Ahhh summer. Summertime is the time for road trips, vacations, and weekends away. It also means spending a lot of time in close quarters with other people, be it in a car or in an airplane or a too-small hotel room. Sometimes you all get along great and everything goes smoothly. However, sometimes you are car sick in the back seat and need to pull the hell over to pee and get a giant fountain Diet Coke. Not that I know from experience or anything. This summer though, I am fortunate to be a part of a different type of road trip without any of the stress, nausea, and packing. My girl Kathleen over at Middletini included me in her blog field trip tour last week and now it is my turn to answer some questions and send y’all to some other wonderful blogs. But before we move on, let me drop a few lines here about Kathleen.

Kathleen is a lawyer with a dirty mind who uses inappropriate humor as a defense mechanism. She’s also a single mom of two children, Tweak (10) and Tink (8). She began writing Middletini to process her feelings about heading into her 40s, nearly losing her damn mind because her life had not turned out as planned, and getting her groove back with a little help from her friends and the occasional adult beverage. Each post opens with a suggested cocktail, because she’s less offensive when you’ve been drinking. Kathleen likes to write about the things people think to themselves but have the common sense not to say out loud. Not content to overshare on the Internet, she is writing a novel in her abundant spare time. Be sure to check out these posts: There’s a Place in Hell for Me and My Friends and The Mother F$cking Tooth Fairy.

In order to prevent awkward silences in the car, I will give y’all some Q&A all about me

What am I working on?

My sanity? No that’s not it. I am working on trying keep both the two-legged and the four-legged occupants of my household alive this summer. I am also working on writing submissions for some anthologies that are coming up in the near future. I keep finding things to write about but cannot seem to find the necessary “free time” in which to actually write. Between BG turning two and Stabler working the night shift, I am basically running in circles constantly. My goal is to begin to set aside some legit writing time every day so I can give all the thoughts in my head a home. I’ll let y’all know how that works out

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m not quite sure of what my genre is, to be honest. But I think my work can be seen as different from others in that I change from funny and self-deprecating, to sentimental, to factual from post to post. My writing is very much like having a conversation with me. And anyone who has ever spoken to me knows that I am loud, I talk fast when I get excited about something and I aim to make those around me laugh or feel better about their situation.

Who do I write/create what I do?

I write because I enjoy it. After sharing stories of my life with others, people kept telling me I needed to write about it and share it with ten readers the world. I really enjoyed the writing aspect of my former legal career and I began to miss the satisfaction of working on something to create an end product.  I think I offer a different perspective on even the most mundane of life experiences. I also became very passionate about promoting awareness and education about narcolepsy after my diagnosis.

How does my writing process work?

I carry a steno pad around pretty much everywhere. I scribble ideas down either in the pad or in my phone to then write about later. When I finally have some free time, I usually take my steno pad, laptop, and iPod out on my back patio. I then pour some wine or open a beer and try to get the creative juices flowing. I take frequent patio dance breaks when I hear a song that makes me want to dance. Every so often, I will try to write while BG is otherwise occupied, but as soon as Dora starts screaming singing “We did it!” then I know my time is over and its time to wrap it the hell up.

Now everyone hop in the car, buckle up, and keep your hands to yourselves, because its Road Trip time! Are we there yet?!

https://remindmagazine.wordpress.com/tag/vacation-car/

Yes! Let me introduce y’all to three wonderful bloggers!

First up is my blog mom Pattie. I named Pattie my blog mom after messaging on Facebook and meeting her in person at the BlogU conference earlier this month. Pattie is a laugh riot who occasionally turns blue in the face when you make her laugh really hard. Pattie is the owner of Bitter Ex-Nuke Wife and while she is bitter (about her husband’s Navy career among other things) she is not an ex-wife.  She draws from her husband’s career riding submarines for inspiration for her blog and when there isn’t enough bitterness from her memories then she draws from current events. Her husband’s career was during the Big Hair and Shoulder Pads era of the 80’s and 90’s which meant that all the deployments were in the name of winning the Cold War. Her blog is still rather young, just 5 months old, but she is hopeful that her (paying) job will stop interfering with her time so she can write more often.  Two of her posts that help explain the name of her blog are Riding a Storm Out and The Four Kinds of Submarine Deployments.

