The Queen Size Bed Fight

If there is one thing Seth and I agree on, it's that we failed at sleep training Lakeland when she was a baby, resulting in three-plus years of her sleeping either in our bed, or on the floor right next to me. Plus, as exhibited, the occasional odd spot...

On an etch-a-sketch...

Straight upright on a couch...

In a restaurant...

About six months ago, I got this idea that we should get a queen size bed for Lakeland's room.  Despite what Seth might say, I had good and valid reasons for wanting to purchase a giant bed for a three year old that never, ever slept in her room.

To wit:

• Perhaps a big, cozy bed would be the magic spell that coaxed her to sleep through the night and stay out of our room?
• If we got a bed with underneath storage, we would no longer have to trip over 47 thousand toys.  
• It might be nice to have a place for our guests to sleep.

In the midst of making Valentines...

In transit...

Anyway, I started subtly planting my agenda while secretly shopping Craigslist, and eventually brought it to Seth's attention that it was my intention to get a new bed in Lakeland's room

While coloring...

at some point.  I was guilt ridden that we were providing such lackluster accommodations for her.  And by "accommodations", what I mean is that we threw her infant mattress on the floor and called it good.

For my part, I thought the mattress on the floor was awful because: 
1.  It was too small for her.
2.  It was too sad...sleeping on a mattress on the floor (on a permanent basis) is like squatting in your own home.
3.  It looked shitty, aesthetically speaking.

Seth thought the mattress on the floor was great because:
1.  It could be moved around to provide "fun" locations to sleep.
2.  He used to sleep in weird places when he was a kid, so she might like to as well.
3.  After hearing my argument that the mattress was too small, he measured her, and then measured the square footage of her mattress, and then he measured himself and the square footage of half of our mattress, and concluded that she had more allotted sleeping area than he did, and therefore it was plenty of room.  (Which was smart of him to do by way of argument, but I still thought it was a bit dickish).

Look at this poor thing...

So then I started taking pictures of her sleeping next to her mattress after falling (albeit not far) off her bed and landing on her toys. See what I'm saying?  Not cozy.  Not comfy.  The poor thing has an octopus jabbing her in the back, and she's laying on a plastic sand bucket.

This is why, night after night, I'd make a cozy little nest for her  next to my side of the bed.  And at some point, upon waking in a pile of toys, Lakeland would stumble in with her blanket and lay down and go right to sleep. 

Then I found out that it bothered Seth that Lakeland was in our room.  Every night.  For over three years.  Like, really bothered him.  He said it was because she should be in her own room because she's not a baby, and because our room is for us, etc., etc., etc.  I'm pretty sure part of his angle was that, with Lakeland out of our room, there'd be a chance of morning sex.  Pfffffft... we're not dating anymore, honey.

In the end, we did what we always do, and made a deal/bet.  (Some married people call this "compromising" but we do better competing.)  Lakeland had to spend ten nights in her room, in a row, by herself, and she/I would earn a big girl bed.

Our bet did not include parameters on how I could go about executing this task.  So I went out and bought a king size bottle of Benedryl...ten days later, that bed was mine.  I mean hers.

Seth, I am quite sure, would have a different take on this scenario.  Well guess what?  This is my blog.  He can get his own forum.  

DO sweat the sad stuff.

About a year and a half ago, I had my first ever bout of depression.  Actual, real depression.  Though the symptoms were mild, to me it was frightening, embarrassing and, in my opinion, completely unwarranted.  What had I to be sad about?  My fantastic family?  Enough money to eat well and live in a place with two bathrooms? Recognizing what I was feeling proved difficult because not only was I new to being emotionally unfit, but I also felt my sadness was so very self-indulgent.  I know people who struggle with depression, and those people have actual problems and real reasons to feel what they are feeling.  I was merely having a lengthy pout. 

My depression presented as a wet, heavy cloak draped over my shoulders.  It slowed me down, dampened my joy and made me uncomfortable in my skin.  It wasn't debilitating, but the heaviness really limited my positive emotional experiences.  Stuff that would usually have made me laugh my face off only elicited a smile and maybe a chuckle.  I didn't have a good counter-balance anymore for dealing with unfavorable events either, so when something sad happened, my heart would plummet and grief would wash over me.  Mild irritation at people or situations turned to something short of rage, but definitely past bothersome.  With support from my husband, family and the few friends that I managed to talk to about how I was feeling, I went to a doctor and was diagnosed with mild, situational depression and was given a prescription for an antidepressant.

For me, taking a pill meant handing over control of myself and my feelings to a drug; putting my trust in a chemical.  A little white pill and a lot of cigarettes became my personal floatation device, and I got to thinking that that was pretty fucked up, given that I had perfectly capable arms and legs with which to paddle.  It just so happened that my limbs were rather weak at the moment.  Maybe they just required better training to carry me through this part of my life?  That's when I became very, very good friends with the gym.

Running, strength training and most importantly, group fitness classes have literally become my antidepressant.  I have sweat, run, boxed and weight-lifted my way away from pills and nicotine.  Only naturally produced "feel good" hormones stream through my veins.  Every trip to the gym floods my brain and my body with enough endorphins and oxytocin to regulate my mood.  I can actually feel it every time I walk through the doors. 

