On Family Events

We had my entire side of the family over to celebrate Sara and Rebecca's birthdays on Sunday. With them being only a month apart, I decided it would be thoughtful and kind to only have one party; therefore giving the family only one sixty plus mile trip to make. I'm nice, no?

My parents arrived Saturday afternoon. Three hours late, but they're here. Fine. Here's the thing about that. My father can turn any conversation around to be about his (and my mother's) sex life. Example: Mom says "I'm going to have some salad for lunch." He says "I have some salad dressing for you." It makes me insane on two levels. First, neither me and Steve nor the 'boys' want to hear it; and we don't talk about it. Second, I really don't want Sara and Rebecca to grow up with that sort of behavior. I don't want them to only remember the dirty comments their grandfather makes. By bedtime Saturday, we're already tired of hearing it.

On Sunday, I woke up later than I planned to (the snooze button is the bane of my existence sometimes) and hurried to get the balloons filled and everything in place. Why? Because my aunt and uncle (let's call them Jim and Jane) were supposed to be here at 10. He's on midnight shift this week and they would have to leave early so he could catch a nap. I agreed to this, mind you, in the same email that I told them when we would be eating and what we would be eating. A full meal. Around 2. We were eating at that time because Matt also had to leave early to go in to work. Jim responded to my email with 'okay, see you then.' It's not like he didn't get the email.

For the record, I had enough food for thirty people. That's how I plan parties. Enough food and drink, I'm happy with it.

At 1, a different aunt and uncle showed up. At 2, my grandfather showed up. At 2:30, Jim and Jane - who were supposed to be here at 10 - finally arrived. With a pie from a local restaurant - I figure they ate on the way. That will be important in a bit.

I originally thought that both the girls could skip their afternoon nap for this special day. Rebecca wasn't having any of that, so she was asleep. Sara was in Grandma Mode and could care less what anyone else was doing at that point.

A friend and her family were supposed to come as well, but her mother was in the hospital with some serious health issues and I sort of figured they wouldn't be here. Which is fine, moms trump friends any day of the week and twice on Sunday. (Food for five, not being eaten.)

When Steve was in the hospital, I had invited his buddy and his family as well, but Steve wouldn't call to confirm if they were coming or not. His buddy, his call to make. I planned food for them, but wasn't holding my breath. They, of course, didn't come. (Food for six, not being eaten.)

We ate at 2:45. When I noticed that Jane wasn't eating, I told her to have something. She says to me 'I didn't know you were having a full meal, so we already ate.'

EXCUSE ME? Food for FOURTEEN in total, not being eaten. Now I have half the food that I bought, made and begged not. being. eaten.*

Because my family is so spread out, and everyone wants to be with their families on holidays, we do Christmas at Jim and Jane's house either the Sunday before or the Sunday after, depending on when Christmas falls.

The first Christmas Steve and I were married, Jim invited us, of course. He also invited the 'boys' and Annette. (This was before John and Annette were married.) That's adding four people to the family size of fourteen. I don't know about you, but when I'm planning to have people over I plan the food. I plan like a leprechaun on speed. In my world, if there's enough food and drink, nothing can go wrong at a party. She's British, so maybe they do things differently in England, I don't know.

Whatever, we walk in the door. And Jane has the audacity to say to me 'I didn't know you were bringing all these people, I hope we enough food.' Not only does she say it, she says it within earshot of my new family. Resulting in them not eating anything and all of us stopping at McDonald's on the way home. They 'boys' haven't been back since. Understandably.

Back to my party on Sunday. People started arriving at 1. By 4, everyone was gone. Except my parents who stayed until yesterday evening.

I don't get it. Everyone goes on about how they don't know my kids, but you'll stay a maximum of three hours?

I'm not sure if this is limited to my family or what, but it pisses me off. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd stop having these events. You want to get to know my children? Then come when it's convienent for both of us, and spend some actual time with them. For God's sake.

Unfortunately, because my grandfather is big on these Family Events, I can't get away with it. When he passes away (hopefully thirty years or more from now) things will change. That will probably the end of the Family Event era. Which is sad, but maybe for the best.

I mean, clearly, we can't stand to be all together for any amount of time.

*Friend, I'm not upset that you weren't there. I understand. Truly. We're cool. I'll send you your share of the food. Oh wait. I can't. My father ate it all!

Which is another thing. My parents did NOT ask if they could stay for days. They just announced that they would be here until Wednesday. Which, I mean, is good that they want to spend time with their grandchildren. But is it a requirement that they eat and drink us out of house and home? In the four and a half days they were here, we went through four bags of potato chips, two bags of frito-type chips, seventy four pieces of chicken, a dozen eggs, two gallons of iced tea, three boxes of cereal (the good, brand name adult cereal no less. NOT the cheap store brand cheerios and whatnot.), a gallon of milk, two family packs each of both pork chops and hamburger, three pounds of lunch meat, and two loaves of bread.

I don't want to be mean, but I plan food for the family based on the actual serving size listed on the package. Two loaves of bread normally lasts us two weeks. Four bags of potato chips last through two weeks of three brown bag lunches a day. The chicken was for the party, and that much was supposed to feed thirty some people. I figured we'd be eating it until the Second Coming. Nope. It was gone by Sunday at bedtime.

We buy the brand name cereal for adult breakfasts. Three boxes last for over two weeks. Not four days. I buy the kids the store brand version of their cereal. You know, Oaty O's instead of Cheerio's. Fruit Rounds instead of Froot Loops. Those are still there.

