Here We Go...

I started my final year of nursing school this week. Initially I was so excited, partly because the end is even more in sight, and partly because of my new found confidence I owe to my summer nursing tech experience.

My first day of class went well on Monday. After class and ever since then it has been a little rough. I will try to be brief here...

After class on Monday I was planning to exercise. There is this women's boot camp program that I was planning on starting and was on my way there. I noticed my gas light on and stopped to fill up but there wasn't an attendant at the window. I had to pre-pay and with no one to hand my money off to I couldn't get gas. I left figuring I'd stop again after boot camp. So, here I am on my way to get my fitness on when... putt, putt, putt... my car runs out of gas on the side of the road. Are you freaking kidding me?

Now, I am sure everyone (almost everyone... some people) have run out of gas before... no big deal, right? Well the case is not so when you drive a Jaguar. Even though it is a 2005 and was as affordable as a Kia, people see you on the side of the road and think you are an absolute moron for driving a luxury car and what... don't you have enough money to put gas in the tank! The situation was not made any better by my two young children in the car reminding me how I should've gotten gas at that station, yadda, yadda, yadda. My husband wasn't answering his cell phone, insert extreme frustration and humiliation... oh, did I mention that this is the second time in my 4 months of owning this car that this has happened to me? Last time I was in the drive-thru line at a coffee shop. (I blamed that one on my lack of caffeine!)

Ok, so I manage to be saved by my heroic, gas-can-hauling husband. I drive immediately to the gas station without passing go or collecting $200 and despite my kids' numerous attempts to get me to stop at every fast food joint along the way. When I get home my husband and I begin our daily chat/time to catch up. He starts by telling me that he thinks our 5 year old is depressed. Can I say it again... Are you freaking kidding me?
Evidently our youngest son said something to the effect of drawing a picture of his life... insert big, sad, angry face drawing here. Oh my goodness... I just started school... I don't have energy for this... what the heck.
I cry, mope, fall asleep on the couch. I wake up in a mad rage yelling at my husband. I scream, "Mean dye! Mean dye!" My husband asks me what the hell I am talking about and I spell the word, "D-Y-E" (not to be confused with its morbid cousin D-I-E). I don't know the exact thought process going on in my head although I do remember feeling frustrated that the overhead light was shinning brightly into my REM twitching eyes.

The next day I wake up, get the kids off to school, and come back to chill a bit since I didn't have class. I feel guilty as I reminisce about how I had post partum depression when my younger son was born. I had gone to the doctor at that time to discuss medications and he recommended that I quit breastfeeding and take an anti-depressant. I couldn't do it... I was an Olympic Champion breastfeeder... how could I quit just for the baby blues? (Now when I say Olympic Champion breastfeeder I mean it. I could have easily solved starvation problems in third world countries, if not in the third world itself.) So now the image I have running through my head is one of toxic breastmilk, posioned with some serratonin sucking virus... I figured (as any rational person would've) that because I chose to breastfeed my son in my state of depression I must have fed him something that depleted his serratonin source and after 4 years, we were just now starting to see the effects. Nevermind the fact that our schedules all just got super-uber crazy. He is in kindergarten, I am in school, my husband's schedule just flipped from days to nights... NOPE, it was my toxic breastmilk.

Ok, so I am feeling a bit crappy, to say the least, when I log into facebook and see the status of my friends. I notice one of my sisters' status updates... Happy Birthday Dad! Oh shit! Yep, today would've been his 79th birthday. I didn't even realize that it was September 22. Ugh! I start crying, bawling, and looking at the picture slideshow we created of his life. Insert more tears, sobbing, bawling... I am instantly catapulted back to 2007. The year he died, one week after his 77th birthday. That year I tried to call him three times to wish him a happy birthday but never got in touch with him. When I went back to Michigan for his funeral I couldn't help but feel guilty about not sending him a birthday card, not getting in touch with him, not being able to tell him one more time just how much I loved him.

Hmmm... extreme sadness and guilt... what to do? Well, Dad would've gone to the movies; he always went to the movies. I figured in spite of it all and in honor of Dad's birthday the boys and I would celebrate with a trip to the movies. The title of the movie fit the mood of my day perfectly, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.