FYI, Mr. Highway Patrolman

If you should happen to see a woman in a Jeep going just a teeny bit over the speed limit on a deserted highway in the middle of BFE, and she has a screaming child in her backseat, milk spattered across the interior of the car, and she's on the verge of tears, have a frickin' heart and just give her a warning.

Or be a prick and don't and then leave said woman wondering how much she could sell her eggs for.

Where the "blahs" turn into more

It's been a bit rough around here lately. Not due to external forces, mostly, but due to internal ones.

I spent last weekend cramped into a too-small lake house with The Banker's family. We left the house only for dinner, really, and so the entire time I felt like the walls were closinginonme. There were three children and eight adults and while there was booze, even that didn't take the edge off. It was just too tight, too much, too long. And I found myself wanting to crawl out of my skin.

I fully expected this intense discomfort to pass upon our return home. But it didn't. Oddly enough, the anxiety seemed to build rather than dissipate. I'd a physical scheduled for Wednesday and in passing mentioned these symptoms to my doctor. Okay, not so much in passing. More like, "Geez, doc, what the hell is going on? Tightness of chest, insomnia, diminished appetite. WTF?!"

As it turns out, my encroaching 30th birthday has a lot to do with this. Because my hormones? They're taking a serious dive. I'd always heard that a woman's fertility drops in half at 30. Well, what they don't tell you is that this drop is caused by a serious diminishment of hormones, which leads to all the symptoms I was experiencing. The doctor assured me that my body would soon re-align itself to deal with the lower levels, however.

But come on! Like saying farewell to my 20s wasn't going to suck enough, it turns out that 30 welcomes me with an emotional roller coaster from hell. What a bitch.

A hardcore case of the blahs

I think I'm suffering from a hardcore case of the blahs. Too hot outside, and I'm always consumed by mosquitoes. Currently itching at some dozen-plus sites (and that was WITH jeans on!). Anxious kid and no Mother's Day Out until September. The terrible twos have also seemed to arrive early, which means we have our fair share of tantrums and time-outs to contend with. And I have freelance to write and no interest in either article. And my editors seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, so I feel like I'm sending out queries into the nether. Ugh.

And The Banker and I are trying to get ourselves on a strict budget, now that the new-house spending hemorrhage has started to dwindle to droplets. In makes sense trying to reign in costs, given the whole sucky economy and all. But there's nothing quite as anxiety-ridden or mood-bumming as writing down the costs for everything. Zanax for anxious, fighting dogs: $14. Groceries, even with coupons: $124. Gas: $78. Yuck.

Both my sisters, who were in town this past weekend for The Race for the Cure, have returned to their respective homes. And I can feel their absence most heavily.

Thrown into this mix is the fact that this weekend I'm supposed to go to The Lake with The Banker's family. This family doesn't travel. Ever. So what prompted this get-together, I've no idea. But the boys will get to go golfing, leaving the wives with the screaming kids. Supposedly, there will be a trade-off and pedicures or something for the ladies. But what I REALLY want is time to myself. To work out. Read. And maybe buy my first pair of jeans in over two years. But that, I think, is not in the budget.

Fall better hurry up and get here.

It's official

This morning, as Becca grabbed a book from her bookshelf and sat down to flip through the pages, I attempted to read along to her. She leaned over, stretched out her arm, palm flat, and pressed it firmly against my face, pushing me away. Three days away from her 17 month, and she's decided that, Mom? Mom's pretty much not needed.

And the kitchen sink, too

After a whirlwind weekend to visit my dad's parents, some five days later my grandmother was promptly put into the hospital for almost a week. She'd looked so great during our visit, so strong and happy, but a variety of factors finally led her to desperately needing a break (from keeping up a house that's too large for them and for caring for my grandfather). The toll it took on my dad was crushing to see. I'm really shitty at seeing the people I love in pain. Coupled with my own fears and pain was the knowledge that I needed to step up and help. Make phone calls. Arrange for information from assisted living facilities to be sent out. Send out encouraging cards. Keep everyone in the loop. Keep the smiles and positive thoughts rolling.

Added to this was the responsibility of watching my parents' elderly dog, run errands for them while they were away, write four freelance articles, plan a small dinner party, keep atop a child who--despite a tumble down the stairs--STILL wants to go everywhere she shouldn't. I was feeling really, really overwhelmed. The oldest child, the only one in town, the mom, the daughter, the writer, the part-time worker, the house cleaner, the dog sitter, the chef, the wife. Wearing so many damn hats while trying to shoulder the emotional burden of this past week left me exhausted. And, I have to admit, a little angry. Because the selfish, crappy part of me, whimpered, "Isn't anyone going to help? Who's going to take care of ME?"

Thankfully, we're coming out the other side. My grandmother is out of the hospital and into rehab to get her strength back. My dad returns tomorrow. Two articles are, at least, roughly written. Dinner party a success. But the exhaustion and haggardness lingers. And in some ways, the battle has only begun. There will be arguments over facilities. Over cleaning out a house so cluttered from almost 30 years of life that closets are overflowing. There will be nastiness as siblings bicker.

Boy, I could use a vacation.