It's just so annoying. We don't eat like them. I swear to you, my father eats seven meals a day. Plus what he calls 'snacks.' His snack is my meal. My mother only eats five. The males in my house eat three, most of the time. Sometimes it's only two. I only eat once a day. Not for vanity reasons, I'm just not hungry most of the time. The girls eat three meals and one snack. Other than my one meal habit (not good, I know) I think we eat fairly normal. I try to make healthy, nutritious meals. I try to limit meals to one helping wonders. The average American is overweight. I don't want my family to be average. I want them to be underachievers in that area. Why don't my parents get that?

Why don't they get that everything they do is seen and observed by two sets of highly impressionable eyeballs? Sara now thinks it's okay to eat two leftover chicken breasts and a hunk of birthday cake for breakfast. (Not really, but she could.) It's not okay!

Is it possible to get a new family at this stage of the game? One that gets along with each other and understands actual nutrition? Which aisle is that in?

Okay.

I've been on the Zoloft now for about a week. I have noticed some things. The first, it works. Obivously, this is a for me thing. But, it does work. I'm more calm, I'm more able to handle things.

Saturday, my beloved Steve was trying to change something on his beater car. Whatever, something else broke. Two weeks ago, it would have been the end of the world as we know it. Saturday, all I did was start working the phones trying to find one. Had the auto parts place order it, everything will be fine. He can take my car to work until the part comes in on Monday.

Monday comes and it's the wrong part. Again, two weeks ago I would have been through the roof, yelling at the poor auto parts guy, trying to get him to get me something that he just couldn't. Instead, when I returned it and he told me that the part we needed was a dealer only part, I simply ratcheted up the price in my head, bit the bullet and called the dealer. (I was right, the price went up by about $50, by the way.)

When the dealer told me it would be an $20 freight to actually have the part the next day, or I could wait a week and a half, I swallowed hard and said "okay."

So, the Zoloft is working. The headache is gone, the shakes are gone. Everything is going swimmingly.

Except. (C'mon. You knew there'd be an exception.)

One of the biggest things that would have set me off two weeks ago was everyone being in the kitchen when I was trying to dish up supper. Without fail, the second I pick up the serving utensils, the dogs have to go out (through the kitchen door - right beside the stove) everyone needs a drink (from the fridge) everyone needs silverware, etc.

The last two nights I've been dishing up supper, Matt has just been returning home from work and has come into get his drink. And both nights, he's said 'I'm just getting a drink, I don't want you to yell at me.'

Let me be clear. It's not that it bothers me he's in there - it does not. At all.

What bothers me is that apparently I've made everyone I live with completely miserable while going on about how I'm just fine. When, obviously I wasn't fine.

Steve is the only one who would say anything to me about it. I mean, I guess it wasn't the 'boys' place, but still. You'd think someone else could have said something? I don't know. It's wierd.

On another note, my not-quite-three-year-old apparently knows how to work the DVD player. She can even switch movies. Does this frighten anyone else? No? Just me, then. Okie dokie.

Zoloft: Day One

I went to the doctor yesterday, as promised. I told her everything. For the first time, I was completely honest with another human being about what's going on in my mind.

She listened to me. Asked if I heard voices. No. Asked if I was hallucinating. No. It's just that everyday normal events make me so jumpy and nervous and well, anxious. All the time. That's what the voices and the guy in the corner told me to say. (That's a joke, I swear.)

After what felt like two hours, but was really only about 45 minutes of me pouring everything out onto this unsuspecting woman, she diagnosed a General Anxiety Disorder. And prescribed Zoloft. 50mg. I immediately went to the pharmacy and bought goldfish crackers for lunch while it was filled.

When we got home, I fed the girls lunch and put them down for their naps. Yes, Sara's almost three and she still naps. In a crib. Poor developmentally challenged child. [/sarcasm]

I took the first one, and sat down. Within an hour, I felt like I had just mainlined four glasses of wine. I was silly, slightly hysterical in that drunken buzz kind of way. I was trembling, but not alot.

I decided to have a cigarette. Yes, I smoke. Yes, I know it's bad. One trauma at a time, please. When I went outside to my smoking terrace, aka the front porch, I saw that the mail had come.

Yes, the mail had come without me meeting the mailman in the street. And no, there were no catastrophes in it. Imagine that.

A little while later, the phone rang. It was someone trying to get Luke to buy some timeshare. My heart did not go into palpitations thinking it was some horrible thing.

When Steve came home from work, I actually gave him the sheet with all the things you're to watch for when you're on Zoloft. Things like suicidal thoughts, tremors, hallucinations, etc. He can watch for them with me. I'm not even trying to be SuperWoman and handle it all by myself. I can't do it.

How's that go? God grant me the serenity to handle the things I can, pass on the things I can't and the wisdom to know the difference? Like that. I'm learning.

I'm going to call it progress.

I know, in my head, that there is not enough Zoloft in my bloodstream to have actually stopped the episodes. In my head, I know that it's just the simple act of doing something to stop them that is making me feel better.

I have been assured by my friend that the headache and drunken buzz will go away. This headache is a bitch, but since my children are used to sitting around waiting for Mommy to explode, they're quiet anyway. When they're running around like the hooligans they should be, I hope the headache's gone by then.

In my heart, I just know that I am a little better than I was Tuesday.

Today, while the girls are napping, I'm going to do up the dishes and then make fingerpaint. Those poor children have had a screaming bitch of a mother for months now, they deserve a special treat.

I am a little worried that they'll remember the way I have been for so long, and think it's normal. I can only hope that they'll remember what I was before, and what I hope I am after.

And that's the best I can do right now. It has to be enough.