My little one, who is four, had his best buddy from preschool over here to play recently. While I was in my bathroom, putting my make-up on, the two little boys marched in to speak with me, with what was obviously a serious matter to discuss. The little friend, in hushed tones, said to me, "Um, Miss Shannon, um, I have to go potty."
I replied that he was welcome to use my bathroom, or that my son could show him where the other downstairs bathroom was.
He then continued quietly, shuffling his feet from one side to the other, twisting his hands nervously, "Um, Miss Shannon?"
"Yes?" I replied, patiently, turning my attention more fully to him now.
"Um, Miss Shannon, I have to go poo poo and potty," he informed me cautiously.
Trying to hide my smirk (and thinking to myself that my preferred response at that moment would have been, 'Thank you for that information'), I calmly responded by smiling encouragingly at the anxious little redhead, saying, "Alright, sweetie. If you need help, just let me know."
Feet still shuffling (I realized now this was his version of what is referred to in our house as 'doing the potty dance'), he then said, "Yeah, 'cause, Miss Shannon, I, um, I'm not very good at wiping myself."
I grinned openly now, trying to reassure the poor little guy it was all going to be okay. I told him, "That's okay. You just let me know when you're finished, and I'll come help you if you need it."
Obviously receiving the validation he needed, he nodded his head, and murmured something under his breath, and turned to leave the bathroom with my son, apparently choosing to do his 'business' in the other bathroom. I turned back to the mirror, continuing the process of putting my face on for the day, and heard my son saying very seriously to his little friend as they walked away, "It's okay; my mom is REALLY good at wiping butts."
Had I been drinking a soda at the moment, I have no doubt it would have exploded out of nose. Kids crack me up....and yes, the pun was intended.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
The maximum legal limit of Zoloft: Why anti-anxiety medication is a good thing for some of us
If my husband had never brought me kicking and screaming (figuratively speaking, luckily for him) to Texas almost seven years ago, I would have never discovered the delight which is Zoloft.
We moved into our new home on my 30th birthday, and I mark that day as the beginning of a very dark and dreadful year in my life. (As a side note, my dear husband, being the man that he is, couldn't begin to understand why I wasn't perfectly appeased with receiving a brand new home for my birthday - but I will save the differences between men and women for another time.)
To make a long story somewhat short, through the support of a few dear friends, the persistance of my mother, and the desperation of the aforementioned husband, after several months of abject depression, I allowed myself the privilege of seeing a therapist and began my foray into the experimentation of legal drugs.
Fast forward a month or so, I find myself one afternoon in need of a trip to the grocery store. Now, let me set this up for you properly so you can fully appreciate the scenario. My oldest child was in first grade at the time, and attended a school where there was no bussing. Hence, I had to pick her up in the most-hated car rider line each afternoon at 2:45, bringing the four-year old and the one-year old along. Often, this required waking one or both of the younger children from their naps, which is one of the last things on earth I ever want to do.
Now, back to the grocery store. I packed up the two little ones, strapped them in their car seats, and motored off to the market. (By the way, please know that I abhor taking my children to any store with me; this must have been a time of desperate need if I was going to get groceries in the middle of the day.) After parking the minivan, I fetched both children from their car seats, walked into the grocery store, carrying the one-year old on my hip, and holding the hand of the non-stop chatty four-year old, selected one of those ginormous shopping carts that you can buckle two children into at once, and bravely entered the store.
Upon entering, I dug in my purse to pull out my shopping list. Please understand, I must have my list when I shop. I am not the sort of person who can just peruse the aisles and remember everything I need. I have limited space in my brain for things that aren't crucial in my life, and so must write down most mundane things if I am to successfully remember them. This includes items necessary to feed and care for my famlily. Without a list, I inevitably forget several crucial things, and horrifyingly have to return to the store again to fetch them later. Perhaps I should mention here also that I hate shopping; not just grocery shopping, but all shopping. I find no joy in this, what seems to many females, blessed event.
Returning to my story, I dig in my purse, without success, searching frantically for my all-important list, and come up empty. Damnit; I left the bloody thing at home on the kitchen counter. After taking a deep breath to compose myself, I turn around the mammoth grocery cart and return to where my minivan is parked, remove my duo of daughters from the cart and securely buckle them back in their car seats, push the vahoometh cart to a non-threatening nearby area, and get back in the vehicle, starting it up, buckling myself in, and proceed to head back to my house to obtain the stinkin' grocery list I forget to put in my purse.
Approximately thirteen minutes later, and, I might add, with a minimum amount of grumbling and swearing under my breath, I am back in a parking stall at the grocery store. Removing the children once again from the safety of their carseats, I happily discover the oversized cart right where I had left it before, and secured the offspring once again into the monstrosity. I pushed the cart back into the store, ready to really begin the task at hand. I reached into my purse again, and gasped. No, this can't be happening. Shaking my head in disbelief, I realize I have left the all-important grocery list back out in the minivan. Heavy sigh. Major eye-rolling.
