. Yay! She’s all smiles. He swoops her up, I tie on an apron and start peeling potatoes. Chop the broccoli. I interrupt Daddy/daughter time, asking for help with the pork chops. [Thank God I married a professional pork chop expert.]

4:47 p.m.    She’s crying. Is she hungry? No! Don’t say “potatoes” out loud. They won’t be ready for awhile! Are her teeth hurting? Get her an icy toy to gnaw on. More videos. Did she just ask for Yo Gabba Gabba? [Oh shit, I hate that shit.]

5:33 p.m.    Dinner is finally on the table.

5:57 p.m.    He just offered to clean up so I can get out the door to run those errands. Toddler allergy medicine. Advent wreath. Supplies for Thanksgiving thank you gifts for daycare teachers.

6:07 p.m.    Out the door. Damn it’s cold. And dark. When did it get so dark?

6:25 p.m.    Pick up allergy medicine. Wish pharmacy was near the other stores.

6:33 p.m.    Back onto the highway to head to the mall area.

6:47 p.m.    JoAnn’s for supplies for gifts. Made something work with no clear plan in mind when I walked in. No Advent wreaths.

6:50 p.m.    Head to Family Christian Bookstore for Advent wreath, passing Hallmark. [Hallmark next if I can’t find it.]

6:52 p.m.    Oh look the Family Christian Bookstore no longer exists, back to Hallmark.

6:57 p.m.    Walk into Hallmark [DOH I have to pee. Dear Baby X, that is not a trampoline, stop jumping!!], ask if they have Advent wreaths, the answer is no.

6:59 p.m.    Back to car. Oh look, Michaels across the plaza, maybe they have an Advent wreath. More importantly, they have a bathroom!

7:05 p.m.    Newly-relieved, but I can’t find any Advent wreaths. Mind spirals. If I don’t find it tonight I’ll have to go out to the stores over Thanksgiving weekend. Nooooooooooo!

7:27 p.m.    Home. At last. Oh look, he did the dishes. Oh wait, he left the mashed potatoes out. I better put them away and wash the bowl, and oh look the sippy cups are all dirty, I’m going to need one of those tomorrow morning, I better wash them.

7:47 p.m.    Head upstairs to let him know I’m home.

8:00 p.m.    Back downstairs to assemble teacher thank you gifts.

8:37 p.m.    Back upstairs, ready to pass out. Talk to husband for 20 minutes. He apologizes for keeping me awake. I remind him I need to work tomorrow night, so can we meet for dinner near the base then he can take her home.

9:03 p.m.    Take out contacts. Wash face. Brush teeth. Set alarm.

9:07 p.m.    Wonder mom *out*.