Next on our Summer Road Trip is Lauren, who is a former publishing rep-turned-toddler-wrangler. When she’s not playing Susie Homemaker (and failing miserably), you can find Lauren blogging about all things natural parenting/living at lo-wren.com, sewing or knitting woolen goodies, or scheming for companies as a freelance copywriter, blogger & marketing consultant. Be sure to check out these favorite posts from Lauren Why Mommy Juice Scares the Hell Out of Me and 10 Signs You’re Ready to Stop Breastfeeding.

Our final stop is with Erin of WoofTweetWahh. With a toddler, rescue dog, and high maintenance bird, her life has quickly turned into a three-ring circus. When she’s not managing the circus, she’s working at her job in higher education.  Erin used to work around the clock in the fast-paced NYC corporate world, dining on sushi every night and functioning on iced coffee and diet coke.   After a few years (and enough mercury in her system from the sushi), I saw the light at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel and traded in the golden handcuffs for my life back.  Now Erin is a suburban NJ mom, who worries about school quality, the best deal for used toys, and dreams of getting a bigger, less fuel-efficient car.   Don’t you worry – she still makes happy hour.  It is now at 8:30 for the 2 minutes before she realizes the dishes need to be washed and emails need attention.  When Erin is not working in the office or managing the circus (or running from it), she’s busy writing and editing one of her two picture book series.  Be sure to check out these posts Bathroom Intelligence Failure  and Character Assassination Carousel: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.

I hope y’all enjoy this Summer Road Trip Blog Tour! Go check out what these ladies are all about and tell them that the Mafia sent ya It’s time for me to make a pit stop for some Diet Coke

I have narcolepsy. Most people I talk to have little to no idea what the hell that even is, so I will give you a rundown. Disclaimer- I am not a medical professional so please excuse my simplified description. Narcolepsy is a sleep/neurologic disorder that affects every single second of my life. It causes me to have unrestful sleep and excessive daytime sleepiness (EDS). Here is a more technical definition for you from the experts: Narcolepsy is a chronic brain disorder that involves poor control of sleep-wake cycles. People with narcolepsy experience periods of extreme daytime sleepiness and sudden, irresistible bouts of sleep that can strike at any time.  These “sleep attacks” usually last a few seconds to several minutes. Narcolepsy Fact Sheet

And

Narcolepsy is a medical disorder that impacts 1 in approximately 2,000 people in the United States and many people are unaware of the condition and go undiagnosed. The disease is a sleep disorder, involving irregular patterns in Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep and significant disruptions of the normal sleep/wake cycle. While the cause of narcolepsy is not completely understood, current research points to a combination of genetic and environmental factors that influence the immune system. Narcolepsy Network

I was diagnosed in 2009 while studying for the bar exam. Convenient, right? I had been re-diagnosed with mono the year prior, after having it the first time in high school. I could not seem to shake the unrelenting sleepiness I felt every day, regardless of how much sleep I got the night before. After countless unproductive visits to my primary doctor, he finally referred me to a sleep neurologist. The sleep neurologist diagnosed me with narcolepsy based on my symptoms and based on my score on the Epworth Sleepiness Scale.

