Friday, June 16, 2017

Losing Weight: What it feels like when there is less of me

I have been trying to lose weight for quite a few years.  Let's see, how old are the children?  That's how long I've been trying to get back to my pre-children, just married bod.  And that's not even my lowest weight. That's the weight I felt like I could be flexible in what I ate and still feel healthy. (I don't like to say thin.  I like to say healthy)

Pretty much, since about the age of 30, I've spent some amount of time in every 10 lb range in the 100s.  ((Some of that was when I was pg with the twins. When I was as big as the broad side of the barn))

Four years ago, when everything went to hell in a hand-basket with Bridget's lungs, I had just gotten to my healthy weight.  And I compensated for the massive stress I felt with her illness with food and alcohol.  I ended up over 2 or 3 years gaining even more weight than I had started out, starting to creep into the I-look-like-I'm-pg-with-twins-but-I'm-not.

So a friend at work started losing weight. And she was working out like a wild woman and she looked very healthy.  I decided that my "Just eat healthy food, exercise regularly, and stop obsessing with your weight" diet that hadn't done anything wasn't working.

So I jumped.

I've always lost weight on my own.  But my friend was going to clinic.  I investigated.  It is a mostly low-carb clinic.  I balked.  I am a runner.  I think low carb is bullshit.  My friend lost more weight and looked even healthier.  I took the plunge.

And now I'm about 23 lbs down officially (although I lost two lbs right before I started due to a para-influenza).  And I have about 12 more lbs to go.  ((My one counselor thinks this is too much to lose, but the PA at the clinic supports it))  I've been going for 20 weeks.  I think I have about 10+ more weeks to go.

Dang it, that's a lot of prelude to the point of this post.

1)  I'm going to a Medi Weight Loss Clinic.  They are a chain of clinics around the country.  I'm learning how to eat a bit differently.  I am not going to say I'm eating healthier, because I have *always* been a healthy eater.  But I have given up a lot of starches, which is a big change for me. But here's the thing about this clinic:  they tell me *to* eat starches because I'm a runner.  ((more on that in another post))  Starches are not evil at this place.  You do eat them, especially if you are athletic.  You just don't each as much as you did and you time them around your exercise.

2) I freaking LOVE the weekly check-in with my counselor.  It keeps me accountable.  I have accountability each week.  I have my favorite counselor that all the athletes fight over seeing.  There was a woman in front of me today who didn't get to see J and was cranky about it.  I didn't see him either and I was cranky about it.  I love J.  J knows me and knows what I can and cannot do.  This is  one of the best parts of this clinic.  Plus, with NCBCBS and I'm off most supplements, my visits don't cost me anything.  Nada.  Outstanding interactions with a great clinic counselor and I'm moving forward on my goals.

3)  Nothing has changed. Here's the weird part about losing weight.  I am happier when I try on clothes.  I have a bigger variety of clothes to choose from.  But I'm still me.  When I look at myself in the mirror, I don't see anything all that different.  There's definitely less of me.  But it's still *me*. I know I look different but I'm really exactly the same. If you haven't lost a shit ton of weight, you probably don't know what I'm talking about.  Skinny me and fat me are still and always will be ME.  Nothing internal or important or substantial changes when you lose weight.

I've done this once before and have ended up model skinny (when I was in my 30s and in the 110s.  At 5'8", that is really skinny even though I was still very muscular) So let me say this again:

Nothing internal or important or substantial changes when you lose weight.

Yes, it's easier to considered attractive by society when you are thinner.  But not a DAMN thing is different.  I really LIKE being thinner.  I certainly prefer it.  But it's not going to make any major changes to my life or my happiness or my success as a human woman.

So you better damn well like yourself wherever you are on the scale.  That is HARD.  Trust me!  I know how disgusted I felt looking in the mirror before I started. But all that *really* changes is how my clothes fit.

Funny story on how things change in my interactions with others.  We went to the minor league baseball game on Friday.  (Go Knights!!) While Dave and the kids were away getting snacks and I sat in our seats, some drunk 40 something men came by and there was a seating question.  They ended up sitting beside us, but not until one essentially asked if the rest of the people I was sitting with were pretty girls.  (I will say that there was a "too" implied but I'm not going to report that's what he actually said)  Strange dudes saying anything remotely flirty with me is so far out of my wheelhouse.  So far.  It's not near my strike-zone. ((Huh! Who knew that wheelhouse was inspired by baseball.  I thought it had something to do with boats))

ANYHOOOOOOO. My response to the question of whether the rest of my party was pretty women was a snarky, pretty sharp retort of "THEY ARE MY CHILDREN!!!"

