Uncommon Julia

I Feel Your Pain

The past few months has been really eye-opening for me.  Ever since I began to wonder if I might have a form a dyslexia, much of my self-perception began to change.  Of course, when I finally blogged about it, and consequently learned I am a visual-spatial learner (with a touch of dyslexia thrown in for good measure) who also happens to have ordinal linguistic personification (it still cracks me up that there's a name for that particular brand of "special") - well, my head nearly exploded from all the paradigm shifts. 

A couple of weeks ago, I called on my therapist for some as-needed sessions (yay for beginning to recognize when to say "uncle").  I told her about the visual-spatial learning and how it went a long way toward explaining why I feel compelled to "write the end of the story" - something she had previously admonished me not to do.  Because I process information holistically (all at once, not step-by-step), it's almost impossible for me not to fill in the blanks of the future.  For me, life is a series of stories.  And If I can't have the end of the novel, well, I will at least make an educated guess about the end of the chapter I'm living in.  And when something or someone radically alters the ending I've written, in effect, ripping out the end of the story, well, I get a little frantic.

No wonder my attempts to be zen and "in the moment" fail so miserably!  I always feel like I'm the person peeking during prayer to see what's going on while everyone has their eyes closed.  My head is always filled with, "Yes, but what's in the next moment?!"

My therapist was really excited to have this knowledge and was able to reasses some of the things we'd been doing in a way that makes more sense for me.  Of course, being a visual-spatial learner entails all sorts of other traits, too, and I also mentioned the high degree of empathy as something that really resonated with me.

Then a light bulb turned on for her.  She asked me some questions about empathy and sensitivity and then refered me to this site on Highly Sensitive People (HSPs).  (I know - the name sound unspeakably goofy, but she has good reason to use it.)  So I took yet another quiz and was amazed at the accuracy of the description.  Apparently, being highly sensitive (not just emotional) is a neurolgoical phenomenon and a verifiable character trait - not just a flaw I need to overcome.

And the two (visual-spatial learning and being highly sensitive) seem, in my layman's eye to be very interrelated.  Being more right-brained, knowing things without knowing why, feeling what others feel (not just knowing what they might feel given the specifics of a situation, but actually feeling it myself, through my nervous system), being easily overwhelmed (I like to call it "pissed-off") at too much noise, commotion, or input coming at me all at once.

So I passed along the link to my mom and she ordered the book for me.  I got it yesterday and began reading it last night.  Only three pages in, I began to remember all sorts of things from my life that look completely different from this perspective. 

It's like I spent all of my life believing I was a square, doing square things, and trying my best to be nice and pointy and flat edged - only to be told, "Hmmm, have you ever considered that you might really be a circle?"  Now, every time I look in the mirror, or look back over my life, all I see is roundness!  And I feel like screaming, "Holy shit! I'm a CIRCLE!  Why didn't anyone tell me this?!"

Of course, nobody told me because I'm highly adaptive and did a damned good immitation of a square.

One of the things this HSP stuff puts into perspective for me is my extreme reactions to other people's situations, pains, and their judgement of me.  I shame very easily.  I pick up on cues and deduce from there - not always correctly.  And I read into every action.  On the one hand, this is incredibly useful: 

I had the honor of being at my friend, Jen's, bedside when she was in labor with her first daughter.  She had a platelet issue and couldn't have an epidural - a fact they discovered only after they induced labor.  So she endured a pitocin drip without the benefit of an epidural for more than six hours (can't recall exactly how long).  Finally, with no sign of the baby descending, and signs of distress all around, the doctors decided to perform an emergency c-section.

As the doctor sat by her side explaining what was going on, I could tell that Jen was frantic, doing her best to get through a contraction while her doctor prattled on oblivious, answering all the wrong questions.  Finally, I interrupted: "No," I said, "that's not what she's asking.  She wants to know when she'll be able to see the baby."

Jen nodded in relief and the doctor explained the rest.  Later, Jen said she was really greatful that I was there to say what she couldn't.  And even though I have more pregnancy-related information than the average bear, I never could really explain how I knew exactly what she wanted to know at that moment.

But on the other hand, this heightened sense leads to some not-so-nice effects.  I feel embarassment, shame, and pain more deeply and hold onto those feelings for a very, very long time.  I can get flustered easily (though most people wouldn't know this - I hide it well) and the embarassment of being flustered eats at me.  It fuels a perfectionism that can be self-destructive.