A sleep study was then scheduled to confirm the diagnosis. The sleep study consisted of me going to this random suite in a strip mall at 9:00 P.M. one night where I was hooked up with wires, sensors, and a bunch of other medical crap I can’t even explain. I then was shown to my room, which had the most comfortable bed of all time. My job: go the hell to sleep. I finally fell asleep and was awoken in the morning by some strange woman in scrubs asking me what I wanted for breakfast. She told me they’d go pick me up whatever I wanted so I placed my order for McDonald’s hash browns and a large Diet Coke and thought, “Hey this isn’t so terrible!” She then told me I could do whatever I wanted but that I could NOT fall asleep under any circumstances. Well then. This part of the sleep study is narcolepsy-specific and is called the Multiple Sleep Latency Test (MSLT). I had to stay awake until they gave me permission to go to sleep. Every two hours, I was permitted a 15 minute nap. So what do you think happens when you’re narcoleptic, sitting on a bed, and told that you CANNOT fall asleep? You fall  asleep. Repeatedly. After being brusquely awoken several times, I decided to take it outside. It being me, all wired up with goop in my hair holding the electrodes and whatnot to my scalp, looking like an asshole. I went outside to call my mom and chain smoke basically. What else was I going to do? I walked out to scare the shit out of all the people arriving to work in the adjoining suites. Good morning y’all!! When I was finally allowed to go to sleep, I fell asleep in minutes and entered REM sleep in seconds. Diagnosis confirmed.

In case you were wondering what the deal is with the REM sleep: For most adults, a normal night’s sleep lasts about 8 hours and is composed of four to six separate sleep cycles.  A sleep cycle is defined by a segment of non-rapid eye movement (NREM) sleep followed by a period of rapid eye movement (REM) sleep.  The NREM segment can be further divided into increasingly deeper stages of sleep according to the size and frequency of brain waves.  REM sleep is accompanied by bursts of rapid eye movement along with sharply heightened brain activity and temporary paralysis of the muscles that control posture and body movement.  When subjects are awakened, they report that they were “having a dream” more often if they had been in REM sleep than if they had been in NREM sleep.  Transitions from NREM to REM sleep are coolled by interactions among groups of neurons (nerve cells) located in different parts of the brain. For normal sleepers a typical sleep cycle is about 100 to 110 minutes long, beginning with NREM sleep and transitioning to REM sleep after 80 to 100 minutes.  People with narcolepsy frequently enter REM sleep within a few minutes of falling asleep. Narcolepsy Fact Sheet

I’d like to say this was a moment of shock, but I cannot. I had been using my super-ninja research skills long before my diagnosis was made or confirmed and had determined that I either had narcolepsy or some other immune-deficiency disease that caused chronic fatigue. I never returned back to my primary doctor who kept pushing vitamins and better sleeping habits on me. But my research showing that narcolepsy was genetic and was triggered by an infection or other autoimmune event started to make sense to me. I had been diagnosed with mono twice within six years. I was a perfectly normal, healthy child before I ever had mono. After my diagnosis was confirmed, nothing really changed. The fun thing about narcolepsy is that there is no “cure” or real “treatment.” The only option for me was prescription stimulants to fake my body and brain into feeling awake and alert.

Every person with narcolepsy (PWN) is different and experiences different symptoms. One of the major identifying symptoms of narcolepsy is cataplexy which includes: events during which a person has no reflex or voluntary muscle control. For example knees buckle and even give way when experiencing a strong emotion – laughter, joy, surprise, anger – or head drops or jaw goes slack from the same kind of stimuli. Narcolepsy Network At this point, I wasn’t really sure if I had cataplexy. After consulting Dr. Google, I came across forums where people were describing things that I had experienced for years and thought were normal. I won’t pass out mid-conversation or while driving my car. However, when faced with stress and anxiety (my main trigger), my legs go weak and tingly and my knees feel like buckling from underneath me. The same is true for when I get scared (BOO!) or laugh really hard (all the time). I am also overcome with an overwhelming sleepy feeling when I get overly stressed or excited.

