Another One of those Obnoxious Soul-baring Posts
I wrote this post a few days ago and debated about posting it. But what the hell! I'm an open book and that's O.K. What I have discovered in the last couple of years since I have been writing this blog, is that people I don't know have reached out to me and it has been amazing. I am proud that just based on my writing about my snobbish ways and my daily struggle with Spanx, that people have taken the time to write me. Don't ever change, interwebs.
It was a tough year that 2013. We had the diagnoseseseses (several) from various sources concerning our son. We had threats from the daycare, freak outs, not knowing if I would get a fixed contract at work and just a constant buzz of nervous energy. In January of this year, I felt like we were on the right track with the diagnosis centre and with the promise of a new daycare. Please refer to posts from February to see how that turned out. Rebirthing, cough, cough. To distract myself, I decided that we had to move. I'm impulsive. With the move, the start of therapy and half days at the daycare, I have been in a state of stressful limbo. I am happy to say that I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and if the Husband and I can get through this summer, then we can get through almost anything.
As some of you might have seen on Facebook, I keep talking about how much I adore our new place and how different the Kid seems to be and I am not exaggerating. I am completely in love with our new abode and yes, the Kid has made leaps and bounds. Not only do I believe that he is on the jerk spectrum (I'm saying it out of love), but perhaps the snob spectrum as well (that's mah boy!) Case in point; when I pick him up at lunchtime once or twice a week, he makes me take the route that takes us past our neighbourhood palace (do you not have a neighbourhood palace? You should totally get one) and he basically stands up in his stroller and tries to stare at it without blinking. He too must practice the Secret. Soon, my child, soon.
Here is a boy who runs up and down the length of our apartment with the biggest smile on his face. He sits happily at the kitchen table and we have dinner as a family. Does he eat what I make? Not usually. Does he need more fiber? Oh God, yes. Here is a boy who for the 4 weeks since we have lived here has not once had a meltdown that involves sending me into great big gulping sobs. No, he is just acting like a typical narcissistic three year old and it absolutely warms my heart. Sure, I can't communicate in words with him and that still continues to break my heart but here is now a boy who is making eye contact frequently and listening to me when I ask him to do things. "Try on this dress so Mommy can see how it sparkles under the chandeliers" Here is a boy who is acting like a regular little boy. I want to cry from happiness. And I do. A lot.
When you go through so much upheaval like we did in the past year, you see traits you don't want to see in yourself and in others. Your priorities shift and suddenly things that were important to you in the past no longer are. I kind of threw myself to the side as well. Sure, I was wrapped up in everything that was going on in my life and I got a lot of wonderful support, but I didn't take care of me. I let my weight balloon, I got angry (internally) at a lot things and I also didn't make my husband more of a priority and for that I am extremely sorry. So as we start to see the dust settle, and move onto the next chapter of our lives, it is time to focus a little bit more on me and my mental health. And so, I'm doing it... I'm seeing a therapist.
Oh! The shame! Poor little rich girl has issues! Oh gawd! And you know what? That's a-ok. We all have issues and I just choose to handle them via a fantastic therapist from Iceland. The funny thing is that I saw her last spring when our issues with the Kid first started. I didn't realize that she didn't just work with kids. It was only until a few weeks ago that I saw a post and realized I was also her target client. Yaay! The great thing is that we have kept in contact over the past year so I didn't have to start from the beginning. I was kind of tempted to start the session with Dr. Evil's speech from Austin Powers:
"Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it."
I had my first session last weekend and yes, there were tears. I have a lot to work through and I need to dig a lot to see what makes me tick. One thing is jewelry but I am sure there is more. I want to explore my unhealthy eating habits, my need to try and be perfect and of course to be a better mother to our amazing son. There is no shame in seeing a therapist, just shame in not having 6-7 different types of appetizers, a signature drink and a perfect floral arrangement at our upcoming housewarming party. This is why I need help. All joking aside, I am actually very grateful that I can have this luxury of someone listening to me jabber on. It is the next step in an exciting journey and I am, for lack of better term, excited.
It was a tough year that 2013. We had the diagnoseseseses (several) from various sources concerning our son. We had threats from the daycare, freak outs, not knowing if I would get a fixed contract at work and just a constant buzz of nervous energy. In January of this year, I felt like we were on the right track with the diagnosis centre and with the promise of a new daycare. Please refer to posts from February to see how that turned out. Rebirthing, cough, cough. To distract myself, I decided that we had to move. I'm impulsive. With the move, the start of therapy and half days at the daycare, I have been in a state of stressful limbo. I am happy to say that I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and if the Husband and I can get through this summer, then we can get through almost anything.
As some of you might have seen on Facebook, I keep talking about how much I adore our new place and how different the Kid seems to be and I am not exaggerating. I am completely in love with our new abode and yes, the Kid has made leaps and bounds. Not only do I believe that he is on the jerk spectrum (I'm saying it out of love), but perhaps the snob spectrum as well (that's mah boy!) Case in point; when I pick him up at lunchtime once or twice a week, he makes me take the route that takes us past our neighbourhood palace (do you not have a neighbourhood palace? You should totally get one) and he basically stands up in his stroller and tries to stare at it without blinking. He too must practice the Secret. Soon, my child, soon.
Here is a boy who runs up and down the length of our apartment with the biggest smile on his face. He sits happily at the kitchen table and we have dinner as a family. Does he eat what I make? Not usually. Does he need more fiber? Oh God, yes. Here is a boy who for the 4 weeks since we have lived here has not once had a meltdown that involves sending me into great big gulping sobs. No, he is just acting like a typical narcissistic three year old and it absolutely warms my heart. Sure, I can't communicate in words with him and that still continues to break my heart but here is now a boy who is making eye contact frequently and listening to me when I ask him to do things. "Try on this dress so Mommy can see how it sparkles under the chandeliers" Here is a boy who is acting like a regular little boy. I want to cry from happiness. And I do. A lot.
When you go through so much upheaval like we did in the past year, you see traits you don't want to see in yourself and in others. Your priorities shift and suddenly things that were important to you in the past no longer are. I kind of threw myself to the side as well. Sure, I was wrapped up in everything that was going on in my life and I got a lot of wonderful support, but I didn't take care of me. I let my weight balloon, I got angry (internally) at a lot things and I also didn't make my husband more of a priority and for that I am extremely sorry. So as we start to see the dust settle, and move onto the next chapter of our lives, it is time to focus a little bit more on me and my mental health. And so, I'm doing it... I'm seeing a therapist.
Oh! The shame! Poor little rich girl has issues! Oh gawd! And you know what? That's a-ok. We all have issues and I just choose to handle them via a fantastic therapist from Iceland. The funny thing is that I saw her last spring when our issues with the Kid first started. I didn't realize that she didn't just work with kids. It was only until a few weeks ago that I saw a post and realized I was also her target client. Yaay! The great thing is that we have kept in contact over the past year so I didn't have to start from the beginning. I was kind of tempted to start the session with Dr. Evil's speech from Austin Powers:
"Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it."
I had my first session last weekend and yes, there were tears. I have a lot to work through and I need to dig a lot to see what makes me tick. One thing is jewelry but I am sure there is more. I want to explore my unhealthy eating habits, my need to try and be perfect and of course to be a better mother to our amazing son. There is no shame in seeing a therapist, just shame in not having 6-7 different types of appetizers, a signature drink and a perfect floral arrangement at our upcoming housewarming party. This is why I need help. All joking aside, I am actually very grateful that I can have this luxury of someone listening to me jabber on. It is the next step in an exciting journey and I am, for lack of better term, excited.
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