It took my quite a few minutes and more than a few times of replaying the comments in my head to realize someone had been trying to flirt with me.  Or at least, this dude thought I had pretty women friends worth flirting with.

So, ummm,  weight loss.  Yeah. It's nice to be more societally accepted.  But it does not change a damn thing.  Except, as sociologists would say, it changes everything.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Feeling the Need to Write (about the Squirrel)

Greetings strange people.

No, you're not supposed to start a blog entry with a greeting, like a diary.  But it's been so long since I've updated this blog with something substantial that, well, I felt like I ought to welcome (both of) you back.

So, yeah.  I have my YouTube channel.  I'm on Facebook and twitter.  I have a work webpage and a business one.   But sometimes, I need to write.  I need to process everything out of my brain via the written word.

So, there are lots of things I need to process in the blog:  losing weight and how different that does not make me feel, tidying up the house, my new relaxed approach to gardening, peaking at work in one's 50s, etc.

But today is dedicated to the Squirrel.  It's probably going to be the first in a series.  But right now, she gets today's brain space.

So, we've known for a while that Bridget is very smart.  I hate to say that because it sounds like bragging.  But it's clear that Bridget is a clever child.  She started talking in 4 word sentences. Her French skills are outstanding; she's almost a native speaker. She can argue like a lawyer, even though she doesn't have all the facts straight. Or maybe *because* she doesn't have all the facts straight.  Her math skills are top of the charts.  She's a clever little Squirrel.

But she can't read for shit.

And it's been a problem for at least 4 years.  When she started writing, she wrote her name in perfect mirror.  She will say Ma for Am.  She can decode a word in a sentence but when she sees it 4 words later, it's completely foreign to her.  Every word is a struggle.

Do you see where I'm going here?

Yeah.  We got the final diagnosis 3 weeks ago:  Bridget has dyslexia.

But there are several fortunate components to this diagnosis.

First, it is verified that Bridget is a smart kid.  As the doc says, she definitely has the horse power in her engine.

Second, she only has one area of dyslexia that's a problem.  I'm not going to say which because we are awaiting the final doc report, but it's a common one?  An easy one??  One in which the doc thinks that once her special training/tutoring kicks in, she's going to really ramp up on her reading skills.

Third, we are keeping her in French school.  Her gift for oral language and know vocabulary is at the top of the charts.  It's a real intellectual "gift."  I'm not taking that away from my child.  And both her teacher and the doc feel that improving reading in one language will boost improvements in reading in the other.  It's a decoding problem.  Bridget already understands that different languages make different sounds.  So decoding a phoneme in English won't impeded decoding a phoneme in French once the tutor helps her brain make the phoneme decoding connection.

We are reading Overcoming Dyslexia, a research based book by a Yale prof on what dyslexia really (differences in brain wiring) and how to help kids and adults improve their writing.  Honestly, the stories from the prof's cases are SO CLOSE to Bridget, that I feel like she must be the prototypical dyslexic kid:  Smart, talkative, creative, logical, math gifted, and can't read for shit.  

We've explained to her that she's a clever child but her brain wiring is different from other kids and that's why she can't read.  She was honestly HAPPY to learn that.  She knows she can't read and others can.  To hear that a doc said she was smart but her brain is wired differently from most kids---but wired similarly to a bunch of other smart kids---was a relief to her.

She's really looking forward to tutoring.  She's really looking forward to learning to finally read.  She likes being a smart kid who is a little funky.

I'm not going to hide this because there's nothing "wrong" with Bridget.  There's nothing wrong with *you* and all *your* funky things. It's what makes us ourselves.  I do not ascribe shame to dyslexia and Mama Bear will come out and say some ugly words if anyone tries to shame her for something that she likely inherited.  (Yeah.  Reading the book, I'm definitely on the dyslexia continuum)

So there.  I have a honorary MD in infertility.  Our pediatrician has already said that I have an honorary MD in pediatric pulminology.  Now, with the blessing and encouragement from the doc who diagnosed Squirrel, it's time for me to get an honorary Master's in Dyslexia tutoring and advocacy.  Apparently, this is one dx that all parents *have* to become experts to navigate the public school system and to make sure their child thrives.

