Broken Glass

I went for my annual ob/gyn appointment a couple of months ago.  While nobody ENJOYS these necessary trips, I am really not all that squeamish about them.  Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be doing mostly anything, but I'm not freaked out by them is all.  

When I went in for IUI (intrauterine insemination) to "up" my chances of pregnancy, my doc asked if it was okay for an intern to sit in because she had never seen one done.  Fine.  So my doc, the intern, and a nurse were crowded around my lady parts like it was the family room television.  During the very quick and painless procedure, the radio was playing "Girls, Girls, Girls" by Motley Crue, and I told my doctor that if I had three girls I was blaming her (turns out I wasn't far off).  When the procedure or nature worked it's magic, and I became pregnant, I  was probed (literally) every two weeks, and at some points every week by a team of specialists, plus my regular ob.  You get pretty mechanical about it all.  All of this was due to a multiple pregnancy, but also because of my "advanced maternal age" (boy, I never got tired of hearing that one). 

Anyhooo, this year's appointment was the same level of casual.  I made it through the whole thing before I off handedly mentioned that I was feeling extra...um...stabby during my PMS days, which by the by were starting to eclipse my regular days almost entirely. I think I have a four day window of non-crazy to look forward to every month. I'd just Hulk out over the dumbest stuff that during my luxurious 4 day window, roll right off my back.  Over the summer I even had a panic attack in a consignment shop while on what normally would have been a lovely outing with my sister.  Well, my doctor told me, and I quote, "Welcome to your forties.  PMS is going to be like that now."  Which pretty much reminded me of this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzEhoyXpqzQ 

Um, WHAT???  I have NEVER heard of this raging-40's-PMS thing.  I feel very (unsurprisingly) angry about this. He said my options are exercising for 45 minutes a day....pfft, yeah right, next. Taking an antidepressant every day, or lastly having a script on hand for a "break glass in case of rage blackout" kind of thing.  I went with the last option- and have only broken the glass twice.  I think just having it on hand calms me down.  Also actually taking it makes me so sleepy that nothing is really going to bother me much, which is not exactly conducive to child rearing but it's better than me throwing the baby potty across the room because my kid peed on the floor while looking me dead in the eyes like a tiny psycho.  I have always condoned OTHER people taking these kinds of meds, but when it comes to myself I have a Depression Era (how ironic) olde tyme man that pops into my head and tells me to chin up, and take it like a man.  He may also be dancing the Charleston, but not in a charming way- seriously, it's so condescending you guys.  I still feel like I've let my olde tyme man down a little, but he is also kind of a dick, and not a little bit judgey..also he doesn't have twins to deal with as far as I know so I'm thinking I'm gonna defriend him (or hide him from my feed at minimum).

I still cry really randomly, and at dumb stuff.  I definitely enjoy my alone time with my juice box (ie boxed wine) when things get really rough, or because it's Tuesday. But I have to look in the mirror on the exterior of the medicine cabinet before I open it to access the bottle of pills, and thus far- I'm okay with who I'm seeing.  Sure I'm a little gray, a little more sallow and tired looking, but  I'm keeping it together without white knuckling it these days.  I'm okay with who I see.

Are you looking?

I am old.  41 years not young at last count. I also have two year old twin girls (Mary, and Louise). They are awesome, and hilarious, and the only two people I really spend any kind of time with, as my husband, Seth, is a PhD student at a fancy-pants Ivy League school/prison-chain-gang, that completely owns him.  

Seth is like a snow leopard, we rarely see him. Oh, and we moved away from our huge network of family in Louisiana FIVE weeks after I gave birth to the girls so he could chase this dream of becoming a professor (in my vast amount of alone time I now presume this will be for masses of young chippies who love his beard and elbow patches, and his array of catchy eyewear).  So here we are, in Philadelphia, me, my sweet girls, and my snow leopard.  We don't know anybody here, and so I am virtually on my own most of the time to mold these humans into good people.  I get bored with molding sometimes, so I have become somewhat of a Facebook nerd who reaches out to the world through my posts.  Through said posts, I have been cajoled into doing a blog, which is extremely flattering, and if life has taught me anything, it's that I will do anything for compliments...seriously, I am a middle child. Test me. 

For someone who loves praise, I accept it very poorly until I am in private, where I replay it in my head over and over again, like the songs I used to tape off of the top forty radio stations when I was a kid to make super sweet make out tapes- so I could make out with exactly NOBODY.
"Wherever you go...I'll be with yooouuuu, whatever you want, I'll geeeve it to yooou....I will will be the FLAME-ah!"  (song credit, The Flame, by Cheap Trick, taped by Meg Cinti most likely because she was the most skilled of my friends at doing this). I digress, gentle reader and self consciously offer you my word songs for your adoration.

Speaking of super needy people, around 8 PM every night, my kids start to get slap-happy.  They used to climb onto the couch and just flop onto each other, or the cushions....sometimes the floor.  Now that they are big shot two year olds, they needed a bigger stage and moved production to a window seat in their bedroom where they perform loud songs for us. If we are not paying close enough attention to the show they scream, "MAMA...WOOKAHMEEEEE!!!"(translation: Mama, look at me).  While I generally most savor the compliments I do get without dancing for them- I do hope this offering will yield a few.  So like a thousand bloggers who went before me have begged, look at me...for the love of god, WOOK. AH. ME!  Seriously.  I need this.