We sent Nici home. Back to Austria. Never to return.

Remember Nici? She was our au pair. She was with us for 14 weeks. She was supposed to become one of our family, bond with our girls, enhance our lives and just be all-around awesome.

She did not and was none of those things. In fact, she became so far the polar opposite that after a particularly gnarly ride to the airport to drop her off for a trip home to visit her family for the holidays wherein I had to listen to her raise her voice, be beyond disrespectful to my husband and then remind her to say goodbye to my girls, the entire reason she was even here in the United States, I turned to my husband and told him, “I can’t do this with her anymore.”

And that was that.

Our household is back to the way it was. I’m figuring it out. But the darkness of living with someone – a stranger – who so obviously didn’t like us? It’s gone. It’s light and happy and Nici? Her name is never mentioned by the girls, even now, three weeks after she’s been gone. It’s like she was never even here.

So I hope you all had a wonderful and joyous holiday season and that 2010 brings all kinds of excitement and adventure for you.

Myself, I am hoping to get back on schedule, back on task, back to the things I enjoy… skiing, cooking, blogging.

Happy New Year!

Poop central in her kennel. (And yes, the girl is still in a kennel. Even coming up on 18-months old, she remains every inch a spastic pup. Clearly. As illustrated by the inhalation of said wedge of Port Salut.)

So I threw the pillow and blanket from her kennel in the washer and went about my business. This was about 9:30pm. And then I forgot about it. At some point during the night, I awoke to a disgusting smell. I went down to the laundry room, and sure enough, there was that stupid “UE” message. I don’t know, it’s an uneven load or something like that, which happens way too much with this washer. And I assumed the stench was puppy poop? And so I just turned off the washer and figured I would let my husband deal with it when we picked him up this morning.

And the smell just got worse and worse. And then I heard the sound of what I thought was water trying to fill the washing machine? And then I went to get my husband at the airport, with the girls. And when I came home, I could smell it in the garage. And I entered the house before my husband, and Nici mentioned the house smelled like gas, and did I turn on the heating system? And then my husband came in and was all, “what the hell? It’s a gas leak! How long has this been going on?”

Me: Um, since last night? I guess?

Husband: You guess? Do you not know what gas smells like?

Me: Um, yeah. Well, the kind at the gas station. And this doesn’t smell anyhting like that.

Husband: Yea, that’s why the gas company puts the smell of rotten eggs in the gas so that you know what you’re smelling.

Me: Uh, okay. First of all, I must’ve missed that rotten eggs memo from the gas company. And second of all, I have no freaking idea what rotten eggs smell like in the first place. And third of all, ARE YOU TELLING ME WE COULD HAVE ALL DIED LAST NIGHT?

Clearly, there are some things in this world that you are just supposed to innately know, and although I did not, I will do you all a little public service here and let you know that:

1) the gas company puts the smell of rotten eggs in the gas line so that you can smell the gas leak;

2) if you don’t know what rotten eggs smell like, they smell nothing like you think they would, but do smell pretty gross according to the gas company’s own personal olfactory experts;

3) never, ever be afraid to call 911 because you just that night met a local cop who said, “oh, you’re the housewife who called the Sheriff on the mating elk…” and so you think they will further make fun of you because you are now the housewife calling them because something in your house smells kind of funky…

…because as it turns out, you and your two precious daughters and your Austrian house guest were asleep in a pressure cooker just waiting to explode. That’s right, you’re worst nightmares were just so close to the cusp of becoming a reality. A horrifying reality.

For real, I used to be so smart. I have no earthly idea how this got by me. How I mistook the odor of gas filling up my home, which held my sleeping loved ones, for the sound of water filling up a washing machine that was off-balance. What the? Really?

Really. My name is Melissa and sometimes I am just really stupid.

I was ‘diagnosed’ with asthma as a kid. And in the decades since then? I’ve hidden those stupid inhalers in the backs of cabinets, never taken a hit off of a single one of them. I’ve denied the asthma mark of shame* vehemently. I’ve even gone so far as to become a certified scuba diver. A big no-no for someone with asthma.

I do not have asthma.

Let me repeat… I do not have asthma.

When are doctors going to listen to me? I may be a little nutty, but I know myself. I know my body.

Fast-forward to last Tuesday and a trip to an allergy / asthma specialist. Hours of scratch tests bookended by breathing tests.

Guess what?

I don’t have asthma.

Let me repeat… I do not have asthma.

So, while it’s not coming up on six weeks and I still have this nagging and dry cough, it is finally dwindling down. Dying a very slow death. I mean really slow. But the good news? I don’t have asthma! The bad news? We don’t know what I have. It’s been recommended that I visit a lung specialist. But I’m not going to do that. Not just yet. I’m over doctors. They don’t listen very well.

And I’m over summer. It’s been a rough one, as it turns out. Both girls are getting over pink eye and ear infections. And little Coco put a big old exclamation point on her illnesses with a nice case of croup. Fun!