A couple of years after my diagnosis, I was working at this law firm, which to me at that time, was big. I was also in the midst of planning our wedding. So basically I had stress coming at me from all directions. While walking down the office hallway one particularly stressful day, I just collapsed to the floor. Like just flat out fell on my ass. Now my cataplexy was in full effect and I had had my first legit fall. Everyone there either thought I was insane or drunk. Shit, I felt like I was insane and wished I were drunk. I fell several more times throughout the course of my employment there and although I tried to be open about my disorder to my coworkers and bosses, they didn’t get it nor did they seem like they wanted to. On a lighter note, I am super fun to take to a haunted house. Man with a chainsaw jumps out from a dark corner? I fall! I was laughing and screaming the whole time and Stabler knew what to expect so we had death grips on each other. Fun times.

Now that BG is a toddler, things are easier, but far from easy. Even with the medication, I have good days, OK days, and goddamn awful days. This topic may not interest everyone, or anyone for that matter. However, I felt it was necessary for me to explain this part of me and why I’ll never be the type of blogger/writer that can post new shit everyday or keep up with 500 forms of social media. If just one person reads this and walks away with some extra understanding and compassion for those of us with narcolepsy, I’ll call it a success. Please feel free to ask me any questions you may have, I am very open! You can either leave it in the comments or shoot me an email at yogapantsmafia@gmail.com.

Side Note: There is much, much more to my story and struggle with narcolepsy. I intend on addressing those issues & experiences in subsequent posts, so stay tuned.

Little Bunny Foo Foo needs a cocktail.

Sometimes, you just have to riot.

Happy 30th to me!

So my 30th birthday has come and gone. It seems like everyone wants to slam the 20s as a bullshit decade. Maybe for some it was/is. However, I’ve spent the last weeks of my 20s reflecting on what my 20s did for me, good and bad. While I wouldn’t trade places with 20 year old Sarah now to save my life, I don’t think that the lessons I learned, in what seems to be the most spit upon decade ever, were truly all that bad. So in my true OCD fashion, I compiled a list of things I learned or realized in my 20s. Not too shabby of a decade, in my opinion. So here’s what I learned:

• I learned how to live alone.
• I learned how to truly be alone.
• I learned how to appreciate my parents for who they are now and who they were while raising me and how they are separate entities from me.
• I learned how to become my biggest advocate- with all things academic, social, medical.
• I learned the therapeutic properties of cheap wine, a good cry and a long phone conversation.
• I learned that “No.” is a full sentence and an appropriate answer that does not need an explanation or an apology.
• I learned how to assert myself & my needs and not feel like an asshole.
• I learned how I need/expect to be treated by family, friends, significant others, coworkers. etc.
• I learned that the size of my hips or boobs do not define me.
• I learned that some trends are better left unfollowed.
• I learned that I am not going to miss some world-changing event by staying home on the weekend.
• I learned that honesty is truly the best policy.
• I learned that life is tough and love hurts and I learned how to move past the hurt and find the good.
• I learned that a job title does not define me or hold me down.
• I learned that no one else is going to figure it out for me; to take a leap of faith, a jump into the unfamiliar, the unknown.
• I learned that my 20s were my battle phase and now I’d like to think I’m moving into maintenance mode.
• I learned not to judge based on how things appear- friends, jobs, dogs…
• I learned how to value a Friday night alone, rocking out and dancing by myself or reading a book.
• I learned that babies are not “just like dogs.”
• I learned that yoga pants are acceptable everywhere but in court.
• I learned that I hate yoga no matter how many times you tell me to “just try.”
• I learned that I can still be an amazing mom even though I was never (and I’m still not) a “baby person.”
• I learned that a marriage is more than a wedding, and a wedding is more about other people.
• I learned that my marriage is a team and everyone involved best be on the right team.
• I learned that I can (somehow) manage to function on 20 minutes of sleep.
• I learned to use my words and that words can either make someone’s day or tear their world apart.
• I learned that social media is a savvy name for personal P.R.
• I learned that the Stones were right; That sometimes you get what you need, not what you want.
• I learned to pick my battles and fight them both wisely and passionately.
• I learned how to say “I’m sorry.” and how to admit I was wrong. Neither is a sign of weakness.
• I learned to trust my gut. Always.
• I learned that I am way more capable and handy than I ever would have given myself credit for.
• I learned that even the finest laid plans deviate from their paths and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
• I’ve graduated and earned two degrees, neither make me more educated than those around me.
• I have rescued 4 rowdy ass dogs (and rescued 2 more that I found other homes for) and still feel guilty when I see the Sarah McLaughlin ASPCA commercial.
• I have experienced the joy and horror of my first pregnancy.
• I gave birth to a beautiful daughter that I would rather die than live without.
• I learned how to put others’ needs before my own as a standard of living.
• I learned that I have a chronic neurological disorder that will be with me every step of my life.

