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. 

Katie's Mom

Lakeland takes a 45 minute gymnastics class every Wednesday.  The most entertaining part of this 45 minutes is watching the interactions between this one little girl named Katie, and her Mom.

Little Katie is a fairly normal kid, if not a bit overzealous.  Katie's Mom...she's just in a constant state of rigidity.  She's like a puma, ready to pounce on Katie for any deviance from the norm.  She has to be exhausted from holding that level of tension all day.  I bet she falls right into Katie's bed at night and drops immediately into a deep, deep sleep.

Today, I documented the relationship of Katie and Katie's Mom.  I pretended like I was playing Candy Crush like all the other moms, but really I was snapping the following photos (and yes, I know that I am a total wench for doing this, but it's SO FUNNY):

#1: Every class starts the same way.  Katie's Mom reminds Katie "Please be quiet, honey."

#2:  Katie's Mom shows Katie (dark hair, orange shirt) who she's supposed to be listening to.  
 











#3:  Katie's Mom then sits no more than 12 inches from Katie.

  




#4:  Katie's Mom sits with the class while the kids are getting instructions from the teacher.  Here, Katie's Mom exhibits what good behavior looks like.  If you're 3.

#5:  Katie's mom sits on the balance beam while the kids learn the mechanics of a cartwheel.  See Katie in the orange shirt?  Right next to her mom...  

(See Lakeland back there in the pink shirt?  She is jumping on a mini trampoline, not listening to the teacher, or sitting with her class plus Katie's Mom.  Too bad her mom is too busy taking pictures of Katie's Mom to discipline her.  Actually, Lakeland's mom figures she paid 80 bucks for this class...she's the teacher's problem for 45 minutes.)

#6:  Katie's Mom swoops and scoops.  Teacher tries to stop Katie's mom for ruining everything!

(See Lakeland back there in the pink shirt?  She is coming back to sit with the class because I gave her my patented "mom look".  From across the room.  No swooping, no scooping.)

#7:  Bye-bye Katie.  :(

#8:  She's baaaaaaccccckkkkkk.  See Katie's Mom sitting with the class?  In the white shirt in front of Lakeland?  (Not pictured:  Katie.  OH MY GOD, where is Katie?) 

Airport Assholes

Seth and I behave very differently at the airport.  Where I am calm, compliant and obedient, Seth is cantankerous, indignant and defiant. 

He starts bitching about having to take his shoes off for security before we've even parked the car.  And then promptly launches into a diatribe about how these"safety measures" are all bullshit, and nothing has really changed, etc, etc, etc.  I won't share with you all of his complaints and the reasons behind them because you aren't married to him and therefore shouldn't be subjected to his absurd ramblings. I mean, the man deliberately puts a gallon of water in his carry on, and then scoffs when he gets caught violating the four ounces of liquid rule.  He makes horrible faces, loud, annoyed sighs, and rolls his eyes within 20 feet of any security guard.  And then wonders why he gets patted down.

I've been around his asshole-ish-ness enough now that I simply head to the furthest line from him so I don't have to witness, and get mad about, his ridiculous airport attitude.  I will have gone through security with Lakeland, collected our belongings, put my shoes back on, made a bathroom stop and arrived at our departure gate before Seth has finished chugging his carry-on gallon of water and getting frisked.

When it's just Lakeland and I, traveling is easy.  She is great in the airport, and has traveled by air so often that it's kind of a norm for her.  We usually arrive early for our flight, and she holds my hand quietly while we wait in line for our boarding passes.  Once we've dropped our luggage, we zip through security (because I am not an asshole) and find a nice place to sit and relax until our plane takes off.  While I sip my coffee and she crushes pizza and ice cream, we people watch and I make fun of others (in my head, not in front of her...she doesn't need to know how mean I am). 