Cough*cough…

*…Why the ‘mark of shame’ comment? A foggy memory of that weird chubby kid in 4th grade gym class with the asthma inhaler on the lanyard, roped to the outside of his Jansport backpack and a wicked game of Dodgeball…

Sunday night, reading books in Pea’s bed to the girls, I’m pretty sure that Coco broke my nose. She beaned me, square in the face, with her tiny little head. She was fine. Me? Not so much. After hearing a distinctive ‘crack,’ the blood came gushing. The geyser finally stopped, but now I’m sore and my nose is stuffed up, on the left side. Big time. My poor husband, he actually had to sleep with his headphones on – music playing – all night long, and he still didn’t get any sleep, on account of the difficult time I was having simply breathing through my I’m-pretty-sure-it’s-busted nose.

Can we say “snore?”

Yup, that says broken to me…

And then, while outside playing with Coco before her nap, I noticed two odd-looking freckles on my arm, that have never been there before. Of course, my being the hypochondriac that I am, you can pretty much figure out how this afternoon is going to go…

Don’t you ever feel like you just can’t catch a break?

But the reason I wear my hair long is a simple one: no one – and I do mean no one – has ever, ever been able to get my hair right. As in haircut. (I’m thinking specifically of the modified mullet I was sporting after my last trim.) And now, you can add color to the mix. I waited as long as I possibly could before I needed to face the inevitable – the gray hairs sprouting straight up from my scalp. Really, would it kill those little buggers to grow in straight, with the rest of my hair? Wait, I don’t have straight hair, so that’s not really what I meant. I just meant, why in the world can’t they grow in the same general direction as the rest of my hair? Rather than at a ninety degree angle?

Pfft.

A few months ago, I had a pretty traumatic experience with my stylist. Who is, I might add, ‘one of the best in town.’ She’s done my hair about four times, the second time being the official last time I was going to go to her. She sent me home blond. Seen me? I’m not suited for blond. I have black eyes, black eyebrows and olive-ish skin that gets very dark in summer. Can we say ewww? Not a good match? Because it’s not. And so I swore, after listening to my husband make fun of me for about 10 minutes, that I was done with her.

Until… the drugstore incident. Wherein I colored my hair myself, with an $11 box from Rite-Aid. And all seemed okay. Until I got to Germany, and my husband, once again, made fun of me on the streets of Heidelberg, in a town where I spoke not a lick of German, and therefore couldn’t communicate with a stylist during an emergency color treatment to correct the issue, for having reverse roots. As in, dark hair, light roots. Lovely.

My hair needed professional help, and after desperately Googling stylists here in town and in SLC, I gave up and went back to my stylist. The one I’d broken up with. Know what happened? My husband again made fun of me, as I got into the car. Seriously. Can you say Goth Girl? Because that’s what I looked like. A little Goth Girl. We’re talking jet black. And this is after four hours, several rolls of tin foil and about three bowls of differently mixed shades of color. You know, for the whole ‘natural and multi-dimensional’ color we all strive for.

I cried. My daughter said I looked ugly. Several times. I cried some more. And then, my husband handed me the phone. And I did what I said I’d never do, in a million years. I called the stylist and told her it had to be fixed. It just had to…

And so, after promising me that 1) correcting the color would not destroy my healthy hair, and 2) that she’d give me the hair that I had as a child back, and 3) the ‘head’ colorist at the salon really knew what he was talking about, and 4) that she was not going to use bleach to lighten the base, after another four hours, I… 1) still had Goth Girl hair, only now with the added loveliness of an overall checkerboard pattern that brought in the most beautiful shade of brassy orange, 2) had massive breakage, 3) had hair that felt like straw… really dried out straw, and 4) found out today, from a new stylist, that she did indeed use bleach to lighten my color. But now? I’m back to a lovely shade of chocolate brown with… wait for it… orange roots.

What the? Is it me? Is it my hair? Do I just have really bad hair karma? Am I destined for a life of hair issues? I don’t get it. I go into these appointments armed with pictures. Clear photographs. I spend as much time as I need explaining what I’m looking for, what my goal is. And then, I ask the stylist what her opinion is. I’m patient. I don’t think my expectations are too high. And I’m not asking for anything unrealistic. Just natural, glossy and healthy-looking color. My color, basically. But without the grays. Am I asking too much? What more could I possibly do to make sure that what I walk out of the salon door with is the color that I’m paying for? The color I’ve requested?

I have no idea now what I’m going to do now. Miserable isn’t the word I’d use, because really, it’s just hair. And thankfully, mine grows like a weed. But in the meantime? I’m going to make nice with that collection of baseball hats in my husband’s closet. And brace myself for the peels of laughter, as soon as I head upstairs… Oh, and be grateful that I lost my camera. Because, seriously. You don’t want to see it. You just don’t.

Trust me.

It’s just hair, right? In the grand scheme of things? Just hair…

Check out my newest post on how we’re coping with Pea’s not-so-hot sleep habits on…

The Bump!