Clearly, this is the first in a series of blog posts.....

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Grandpa Dog

Patches, our white collie, is 14 years old.  We call him our Grandpa Dog.  It's crazy to watch a dog go from a toddler to a grandpa sandwiched between not having any children to not even having a teenager yet.

And Patches is definitely showing his age.  He has horrible arthritis and we have to carry him up the stairs at night and back down the stairs in the morning.  Some days, this is pretty much my most taxing exercise. Which is sadly, not saying very much.  ((Hmmm, perhaps I need to also blog about going from a marathon runner to looking like a walrus about the same time we've had Patches.))

In any case.....

Poor doggie.  He has "fecal incontinence."  This means that often he has no idea he is about or is actually pooping.  He just walks along and drops a turd.  Lovely.  And also one of the reasons we have a lot of paper towels around the house and request visitors to sign a form about not reporting us to DSS when they leave.

He's deaf as a doorknob and is frequently surprised when he wakes up and sees who is in the house.

And, poor thing, he had a horrible flea infestation over the summer.  We were still doing monthly flea and heartworm treatments, but the flea treatment wasn't working anymore.  We ended up getting a very fancy flea collar from Chewy.com, which has been incredibly effective.  And the company ended up sending a postcard asking how the flea collars were working AND sent up our first Christmas card with a handwritten note wishing us and our pets a happy holiday!  ((WOW!!!))

And although we got rid of the fleas, Patches' skin was already so irritated that he didn't stop scratching.  And scratching and scratching and scratching.  And because he didn't know he had pooped, he would sit it in little turds which got stuck in his fur.  We would cut them out but by then, his skin became even more irritated.  And he would lick and scratch and lick and scratch and lick and scratch.

Patches would scratch in his sleep.  He would scratch and lick all night long.  He would spend the first few hours in the morning licking and scratching until he became so tired he would nap to wake up and scratch and lick some more.  He has pulled the fur off his legs.  And then this week, I noticed he was actually breaking skin and getting bad hot spots.

Back to the doctor yesterday.

And an antibiotic shot.

And this morning, for the first time in weeks?  Months??? Patches isn't incessantly scratching.  He's still a little interested in his skin.  And still licking and scratching a bit.  But he slept soundly all night and most of this morning.  There is mass rejoicing in the house that our old Grandpa dog has turned a skin healing corner.

And as Conor said yesterday, our animals never die.  ((I just chased Patches around the room spraying some medicine on his wounds.  It was a slow speed chase and he was giving me some serious stink-eye))  We are looking forward to a puppy or two in the future.  But we promise to Patches every day that he is our priority now and that his retirement years will be as restful and peaceful as we can possibly make them.

Just an update on the animals around here.  And one very special Grandpa Dog.




Saturday, October 22, 2016

We Have a Situation Or What Happens Your Airplane's Engine Fails

This week, I attended an out-of-state work related conference.  I arrived late Wednesday night, had meetings from 8 am until 8 pm and then flew out Friday morning at 7.  I was looking forward to getting a bit of work done Friday morning on the flights back to Charlotte.

The plane took off normally and I settled in to catch up on some reading. Then I heard a noise.  We all heard a noise.

OK!  Hold on here for a second.  The psychologist in me has to make clear that what I am going to tell you is how I currently remember what happened.  This was a very stressful experience and although I (and everyone else on that flight) was hyper-alert, memory is a pretty fickle beast.  I'm not sure of the order of events. I'm not sure of the exact words that were used. I only know of the timing of some of the events and some of the words from the texts I sent to Dave and the Facebook updates I sent to the rest of the world on what was happening while it was happening.  Yes, I will confess: I did not have my phone on airplane mode.  I figured if I was going to die, I wanted to tell my husband one more time that I loved him and our children.  And, I don't know? Let Facebook and the rest of the world know what was going on in our plane.

NOW: back to the noise.  There was loud, metallic noise.  It wasn't a boom like an explosion.  It sounded more like someone slamming a car trunk down on a lot of metal debris.

Then the plane lost a little bit of altitude (I think).  And it tilted to the right (I know).

The tension in the cabin increased although everyone wanted to be cool.  There is always some pressure when one is flying not get too worked up over turbulence or weird noises.  But this definitely seemed different.  And when (I think) we lost a bit more altitude, I thought "I love my kids. I love my family.  I don't want to die."

