All Work And No Play Makes Mommy Go Something Something

1…2…3…Breathe

My eyes were closed behind my dark shades and I counted rhythmically with every breath.

1…2…3 in.

1…2…3 out.

With each inspiration I could smell the fragrant rows of flowers planted in lightly dampened soil.

The sun’s heat that was trapped in the greenhouse wrapped around me like a warm security blanket.

1…2…3 in.

1…2…3 out.

I could hear the garden hoses spraying, soothing my chaotic nerves.

I began to feel my body slide back into my shoes and plant firmly on the pavement.

“Kim are you ok?” ask Shawn as he touched my arm lightly.

I quickly opened my eyes and saw the crowd before me.

People talking loudly over the next, hoovering over plants and decisions.

Carts squeaked as they were pushed and pulled across the pavement.

Noise.

Too much noise.

My heart raced.

“I grabbed a cart. Do you know what flowers you wanted?”

I had no idea.

The colours overwhelmed me.

Perennials.

Annuals.

Herbs.

Baskets.

What do I need?

I traveled cautiously through the aisles as my mind ran away with fear.

I took a photo of a planter and handed it to Shawn.

“This one. Find these flowers.” and off he went.

I need geraniums. This one is pretty. Do I have a big enough pot? What if it’s not big enough? Can it go in the sun? I need to get sun. I’m pale. Everyone tells me that I look sick. I should try to eat more. Why is that guy staring at me? How much are these plants? God they’re a lot of money. They’re just going to die and I need a haircut. He keeps looking at me. Where is Chunky? I think he’s following me. Where’s Chunky? Is he going to kidnap us? What is he planning on doing? Stop. Looking.

“Quit scratching your neck Kim!” Shawn whispered harshly.

I looked up and we were already at the check out counter; Chunky proudly holding a small container with English Ivy. My neck burned from the nervous scratching and I had wished I had put on a scarf.

I looked down at our cart and couldn’t recall any of those flowers that I had apparently picked.

When we reached our car I was finally able to breathe.

Chunky grabbed my arm as Shawn said, “It’s ok. This is for you on Mother’s Day. I want you to be out in your garden. I want you to smile every time you look at these flowers.”

“Yea Momma. Don’t be sad. I bought all of these for you. Be happy. They are really very pretty but,” grabbing that small container,”this one is all mine.”

Shawn gently wiped the tears that fell freely on my reddened cheeks.

As we all buckled into our seats in the car, I shook my head. My anxiety hasn’t been this bad in a long while and I know why.

It’s the Abilify.

When we got home, I stripped off my dress and immediately submerged my hands into dark fresh dirt.

I buried my anxiety deep within pots and planters and bordering my garden.

And where the pain laid, flowers, beautiful flowers bloomed.

They will make me smile indeed.

*May 22 I stopped abilify…with my doctor’s permission of course.

Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturday

I know that I’ve been the biggest pair of emotional ovaries these last few weeks.

My posts have been more melancholic than the bowl of high fiber cereal that I eat every morning.

Hey, it keeps me regular.

Which is actually not a problem since I had my gallbladder taken out.

Did you know that bile acts as stimulant?

Now you know.

And I bet you have a picture of me clenching my ass cheeks as I search for a bathroom in the middle of a parking lot at an outlet mall with Chunky running behind me yelling:

“You have to take a trophy dump Mom? A real big one?”

True story.

In case you’re wondering, I did make it there and yes I felt violated.

There is nothing worse than having public toilet water splash your ass.

Which brings me to my confession:

I have a little thing that I like to call public toilet phobia.

I simply can’t do it.

Except in emergency situations.

The thought of all those bums on the seat.

And I’m sure that all of you women can attest to the fact that our bathroom is dirtier than the men’s bathroom.

Right?

We have the women who hover and piss on the seat.

Which means we have to wipe the seat and then lay 5 inches of toilet paper on there before sitting.

Then when we stand up, sometimes that protective pee barrier gets stuck on the seat.

Then we have to use the tips of our shoes to flick the toilet paper into the toilet when we are done which will more than likely clog the toilet.