I'm excited to have all this knowledge to dig through now.  It's like a whole new journey that ends with me finding out who I really am, and who I've been all along.  And hopefully, it involves some better choices about my future and some forgiveness for myself for what I previously saw as failures.

Alas, dear readers, you'll have to go along for the ride.  I bet I'll be talking about my newfound circular shape for the next few months.  But who knows, maybe you're a circle, too!

BUY THIS BOOK!

At one point in my illustrious blogging career, I was a member of the doggedly determined, yet fabulously witty, not to mention gorgeous, though now defunct Vagina Posse.  A fellow member was the G&D Tertia.  And if you've been living under one of the few undisturbed rocks in the land of infertility & loss (we've turned them all over, you see - "leave no stone unturned") and don't know of Tertia, then boy-howdy is this post for you.

Because Tertia wrote a book.  And if you've got a vagina, or know someone who does, and if you've ever considered using said vagina to, oh, say, grow a human, or know someone who has, then this book is for you.

Now, Tertia lives in an alternate universe in a place called South Africa.  And even though she wrote and published the book several years ago now, it's taken her quite some time and effort to get the book published here in the United States - something to do with teleportation devices and conflicting states of matter.  Anyhoo, the book is now availabe via Amazon.  Huzzah!

Oh wait - I'm forgetting the most important fact: Why, you ask, am I pushing this book so hard?  Well, I'll tell you.  Because I was the SOLE INSPIRATION!  It's all right there in the title (okay, subtitle) "addicted to hope".  I created the Hope Addict.  And were it not for me, Tertia would never have written such a compelling story.  Clearly.  Look, she even says so herself, and I quote, "Absolutely!"

See! Proof positive.

So go ahead, buy it.  And tell Tertia I sent you so she'll quite pestering me.

Introducing, The Eyebrow

TypePad just fixed my categories, so I went back through and assigned all of my most recent posts. To my dismay and alarm, the great vast majority of them included "Whine with that Cheese" as a category. So I've given myself the obligatory bitch-slap and told myself to snap out of it. Today's post will not be whiny. Nosiree.

Now, I think it's only fitting that after five long years of blogging you, my dear readers, should be introduced to someone very near and dear to me: My eyebrow. Oh wait, my eyebrow begs your pardon and asks to be referred to by his full name, The Eyebrow.

Very few of you know me in person, but if you did, it would only take ten minutes (sometime far less) before The Eyebrow would make his appearance. It is a phenomena quite beyond my control, inherited, and - it would appear - a dominant trait. My father, my uncle, my cousin, and both of my daughters have inherited The Eyebrow, though, truth be told I do know pretend to know what theirs prefer to be called.

The Eyebrow figures largely in my expressions and without it, people would be left wondering who I was or what, exactly, I was trying to say. Botox has no place in my future. Unless my future involves witness protection. In which case, eliminating The Eyebrow may be all it takes to disguise me.

Yesterday I took some self portraits for the Web site of my newest business venture. If find self portraits awkward, but fun. I took a few of The Eyebrow just to see what he looked like, because I usually try my best to keep him out of photo ops.

Without further ado, it is my honor and privledge to introduce you to:


the eyebrow with text, originally uploaded by uncommonjulia.

Processing

Some of you already know the reason for my recent silence, but I'm sure most of you don't.  I suppose it's my duty to fill you in, since, as of the last time I checked, there is no subpage on MSN titled "All about Julia".  Though there should be.  I'm that cool.

Earlier this week we learned that my parent's retirement funds and the girls' college education funds may have been wiped out by that SOB, Stanford.  (You can only imagine the restraint it's taking for me to refer to him by an acronym.)

My parents retired early, after running their own business their whole lives.  Now, all of that may be gone - quite literally stolen out of their bank accounts.  Not to be overly dramatic, I will point out that they are still in better shape than one might expect.  This summer (when they moved most of their investments from mutual funds to CDs - which are supposed to be safe, if they aren't, well, fraudulent) they took some of their money and paid off the loan on their house.  As my mom so eloquently stated, "At least they can't [expletive] take that way from me."  And my mom doesn't even use expletives.

We still don't know anything much, and won't for a while.  All the accounts are frozen.  They've hired a lawyer and may even join forces with other friends who invested through Stanford Financial to fight for more information.  The SOB turned over his passport (after his attempt to flee the country failed - they turned down his credit card! HEH!), and the latest news I heard said criminal charges should be filed soon.  The news report also said that none of this was a surprise because "Stanford had been on law enforcement's radar for the past ten years."   To which I say, "Hello?!  Law enforcement: why don't you clue the general public in before they say, I dunno, lose millions of their hard-won money."