I also learned that every step of the way, I will have my person, my people. My husband, my daughter, my mom & dad, my friends that are the sisters I never had. So looking back on it all, through the tears, heartache, body aches and hangovers, I cannot say that my 20s were awful. This decade just barely passed has introduced me to the people I love the most and the person I’m most proud of, myself. Cheers, Sarah. We made it girl.

We got engaged!

Bachelorette party

We got married!

We started a family.

My everything.

Loves of my life.

Those days in which there doesn’t quite seem like there’s enough seconds, minutes, hours, breaths to accomplish everything that my arbitrary yet ever-present to-do list says I should do. I woke up with my heart heavy with a case of the shoulds, my head already aching with the have-to’s before my feet even hit the floor. Once my feet touched down, the frantic frenzy began. Everything had to be done five minutes ago and nothing was going according to my mind’s plan. Rather than taking a breath and calming the hell down, I kept up my frenzy, finding myself walking in hurried circles amongst dog bowls and tea sets. I couldn’t stop myself even though I knew all too well how days like this end- in a heaping, anxious, tired yet spastic clump of a woman. Me.

I do not feel better or more accomplished as the day draws to a close. Instead, I am choked up with guilt. That mom guilt that always resides somewhere in the pit of my stomach and rises up to take residence in my heart and I feel it physically manifest in my throat. Not even a huge gulp of my Rite Aid 2 for $10 wine can dislodge this lump of sadness, guilt, and regret from its new home.

I sit here and tell myself that tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. Different. Is it still considered a lie if you’re telling the fallacy to yourself? I sit and think how tomorrow I will cherish the little things and not feel so hurried. That tomorrow I will say “Screw you to-do list! We’re winging it!” But I know that’s not true. And with me, it’s nearly impossible. It’s these moments that make me sit and reflect on the “bigger picture” and I have montages in my head of Nugget going to school, to prom, to college… And then I get pissed. At myself. At the way I am because I’m blowing it. Why couldn’t I just watch her play and set up a tea party with cupcakes for the Muttleys? Why didn’t I let her splash around a little longer in the tub? Why was I always in such a goddamned hurry?!

As it usually does, it all catches up to me as we approach “ni-ni” time. My voice catches as I tell her she makes me happy when skies are gray. Because she does. And she’ll likely never know how much I love her, but I want to live each day at least trying to show her an inkling of how much.

I’m making a promise. To her. To myself. To slow the ever loving hell down. I am not going to say “cherish every moment” because tantrums happen and I need not cherish those. But I want to be more present. Rather than rushing through my 500 lists of the have-to’s and the shoulds, I want to be able to shut that part of my brain on mute so I can truly be with her. I want to see things the way she sees them. I want to stop watching the clock whose second hands are deafening in my ears. I want to be in THAT MOMENT rather than my head being 30 moments in the future.

This will not be an easy task for me. I know that much is true. For a person like me, who is so Type-A, OCD & anxiety ridden/driven, it will take a physical and mental effort to stop the rush. But I’m here now saying I’m willing to try. Nugget may not hold these moments as memories s she gets older, but what happens when she does? I don’t want her to remember being rushed everywhere and through everything. I don’t want her to remember me as that. I want her to remember how I made up silly songs with her, our countless tea parties, dance parties, and bedtime snuggles. I have no control over what memories she will carry with her into adolescence and adulthood. But I can control my actions and thoughts starting now. I know I will mess up because I am human. I know, as any mother does, that the ugly-cry inducing mom guilt will always be in me, looking for an opportune moment to make its presence known. But for now, I choose to acknowledge my faults and to try as hard as I can to improve on them. This one’s for you Baby Girl. You are my sunshine.

