Living with the FOD, once again.

I am not shy when it comes to talking about much of anything, especially my anxieties, so it may come as no surprise that I feel inclined to blog about the FOD. The FOD is my overwhelming and all-encompassing fear of death which has plagued me ever-so unfortunately since I became a mother. It sucks. And I have it.

I first figured out I had this fear when Nathan was 8 months old and he and I flew to Reno to visit a friend. I was overcome by fear while flying and have not since felt better about it. In subsequent flights I go through the motions of sweaty palms, nausea, heart palpitations, and uncontrollable fear. Needless to say, I do not look forward to traveling, although I am constantly planning the next vacation. I love to escape my life, hoping that the FOD will subside when I leave my routine (which it usually does, although not before being brought to all time new levels on each hideous airplane adventure).

Meanwhile I have recently noticed that the FOD is creeping back into my day to day life. As I drift off to sleep at night I think "one day closer to death". Sooooo depressing. I gotta get over this, if anyone has any reasonable solutions please feel free to offer sugestions. I can't explain this fear, it is totally and utterly irrational and very annoying.

Both of my parents have at one time or another suffered from the FOD, leading me to believe that it's genetic (rats!), so sorry kids. Or maybe someone mentioned it to me at one point and my imagination just went hog wild. Who knows. All I can say is I look forward to the day when I don't freak out about my own existence and just enjoy living for the right now. Hopefully that day will come soon.

Sick Daze

I have been a terrible blogger. I'll admit it, I have to wait for something interesting in my life to happen for me to want to write about it. So far I'm happy to admit that life has just not been that interesting. Until this week.

We spent last weekend at a borrowed house on Lake Ontario in Oswego, NY. The house and property was beautiful, lake front sunsets, hot tub, huge deck setup, fantastic. The downside? The place was unexpectedly overrun with fleas, and the town of Oswego turned out to be a little too bud lite-NASCAR-bowling alley-seedy bar for my taste. Oh well. The other major setback, I think my kid may have been bitten by a tick.

Nathan seemed fine throughout our trip. Better than fine, I couldn't drag him out of the hot tub long enough to towel off. As soon as we arrived home he spiked a fever that still doesn't want to come down. Boo hiss. Poor little dude (who as many of you know is anything but tired and sickly most of the time) has been up all night crying in pain, vomitting, and shaking with fever. Talk about a parenting nightmare.

I've had my share of sick days and nights with my kids but it never fails to raise my anxiety flag whenever they are not well, especially when it doesn't seem to be getting better. Moms are instinctually trained to listen for the sounds of a child vomitting, coughing, breathing funny, you name it, we have it on our radar. We lie in our beds vigilantly waiting for some sign of trouble and leap up into the night to measure out the Tylenol, man the nebulizer, give the back rubs, or whatever the need may be, while our faithful husbands snore away in oblivion. Men don't (in my experience) seem to possess the same barrometer for sickness that we do. Too bad because man am I tired.

Francisco called me to check in on Nathan this morning and was barely listening when I said that he's about the same, not much change. Instead he chirped into the phone "He's better? Great!" and then hung up without saying goodbye. Weird male denial instinct. Huh.

Tonight I am going out with some mom friends for a small respite before my nighttime duty calls. Hooray for mom friends and vodka. Hooray.

Sun, Sand, and Lobster Boats

My vacation is in full swing and we are living large here in Camp Ellis, Maine. Our rental beach house is sitting at the ocean's edge with only a wall of rock buffering us from the open sea. We spend our days and up until bedtime lounging on the porch staring out at the Atlantic, dreaming of buying the place next door.

Today my dad and I joined up with the crew of Lucky Catch Cruises and headed out into the Casco Bay in seek of Maine's pride and joy: lobster.

Lucky Catch is run by Captain Tom, a seasoned lobsterman who clearly is comfortable showing lay people around a lobster boat. Assisted by two young women, Captain Tom escorted a gang of about 10 passengers out into the waters and showed us how to bait, pull, and release lobster traps. We donned aprons and gloves and got into the fun of measuring the lobsters and deciding if they were destined to become dinner, or head back to sea for another season.

Lucky Catch runs about 5 cruises per day, each lasting ninety minutes, pulling about 8 traps per trip. Tom says that a good lobster run will pull one keeper per trap, and we managed to pull 6, so not a bad run, and buying them at boat cost at the end of the cruise was well worth it.

My skin is taut from the sun and my hair feels like golden straw tonight as I sip my cocktail on the porch and think about the boat gliding over the waves on this sunny morning. Happy vacation indeed.

Preparation Station

Why does it take so long to pack up the family for vacation?

I spent every day this week loading plastic bins with linens, clearing out the pantry and shoving it into every corner of our minivan, washing, drying, folding, and packing clothes for five people, and then cleaning up the mess it left behind so as not to horrify the housesitter. Why does it take so freaking long? Because I do it alone.

Every time we go on vacation I think "I should really insist that someone else do something to pack for this trip". Yet the mere mention of locating even a pair of shoes elicits a deep gutteral sigh and a groan from every male in the room. After all the pissing and moaning I cave and just do it myself with a small child whining at my heels every step of the way.

