Last week at 5am on Monday morning, Sebastian shuffled into our room with a little sniffle. He comes to my side of the bed and says, "Mom, I threw up in my bed."

Uuuugggghhh! Brian went to assess the damage and Sebastian crawled in bed with me, which means I didn't sleep much after that. I had to be to work on time (early in my world) for a big project so I was dragging. Off to work I went to face 10+ hour days for the next 4 days. By Thursday night I was beat. Brian left to play music with his friend and I attempted to have a quiet evening with the boys. Ha! 

By then Sebastian was getting better, but now Oscar had a stuffy nose and what I thought was a cough. After dinner that cough turned into gagging and he threw up on the living room rug. I got him to the bathroom for the rest, but ya know how good a 2 year old is at aiming? After I got it mostly cleaned up, I got the boys in the bath so we could hopefully get to bed early. Bedtime consisted of me following Oscar around with a bowl trying to catch all of his throw up. Ginger kept coming upstairs and staring at me funny but I just told her to lay down. I didn't have time for her in the midst of vomit duty! 

Boys in bed, I headed downstairs to clean some more. I put away leftovers, fed Ginger, cleaned up toys, and then finally saw what Ginger was acting funny about. Poop all over the living room. WTF?! (And how the fuck did I not see it immediately when I came downstairs?!) I had let her out right before we went upstairs so she had no excuse. It wasn't Iike she was sick either so I was a bit pissed to say the least.

A bit later, I came inside from throwing away all the poop to see Oscar at the top of the stairs.

"Mommy, I threw up in my bed."

Awesome.

The view from my office that Monday...a foggy omen of the week to come

My kids get sick like all kids do, but usually it's colds. They don't throw up much thankfully. Ginger doesn't normally poop in the house. I don't normally work 10+ hour days. But all of these things happened in the same week.

Between working late and fighting off their bug, I didn't have the energy to exercise. I didn't eat the greatest either, not enough vegetables and one night I had way too much wine. By the end of the week, all my joints hurt. My face broke out. I had a headache that wouldn't go away. Many more physical symptoms of too much stress flared up. Forget about blogging as that requires more time in front of a computer which I just can't stomach after working that much. I was angry and irritable and just wanted to be alone.

I am very fortunate. My life is good, blessed, lucky, whatever word you want to use. I have it easy. When I have a rough week I get to spend the weekend recuperating (which I did). My idea of a rough week is many people's normal, and for many more people in the world, a dream week. I have NOTHING to complain about. That's why I was so irritated. Mad at myself for being such a whiner. Mad that I can't handle a little stress without becoming physically and mentally ill. Mad that I allowed shit (literally haha) that isn't important bring me down. Mad because this wasn't just last week, but is always my response to stress.

The road to self-worth and love is long, windy, rough, and lonely. Nobody but me can pull myself out of my own pathetic self-pity. I know exactly how to do it too, since I've done it a million times before. Get enough sleep, eat extra healthy, exercise, lay off the wine, cut back on caffeine, spend time with my family, spend time alone. Write. Write. Write. I was the only person in my way.

Part of seeking happiness is admitting that we cannot always be happy. It's ridiculous to expect otherwise. There are many worthy reasons to feel down and depressed. Part of recovery is learning to recognize when you're depressed for a good reason versus a bad reason, or no reason at all. This week...all bad reasons. That means suck it up and move on. When I have the knowledge, tools, and skills to pull myself out of a slump, then I know, no excuses. Just fucking do it.

Thankfully I took my own advice, and am feeling much better now. Which means, I've got a lot of half written posts waiting patiently for me to finish in the next week or two, so I hope you're ready to read. 😆

Monday was Sebastian's 7th birthday. For any of you with little kids, I'm sure you know how I'm feeling. It's something like...

"Holy fuck how is he 7?!"

For any of you with older kids I'm sure you're laughing at me and saying something like...

"Just wait until they're 18, then you'll really feel old!"

And you're totally right. I'm certain I will feel this at every single one of my kids' birthdays for the rest of my life. Their birthdays are the reminder of how quickly time moves, much more so than my own birthday. Maybe because little kids change more in 1 year than adults. Or maybe it's just because it makes me feel sentimental. Like a mother should be while watching her babies grow up.

While I may be in awe of how fast it's all going, at no time do I wish for it to stop. People often say things like "don't you wish they'd stay little forever?" No, I definitely do not. I love watching them learn and grow. I love seeing what each new phase will bring. And I love that they're still little enough to like spending time with me. But if they weren't growing, none of this would seem special. Like so much in life, it means more because it's temporary. It's always changing, giving you no time to waste. Only time to savor every moment you can since you know it's the only moment like this you will get. Your kids will never again be as young as they are right now. That's why they are so precious.

The funny thing about time is how it can feel like it's moving at the speed of light but also slow at the same time. If I think of everything that has happened in the last 7 years I realize, it does feel likes it's been awhile. We have done so much with him. We made many first child mistakes. We learned what it's like to have a baby and stay awake all night trying to get him to sleep. We both changed our work situations so we can be with him more. We had our hearts broken when receiving his NF diagnosis. We grew stronger in the aftermath, learning how precious and fragile our child's life really is. We had his brother and watched their bond form. We took them on many plane trips, road trips, camping, fishing, swimming, farm exploring, berry picking, beach playing, hiking, bike riding, stroller adventuring, park playing, and so much more.

I have learned what it feels like to fail as a parent and to succeed. I have enjoyed more hugs, kisses, and snuggles than I can count, and still hope for countless more. I have learned I can love and hate a thing at the same time. I have learned what unconditional love is and that I am capable of it. My experiences as a parent have made me a better person. Stronger, more compassionate, more patient (sometimes), and more complete. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

So here's to 7 years as a parent, and the 70 more to come. (Yes I'm living to 101.)