I am no Beyonce'-http://www.veoh.com/browse/videos/category/music/watch/v6302541T8YtNTHX . And yet my current bootyliciousness (at least in the position of one 3-foot-tall fan) is becoming a real nuisance.
My booty, as is were, is vast, squishy and irresistible, when viewed from Elias's eye level. He simply can't restrain his small hands off it.
The answer is that I pass my days trying to do ordinary housework with a little child always on my heels and sexually harrassing me. Well, "just say no" you say. Sure. I've said no- four hundred million times. I've screamed no. I've given time outs. I've missed my cool completely. I've caused the small one to sob and cry in daze and anguish. And then, four minutes later, he's back at it again. He follows me. He buries his case in my butt. He pats my butt. He pokes my seat with whatsoever is in his men at the time. He has a wonderful move where he clasps his men in the second pocket of my jeans, then lifts his feet from the floor and swings. Wherever I go he's one inch behind me, so that when I go around (as I often do when, say, attempting to put aside the dishes) he's directly underfoot.
Yesterday I was wishing for a taser, or at least an electric dog training collar.
I love this is all very flattering- a manifestation of total love. It's even mutual- I'm enraptured in bed with him too. But for god's sakes! let me put off the dishes!
Yesterday I was near in tears myself with the hopelessness of it. I was so tired, having so much trouble standing up as it was, and this small person was fashioning it worse. We had a ridiculous day lined up- Elias's belated b-day celebration at school, gymnastics after school, an school open house right later that, with no clock for dinner. The sole window of kill time was between about midday and two p.m. during which I was stressful to clean. The mansion was a complete mess (still is, for that matter), as little destructor has been going full argument for days, while Isaac was sick in bed and I was feeling pretty bad myself, needing and lacking to rest. But I was trying as strong as I could to repair some color of order, and my little booty fan club was hindering me at every tone of the way, hanging from my pockets. Every time I bent over to blame something up, which I had to do constantly, he took the chance to pat my soft parts. (Oh yes, the booty isn't the only soft voice that he adores. Other soft irresistibly fleshy parts fall prey too- especially when my men are wide and I don't give a quick defense.)
[Can I add that as I publish this they are both climbing on me, and kissing me, and stressful to get in my lap? Elias IS in my lap and Isaac, nearly 8, can't fit.]
[Insert interlude here where I carry them upstairs and get them both dressed- picture trying to do a bag of squirrels- and get them back down and get them dry cereal, little bowls of salt, and sippy cups of milk, per their specific requests. Now they are watching the Clone Wars and I give a bit again.]
[I am reminded of Isaac's latest tactic- to prompt me that I was the one who wanted to get kids! The former day in the grocery store we were having an especially trying situation surrounding candy or no candy. I was strictly refusing. The kids were melting down. And Isaac said, lawyer-like, "YOU'RE the one who sign up for this! You're the one who chose to take us!" How can you respond to that? Yes, of class I wanted to take you, you little so-and-so, but that doesn't mean I wanted every trip to the stock to be a LIVING HELL.]
It was too often as it was, but I knew that coming home at 9 pm to total chaos wasn't going to aid and so I was trying my hardest to get things into some likeness of shape. I did get the dishes unloaded and the mob in the sink all cleaned up, with my little friend attached to my butt all the while. But so I had to lie down. There was no option. At times like these I really remember that I do have POTS.
I read yesterday some more about Greg Page, the Yellow Wiggle, who had to give his career due to orthostatic hypotension, which is voice of my diagnosis too. Officially I have "orthostatic hypotension and late POTS. I found this article, which opens, "The longish walk to see the cafe leaves him forgetful of breath. A delay in a coffee queue is uncomfortable. Even just getting around the city now is more exhausting than years of acting in two high-energy shows a day, six years as week, as the Yellow Wiggle."
The once youthful, bouncy, fit Greg walks with a cane, "That's one reason I wanted to make a walking stick, apart from the physical support it gave me," he says. "It made me feel that at least people would see something was incorrect and I wasn't just wandering around shopping centres as an aimless drunk. It was embarrassing. To go from doing two shows a day, an hour and twenty minutes each point on level in the US, to getting round with a walking stick in a subject of a month was a real shock."
Yes- I understand, Greg! I find your pain. There's this POTS blog called "But you don't feel sick," which is as apt a claim as any. We with POTS don't feel sick. We simply get to lie down- like right now.
I did get some promising news regarding the POTS study. My neuro apparently changed his idea or ground out more about what it would entail, and it seems, that he has decided to assist me do it. He wrote an e-mail to the study lady, and asked whether I would want to resign the Cymbalta to be in it. She wrote back that I would NOT. Yes! And so sent him all the forms and whatnot that it entails. I take to pass (or fail?) this ten-minute POTS test, in which my heartrate has to gain at least 30 bpm when I bear up for ten minutes. I started worrying that I wouldn't pass it for some reason, and then realized - hey- if I don't spend it so I don't have POTS anymore so it's win-win. In any case, this is all still pending, as I'm awaiting a response from the neuro one way or the other. They study lady did say that they leave NOT passing the protocol to me without a dr involved. Also we can't share it. We suffer to sign something saying that we won't (the doctor and I both hold to sign). Hence the theme of doing it on my own is not an option. I throw out desire that this will go out and soon I'll be in the office, standing there for ten minutes and feeling like crud in doing so. And that the data will be in hand sometime soon and I'll be capable to proceed accordingly.
Today the kids are off school due to a teachers' conference. [And again screaming and mounting on me!] I give to get the boys to vestibular therapy with me, in which I will buy them with the hope of smoothies if they cling to the rules (no running, no fighting, no climbing on the equipment) for the good minute and 15 minutes. It's release to be a challenge, for all of us!
No comments:
Post a Comment