Team Kids when Adults fight marital strife BPDBeing on the side of the well spouse is an option.

Being on the side of the sick spouse is another option.

But I defy anyone arguing the decision to say “Fuck that noise” and choosing the side of the children.

Does this pertain to a specific family? Yes. Does it have to? No. This is universal.

I have been that sick parent and while at the time I may have been feeling “everyone is against me,” as a well adult I can see that if they were, it was to be for my children.  As I improved and recovered, their team merged into being my team as well.

The hardest part of being the well adult in such a relationship, is understanding that making decisions that the sick adult might not appreciate up front, really is better for all involved in the long run.  For one of two things will happen: the sick adult may truly seek help and improve and then learn to appreciate what you did, or the sick adult may live out their lives feeling everyone is against them and continue to make poor choices. And while this may be hard to hear, should the second possibility be what goes down, seeing them struggle will be hard but it is best for those who don’t deserve the brunt of their poor decisions. Like, again, children.

When you love someone, watching them make poor choice after poor choice is hard. Making a choice that will inconvenience them can be harder. What needs to be remembered is that it’s the inconveniences in life that push us to fight harder and overcome our obstacles towards self improvement, even in the best of circumstances.

And in parting, it is very easy to promise “never again” from the comfort of consequences already being revoked. Knowing, or thinking you know, that you’ll always have the convenience of someone struggling against a tough decision. The promise of “never again” made with the grantee that things won’t be convenient again until after they’ve proven and lived up to their promise, is a while new promise in of itself.

Christmas Nears

Sorry about that, but it does.

I have a favor to ask. One that doesn’t actually require you to do anything.

If you are already planning an Amazon purchase or 20, can you enter the site by one of the links I offer?

You don’t have to buy anything specific our even special, but by simply starting your shopping from my site with one of my many links, I get a little cash to put towards my own Christmas.

In thanks, I offer:

Borderline Personality Disorder bpd and parenting

The Rest of My Life

Monday was the first day of the rest of my life.  Well, according to an app I installed on my phone, anyway.  I, personally, would argue that the first day was about a month or so ago.  The day I scaled a wall.  Monday, all I did was start a running program.

Once a week for the past few weeks I’ve been getting out and getting active.  I’ve climbed walls.  Who cares if I can’t make it to the top yet?  I’m making plans to go kayaking.  It was suppose to happen a few weeks back but it was a miserable day out.  So we’re figuring out plan B.  Might make for a late night, but winter is coming so we want to get this done.

Then last Monday, 3 days ago, I put my new sports bras, new app, and new determination to use and I began Day 1, Week 1 of Couch to 5K.  Lisa, who has been my physical activity partner in crime, was by my side.  My motivation to keep going.  I picked a 4 mile trail that was paved and in a park.  I knew I was not about to run even a fraction of it.  But I figured I’d get through the app and then walk the rest.

I did day 2 this morning.  I lay in bed at 8 AM knowing I didn’t have to be anywhere until 12:30.  Listing all the parts and pieces of my body that still hurt from Monday.  Knowing I could roll over and go back to sleep for a bit.  But I dragged my body out of bed.  Threw on clothes.  Grabbed something light to eat that wouldn’t weigh me down but would give me a boost. I hit the pavement.

At no point on either day did I complete the program by-the-book.  Bottom line, I suffer from chronic pain and arthritis.  Jogging is not exactly low impact.  But I did the best my limitations would allow then a tiny bit more and I’m damn proud.

It’s suppose to be, this week anyway, a 5 minute warm up walk followed by 8 sets of jogging for a minute then walking for 1.5 minutes, then a 5 minute cool down.  The whole session takes 30 minutes.

Monday I did about 3 minutes of jogging total but I walked a hell of a lot more than the 22 minutes total since I was on a 4 mile trail.

This morning, I was in a friend’s neighborhood so I could pick the length.  I pushed myself to add another minute of jogging, but I didn’t do the full 22 minutes of walking.  It’s sort of a trade off, I suppose.

And I’m OK with it.  I really am.  That was still a hell of a lot more active than I’ve ever been in my entire book worm, couch potato life.

So now I’m determined to get out and hit the pavement 3 times a week.  For better or worse, however much I can do.  I want to get the heart pumping and in better shape, but I don’t want to blow out a knee or hip sooner than I’m sure I already will.  (Thanks genetics!)

With my end goal being to be healthier and able to better keep up with my kids, I don’t need to be able to run a 5K in 30 minutes.  I just need to be able to catch a toddler without having a heart attack in the process.

Oh, and our Mondays are still a thing.  Sometimes we’ll run.  Sometimes we’ll climb.  And someday we may finally kayak.  And I’m just happy I have someone who is turning out to be a wonderful friend by my side.