Actually, what I thought was more along the lines of "I love my kids. Not die now. No.  Nope.  No God.  Kids No Go Airport. Wait. Dead Mommy, No.  NOPE. No. No." All of that in a few milliseconds.  Honestly, scenarios quickly played out along with these words and none of them involved wanted me to be dead.  Big fat NOPE.

So we waited. I confess, I grabbed the arm of the woman beside me (traveling with her young teen daughter).  And we waited.  A few folks looked out their windows.  A person a few rows ahead of us looked around and reported seeing the head flight attendant talking on the plane's phone.

We waited a few seconds/minutes/hours/years more.

Then the flight attendant made the following announcement.  I shall provide my completely logical and unemotional interpretation of her statements:

"We have a situation."
((Situation is a euphemism for Shit Is Going Down.  This is the Real Deal Folks, so pay CLOSE ATTENTION.))

"The pilots are working very hard right now in the cockpit to get everything under control and they will report to you when they can about what is going on."
((OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT.))

So, um, yeah.  I have a bit of an "anxiety" issue.  "Really?" you say, "I would have never guessed." It's a brain chemistry thing and when I need to, I take a small dose of lorazepam to get myself back to normal.  My hands were shaking so hard that I could not actually grab the bottle in my purse. It took 3 tries and I almost gave up.  But I finally got it my paws and took 2 pills.  I even offered one to my seatmate who said she was already on enough medication that she didn't think this was a good idea.

The next thing I did (probably because I calmed down) is that turned into Professor On A Plane.  I told my seat mate and her daughter it was going to be ok.  I touched my colleague's (who was sitting ahead of me) arm and told her it was going to be ok.  AND LIKE I KNEW ANYTHING, I told my seatmate that we were going to find the nearest airport and then land.  And then we would all quickly get off the plane and leave our luggage--perhaps we could take our purses--but we should definitely leave our real luggage on the plane.  And then I told her that I just learned something new about myself:  when I'm stressed, I get bossy and I apologized for that and she said that was just fine!

And then I CONTINUED ON saying well, it could not be that big of an emergency.  My colleague later told me that this made the dude in front of me start laughing because CLEARLY SOMETHING WAS UP and this was not a normal event.  What I left out of my rambling lecture to my seatmate and her daughter on why this wasn't an emergency was my analysis of the data that WE WERE NOT PLUNGING TO EARTH so on the scale of "Holy Crap" to "WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE," we were probably closer to the Holy Crap stage.  Although every single one of us were afraid we were closer to the WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Then.  THEN.  THHHEEENNNNN!!!  The pilots came out of the cockpit.

I shit you not.

Both of the pilots came out of cockpit and like a giant thought bubble coming from every one of us, we nervously giggled and thought ''WHO THE FUCK IS DRIVING THIS THING!??!?!?!?!"

Looking back, I realize that they had reached Step #7 of the Protocol of Bad Things Had Happened and they needed to come out and physically look at the plane's problem.  So they asked the folks on the right side of the plane--over the wing--to open their windows.  And they looked out.  And said ok.  And went back to the cockpit.

It was horrible comic relief.  I still cannot tell that part of the story without thinking "Are you freaking kidding me!!!"

Then after a few seconds/minutes/hours/years, the pilot came on the speaker and told us that we had Complete Major Right Engine Failure and we were heading back to the airport.  That did not feel very good.  However, he then reassured us that they had a lot of training on this issue and.... I don't know what, if anything was said next.  Did he reassure us that he was confident that everything would be good?  I don't know.  I remember him saying they had a lot of training on this problem. Or something like that.  But I do not know what was said next.

I do know that I turned my freaking phone on.  One of the many lessons I learned from Flight 93 was that cell phones work on airplanes when you are close enough to the ground.  The first lesson I learned from Flight 93 was to attack the hijackers.  But the second one was that you can text people from the plane at low altitudes.  You shouldn't but you can.

I did not know if the pilots were blowing smoke up our, um, skirts with their confidence of handling this issue, but I knew I was going to tell my husband what was going on and that I loved him.  So I can look at my phone and see that about 25 minutes after we took off from the airport, I texted Dave that we were having an emergency landing.  We had a single engine failure.  And that I loved him.