But I digress.

There is a lot to take in here, and Todd and I are still just trying to wrap our minds around our usual, pre-scandal, week-to-week struggle.  As soon as I emerge from the fog of all this, I'll bring you up to date and find some upbeat, funny things to talk about.

In the meantime, pull out your best banker voodoo dolls and include my parents in your prayers.

It's the Tummy

[Dude, what's up with TypePad's categories?  I could presumably investigate myself, but that assumes a level of mental presence and time that I simply do not possess right now.  If you happen to know, fill me in.]

Caroline's 18-month appointment went well.  She was utterly exhausted - so much so that she didn't play in the waiting room but sat in my lap for an entire half hour (they were having schedule issues) before finally venturing out to timidly prance a play horsey around for five minutes.  SO not Caroline the wall-climbing monkey girl.

She's tracking perfectly normal for her: Just under 10% on weight, just over 55% in height, and 75% for head (thanks, Grandpa!).  Her social and emotional developement are fantastic, and her motor skills are great, with the exception of the toe-walking, which persists. 

The plan there is to watch her for the next three months to try and determine (as objectively as I can) whether or not she is making progress.  Currently, she can walk, run, jump, stoop-and-recover, spin in circles, and walk backward.  Granted, she does almost all of those things on her toes 50-75% of the time.  Even in shoes.

She still has good range of motion in her ankles, but her calves are beginning to bulk up some. (My pediatrician said, "Feel that?" while she rubbed her calves.  "Um, yeah.  I think... but I have no basis of comparison."  Anyone wanna lend me your smallish 18-month-old so I can feel up their calves?)

If she hasn't shown improvement in the next three months, we'll need to start physical therapy.  Likewise, if she's still toe walking at 2 years.  Overall, I'm much more at ease since she's been able to do so many of the major milestones.  I no longer worry that it's neurological or some form of muscular disease.

As for the screaming hissy fits... we could find no physical cause.  And they are not the normal 18-month-old I-wanna-communicate-but-I-cant-variety.  She does those, but they are different and usually provoked.

The doctor hypothesized that whatever caused the vomitting on Saturday may still be hanging around.  An couple of pretty awful poopy diapers later in the day seem to have confirmed that.  If she's not better by Friday, I'll take her back in before the weekend.  If I'm still alive, that is.  It's amazing how a few nights of more strenuous sleep deprivation can really break the proverbial camel's back when heaped upon, oh, say four years of consistent moderate sleep deprivation.

Speaking of, I'm off to self-medicate with my third cup of coffee and attempt some work.

Hm? Wha?

I am so very, very sleep deprived.

Fortunately, Caroline's puking incident and the poopy incident that followed were apropos of nothing in particular.  That was a huge relief.

This weekend was a bit overwhelming, work-wise.  Fun, but overwhelming.  And there's no real let-up in sight.  Which again: good! but overwhelming.

Last night Caroline threw us a curve ball: screaming hissy fits.  Now, it this were Hannah, we would have just shrugged and said, "Of course."  But it's not Caroline at all.  She kept us up last night and has just been utterly out of sorts all morning.  She's off to daycare, but I'm taking her to her 18-month check up at 11:30 today.  I'm hoping they'll figure out the cause because it came so completely out of the blue and doens't seem like a normal "phase" sort of thing.

Yeah, I just said, "sort of thing".  It's a new high in my blogging career.

Meh.

In other news, I'm utterly and thoroughly jealous of Cecily for getting a sponsored trip to Mom 2.0 Summit.  I had so wanted to go.  But between work, broke-ness, and the fact that I'm still nursing Caroline, I just can't see a way to swing it.

I'm SO gonna pull off BlogHer, though.  Just you watch.

Okay.  Off to squeeze in work and a shower before taking my screaming ball of a toddler to the doctor.

Niiiiiice.

It was bad enough knowing I had a whole pile of work to get done today.  (Okay, not really.  I mean, working on the weekend is standard stuff around here, and I'm so happy to have work that I was only sort of pseudo-complaining.) But then Todd called, having just left with the girls about 30 minutes earlier, to say that Caroline projectile vomited in McDonald's.

What a fun day this Valentine's is shaping up to be!