Once the van was loaded to the gills with all of our worldly possessions needed for a week at the beach (with much room to spare I might add) my husband rolled his eyes skyward and with a tone of sheer exasperation complained "What IS all this stuff? We're only going for a week!" Bastard.

I know that as soon as we are unloaded and lounging in our beach house he will be the first one to ask me to locate the nail clipper or some other stupid item and be outraged when I didn't pack it. Double bastard.

Good times.

Puppy Love!

Hooray for the newest member of the Cosme/Hartshorne family: our new dog Polly! She is 4 years old and has come to us from our New Jersey relatives who, despite loving her to pieces, did not have time to give her the care and attention she deserves. When I visited my aunt and her kids a few months ago, I casually joked "Hey, if you ever need a home for Polly we'd be more than happy to have her". Little did I know she would give that statement so much thought.

We have debated getting a dog for a long time, we've been ready for one but we were just not sure if we wanted to go the puppy route, the chewing and accidents make me feel tired just thinking about it. And then there is the issue of temperment. My friend recently had to find a new home for her dog after she bit her young son, what a devestating decision for a family to have to make. We were wary of getting a rescue dog for the same reason.

Polly has already proved herself to be a perfect fit for our family. She is unbelievably good natured, has never growled or barked at anyone, let alone a child, and is housebroken. We've taken her for 5 walks in the two days she's been with us and everyone is tripping over themselves to cuddle her. Canine success! Thank you to the lovely cousins who knew that this would be a great home for Polly, we are so happy with her!

Happy Camper

I got back yesterday from a weekend camping trip in cold, rainy Maine. Despite the torrential downpours and the frigid 45 degree nights it was by far the best camping trip I've ever been on. Funny how that happens sometimes.

I went with four of my oldest friends and three of their significant others. I left my family behind for a weekend of uninterrupted girlfriend time. We gals have been friends since freshman year of boarding school where we spent our formative years helping to raise each other in a dorm. We saw our parents often but spent the majority of our time living together, and as a result we are all extremely compatible, and the best of friends.

The rain did pour, some critters crossed our paths, and Jane and I spent the first night layered and cocooned in so many layers I could barely lift my arms, yet still worried about frost bite as the water dripped into our tent. Not the ideal camping scenario, but it didn't faze us in the least. Kate and Mike brought a virtual camping "living room" complete with cabinets, a stocked bar, and a covered screen house. Our ever-handy friend Caleb whipped up bacon, eggs, and pancakes on his trusty camp stove, with coffee so good it could warm up even the iciest of knuckles. These are clever people, and I don't know how I will ever camp without them.

I always forget just how good it feels to spend time with them until we are all together, and when it comes time to part ways it never fails to make me heartsick, like leaving a childhood home after a long overdue visit. We spend our days and nights laughing incessantly, and telling jokes that require only one word to set us off. It feels like these women know me better than I even know myself, I can be completely open and honest with them, they really get me.

I couldn't help but spend half of the weekend planning our next adventure together. It's in my nature to plan for the next reunion, to guarantee that it will happen and as soon as we can. (I have long since held the title of "Captain Fun", although I'm not sure how true it is anymore). I need to know that this dose of girl time will be back around before I can forget the happiness in my heart from this trip.

Can't wait to see you again soon girls!!

Night Shift Blues

I was commiserating with my brother this morning after he had just gotten off the night shift at the local diner when I started pondering the effects of working the night shift. I have been working 12 hours nights at the hospital for the past four years and while it is, indeed, the best job I have ever had, the hours certainly do take their toll.

Take this week for example. I worked on Tuesday until 3am, got to bed about 3:30 and then was rudely awakened my my young son, who found it urgent that I join him in the bathroom at 6am while he moved his bowels. Life doesn't stop for the night shift. I then worked Wednesday night from 11pm to 7am (although this is a lie, our shifts actually end at 7:30, and often much later). I slept for four hours during the day yesterday while my kids played with a babysitter. Those four hours of sleep are by far the deepest sleep I am capable of these days.

I am like a corpse after working, completely passed out before my head even hits the pillow, drooling on my drive home and often slapping myself hard across the face to keep from drifting off behind the wheel. The level of exhaustion experienced by a night worker can only be compared to that of a long distance runner after a marathon (minus the adrenaline). Nobody understands this, unless you've done it you just don't get it. Painfully tired.

The problem lies (no pun intended) with the vast disruption to the circadian rhythm that I notice when I try and get a regular night sleep at the same time as everyone else. Last night I went to bed at 9:30, unable to keep my eyes open, but was then awake every hour after about 1am, only to be dragged out of bed like a mouse by a cat when the kids wanted pancakes. Torture. No wonder I feel so crazy sometimes. 

I always take into consideration my colleagues with young children who sometimes stay awake all day after working to care for their kids, out of necessity or sheer insanity. I will do anything to get out of staying awake any longer than necessary, sometimes trying to hide from Sofie as I come in the door (please God, not another hug! Just let me sleep!) I feel for these friends who do not get to experience the sheer joy of diving between the sheets in the morning for a few glorious hours of peaceful slumber. Despite the exhaustion I feel at the end of the shift, there is nothing quite like it.