We exchanged quite a few more texts.  People were crying all around. And then Dave texted that pilots practice single engine landing all the time.  And as far as an emergency goes, this should be routine.  Being the newfound AIRPLANE PROFESSOR BOSSY PANTS that I am, I read that out loud to everyone.  I even told them that my husband had just told me that.  One woman looked back at me and looked so relieved that I had said that.

We landed soon afterwards.  We laughed.  We clapped.  We cried.  The firetrucks had been waiting for us, gave us the once over, and then sent us back to the terminal.  Oddly enough, considering we weren't scheduled for arrival, we had priority and went right back to our gate!!

Dave and I continued to text about how glad we were that I had landed and was alive.  He also texted that engine failure is very rare and that statistically speaking, the next flight should be just fine.  I was still continuing to relay his informational texts to the others on the plane.  With that last text, while some folks appeared grateful for the news, quite a few--QUITE A FEW--rolled their eyes that statistically speaking, we were in like Flynn for the rest of all our flights forever.  I have to say, that makes me laugh.  It's a very "husband" thing to say.

And what a NUTJOB I was to share all that, right!?  What the HELL!?  I hereby apologize to those people who I am SURE wanted me to shut my pie hole on that flight.  I hope the people I reassured outweigh the people I must have annoyed, but I don't know. And there it is.  I am likely to talk and share whatever information or suppositions I have in an emergency.  I am also likely to touch people when they are crying.  Did a lot of touching, reassuring, and crying near the end of the flight.

Ugh.

We waited for about 5 hours at the airport until a new plane and crew flew out to get us from Atlanta.  They had snacks for folks in our waiting area.  We all checked in on each other at restaurants, bathrooms, and the corridors.  Seriously.  Normal barriers to speaking to strangers were broken and we chatted and joked and shared with each other.

We also shocked the new gate crew when it was time to board the plane again.  Our original flight had been very crowded.  The announcer told us that for this flight, "we didn't need to worry about having enough space for luggage; we'd lost a few people over the last few hours."  Oh. My. God(dess).  The entire waiting room broke into loud laughter.  Really!?  Could she have not picked another phrase to say there were fewer people on this flight!?  Again, the thought bubble appeared as we laughed saying "You almost lost a heckuva lot more people about 5 hours ago!!"

So I finally got home last night.  I had absolutely no anxiety on the additional two flights I needed to get home.  I'm hoping it stays that way.  I do know that when I got home, I was shocked at how hard I was crying and hugging my family.  I didn't know I'd been "holding it together" for the past 12 hours.

This morning, I woke up and was excited about how normal I felt.  Then my eyes just started leaking.
I know blogs are weird, right? There isn't a real theme to this one anymore.  But I do know that once I knew we were going to live, I HAD to write this down and get it out of my soul.

I'm writing this on a Saturday.  And no one writes or reads blogs on a Saturday.  But to get past this and heal, I had to bossy pants share with you what happened on my way home yesterday.  Thanks.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Killer Mommy

I almost killed our older gerbil yesterday.

UGH.

Let me back up. Things have been crazy busy lately.  I'm working on many projects.  ((I'm hoping to go up for my promotion to Full Professor next year))  I'm trying to exercise.  Occasionally, I take a shower.  I never clean.  And I have a lot of animals.

Conor told me that his gerbil, Toasty, had run out of food.  Knowing how he and the twins feed their gerbils--the twins' gerbils cage is alternating layers of shavings and food--I figured I could get some eventually.

Well, damn.

After running to the grocery store to get some wine :-/ , Conor freaked out because Toasty was had his eyes shut and was barely moving. When we picked him up, he was cold and not really breathing.  I sped back to the grocery store and picked up some gerbil food. Toasty grabbed a few kibbles and ate.  And then fell asleep.  Or into a coma.  Or began to die.

I have never felt like a bigger shit than I did right then.  Toasty is the sweetest gerbil I've ever known.  He lets me pick him up and kiss on him and when I pet him on his nose, he falls asleep in my hands.  He always comes out to say Hi when I come into the room.  He's a sweet, innocent tiny gerbil.  And I didn't buy him any food.  And we couldn't tell if he was going to die.

Conor left the room and I picked up Toasty with a few kibbles in my hand and rocked him and kept him warm.  I swear a few times he stopped breathing.  I started crying.  He curled up his little feet and hands and slept on my chest with my hands around him.  Conor came back and kissed me on the head while I told him how sorry and horrible I was.

We put him back in his cage, in his bed with food in close proximity.

