Separation Anxiety

I just saw the movie I Don’t Know How She Does It with SJP. It was ok. Though something she said really resonated with me: “they say kids can get over their separation anxiety by age 2. They don’t say anything about the mothers”. Boy is that true!
One of my biggest worries about my surgery is leaving the girls for a few days. It’s a little ridiculous since they are very happy to play with their grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles. And my husband will be available for them; they love Daddy time!
I have to remember to keep my issues as my issues and not project onto them. I don’t want them to feel like I did when I went to camp or college. That homesick feeling I still get if it’s triggered; almost like an old, but oddly familiar scent. I want them to spread their wings when they are ready. Now I’ve just got to work on not helicopter parenting so they can actually fly.

Listening Ears

We have a major problem with listening around here. I probably repeat the same thing over and over a hundred times a day. I’m surprised my little big girl doesn’t think her name is, “1,2,3”. Those magic numbers are her cue to pay attention. I wish I had an equivalent for her clone, my husband. Their ability to tune me out is uncannily similar.
I can’t ignore my own prowess when it comes to selective hearing. When he starts talking about anything to do with finance, politics or baseball, I get that deer in the headlights expression. It’s no coincidence that my nieces’ nickname for me is LaLa. My parents said I was in LaLa Land for most of my childhood. I heard a lot of “what color is the sky on your planet?” or “hey space cadet, back to Earth” from my siblings.
So while I get frustrated at my offspring for a genetic trait that I blame on my husband, maybe I have to reexamine my own dysfunction. During my appointments with doctors throughout this Boobacious Journey I have made a concerted effort to write everything down. I have absolutely no recall for aural learning. I am visual and have a photographic memory. If I hear it, it’s bound to be back in the ether of my home planet (the sky alternates between pink and orange like sunset and turquoise, depending on my mood). But if I write something down, it will be stored for a long time. Good thing I recorded my schedule for ovarian health, I’m due for my biannual ultrasound. Joy.

Medieval Torture

Being a woman isn’t easy, but I do think we are the superior sex (sorry boys, but you’d have to agree). We have many advantages that men are lacking. Our ability to express a range of emotions is outstanding. We can go from calm to crazy in the blink of an eye while still feeling sad, happy, fierce and powerful at exactly the same moment. Men are generally more compartmentalized. However, we can also think with only our brain, if necessary. Men think on behalf of something else entirely. But our greatest gift is our femininity; that which provides life, comforts our children, and launches a thousand ships.
It can take a great deal of work to maintain our feminine wiles. Yesterday alone I had a facial, two forms of hair removal removal, and bought some makeup to paint color onto my pale palette. It’s not that we do all of this just for the attraction of the desired sex, but also so we can look in the mirror and get a boost or, at the very least, not have to grimace back at our reflection.
The extraction of oil from my skin, the hot wax dripped and then ripped off of me and the scissors cutting through my locks sounds like a series of medieval torture devices. The tissue expanders I will have slowly filled post surgery is just another thing to add to this painful regimen. Fortunately, it will be relatively short lived. While I may feel like a science experiment soon, for now I feel more like a 1981 Chevy Corvette. Not the newest or hottest car on the road, but I’m buffed, waxed, painted and almost ready to take on the windy road ahead with some power and a little bit of trash talk.


I preface this post by saying I’m not in search of sympathy. That’s never been the intent of anything I write here. Any mother reading this knows that the following just comes with the territory. Now that that disclaimer is out of the way…
I’m so tired. Every time I say that I’m imagining Madeline Kahn in Blazing Saddles with her chorus boys singing, “Can’t you see she’s pooped?”. I’m really starting to believe that celebrity bullshit about being hospitalized, missing appearances or bailing on live performances due to exhaustion. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I think they’re just in rehab. But I can see how one might need to be otherwise institutionalized from fatigue.
With my little doll almost walking and my big beauty challenging me in every way (as a three year old should), I’m both mentally and physically spent. That coupled with the fact that neither child is sleeping through the night, leaves me feeling less than refreshed. Ever since her surgery, the big girl has been waking with night terrors. With a good night’s sleep, you get a page refresh (to put it in geek terms). Reload everything anew and reboot the brain. Perhaps this is why I feel so dumb and lazy lately. Could it be why I actually asked my husband if 2012 is an election year? Wow!
I’m not really helping myself though. I have a vitamin B12 deficiency that was diagnosed before I had kids. It’s no big deal, I am just supposed to give myself an injection every three weeks to make up for it. I forget to do it. Instead, I just complain to my husband and my mother about being exhausted.
I’m wondering how that will change after I have surgery. I don’t know if all of the prescribed rest will have a rejuvenating effect on me, an unnerving effect or leave me feeling more exhausted. Maybe it will be a mix of all of them. Is it horrible that I’m almost looking forward to having a doctor’s order that says I’m not supposed to get up in the middle of the night and tend to crying children? I feel guilty for admitting that, but it’s the truth. I doubt it will stop me from trying to comfort them. A break is coming soon, hopefully it’s not a breakdown.


I need a haircut so badly. I can’t decide if I want to grow it out a little before surgery or keep it short. Will it be more manageable longer or shorter? I feel more stylish with it short in a lob (ya know, a long bob a la Katie Holmes when she and Tom were insanely happy, literally). But to say that anything makes me look stylish is a long shot. I’ve been in a fashion rut since my first pregnancy test showed two lines (and way longer than that if I’m keeping it real). Regardless, it’s looking sloppy so I’m going to go this weekend to get a cut.
My three year old needs one too. She’s only ever had one real haircut in her life and that was over a year and a half ago. I can’t bear to cut the inch or two of bleach blonde that is at the tip of her nearly butt-grazing locks. Alas, she can’t be the kid whose hair is tucked into her underwear on the first day of school. And my routine of cutting her bangs while she’s asleep is getting pretty old (and very choppy). Plus, someone keeps nagging me that she can’t see (you know who you are). She’s not going to be thrilled about getting a haircut so I’m thinking I will let her watch part of mine to show her how fun and luxurious it is. I also want to start laying the ground work that changing your appearance doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
Luckily when I come home after my surgery I won’t be totally washboard flat. Going from a DD to nothing would definitely be a major change. The surgeons told me that I’d probably come home as a B cup and then get filled to a comfortable size gradually after that. Maybe I can tell her my changing breast size is like a haircut and they’ll grow back to a “length” I like. In their current shape and form, length is a fairly accurate description.