The best is when a frenzied mom, (look around next time you're at the airport and you'll find plenty of these women) is traveling with her children, and spends all of her pre-flight time screaming at them, yanking their arms right out of the sockets, telling them not to drink anything or they'll all have to pee in flight, trying to stop them from emptying their Spiderman and Dora backpacks all over the ground, and imploring them, loudly, to be quiet.  All the while these women are carrying 47 bags, plus jackets, shoes, stuffed animals, pillows and anything else the kids can jam under her armpits.  Oh, and she's carrying a baby and a 43 pound toddler.  She's dripping sweat and her hair is all kinds of jacked up.  And she's still got a good 6 hours of this before she arrives at her destination, whereupon, I'm pretty sure, she'll drop her kids off on some relative and check herself into a psychiatric facility.

And there I am, sitting smugly with my well behaved child, whose belongings are all neatly tucked into her carry on.

Until my last flight from Grand Rapids to Baltimore.  That was the flight where I turned into an airport asshole.  Lakeland, overtired from the trip to Michigan, was an absolute nightmare.  A complete basket-case.  She refused to hold my hand (until I yanked her arm), was full on running, smashing into people and yelling "PEOPLE MOVER MOMMY" at one of those flat escalator things, then tripping balls while mounting the moving walkway and giving me a heart attack while I stared helplessly from ten feet behind her, weighed down by luggage.

This is the bag, jammed full of all our stuff.

You see, I couldn't keep up with her because I had forgotten to pack all of our dirty laundry from the week into my checked suitcase and so, stupidly, shoved the dirty clothes, including super sweaty, stinky, heavy, wet workout stuff, into my carry-on.  Which wasn't a backpack or anything convenient like that, but one of those big ol' non-closeable bags with handles that makes your arm break off after carrying it for five minutes.

So there I was, screaming "Lakeland, get back hereyouarebeingawfulandyouareneverwatchingTVagain" and running behind her, all sideways style because my right half was loaded down by my stupid carry-on full of a pile of dirty laundry, plus coloring books, snacks, crayons, hardcover books, jackets, blankets and stuffed animals.  My hand was numb and my fingers that painful purpleish white from hanging onto this albatross.  Plus I was sweating like a hog, hair everywhere.

Once I finally caught up to her, I immediately laid into her about not listening and obeying, and she promptly sat. right. down. and. refused. to. move.  I briefly considered using a sharp crayon as a weapon, but I was too tired to dig through the laundry to find it.  So instead I started bartering with her.  Right there, in the middle of the concourse. 

You know those carts that bring the elderly or disabled to their gates?  The ones that beep, beep, beep through the airport and you are supposed to move over for them?  Yeah.  Lakeland gave all those carts the equivalent of her middle finger, and stayed planted where she was.  Those carts can whip around people if they have to, just FYI.

Anyway, when haggling went absolutely nowhere, and yelling even less effective, I pulled the tried and true move of abandonment.  I said "Fine.  I'm going.  You can stay there if you want." And I started walking away and she started screaming like she got hit by one of those beeping carts.  But she still wouldn't move, and I started noticing those looks that people give horrible parents like me.  I would have gone back for her, just to wipe off those judgy faces, but I seizing up from all the tension and the damn carry-on, so instead, I just sat. down. too.

We had a Mexican stand-off with each other while the beeping airport carts whirled around and between us, like we were the orange cones in a police obstacle course.

All of a sudden I heard on the intercom "Final boarding call for Grand Rapids.  The gate will be closed in 2 minutes."   I leapt up like a cheetah, grabbed my little wildebeest and ran to my gate while shitting my pants.  

We made it just in time, and I could not wait to get back to DC so I could pass Lakeland off to Seth and drink a box of wine, but when we landed, Seth had left me a message that he was stuck in traffic and still an hour away.  I found an empty steel bench, laid my head down on my dirty laundry bag, and closed my eyes while Lakeland opened both of our suitcases and dressed up the vending machines with the remainder of our clean clothes.

I love nitrous oxide

On a much lighter note, and speaking of the dentist, I love, love, love nitrous oxide.  Love.  It.  I have the best ideas when I'm strapped to a chair with metal tools buzzing in my mouth and one of these (see photo) crazy masks fastened to my face.