Stopping to enjoy the sunshine

You are my sunshine

photo credit: chrisphoto via photopin cc

There are many things I enjoy doing with Stabler. Organized exercise is not one of them. Years ago, when we were baby-free and apparently common sense-free, Stabler said he wanted to try hot yoga. After I cleaned up the Diet Coke I had spit everywhere, I let him plead his case a bit more. He told me of all the supposed benefits of hot yoga and how he realllllly wanted me to go with him. The thing he didn’t realize was that I had already “tried” hot yoga. And by tried I mean I paid $20 to sit in a humid inferno of a room that was a fucking bazillion degrees and crowded with women with perfect little hot yoga bodies while I sat in the fetal position trying to just breathe. So needless to say, I was not very enthusiastic to “try” hot yoga again.

The day came for us to embark on our couples’ journey into hot yogi bliss. From the memories I hadn’t blocked out due to PTSD, I remembered the feeling of being so damn hot that I could feel my eggs cooking inside my ovaries. I prepared a couple of bottles of frozen water for myself and suggested Stabler do the same. He scoffed at my frozen water bottles and instead opted for a normal sized bottle of water. He also started putting on more clothing than I thought was humanly possible.

“You’re going to overheat and die in all that shit.” I was half correct.

We arrive at the yoga studio or whatever fancy name they call it. We pay our fees, sign our waivers and walk into the oven, I mean the hot yoga room. “This isn’t so bad, Sarah,” Stabler tells me, a hint of superiority in his voice. I just gave him a look because I was saving oxygen and brain power for the remaining 89 minutes of torture. People started filing into the room and just when I thought there could not be any less oxygen in the room, three more people scurried in as the instructor began talking. This is almost when I began to blackout. The remainder of the class went a little something like this:

Two minutes in, I look over at Stabler and he has already removed 2 pieces out of the 20 articles of clothing he had on.

A minute later, he chugs the contents of his one non-frozen water bottle, which is now literally boiling. He looks pissed. I am pissed because I cannot breathe and the breaths I am able to manage are ruined because someone, or maybe everyone, smells like feet. Like diseased, sweaty, yeasty feet. I may vomit if I had more energy.

The instructor is telling us to do some move or pose or whatthefuckever and it doesn’t even matter because I have just assumed the “downward facing I’m so out of shape” pose and I cannot move. When did breathing become such work? I look over at Stabler and I think “Aww look at him all trying and shit. I know he’s dying because I am dying and we are both heading towards the light.”

What feels like an hour later but in reality was like ten minutes into the class, I see Stabler eyeing my three (semi) frozen water bottles. He sees me seeing him and makes the move for the bottles. I am too weak to protest and he opens the bottles and dumps the contents all over himself like some sort of weird, sweaty, smelly Flashdance. If I weren’t about to pass out, I would be laughing at him and telling him how ridiculous he looks. He then loses all remaining articles of clothing except for his shorts.

I am now certain that a smell can kill you and am no longer worried about the lack of oxygen to my lungs and brain. Who the actual fuck smells like that?! I try giving the stink eye to all fellow classmates but I only succeed in looking constipated and creepy. Seriously that smell needs to be turned off. I try breathing through my mouth and that is when I am certain death is near because I can now taste the awful smell.

I am trying to think of a way to get the hell out when one guy tries to make his escape. He is shamed horribly by the instructor who tells him “Just sit there and breathe. You can at least do that. I mean you can leave if you can’t breathe but you can breathe so no, you cannot leave.” Or something to that effect.

