In Which I Learn to Control My Emotions

I rarely cry.  It's weak and useless and I don't see the point of it, so I funnel all my Sad Pants feelings into bitter anger to help fuel me through my day.

(Because that's useful.  Obviously.) 

Basically, I've spent the past 30 years of my life completely out of touch with my emotions.  I kept it all bottled up (or, as I called it, under control) until I was exhausted or overwhelmed or a situation got too crazy and it all imploded.

Me.  Crying in the bathtub.  Semi-suicidal.  Good times.

Since I was so unemotional, the rare times my emotions surfaced I thought it must be a SIGN FROM GOD.  My life needed to change right now!  Angry at my Kevin?  Must divorce!  Kids pushed me over the edge?  Need a full time job!  Unsatisfied with work?  Apply to local colleges!

What's hilarious is that I would have told you that I was NOT controlled by my emotions.  (Who?  ME?)  But, really, I treated those ridiculous bathtub breakdowns as Sacred Moments where the universe broke through my reserve and spoke to my inner being...by shoving my face into my own snot on the bathroom tile.

A couple years ago, I learned that emotions are just...emotions.  They don't have deeper meanings.  Or mystical qualities.  (And they certainly aren't a sign that I should launch into a "Why Are We Even Married?" discussion with Kevin at midnight on the 2nd day of my period, totally ignoring the fact that he has a big meeting with his boss at 8 am because my emotions are telling me to SPEAK NOW, DAMN YOU!)

I learned that in my head, anyway.  It took until now to successfully apply it.

This weekend, we took the kids to my cousin's wedding.  Long drive.  Toddler.  Sit down dinner.  Spanx.  And my period, because oh, WHY NOT THROW THAT IN?

I had my expectations lowered...I was bracing myself for the humiliation of dragging trantruming kids out of the reception...but I wasn't prepared for my own emotions.

Kevin and I have had our marriage problems, so witnessing a couple's Fresh Start and Perfectly Unblemished Love wasn't easy.  One minute I was trying to keep the kids from devouring the entire cookie tray, the next I was riding on The Spiral of Woe.  

Normally, this is where I would have grabbed the kids and demanded that we leave RIGHT NOW--and I would have quietly seethed the entire ride home, refusing to look at him--and then after the kids were in bed I would have exploded into an EPIC SHIT STORM that wouldn't end until I was sobbing and retching into the toilet at 3 am.

INSTEAD...

For the first time ever, I was able to step back from The Spiral of Woe and tell myself, "JACI, YOU ARE..."

1.  Exhausted from wrangling kids.
2.  On your period.
3.  Self-conscious in this dress despite Spanx.
4.  Nervous around your extended family.
5.  Letting your emotions drag you down a morbid path.

...and I stopped myself.  

I was struggling, but I was struggling well.  I was able to hold on enough to say, "This isn't how I really feel about my marriage.  This is all exhaustion and emotion."  

Even better, I was able to go home and NOT have an epic fight with Kevin, but instead crawl into bed and say, "Let's not talk about what's bothering me, because I'm tired and I'm emotional and I won't feel like this in the morning." 

And I didn't.

I love growing up.

Phoning It In This Season

Reading about someone's struggles with Writer's Block is about as interesting as hearing a coworker's blow-by-blow recap of last night's dream.

Kill me now.

But alas!  I have the Block.

I stepped away from my blog because after three years, I'm not only covering topics two million other mommybloggers are smothering to death--I'm bored with it.   

I'd kill to write something more meaningful, but I'm also at a season of life where I can't even write blog posts.  

My children are both in demanding stages.  I can barely keep on top of the housework and meal prep.  What little free time I have is divided between working out (mentally, I need it) and maintaining a non-roommate status with my husband.

Moments of easing back in an armchair with a new journal and the perfect writing pen aren't happening.  Even staring at my laptop during nap time isn't an option.  The work here is nonstop.  

These girls need me.  If I'm not on the ball, they are fighting and screaming and tearing the house apart within seconds.  It's overwhelming and at times, really discouraging.  Mothering THIS stage has pushed me to the brink. 

Writing is a huge part of me that's being silenced by...life.  I'm so ragged that my mind is fried and I can't come up with anything creative.  Words slip through my fingers.  I don't have it in me now, and that scares me.  What if I never get it back? 