Plus 2 Days

Darling Daughter,

I thought the words from the other day were enough, but no.  Because it was a year ago today when you became clear.

It was a year ago today that I was stuck in a battle of wills between you and a nurse.  Oh she was so mad I wasn’t waking you and feeding you.  But how I would have loved to!  I was a breath away from being locked away for torture but you slept on through.  As the nurse gave up and declared me unfit due to letting you “starve” I realized within a matter of days that you’d be the baby I needed.

My baby who could sleep through her brother screaming bloody murder as your daddy tickled him a foot away.  You, my darling, were laid back and could sleep through anything.  Anything but hunger.  You let us know when your tummy needed filled.  You were willing to wake up and cry out.  But there was no waking you if you chose sleep.  And for much of those early days and weeks, you picked sleep.

I use to call you my lap kitty.  You would sleep and sleep, sprawled across my lap while I filled out job applications looking for a job that would keep us happy and healthy.

Oh how I snuggled you.

You use to camp out on my bed while I watched Doctor Who on Netflix.  I placed you gently on the other side of the bed but you’d wiggle your way up alongside me and then eventually under my arm.  I’d be all ready with barriers so you didn’t fall of the bed, but I needn’t have worried, you gravitated towards the warmth of momma.

When we weren’t exploring the Universe in the TARDIS together, I took you everywhere I went.  Especially the first 2 months.  You slept through it all, so it wasn’t difficult to take you everywhere.

I even joked that I needed a job where I could bring you along.  You’d make an excellent lobby manager at the bank.  Though, my boss is talking about knocking out a wall and contacting fisher price for a cash drawer.

Then I turned away from being the least girly of the bunch to the biggest advocate for tutus and frill.  Your daddy yelled at me in those first few days that you weren’t a baby doll.  Luckily, all you did ever was sleep so I could argue there wasn’t much to do with you besides dress you up and snuggle you.

It was in your first few days where I realized real fast your oldest brother liked you much more than he liked me.  But, that’s OK.  He’s been asking for a baby sister for years.  It become clear when the first words out of mouth when he got home from school were, “Where’s the baby?!?”  It was part question, part demand.

As I watched your youngest, older brother morph into a big brother, my heart grew about 20 sizes.  Your first few days, he was building tracks around you so he could teach you how to play with trains.  And then as you became a threat to his toys, he’s shown a patience with you I didn’t know he was capable of.  Sure, he verbalizes his frustrations as he switches what hot-wheel cars you taste, but he doesn’t hit or push you like he does others.  As rough and tumble as he is, you he treats as gently as if you were a butterfly.

When I learned while pregnant that you were a daughter, I joked that you needed to be born with chain mail.  Little did I realize you already had it waiting.  Daughter I present your chain mail: Big brothers.  Both of them.  No one will keep you safer than those 2 as you grow.  Except maybe your daddy.

OK, probably your daddy.

You turn you big hunk of a daddy into a pile of mush.  A pile of melted, daddy’s-in-love gush.  And then you melt him all over again.  When you cry out for “Dada!” when you topple over and bonk your head.  When Dada is able to calm your tears.  When Dada placed you at the center of his universe, and you put him at the center of yours.

You two are growing a father-daughter relationship that all other father-daughter relationships will grow to envy.

Your family isn’t the only one fond of you.

That becomes clear when I take you places.  Gender, race nor age seems to matter when it comes to people fussing over you.  I can’t take you anywhere unless I’m willing to deal with the swarm of admirers you draw.

But I think the best way to share your personality is by sharing your first word: Hi!  Sure Mama and Dada entered your vocabulary, but “Hi!” was there first, there early, and you meant it.  Oh how you meant it.

Darling Daughter, I can’t promise this will be your last first birthday letter.  Just like I can’t promise I’ll ever grow tired of seeing you light up when you see your brothers, Thomas insisting on kissing you goodnight, Lucas touching your hands and face like you might break, your father melt at the batting of your long lashes, or my heart melt when you throw you head back, close your eyes and grin.

I promise to keep you stocked in tutus until you beg me to stop.  I promise to start back up when you realize I was right about you in them.

I promise some of the biggest goals in my life are to take you prom dress shopping, wedding dress shopping, and holding your hand as you give me a Grandbaby.

I promise you will never be so old that I won’t sob as I write these letters.

I promise you are everything you are meant to be.  You are, no matter what, good enough, just right, and wonderfully loved.  And anything beyond you being you is gravy.

Because I promise you no matter what I am your momma and I will always love you!

Words from a year ago:
Introducing Samantha Lavay
Samantha Lavay’s Story Part 1 The Birth
Samantha Lavay’s Story Part 2 Meet My Baby
Samantha Lavay’s Story Part 3 Reflections