What is not so lovable is the uncertain fate of my absolute favorite shop on Etsy. I’ve written about Rocker Baby before, I’ve bought dresses for the girls from Matilda and Russell’s shop, and I think it’s fair to say that I am their number one fan. So it’s with a heavy heart that I pass on that I heard from the designer today that her shop has been indefinitely removed from Etsy.

Bummer? That’d be an understatement.

Suffice it to say that you can’t please everyone. The details of what happened? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter to me. I can only go by what I know of Rocker Baby, and that’s always been nothing short of a top-notch experience.

In a nutshell, if you have ever bought one of Rocker Baby’s gorgeous items of clothing for your kid, and your experience was a good one, then you can do something really great for Rocker Baby, and email Etsy at support@etsy.com and let them know how much you’d like them to bring Rocker Baby back.

I don’t worry that I’ll never be able to buy something for my girls again from Rocker Baby, I know they’ll set up shop elsewhere. It’s the convenience of having them on Etsy, the fact that they’ve established a loyal clientele that have now been alienated that saddens me.

I sent my email to Etsy, hoping you can do the same…

Have a restful evening…

I thrive on routines and schedules and my way. And there’s a solid reason for that. I have ADHD. And not the kind where you are having a scatterbrained day, and absentmindedly declare yourself, “so ADHD I just can’t get it together.” Mine is real. My name is Melissa and I have ADHD.

I was diagnosed one year ago, by a well-respected doctor, who told me as I was leaving his office in complete shock, “…and it’s the worst case of adult ADHD I’ve ever come across.” Thanks, doc. That’s good for my self-esteem. And then, to add insult to injury, the medicine he prescribed made me insane. Literally. And so I found a new doctor. Because I was sure that there was no way I could have ADHD. But she was sure of it, too. As sure as the first doctor. As in, “wow, that’s the most extreme case of Adult ADHD I’ve come across in my very long career.” I still doubted her diagnosis, although slightly less so because she, herself, was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of 48. So she knew. And she gave me a new medicine. And it works wonders. And suddenly life is more orderly, which is something I’ve striven for my entire life. Order. Which so obviously explains why I am so fanatical about lists and schedules and routines. Because I need them. Because I can’t get through my day without them.

Added to my extreme case of Adult ADHD is anxiety. Crippling anxiety. The kind that calls for medication. Which I was taking so happily for about two weeks. The best two weeks of my life. I was getting things done, I was having fun, I was not worried about anything. Until I pulled up my pants one morning, and couldn’t get them past my thighs. And stepped on the scale, then stepped off the scale. And wept. I had gained over five pounds in two weeks. And that’s when I knew that I would never take my anti-anxiety medication again. So I stopped. Cold turkey. Stupid. Do not ever stop a mind medicine cold turkey unless you are under the immediate supervision of a medical professional. Because even after I had only been on the medication for two weeks, and so was certain that it would leave my system easily, I found out the hard way, while home alone for a long week with the girls, taxes due, no outside help and an extra five pounds on my frame that sent me into a shame so great I couldn’t leave the house, that I was so wrong. It would not – and did not – leave my system easily.

Now, it’s all behind me. But back in the real world for someone who has an anxiety that cannot be managed without the help of medication, I can tell you that life? Is really taking me to the mat. I am a kind of tired that can’t be put into words. And it’s just been one thing after another. No relief. Taxes. Emergency trips to the vet. Ear infections. Sinus infections. Husband out of town for days on end. Cold sores. Struggle to shed 5 extra pounds. Broken oven. Leaking washing machine. A nearly-finished hand-knit scarf violently shredded with a pair of shears. An almost-4-year old who won’t sleep in her own room. A toddler who is testing my patience and my ability to bruise like a banana by using her fists to get what she wants. An older kid who screams, “No, Coco!” all day long at her little sister, until I think my ears are going to bleed. I could go on and on, but I am not going to. Why? I’m pretty sure that your life looks much like mine does. But I bet you cope a lot better than I do, right? Maybe you can look at that list and think, such is life? Big deal? Shit happens. Get over it. But I can’t do that. Not without meds. I look at that list and think, oh I can’t do this. I’m done. I’m finished. I’m out of here.

Seeing my doctor again on Monday, and trying so hard to focus on the good and the beautiful until then. Telling myself that life indeed will go on if the girls eat cookies for dinner. That it’s okay if I don’t mop the kitchen floors this Sunday. That if Pea wants to wear her nightgown as a dress, no one is going to call me out as an unfit mother. That it’s okay to ask for help from my friends, whom I’m so lucky to have. Women who get me, who live a life parallel to mine, who respond to my statement of, “oh my God, it was so bad I threw a cup against the wall” with, “just one? I threw two.” Women who come and rescue me, take me out to lunch at the Irish pub, ply me with Shepherd’s Pie, a couple of pints and lots of laughter.

I love to laugh.

Thanks, ladies…

Enjoy the remainder of your weekends!

We’ve come a long way, baby…