Once again, I turn the cart (that should be proceeded by a sign with flashing lights that reads "Caution: Wide Load") around and go back out to the parking lot. I glance at my watch, and realize it is getting closer and closer to the time when I must get myself to the school to pick up my first grader. In a rush, I speed to where my vehicle is parked, unlock it, peek inside, and find the culprit list lying on the floor next to the driver's seat, right where I left it. I snatched it up, slammed the door shut, and clutching the list in my teeth, pushed the big cart back into the grocery store for one more go at it.
The automatic doors slide open, leading me directly to the produce section. Giving my cart a push, I quickly remove my list from my mouth to see what kinds of fruits and vegetables I need. (I know some of you reading this are probably coughing, and thinking to yourself, "Yeah, right, like you buy vegetables;" my snitty response to that thought is yes, by golly, sometimes I do indeed purchase green leafy things! So there! I am sticking my tongue out at you).
Remember me mentioning the size of the grocery cart? This is the point in which that becomes significant. I am not very good at judging distances, particularly when it comes driving my vehicle over curbs; my husband would be happy to attest to the turth of this statement. Apparently, this anti-talent extends to large grocery shopping carts as well. Without any concious effort, I somehow managed to push my empty cart (empty except for my children, that is) directly into the free-standing table display with grapes covering it. It must have had quite an impact, because I managed to send what appeared to be several hundred pounds of little green and red grapes rolling across the length of the floor of the produce section at warp speed.
I was frozen, just staring at the fruit-in-motion, which had the appearance of moving in a slower than normal fashion, as all unpleasant things do. My mind couldn't believe what my eyes were watching. What the freak?!?!
I took a deep breath, flushing furiously, and moved around the front of the cart to begin picking up the errant little green and red orbs. I am sure there were people around me, either laughing or stifling laughter, but I didn't notice. I was too embarrassed and frustrated to care. Out of nowhere, no fewer than three employees in the produce section magically appeared, who immediately began to clean up the mess I made and comfort me. There were no dirty looks, only smiles (but I heard their thoughts, distinctly chirping "cuckoo") as one of them patronizingly patted my shoulder and told me I didn't need to help with the clean up.
I apologized profusely and immediately turned my cart around and left the store; there had definitely been enough carnage for one day. And, besides, it was almost time to pick up the six-year old from school. In a somewhat numb state of mind, I managed to get the two little ones out of the cart and safely buckled back into their car seat, miraculously without injury. I turned the van on, buckled myself, and immediately flipped my cell phone open and called my husband. Not trusting myself at this point to be able to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously with any degree of safetly, I stayed unmoving in the parking stall, and recounted the entire story on the phone, not needing to add any drama to make it more interesting to the listener.
When I finished, my husband was quiet for the briefest moment, then said, "Honey, I think the Zoloft must be working, because you're not crying." It struck me, like lightening, that he was right! This sort of episode, had it happened a couple of months back, no doubt would have sent me into either a crying or raging fit, from either of which the spouse would have to absorb the fallout. But, I was actually laughing about the encounter, and it surprised me indeed.
It is from this experience that I have gained a testimony, if you will, of the great good that prescription anti-anxiety medication can do in one's life. I have since offered myself willingly to be the poster child for Zoloft. I recommend it to all my friends who do not consume alcohol to soothe their anxieties. Legal drugs, bless them, have become quite dear to me. My husband, children, and I are all recipients of the delightful consequences of them in my life. Yay Zoloft!!!
We moved into our new home on my 30th birthday, and I mark that day as the beginning of a very dark and dreadful year in my life. (As a side note, my dear husband, being the man that he is, couldn't begin to understand why I wasn't perfectly appeased with receiving a brand new home for my birthday - but I will save the differences between men and women for another time.)
To make a long story somewhat short, through the support of a few dear friends, the persistance of my mother, and the desperation of the aforementioned husband, after several months of abject depression, I allowed myself the privilege of seeing a therapist and began my foray into the experimentation of legal drugs.
Fast forward a month or so, I find myself one afternoon in need of a trip to the grocery store. Now, let me set this up for you properly so you can fully appreciate the scenario. My oldest child was in first grade at the time, and attended a school where there was no bussing. Hence, I had to pick her up in the most-hated car rider line each afternoon at 2:45, bringing the four-year old and the one-year old along. Often, this required waking one or both of the younger children from their naps, which is one of the last things on earth I ever want to do.
Now, back to the grocery store. I packed up the two little ones, strapped them in their car seats, and motored off to the market. (By the way, please know that I abhor taking my children to any store with me; this must have been a time of desperate need if I was going to get groceries in the middle of the day.) After parking the minivan, I fetched both children from their car seats, walked into the grocery store, carrying the one-year old on my hip, and holding the hand of the non-stop chatty four-year old, selected one of those ginormous shopping carts that you can buckle two children into at once, and bravely entered the store.
