Moms: Get Off the Couch! I Did. Here's How:

So, up till now I was, shall we say, a tad fatigued. Here's a multiple choice question for you:

Which memories of Mom will be cherished by my preschooler?
(a) tossing a baseball
(b) building a castle out of cereal boxes
(c) lying prostrate on the couch making weird nasal noises and drowning out the soundtrack on Dragon Tales

Well, I am happy to report that, after an unconscionably long period of wanting only to lie on the couch all day, of dragging my corpse out of bed each morning and scraping through the day doing the absolute minimum or rather less than that, I finally jettisoned my internist (who had insisted my thyroid levels were "good enough" and I was just depressed) and went to see an endocrinologist.

Endocrinologist started me on a tiny dose, just half a milligram, of synthetic thyroid hormone.
She said it would take 4 - 6 weeks to kick in.
It took 2 days.

I awoke on the 2nd day, saw the sun shining in the window and heard the birds chirping, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually wanted to get out of bed. I was excited about the new day. This by itself is revolutionary. My husband commented on the lack of dark bags under my eyes.

I am now one whole week into taking Synthroid and am actually PEPPY. I have energy to do the things that need to be done in my life. I have recovered my former mental focus and physical stamina. It is just amazing, the transformation. People can tell the difference just talking to me on the telephone.

So the moral of the story is: if you are a woman over 40, with or without small kids at home, and you complain to the doc about fatigue and lack of energy, don't let your GP brush you off with a prescription for Prozac and the names of some good psychiatrists to treat your "depression". You may be depressed -- who wouldn't be, feeling this exhausted all the time? -- but it's also entirely possible that you have a borderline thyroid. Tons of women past a certain age have undiagnosed thyroid issues. Go see a board certified endocrinologist. Do it soon.

envy (not the penis kind)

What had been a lovely afternoon of togetherness, sitting in the sunny porch and painting watercolor rainbows on paper, turned suddenly sour when I decided to use two of my creations as end of year thank-you cards for wonderchild's teachers.

I'm not your friend any more.
I want another mother.
I hate you.
I'm not having a good afternoon.

Later he announced he would be appeased only by a milkshake. And I, craven guilty soul that I am, caved. I rushed into the kitchen to make it, thinking: well, at least I can sneak an egg into him this way.

Wonderchild, age 5, wants me to belong entirely to him, to devote my every waking moment and particle of energy to him, to revolve around him as the earth revolves round the sun.

In fairness, I believe he revolves around me. Poor little bunny, what choice does he have? We are alone together so much. Only child, stay at home mom. Not a good formula. No "village." No nearby family, no siblings. He has playmates of course but there's still lots and lots of time that's just "Mommy and me".

Of course that's about to end, though I don't think he quite realizes. First camp, and then kindergarten, will signal the end of our solo afternoons. I'm torn between regret and relief.

Not giving up the dreams

Not giving up the dreams,
But only knowing them better.

And in the midst of that process,
The following out of skew lines,
Far striking in dark blueness,

And always playing Sisyphus,
Victim of a myth,
Victim of myself,

I hold, and will hold,
to that kernel
that I have known in secret,
The seed-pearl at the center.

Mine only, and yet not mine,
And so I do not name it;
Content to have it there,
To open my eyes upon it.

My adolescence bore little resemblance to Isadora's.  

Insert Toe in Water

My first post to an adoring public and I'm as nervous as a bride who's about to marry the guy she met on the rebound. (Yep, I've done that.)

Today was lovely. I dropped the wonderchild at his preschool and toddled over to the local posh grocery, leisurely trolling for bargain berries (organic of course!), lugged the overpriced load home and stuffed same into antique (OK, late '80s) fridge that leaves puddles all over the not-so-charmingly cracked vinyl flooring. {Why are some things charming and antique and others merely ugly and old? The others were never nice to begin with.}

I guess I like not working. Unemployment seems to suit me. Or is it just Not Enough Prozac?

In the afternoon I took the wonderchild to a little park near the house. He made woodchip ice cream and then we spent a nice half hour befriending a periodical cicada who, judging by its slow motions, was nearing the end of its brief span above ground. The great mating ritual seems to be over and the passionate mass drumming in the trees has faded to a mere background thrum.

I thought how fascinating it might be to just sit and observe the behavior of this creature. Then, a flash -- entomologist manquee!? I bet I'd last at least a day or two.

Truth is, I don't seem to have abiding passion for anything. I envy those with a life's passion but sometimes wonder if they ever allow themselves to digress long enough to pal around with a dying insect.

I do see things, even if I do nothing about any of it.

A misspent life? You be the judge.