It's the Little Things

Caroline rubs her index finger over pictures of food in her books, then sucks on her finger and says, "Mmmmm," before offering me a bit of the tasty imaginary goodness.

She's utterly perfect.

Unsolicited Product Review: Toliet Cleaning Innovations!

Okay, so I'm still in recovery mode, so today's post will be focused on something entirely concrete and not in the least emotional.

I hate cleaning.  I believe most people do.  I've heard tell of a few odd souls here and there who really get excited over the prospect of dusting and scrubbing, but I do not personally share any of those feelings.  (And, if any of you do, you're more than welcome to come to my house in search of bliss any. time. you. want!)

In my former life, we had some lovely ladies who came and cleaned our house every two weeks.  That service was cut pretty quickly when our budget began to show strain.  Then we moved out here, and while I enjoy cleaning a significantly smaller house, country living presents its own challenges.

Like toilets. We use a well for our water.  And well water is as unique as the land it sits on.  Ours happens to be choc-ful-'o minerals and hardness and, I'm sure, critters of the microscopic variety that I need not know about.  That means that despite some pretty decent family hygiene habits and average cleaning routines, our potties end up looking all yellow and scuzzy in a matter of days.

Enter: The Scrubbing Bubbles Fresh Brush Toilent Cleaning System (doesn't it sound so wonderfully official?!  It's a system, not just a product!)

A variety of disposable cleaning products like this hit the market at the same time.  This is the only one I've tried.  It's got four major advantages: 1) I got to throw out the nauseating scrub brushes that used to sit by my toilet and strike the fear of God into me whenever one of my kids suddenly looked intrigued.  I even used the included hanger attachment to tuck the handle out of sight of the tank.  2) It works.  There are two different kinds of scrubbing heads (heavy and light duty) and I find the light duty flushable sort work well enough for weekly cleanings, if you throw in a round of cleaning with the heavy duty one every third week or so. 3) I can either flush or throw away the scrubbers, which means I never have to touch them or have them just, well, standing around. 4) The cleaning solution is built in, so I don't have to buy separate products.

But here's the really exciting part: The Scrubbing Bubbles Toilet Cleaning Gel (I know, it's not a system, but trust me, it's still cool.)

This stuff is meant to replace those hideous hanging cleaning products that you attach to the rim of the toilet.  I never used those because, ew, and yuck.  But just scrubbing won't cut it with our extra-special well water.  So I gave this gel stuff a try.  It's a super sticky blue gel that comes in a dispenser that measure out each "dose".  The little dot is only a bit larger than a quarter and you can make it nearly, if not completely, invisible by tucking it up under the rim.  This product has two gigantic advantages: 1) It actually works.  I find the spot stays on for just under two weeks (and that's with only two toilets in our whole house, so they see some action).  And it keeps the yellow, dingy build up stuff away almost completely! 2) It smells so nice!  The first day I used it, I cleaned and then put the girls down for a nap.  When I came back into the living room a few hours later, the smell of Nice Clean House was so noticeable (and, apparently, unusual) that I wandered around for five minutes trying to figure out what smelled so nice!  Sad, I know.

So there you have it: my picks for revolutionary new toilet cleaning innovations!

My Apologies

Today is just a crap day.  Actually, it's not just today.  I'm really beginning to feel the effects of the non-stop stress and worry of our life.  I feel beat-up, exhausted, weepy, and glum.  All of those feelings are outside my comfort zone.

My generally upbeat attitude seems to have taken a vacation (Hey, I guess someone should get a break, 'cause we certainly aren't getting one).  I don't like feeling this way.

On Thursday, Todd had his one and only listing taken from him by a relocation company.  It was a million+ listing, which is not the norm in these parts.  That's a potential $19K that won't be coming our way.  Then Friday, a good friend of ours who had (we thought) an incredibly stable job, was laid off.  Every day we hear from friends who sit at their desks watching coworker after coworker be escorted out, wondering if their next to be tapped on the shoulder.  And the news reports each night are filled with more layoffs, hiring freezes, pay cuts, and industry collapse.

I'm just so tired.  And the thought that there may not be a reprieve any time soon - or that things could, in fact, get much worse... well it just makes me nauseous.

I sent an e-mail to Dr. Luz, therapist to the fabulous and freaked-out, today to see if she can help me get my head screwed back on. 

I know there are lots of you out there feeling the same way.  Perhaps we can all join in on a pity party today and draw comfort from the fact that we're not alone.