This morning, Toasty was the first thing on my mind.  Conor was still sleeping but I had to check on the little guy.  I took in a flashlight to find him, but had to turn on the light anyway because he didn't come out to say Hi like he normally does.

I found him in his bed, ever so slightly fluffier.  And he ran out and said HEY!  I AM STILL MAD AT YOU!  But he ran!  He scurried out of his bed!!  I hugged Conor so hard that Conor said I hurt his ear.

I've been back in several times today and have picked up Toasty and loved on him.

Something has to give because I have so much on my plate.  But honestly, it was a wake up call.  And today, I've taken care of more work and more errands than I have in a while.  There is definitely quite a bit of room for improvement in my work and scheduling.

And no sweet animal, child, student, or husband should suffer because I can't get my shit together.


Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Bunnies!!

Bunnies!  Bunnybunnybunnies!!!  We have BUNNIES!!!!

Introducing:  Rose Tyler (in white fur) and River Song (in the more auburn)



Some friends could no longer handle the bunnies so we adopted them.  We are still getting to know them and they are still getting to know us.


The cats couldn't care less about them.  George would like to snuggle per usual, but Fred has no interest in them at all.

Patches is jealous as heck.  He cannot stand the attention we are giving them. He wants to eat their bunny food (!). And he really, really, really, really wants to smell their bunny butts.

We are not yet in the snuggle bunny phase yet.  And with them being two, and I don't think they've been snuggled a lot before, I hope we can get there.  Bunny advice wanted!!  We have them in a pretty open area now.  We're hoping for bunny free range freedom at least part of the day once we are assured they know where they should come back to and Patches doesn't scare them to death licking their bunny bums.  :-)

BUNNIES!!!  BUNNIES!!!!! BUNNY BUN BUN BUNNIES!!!

Friday, August 19, 2016

Dreams of Where You Used To Live

One outcome from the Great Family Road Trip was finding out how many of my friends also dream about where they used to live.  I thought I was the only one.

As a psychologist, I'm sure sharing my dreams on the interwebs is a stupid idea.

NONETHELESS.

I frequently dream of moving back to NYC, Los Angeles, and to NC.  I *loved* living in Manhattan.  I had a small apartment in Greenwich Village with a raised loft for the bedroom, a separate kitchen, and an entire wall and ceiling of windows that let me see the Empire State Building.  I also loved the density and energy of living in The City.  If I could, I would live there now and for the rest of my life.
My dreams of going back to NYC include finding my old neighborhood, finding a place with the killer deal like I had before, finding one with secret rooms big enough for the whole family, and generally the joy of living there and the sadness that I no longer do.

When I dream of going back to Los Angeles and California, I dream of driving.  I have two dreams of living in Claremont (where I went to grad school):  1) it is beautiful and I can go hiking in the mountains; or 2)  I am not in the right place.  Claremont has CHANGED since I was there.  There is a new village with lots of new stores and restaurants. After seeing that part of Claremont, I had nightmares of being lost in my former hometown.  I don't like those dreams.  When we passed through a few weeks ago, I didn't take the family through the new village.  Honestly, I didn't want to fuel my nightmares.

The other dreams of living in California involve driving and driving and driving around trying to find a bargain of a place to live that is close to both a highway and the beach or a mountain.  In my dreams, I'm in a lot of traffic and I can never find the Right House.  In all honesty, that sounds like the reality of living in LA.

Finally, I have to be honest with you. Although I LOVE my house in Charlotte, when I dream of moving back to NC, 99% of the time I'm moving back to my parents' home and I have to go back to school to 1) finish my PhD; 2) get another PhD; or 3) finish my undergraduate degree.  Ugh.  Ugh, ugh, and ugh.

I've had these dreams so many times I know the pattern.  Usually I have these dreams when I feel behind at work, which as a professor is ALL THE TIME.  Also, at some point in the dream when I'm behind in a class or behind on my dissertation, I think to myself: I had a tenure track job.  Why did I leave it.  WAIT!  I had TENURE!!  Why did I leave?! Why am I still in school WHEN I HAVE TENURE!?

And then I wake up.

First, there's the ugh of remembering the dream as I wake up.  And then there's the relief that I still have my husband, my family, our house, our dog, our cats, our gerbils, our chickens, our new bunnies, my friends, my job, and Charlotte.

As crazy as life is here, I prefer it to the dreams. Unless I could move all of this to New York City.  And then I would in a heartbeat.