That's the fear of every Mom, isn't it?  We all give up something to have our children; some speck of selfishness has to go up on the highest shelf with the sharp scissors and the bottles of alcohol because the kids come first.  Occasionally, we glance up at that shelf and long for our old adult things and hope that we don't forget them when the kids stop grabbing at our pants...in ten more years. 

It saddens me, but I'm almost resigned to it.  Writing isn't in the cards right now.  Blog posts will be sporadic at best, and I'm glad I have this place to write SOMETHING.  Otherwise, I would be totally lost in Momdom.

The Great Bus Stop Debate

At 8:52, Elizabeth's bus pulls up in front of our house to pick up two kids:  The Big E and another little Kindergardener who lives across the street.  Then her bus coasts 30 yards down the street and stops again for another group of 4-5 kids...then another 30 yards...  

I still remember the morning in September when I woke up from my normal Mombie Walking Death state and said, "The hell?  Why not have all the kids walk to the corner and just make one stop?"  Then I shut up real quick because having the bus stop right in front of my house is convenient.  Screw common sense and childhood obesity rates! 

I walked Elizabeth to the bus stop (ie., the sidewalk off our porch) happily for the first couple months.  Then the weather got cold.  And the baby started to walk and throw herself on the ground in massive temper tantrums.  And now standing on my sidewalk in the snow with a writhing toddler who wants to bite me is a giant pain.

So occasionally (ie., mornings I can't be bothered to put on a bra) I send Elizabeth out to GET ON THE BUS ALONE.

I make her stand on the porch so I can keep an eye on her--not because some weirdo is just lurking in the bushes waiting to snatch her--but because she can't be trusted not to load her book bag with "interesting nature rocks" from the landscaping.  (Seriously, kid? It's just lava rock.)  

Okay, she's really on the porch because the other kindergartener always has his Grandma with him, and letting Elizabeth stand on the sidewalk with them feels like I'm pawning my kid off on the woman.  "Oh, hey!  Since you're standing there anyway...watch my kid!"

But the bus stop is my house!!!  I don't want to stand on the sidewalk helicoptering over my more-than-capable-6-year-old and pat her rump gently as she climbs up the bus steps!  Especially when I can see the whole thing going down from the comfort of my living room window! 

I'm torn.  If Elizabeth were the only kid being picked up, she would be standing alone on our porch every morning while I watched from the window  She's on our property.  Free-Range Kids and all that.  But since Grandma is out there, I drag myself out all angry with a screaming toddler tucked under my arm.

So I ask you:  Should I continue to stand outside with Elizabeth, helicoptering her for that 3 minute wait before the bus pulls up?  Or should I do the Free-Range thing and let her walk out alone, Grandmother or not?

Liz Lemon, Marla Hooch and House Fraus. Yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this.

I've been working out every day for anywhere between 15-30 minutes.  As Liz Lemon would say, "I have been BMing like a pro!"  Seriously, my poop schedule has never been this regular.  

However, all this working out is translating into a big fat ZERO on the weight loss front.  Me and Weight Loss just aren't friends.  So I'm upping the ante by consuming as little as possible throughout the day and going to bed so hungry my chest aches.  Meh.  It worked in college.

Speaking of Liz Lemon...Elizabeth watched an episode of 30 Rock with me and then said, "Mommy!  You look just like Liz!"

We share the same glasses.  And stress eating.

I took it as a compliment because most days?  I think I look like Marla Hooch.

But, here I am, with my recently dyed-back-to-brown hair.

Taken in my work bathroom, because it is the only place in the world where no one will barge in on me, demanding "cheese cackies" and "ooce."

I'm pushing the weight loss because Kevin's 40th Birthday is this weekend and I'm throwing a big party for him.  (A real party!  At an adults only bar!  NO KIDS!!!)  I'm stupidly vain and want to look like his 10-years-younger-hot-wife and NOT the frumpy house frau in a Target sweater.

(see above pic)

I was going to wear this semi-skanky one shoulder top (Britney Spears circa 2001) but I put it on and horrified myself with my upper arm cellulite + an underarm boob roll.  I ripped the shirt off in the midst of a small panic attack.  I'm a 31 year old mother who hasn't really looked in a mirror in 3 years.  I should have known better than to try that thing on.

Now I'm rethinking that lion shoulder tattoo I've always wanted.  I can't pull that off.  Probably just as well, because I wanted it to be a dark brown medieval lion--brown like a big mole--and everyone I've shared this idea with thought it was disgusting.  I guess I'm the only one broad-minded enough to embrace moles.

I would have ROCKED that mole.