Andy Lien

I’ m crawling metformin hcl 850 mg side effects out of my skin.

I’ve started three different posts in four hours.  I saved them as drafts, but I think they’re probably crap.  Worthless.  In fact, in this state, I’m kind of worthless right now, too.  I can’t make a decision, I can’t get anything done.  I’m jumpy and irritable.

No, this isn’t nicotine withdrawal…at least not in a chemical sense.  I smoked my remaining three cigarettes on Friday, the last of which was at about 6PM.  I spent the weekend not smoking…but, instead, noticing how my complexion is trying to slough off a layer of protective skin around my mouth, long deadened by the tar.  I might look better, facially, but I’d kill to take a drag right now.  Not for the taste or smell…but for the comfort of the ritual.

Why comfort?  Why is it that I want to eat anything within these four walls today?  Why the confusion and general sense of bad tiding?  I must be in a funk.  And, oddly enough, I think what put me into the funk was Mother’s Day.  Mother’s Day was yesterday and I spent it with my family.  I went home to my parents’ house and was able to visit both of my 88-year old grandmothers over the weekend.  Nothing terribly noteworthy happened other than being slapped in the face by very scary similarities between the generations of women in my maternal bloodline.  That’s not new, really.  What is new, though, is the number of mothers in my life. They’re everywhere.

Kids abound.  There are no sour grapes, here.  I love all the little ones who’ve cropped up and am only thrilled for their parents.  But, while I know this is nothing new to the thirtysomethings, I’m still grappling with the adjustment.  Last week, I saw my niece and nephew at my birthday party, ages 3 and almost-six.  By the time I have kids, they’ll be able to babysit.  After seeing them last Sunday, I went to Happy Hour at The Muddy Pig with Amilia, a four-month old daughter of a college friend, on Tuesday; I went to Costco with toddler Henry and his in-utero sibling on Thursday; I went strolling through Minnetonka Mills with year-old Oscar on Friday; I met nursery school Matty and toddler Jack-Jack at their garage sale in Plymouth on Saturday; and, just yesterday, I encountered Avery, the little girl due to my 23-year old cousin and her husband in August.  Tonight, I’ll go walking with Costco Henry and his blueberry-sized sibling…and tomorrow, the world will be blessed by the arrival of Vincent, via c-section.  My small family of five cousins is slowly expanding the next generation with the arrival of Andrew and the expectation of Avery.  Many of my friends have kids…between almost-born and almost-twelve.  Mothers and fathers, they’re doing everything from attending parent-teacher conferences to feeling emasculated upon driving a mini-van required by newborn twins.

And, I’m grappling.  I can’t relate.  I am not a parent.  I own a dog, yes, but I make very clear that I do distinguish between being a dog owner and a dog mother, though I love the literary irony of being called “Grendel’s Mother.”  Like children, Grendel teaches me how to care for something beyond myself, and I am able to apply those lessons broadly.  What I gain from my life’s experiences is that–though I can’t relate to parenting a child–I am able to empathize along the lines of basic emotions: Fear, anxiety, joy, anger, hilarity, confusion, delight.  To know what it’s like to be anxious about bringing a baby into the world–tomorrow–is something that I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around, though.  And, I worry that the less and less I’m able to relate to people, the further and further I am away from them.

What’s more, I haven’t heard anything from Mr. Best-Second-Date-Ever in almost two weeks.  It’s not that I’m pining–apparently, “he’s just not that into me.”  I understand that we weren’t meant to be.  That there are more fish in the sea.  That when I stop looking for Him is when I’ll find Him.  That it’s his loss.  Feel free to send any other sayings my way that I may not have heard in the past ten years of dating.  I’m fine not being with the guy–it’s actually “not about him” even after such a great Second Date.  What it’s about is that the end of the dating progression symbolizes just how far away I am from having my own Mother’s Day.  And it smacks.  Facebook didn’t help, either, as I got to hear all of the mothers report the blessings that had been bestowed upon them by husbands and children.  Breakfasts in bed, flowers, dinners, jewelry, and undivided attention…for one day, at any rate.  I don’t want to over-romanticize marriage and child-rearing; I know that it’s work and it takes time, commitment, tears, and toil to get the good stuff.  But, back to the point, I’m reminded at times such as these that I’m not a mother.  I’m not a wife.  I’m not a girlfriend…and I’m not having a Third Date.

Parents have new and different experiences…new priorities, new schedules, new concerns, new triumphs. I pretty much have a “Choose Your Own Adventure” on my hands and have to look into writing an addendum of options to counteract the arrested development on the homefront.  Perhaps the more I invent a life for myself outside of coupledom and parenthood, the less we’ll all be able to relate to each other.  I don’t know.  What it feels like is defeat, though.  The only thing I’ve ever known is that I want to be a mother.  I want to raise children.  I will be good at it and I can’t wait to do it.  But, it hasn’t been in the dice so far…in fact, it isn’t even in the foreseeable future.  And, as my therapist instructs, I have to live my life with what I have, not with what I hope to have.  So, I have to be realistic and ask myself how I’m going to live my life without them in it…and be happy doing it.  I argue with my therapist, saying that it sounds really “doomsdayish” to have to come to peace with being single forever…but she makes the good point that it’s really about needing to be at peace living in my own skin.  I have to be happy today, no matter what.  Tomorrow brings new possibilities, but I can’t be pissed off today as I wait for those unknown possibilities to appear with the sun in the morning.  Still, it’s hard.

And, it’s not just hard for me…I don’t think.  My parents are the type of grandparents who want to see their grandchildren as much as possible.  They’ve outfitted their house with creature comforts to encourage visits: Highchair, crib, Johnny-Jump-Up, outdoor swing, blow-up swimming pool, sandbox, booster seat, kid-sized bathroom stool, small-people cups and flatware, and plenty of toys.  In the past year, Bjorn and Kjersti have outgrown many of these items…and the items started disappearing.  Some were just stowed atop other basement items awaiting boxes.  It wasn’t until my father had some time on his hands that I noticed the kid things being put away.  Out of sight.  Dismantled.  Gone.  Well, this makes sense.  The kids don’t need them any longer and there are no more kids to use them.  There are no more kids.  The next ones are up to me…and, whether or not they’re in my future, there’s no use in leaving the kid stuff out to take up space or gather dust.  I understand.  I know that these things are useless out in the open.  But, much like packing up the belongings of a deceased loved one, draping my clothes over the dismantled crib in my bedroom this weekend left me feeling a little haunted.

And this, my dears, is rampant self-pity.  This is not productive.  This is ill-timed.  This needs to stop.

After typing it out, I’m feeling a little better right now…though it probably wasn’t the best idea to eat my way through the snack box in the kitchen in the time it took me to write this post.  So, I’ll close it with a prayer:

Dear Lord God in Heaven,

Please let this be PMS.

Amen.