Sometimes the paper will fall off the seat and soak up an unknown water substance.

Why are our washroom floors always wet?

No one picks up those rogue pieces of toilet paper.

If you do, you should cut your fingers off.

Sometimes when you stand up from the toilet the paper will stick to your behind which is the grossest thing ever.

Was it ass sweat that made it stick there?

Was it someone’s left over hoover pee that made it stick there?

You will never know.

But you’ll think about it all day.

Oh we can’t forget the ladies on their cycle who leave about an inch of their pad sticking out of the “napkin” disposal container as if it wants to play peek-a-boo.

Or finding a tampon applicator floating in the toilet.

Then there are the people who thoroughly enjoy sitting there for hours.

What are you doing in there?

Do you enjoy the ambiance?

Then there are the ladies who freshen up in the bathroom and leave a nest of their hair in and around the sink.

Ladies we are gross.

We wouldn’t stand for our bathrooms at home to look or smell like that.

Come on now.

My 3 year old is scarred for life because I told him if he touched anything his hand would disintegrate.

True story.

And that is why I have a phobia of public restrooms.

*What weird things have you encountered in the bathroom?

*Do you agree that our bathrooms are disgusting?

And So It Carries On

It was like I had never left the hospital when the same greying volunteer strapped a hospital ID band on my arm and guided me to the group of chairs in front of the outpatient sign.

It’s been a week since the pulmonary embolism scare.

I took a spot next to an elderly woman who had her head buried into a Maxim magazine.

Just writing this makes me giggle thinking of her mouth agape as she thumbed through pages of scantily clad women.

“Can you believe,” she started, “Can you believe that this is an ad for a man’s razor? Women’s legs next to his face. What do women’s legs have anything to do with a man shaving his face?” Then she shoved the magazine on my lap.

I couldn’t control the laugh trying to force through my clenched teeth and so I bursted out laughing.

Thankfully, she did too.

Our laughs were cut short as an enchanting lullaby sweetly filled the hospital corridors and if you listened close enough you would have heard the patients, staff, and visitors hearts beating in unison to welcome a new baby*.

It was almost 10 am.

“Did they play that for your baby? Well if you have one?” the elderly woman inquired.

“No. My son was born just before the shift change but he made his own noise when he entered the world.”

“Well the next one then. And demand it. No one can refuse a hormonal woman clutching God’s beautiful miracle.”

She was undoubtedly right.

“Kimberly!” A woman from the doorway called out.

“That’s me.”

She smiled and said, “When you come out I’ll sing you a tune.”

She wasn’t there when I eventually came out of the exam rooms. It’s a shame because I was really looking forward to her song.

The nurse directed me to a small room and onto a stretcher.

Dr. G entered the room 10 seconds after her heart did. This woman is an unbelievable surgeon that doesn’t see patients as broken body parts but as an actual person. She listens and genuinely cares which is a far cry from the other surgeon I had seen that refused to even breathe in my direction.

When she sent me to the ER the day I was experiencing severe chest pains, she visited me way after her shift was over. She talked reassuring me that things were going to be ok.

“Oh it’s you!” she said, “Man do you ever look better. You really scared the crap out of me.”

“It was probably the most scariest thing in my entire life, but I’m doing much better now.”

“Fair enough.”

“But I have this…umm…rash,” I said nervously.

“Truthfully, if this is the worst thing that could happen, then you should be laughing.”

I stared blankly at her twisted hospital cap as the rational part of my brain kicked in and said:

“Fucking told you so.”

Just. A. Rash.

I didn’t have a pulmonary embolism.

I don’t have a gallbladder anymore.

Just a rash.

While my anxiety was alleviating, Dr. G said, “Have you had your hamburger yet?”

The word “no” squeezed achingly through my lips.

“Fair enough. Well start off slow. Enjoy every bit of it when you try. I’ll see you in 4 weeks.”

As I left the hospital, I remember feeling victorious for once and really hungry.

When I got home I plowed through a turkey sandwich and checked my messages.

“Hey Kim. I have to cancel our dinner plans. We sort of had a baby just before 10 am.”

My heart and soul swirled in delight for my best friend.