I have the unbelievable fortune of going to a gym staffed with world class and class act instructors.  Gone are the days of the bouncy 19-year-old aerobics instructors wearing leotards, leg warmers and full makeup.  The women that teach at my gym are athletes with the strength of lionesses and the hearts of humanitarians.  They are educated, driven and innovative.  They are so good at what they do that droves of people gladly get out of bed at 7am on a Saturday morning to be with them for 60 minutes.  They are so good that if you aren't 10 minutes early, you won't get a spot in their class.  They know that they can't make you challenge yourself, that they can't force you to push past your limits.  And they don't have to.  The good ones, the really good ones...they create a hunger that makes you want to put more weight on your bar.  They beget your trust and you learn you can hold your pose longer.  They build ambition so you have a need to keep pushing yourself.

There is one instructor in particular for whom I feel a tremendous amount of respect and gratitude.  She is my therapy.  She is my campaign manager against drugs.  I don't have a boss, or co-workers, so her voice is the one I hear most often besides my husband and daughter.  She recently said that 90% of the time, people don't hear what she says in her classes.  But we do...that's why we're there.  Her voice carries us through pain.  Through uncertainty.  Through fragility.  And we all come out on the other side of 60 minutes stronger in heart, mind and body.  60 minutes.  It's amazing that the actual chemical makeup of a person can be changed in 60 minutes but that's exactly what happens.  In my case, and I cannot be alone here, she has strengthened me in life changing ways.

I have several morals to this story.  One is, if you feel sad, try exercise.  Sweating is a most powerful elixir.  I know that it won't take the place of drugs if you need them, but it sure as hell won't hurt you.  Two, if you feel lonely, try to get in a room with a bunch of strangers.  You don't have to talk to anyone to get the positive effects of a group working toward a common goal.  I didn't open my mouth for months and months and still, during and after each class I felt less alone.  Three, if someone's work is exceptional and you have benefited enormously from the time and effort they've put in, you should thank them.  Thank you, Kate.  Your talent is unmatched, your beauty soul deep.

Romantic as a rock

Seth and I don't do romantic stuff, like exchange foot rubs and back massages.  We don't usually buy Christmas, birthday or Valentine's gifts for one another.  We rarely surprise each other with candy or flowers.  We are decidedly unromantic, at least conventionally.   

If we do buy candy, the purchase is a result of careful consideration and collaboration.  For instance, we thoughtfully discussed if we should buy the bucket of Jelly Belly's at Costco.  (No, we should not.  But let's.)

Flowers arrive rarely and randomly, and are from me, to me, though I have had Detroit Redwing players send me flowers upon the team's arrival to the playoffs, and I have had Detroit Tiger players deliver bouquets on opening day.  It's possible those were from Seth, but I like to pretend they were from Sean Casey and Tomas Holmstrom.

My idea of a romantic gesture is to make sure Seth always has apples and clean white t-shirts.  So not so much romantic, but more of a daily affirmation that I love him and think of him.

I thought really hard for several days, and I came up with "Seth's Top Five Most Romantic Gestures or Gifts Because Ten is Way Too Many".  And here they are:

5.  He bought me the perfect necklace for our wedding day, after I'd gone shopping and spent $7.00 on a fake that would most probably turn my neck green.  I was in tears when I opened the box.  It was an unbelievable gift, given in such a simple way.  I was putting sheets on the guest room bed, and he walked in and said "You deserve real pearls on your wedding day."  Well, I started sobbing, and I think it's safe to say that he was not expecting this very girly reaction from me, which must have made him quite uncomfortable, which made him resort to smirkily reciting the time-honored, and oh so classic "pearl necklace" words of wisecracks.  So it was more like half romantic, half 'I'm about to marry a 14 year old boy who makes crude jokes at inopportune moments.' I think it still counts.

4.  From April through October, when I drive to Michigan (or any trip that takes more than an hour), Seth makes me a list of all the good baseball games that'll be on XM radio, including the times and the stations. Not romantic for everyone, but makes me swoon.

3.  Once, when I returned from an out of town trip late in the fall, I arrived home to find that Seth had gotten all* of my Christmas** boxes*** out of storage**** for me. 
         * At least 15.
       ** He HATES Christmas.
     *** Boxes = 30 gallon totes.  Heavy, awkward totes.
  **** Lugged from 15 stories below our apartment.  In an elevator, but still.  Long hallways.

2.  He always, always says "Goodnight, babe.  I love you." before he goes to sleep.  Even if I'm already sleeping (or he thinks I'm sleeping, which is how I know about this).

1.  When I'm sick with a head cold, he makes me a special garbage bag for used tissues.  It's a paper grocery bag placed inside of a plastic grocery bag.  It's a very bizarre thing to do, but it's one of his ways of taking care of me, and it sure feels nice. 

I am glad today, and every day, that I married my best friend.  I'm glad that we care for each other in small ways daily, instead of in big ways quarterly.  I'm glad that we both love baseball.  And camping.  And cards.  Or we'd both be married to other people.