If I had an endless supply of nitrous at home, I'd have several best selling novels already, or at the very least, some good columns to submit to various newspapers and magazines, assuming that nitrous use doesn't kill any brain cells.

I always think I'm so sly when I'm hooked up to nitrous.  When the hygienist puts that pug nose on me and starts the flow of gas, I start sucking it up my nostrils like a greedy heroine addict.  Only I pretend, all nonchalant-like, that I'm barely breathing it in, even though I cannot feel my legs and there is a "whaaawhaaaaawhaaaa" sound rushing through my head.  When the hygeniest comes back and asks me if I'm starting to feel it, I try to focus enough to indicate that in fact, I cannot feel it, and with my thumb pointed skyward, gesture to turn the gas up even higher. Which she does.  Which results in me getting even higher.  YAY!

So the last time I managed to persuade the hygienist into upping my dose (she did, several times, though I'm pretty sure she was on to my wily ways), I was sucking on my mask so hard (I always think that the more deeply and frequently I can breathe the gas in, the better...so I'm basically slow motion nasal hyperventilating, if that's a thing), and was so blown out, that the rubber muzzle thing got suctioned to my nostrils and I couldn't breathe.  I started to panic, and I mean panic.  I was going to die with a pug mask gripping my nose!  And I almost did die, even though there was absolutely nothing blocking or suctioned to my mouth...I was fully capable of taking a breath at any time (again, see photo).  I was so high-balls that I literally forgot I had a mouth, which is really stupid since my mouth was the whole reason I was given the opportunity to get so stinking high.

Barely in time to prevent me from my early demise, the dentist came in, took one look at my bugged out eyeballs, and said "You don't have to suck in the gas so hard like that, you can just breathe normally".  And she said all this pretty calmly, as if I wasn't sitting there perishing.  

Suddenly, a loud gasping sound entered the room as my autonomous reflexes finally took over.  I'm pretty sure they turned the gas off after that, because I heard her say "Bring her down", kind of sternly to the hygienist, and that was that.   

Disclaimer #1:  Just in case you don't know me personally, I do not do drugs or promote drug use.   Except in the dentist office. 

Disclaimer #2:  One of my best ideas when super high at the dentist is writing about how similar dental procedures are to gynecological procedures.  I know I have a genius idea in my head regarding the subject, but as soon as the gas wears off, so does my brilliant theory.

The Dentist

About two weeks ago, I made Lakeland's first dentist appointment.  Because I'm insane, and also because I'm still fairly new around these parts, I did exhaustive research to find the best pediatric dentists in the area.  Yelp gave Alexandria Children's Dentistry 5 stars, and after googling the crap out of everything related to their business, I decided to give it a go.

I made an appointment and gave the receptionist my insurance information.  She said that she hadn't heard of Kaiser Permanente before, but she'd make a call and make sure that her office accepted the insurance.  She also said just to plan on bringing Lakeland in if I didn't hear anything back from her.

Seth and I spent the days leading up to her appointment talking to her about the dentist, showing her library books about the dentist, watching youtube video's of kids at the dentist, and queuing her older friends about their first trips to the dentist.  We were prepared.

We got up and got ready to go this morning, reminding LL that today was the big day!!  Time for the dentist.  Got my coffee and her water, left the fruit snacks in the snack drawer, and hauled everything out to the car.  And just as I snapped Lakeland's last buckle (yes, folks...I've learned my lesson), my phone rang.

It was the 5 star rated dentist's office.

Horrible Dentist Office:  Hi, Mrs. Weinburger, this is Alexandria Children's Dentistry...you have an appointment for Lakeland in about 20 minutes?

Me:  Yes.  Yes?

Horrible Dentist Office:  We just checked, and our office doesn't take your insurance, so unless you want to fork over $240 cash, we can't see her.  (I'm paraphrasing here.)

Me:  So, you are telling me that you just now called the insurance company, and after a week of prepping, I have to get my daughter, who thinks she is on her way to the equivalent of a party for her teeth, out of the car and tell her we aren't going??  

Horrible Dentist Office:  Yeah, sorry about that.