Well shit. So I’m laying there on my back, sprawled out like a body chalk outline of failure, and I look over and meet Stabler’s eyes as he too lies in this advanced yoga pose. I mouth to him “I fucking hate you.” He mouths “I know. I hate me too.”

We survived the class to the very end, huffing and puffing the nasty feet/crotch smell combo for a whole 90 minutes. I’ve been thinking about this smell for so long that as soon as we get into the car I tell him my new word is “frotch.” He tells me to stop trying to make “frotch” happen. I tell him to go to hell.

photo credit: chrisphoto via photopin cc

Nugget doesn’t judge.

As I sat in Nugget’s class and watched her interact with the other toddlers, I realized how truly innocent children are. They don’t hold a grudge over the person who took their ball the week prior. They don’t judge who is wearing what brand and who has a shitty haircut. They just are. I wish, as an adult, to just be able to be in that blatantly innocent way that only children can be. No baggage. No judgment. No hidden meanings. Children say what they feel when they feel it. And in reality, is there something so wrong with that? Why is that a behavior we must “grow out of?” People go to therapy to learn how to effectively tell people what they mean, so why are children raised to repress that innocent, glorious part of themselves?

As adults, we learn who we can and cannot open ourselves up to. More times than not, we learn the hard way. Through betrayal. Through secrets being shared at lunch time as we’re approaching the lunch table while our “friends” glance at us sideways. Through coworkers taking credit for our work or not inviting us to lunch anymore. Or a friend who decides that your brand of friendship isn’t what they signed up for. Shit’s rough.

I used to scoff when people told me that as I grew older, my husband would become my best friend and that if I could count the amount of truly close friends I had on one hand, to consider myself lucky. Well send me a slice of that humble pie because here I am. And I honestly consider myself the luckiest person in this world. I have my husband, mom, dad, and a best friend that everyone needs in their repertoire to call and talk to at any given moment and be completely Sarah. I can be honest, blunt, sad, mad, hurt, whatever the range of emotions. I have these people who accept me for who I am, listen to me, and are there for me. No conditions. This is where unconditional love comes from.

I was raised in a family where we didn’t shy away from telling each other what was going on or how we felt. From the outside, we may come across as dysfunctional because we are honest with one another. There’s no need for bullshit niceties when you’re talking to people who know your soul, inside and out. Honesty is expected and appreciated. Maybe that’s just the effect of being an “only” child. My parents and I have always been honest with one another, even when it isn’t so pleasant. But I can sit here today and say that my parents are my best friends and biggest supporters here on this earth. So take that as you will.

I don’t believe in bullshit… In politically correct ways of beating around the bush to say what you really mean to say. I believe that the people who end up forming your rock, your foundation, are those that no disclaimers are necessary. You can just be you, and they can be themselves to you and things still work. So why the need for the bullshit? The niceties? Why not just come out and say what you mean to say?

As much as I’d like to be in Nugget’s position of pure innocence and no baggage but a sippy cup and her purse, that’s just not real. As we get older we accumulate more and more baggage. And with the baggage comes baggage fees. We walk into every relationship with some form of baggage. As the relationship grows, we decide how much of our baggage to reveal or to hide away in the darkest corner or our souls. Sometimes we reveal too much too quickly and the person bolts. So be it. I’m at the point in my life that if you can’t handle my baggage, then you just can’t handle me. I own my baggage; the good, the bad, the ugly second hand garage sale shit baggage. All of it. I own it.

My baggage makes me who I am here today. Not yesterday. Not last year. Right now. If someone can’t handle that, they can exit to the right once the vehicle slows and the doors open. But the people who can handle me, with no apologies necessary for who I am, those are my people. They always have been, they always will be. This is why I consider myself lucky to have these handful of people behind me no matter what. Life isn’t always pretty and sing-a-longs and roasting marshmallows sharing kumbaya type shit. But my people… my people make my life what it is and I wouldn’t change a thing.