Upon entering, I dug in my purse to pull out my shopping list. Please understand, I must have my list when I shop. I am not the sort of person who can just peruse the aisles and remember everything I need. I have limited space in my brain for things that aren't crucial in my life, and so must write down most mundane things if I am to successfully remember them. This includes items necessary to feed and care for my famlily. Without a list, I inevitably forget several crucial things, and horrifyingly have to return to the store again to fetch them later. Perhaps I should mention here also that I hate shopping; not just grocery shopping, but all shopping. I find no joy in this, what seems to many females, blessed event.
Returning to my story, I dig in my purse, without success, searching frantically for my all-important list, and come up empty. Damnit; I left the bloody thing at home on the kitchen counter. After taking a deep breath to compose myself, I turn around the mammoth grocery cart and return to where my minivan is parked, remove my duo of daughters from the cart and securely buckle them back in their car seats, push the vahoometh cart to a non-threatening nearby area, and get back in the vehicle, starting it up, buckling myself in, and proceed to head back to my house to obtain the stinkin' grocery list I forget to put in my purse.
Approximately thirteen minutes later, and, I might add, with a minimum amount of grumbling and swearing under my breath, I am back in a parking stall at the grocery store. Removing the children once again from the safety of their carseats, I happily discover the oversized cart right where I had left it before, and secured the offspring once again into the monstrosity. I pushed the cart back into the store, ready to really begin the task at hand. I reached into my purse again, and gasped. No, this can't be happening. Shaking my head in disbelief, I realize I have left the all-important grocery list back out in the minivan. Heavy sigh. Major eye-rolling.
Once again, I turn the cart (that should be proceeded by a sign with flashing lights that reads "Caution: Wide Load") around and go back out to the parking lot. I glance at my watch, and realize it is getting closer and closer to the time when I must get myself to the school to pick up my first grader. In a rush, I speed to where my vehicle is parked, unlock it, peek inside, and find the culprit list lying on the floor next to the driver's seat, right where I left it. I snatched it up, slammed the door shut, and clutching the list in my teeth, pushed the big cart back into the grocery store for one more go at it.
The automatic doors slide open, leading me directly to the produce section. Giving my cart a push, I quickly remove my list from my mouth to see what kinds of fruits and vegetables I need. (I know some of you reading this are probably coughing, and thinking to yourself, "Yeah, right, like you buy vegetables;" my snitty response to that thought is yes, by golly, sometimes I do indeed purchase green leafy things! So there! I am sticking my tongue out at you).
Remember me mentioning the size of the grocery cart? This is the point in which that becomes significant. I am not very good at judging distances, particularly when it comes driving my vehicle over curbs; my husband would be happy to attest to the turth of this statement. Apparently, this anti-talent extends to large grocery shopping carts as well. Without any concious effort, I somehow managed to push my empty cart (empty except for my children, that is) directly into the free-standing table display with grapes covering it. It must have had quite an impact, because I managed to send what appeared to be several hundred pounds of little green and red grapes rolling across the length of the floor of the produce section at warp speed.
I was frozen, just staring at the fruit-in-motion, which had the appearance of moving in a slower than normal fashion, as all unpleasant things do. My mind couldn't believe what my eyes were watching. What the freak?!?!
I took a deep breath, flushing furiously, and moved around the front of the cart to begin picking up the errant little green and red orbs. I am sure there were people around me, either laughing or stifling laughter, but I didn't notice. I was too embarrassed and frustrated to care. Out of nowhere, no fewer than three employees in the produce section magically appeared, who immediately began to clean up the mess I made and comfort me. There were no dirty looks, only smiles (but I heard their thoughts, distinctly chirping "cuckoo") as one of them patronizingly patted my shoulder and told me I didn't need to help with the clean up.
I apologized profusely and immediately turned my cart around and left the store; there had definitely been enough carnage for one day. And, besides, it was almost time to pick up the six-year old from school. In a somewhat numb state of mind, I managed to get the two little ones out of the cart and safely buckled back into their car seat, miraculously without injury. I turned the van on, buckled myself, and immediately flipped my cell phone open and called my husband. Not trusting myself at this point to be able to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously with any degree of safetly, I stayed unmoving in the parking stall, and recounted the entire story on the phone, not needing to add any drama to make it more interesting to the listener.
When I finished, my husband was quiet for the briefest moment, then said, "Honey, I think the Zoloft must be working, because you're not crying." It struck me, like lightening, that he was right! This sort of episode, had it happened a couple of months back, no doubt would have sent me into either a crying or raging fit, from either of which the spouse would have to absorb the fallout. But, I was actually laughing about the encounter, and it surprised me indeed.
It is from this experience that I have gained a testimony, if you will, of the great good that prescription anti-anxiety medication can do in one's life. I have since offered myself willingly to be the poster child for Zoloft. I recommend it to all my friends who do not consume alcohol to soothe their anxieties. Legal drugs, bless them, have become quite dear to me. My husband, children, and I are all recipients of the delightful consequences of them in my life. Yay Zoloft!!!
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