Me:  That's horrible.  She's 3, and she's ready to go to the dentist.  We are in the CAR, on the way, and you are JUST calling me right now??

What I'd have directed LL to do if we went to get a sticker.

Horrible Dentist Office:  Well, you can bring her in and we'll give her a sticker?

Me, after a very long pause, trying to figure out if she is putting me on, or if this pediatric office just doesn't have much experience with kids:  Um...no, I'm going to pass.

So then I took Lakeland to see a movie, where she crushed an entire box of Sour Patch Kids and half a bag of popcorn.  Pretty much the opposite of a visit to the dentist.

You got a warrant?

OK, I didn't leave my baby on roof of the car.  But when I told Seth what I did do, he said "Wow, honey.  You are like one of those ladies that leaves her baby on top of the car."  

While not fond of the comparison, he had a point.  Because here's what I did do.  I drove to the gym with my daughter securely inside the car.  And when we got to the gym and I parked the car, Lakeland leaned forward.  Waaaaayyyyy forward...and said "Mommy, why didn't you make me safe this time?"

I turned around to find my very perplexed toddler (actually, um...can I get arrested for this?  If you are a police officer, please stop reading this blog immediately) sitting, seat belt unengaged, in her car seat.  

If this has happened to you, and it probably hasn't because you are probably not the worst parent in the United States, you know that this is not the same feeling you might have when, say, you leave a cup of coffee on the hood.  Or you pull into the garage with your kayak on the roof of your car.  Again.  Or you leave yourself signed onto Facebook or Gmail at a public computer.  Or really, any other idiotic thing that you might do.  I mean to tell you, this was a gut check.  As in, my guts lurched forward and gave me a well deserved punch to my sternum.  This was basically all of my parental insecurities, from screwing up sleep and potty training to being pretty sure that my kid is going to turn into a monster, all rolled up into a nice, pretty, unbelted package.

Lakeland happily swung down from her chair, unattended to, and hopped into the front seat, sing-songing "Mommy, you didn't buckle me.  Mommy, you didn't buckle me."  Because when you're little, it's kind of cool.  When you're 35...not so much.  Not even Brittney Spears is cool enough to pull this off. 

Things that are important to know about this situation:
1.  We live 0.3 miles from the gym.  Here.  I googlemapped it for you.

Walking directions are in beta.

Use caution – This route may be missing sidewalks or pedestrian paths.    
***Or babies could be left on the roofs of cars!!***

Suggested routes

0.3 mi, 6 mins

Wyndham Cir

2.  I know what you're thinking.  (Besides the obvious...why do they let people like you have children, etc, etc, etc...)
 

You all:  Why didn't she just walk?  

Me:  Because.  And this isn't what you should be judging me for, people.

You all:  Really?  You can't walk less than half a mile to the gym??  (I can hear the sarcasm in your voices.)

Me:  It was raining!  

3.  I felt really, really awful.  Obviously.  No matter what sympathetic offerings other women provided.  When I got to the daycare at the gym, I felt I needed to offload some of the guilt by sharing this mortifying moment with LL's very sweet caregiver, who said "Don't worry, honey, everybody does that once or twice."  To which I replied, "Really?  Oh, thank GOD.  So you've done it, too?"  To which she replied, "No, not me!  No!  I've never done that!"  

3a.  When I told my mom, who, incidentally, DID leave her kayak on the roof of her car as she drove into the garage...again...she said "OH MY GOD, ERIN!!  THAT'S AWFUL!"  

There is nothing like the comforting words of your mom...

3b.  And speaking of my mom, when I was a kid, she drove around with my brothers unbelted, on the backseat, and I rode on the fricken floorboards.  Regardless of the weather or distance of travel.  When my oldest brother Josh was an infant, he rode bundled in blankets, in the front seat of the car.  And since breastfeeding wasn't encouraged then, my mom used to bottle fed us while she was driving.  (I don't know if that's really true or not.  Mom?  Want to weigh in?)

4.  I don't mean to make any of this sound like it was my mom's fault.  Obviously it wasn't.