You want time for yourself? I will cut you.

Time. As a mom, it is always time for something. It began when I found out I was pregnant- it was time for my doctor appointment, time to find out the sex, time for my baby shower, and good Lord don’t forget the time for labor. Then with this fresh baby in my arms at home, it was time to nurse, time to burp, time to pump, time for her diaper change. Time.

As my time became more and more accounted for, I noticed that my self was less and less a priority. At the risk of sounding selfish, there was never a moment where my time came into play. Once we were out of the confines of the hospital room and on-call help, my time ceased to exist. There was no recovery time. Now I was officially Mom and I guess it was time for me to suck it up and join the ranks of all those who proceeded me.

As Nugget moved into toddlerhood, it became more and more apparent that my time just wasn’t a thing anymore. My time is now considered to be running countless errands, playing with the Nugget and managing a house full of unruly dogs. This left me wondering, when is it my time to clock out for my break? When I worked in a union I was guaranteed two 15-minute breaks and a 30-minute lunch. Now, I am lucky if I get to brush my teeth and choke down a yogurt, standing up hiding in the kitchen.

What about naptime you say? That’s when everything else gets done, and when your title is Mom, you begin to fall lower and lower on the “to-do” list. Why does it seem I am ungrateful for my position if I say I need some me time. And to be clear, I’m not talking about the unrealistic yet oft written about Eat Pray Love shit. My time would be called Shit, Shower, Smoke- how profound, I know. Screw the massage. After being pulled at and prodded all day by a curiously sweet toddler, I don’t want to pay some stranger to touch me. Give me a beer, a cig, and a jukebox and I’d be happier than shit.

Why is it that those who work outside of the home can bitch about their jobs all they want and that’s deemed normal and healthy, but a stay at home mom does the same and we seem like ungrateful assholes because “every moment is precious?” And in sets the ever-present mom guilt ready to take over your brain like some sort of illness where we feel guilty for how much we enjoyed going to Target alone or for having a mom’s night that starts at 6:00pm. How much self is there to give away? How much is healthy? When I worked, my job and my time was appreciated and respected. Now it has fallen into some dark crevice of my closet where my skinny jeans have taken up residence, neither of which are likely to be seen again.

Another question I find myself asking lately is why does the “mismanagement” of time seem to be my fault to others? When I was Professional Sarah, I spent countless hours after my big girl job at happy hours, drowning my woes into my glass and into any ears that were available to hear my cries. That was considered socially acceptable. My time now seems to be everyone’s business. God forbid I mention I am a mom, much less one that stays home, to someone when I happen to be out enjoying a drink. I immediately get the judgmental look along with comments implying that my place is at home and not enjoying my “me time.”

To be clear, I do not hate my job. However, at most jobs, you get to clock out when the whistle blows and you become You again, the You that you may have suppressed while being “professional” You. The job title of Mom never ceases. I do not miss much from my previous career life, except for the part where venting about a shit day seemed more worthy and socially acceptable.

Coming from a career where I had to bill out in six minute increments exactly what I was doing with my time, the importance and severity of time was constantly thrown in my face. Thank God Nugget doesn’t do that to me, but still, where is the release? Where is the right to say, “today sucked” without having to apologize for our honesty and to make sure the listener knows just how much we do love our child?

It seems as though because I “stay at home” people respect my time less and less due to their June Cleaver mentality that I don’t do much during the day but have time to myself and just dick around the house watching my stories. One of these days I will put “Me” on my to-do list that is never quite done.

Someone once told me that you teach people how to treat you. I wonder if I began to respect my own time and began making myself a priority, that others would follow suit? Something tells me that I’d just get lost amongst my list along with the photo books I’ve been meaning to make since July and the baby book still in the wrapper. Sometimes the most basic of tasks are the most difficult to complete for reasons I have yet to figure out.

Until then, I will be snuggling with this sweet girl before she won’t let me.

Can’t resist that smile in some snuggly jams