Today, May 7th, we welcomed new beginnings both big and small.

Congrats M and C for your beautiful baby boy. I couldn’t be more happy for you. xoxo

More Than A Feeling

“How are you feeling?” asked the comforting voice on the other end of the line.

“Ok, I suppose.”

“Well something is bugging you. I can tell.”

From my first heartbreak to extreme anxiousness before the big softball game to the first beer I ever drank underage and “concealed” the smell with 2 packs of Big Red gum, my Mom could always tell.

It’s amazing this miraculous sense of detecting disharmony in our children the minute we conceive them.

The inflections of their voice, the bounces in their step, or the subtle way their souls rest just behind their eyes churns discontent and worry in our very own hearts.

My Mom knows me better than myself…

…and my psychiatrist.

Most of the time my Mom will poke and beat the shit out of my every last nerve to find out what is eating me.

She’s a Nazi of feelings.

But this time she let it be and said things like:

“It’ll be ok.”

“You are sounding so much better.”

“You need to get your pastey non-existent ass outside and enjoy that dodo bird chime I bought you.”

The dodo bird.

I remember pulling that wind chime out from the gift box and Shawn said, “Hey, it looks like you!”

I couldn’t help but laugh then and right now on the phone.

“Ok,” my Mom said, “time to get outside and enjoy the air. Put on a hat too.”

At 31 years old I still obey my Mom’s orders because I believe that she holds all the secrets to healing.

And if today healing meant going out in the yard and checking out that dodo bird then so be it.

Chunky’s head poked up from the garden when I finally entered the yard.

“Mom! I love you! You can sit over there!” pointing to a lawn chair 50 feet away from where he was planted.

And I knew.

I knew he had dug a trench in my garden again.

I smiled and said, “Make sure that you fill that hole in when you’re done.”

Bewildered he responded,” You know I dig when you were in the house?”

“Momma knows everything.”

I watched as his eyes grew 10x’s wide and I swear I he mouthed:

“Fuck, my Mom is a magician.”

Satchel

I woke up from a late afternoon nap to the warmth cinnamon wafting in from the kitchen and Shawn holding a Tim Horton’s cup of green tea in front of my face.

Shawn has a funny way of coping when I’m sick. Last year he demolished our hideous pink bathroom and gave life to a magazine page I had archived in my mind of all the things I wished for.

He allowed me to run with my dream and cringed when I picked up a beautiful brown colour swatch named “Satchel” which reminded us of Zach Galifianakis character in “The Hangover”.

“It’s called a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one,” Shawn said seriously.

And for the first time in months we roared hysterically in the middle of the hardware store.

I put the swatch in with the rest of our colour choices not thinking once that we’d actually use it to cover the pain of many hard years.

As Shawn said it best, “This paint will cover up all the fuck ups. Hey, kind of like what your make up does for you.”

He’s romantic that way.

The bathroom remodeling didn’t cure my bipolar disorder but it made my days brighter by giving me something positive to focus on.

Of course it also gave me plenty of opportunities to jam odd objects into the crack of Shawn’s exposed bum.

He did what he set out to do; to make me feel better.

And I love him for always trying.

To me that means he’s not giving up on helping me and my quest to find my way.

“When you’re done being lazy, come into the kitchen,” he shouted.

Chunky was already in there with a fork in his hand waiting for a cinnamon roll and my stomach turned with excitement.

My boys watched as the first warm gooey piece passed my lips.

Each bite was as sinfully delicious as the last. I knew my bowels would thank me later but I didn’t care.

I licked every melted morsel of icing off of my fingers and the plate.

When I looked up, Shawn had a wide smile.

“Did I make you forget that rash?”

“What rash?” I said, “I want another roll!”

And with that he jumped out of his chair and plated me another.

“Thank you babe.”

“No problem. They just came from a can. 23 minutes and done.”

“No, for fixing today.”

“Momma, you’re eating like a pig.”

On May 6th we spent our evening laughing together.

1…2…3…Breathe

Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturday

And So It Carries On

More Than A Feeling

Satchel

Shipping And Packaging: ShipSmart