At Least My Kids Will Have Clean Teeth

I haven't written very much here about my mother.  We have complicated relationship, filled with mixed emotions.  I love her and respect her more than you can imagine, but for some reason we have been unable to form a healthy adult relationship.  It's gotten worse since I became a mother.  How painful it is to type that sentence.

My mother has not had an easy life.  Her father was an alcoholic and abusive to her mother.  She was very close to her mom, who passed away shortly after my mom started college.  She rarely speaks about it, but I think she was devastated.  After graduating from nursing school in Minnesota, she packed up all her belongings and moved out to San Francisco with some school friends leaving her family and the only life she'd known behind.   She joined the Air Force as a flight nurse and travelled the world.  That's where she met my father and decided to get married at the age of 32.  I think waiting until after you turned 30 to get married was rare in the early sixties.  

After nearly eleven years of marriage and two children she found out my father had an affair and my parents divorced.  My memory is pretty fuzzy, but I don't think the divorce was even final when my father was diagnosed with cancer.  He died nine months later.  Within that same year, my mother's best friend committed suicide.  So there she was a stay at home mom turned widow, but not technically a widow, with two young girls to raise.  As you can imagine, she was emotionally a wreck.  

But the eight year old me had no idea how hard things were for her.  She did everything she could to put on a brave a face for my sister and I and make our lives as normal as possible.  My family is a family of secrets.  They come from a place of "don't talk about the bad stuff, put a smile on your face and move forward."  So I don't think my mother ever really dealt with the crap she was handed.   She went about the business of earning a living and raising her daughters.  She never dated again after my father's death

I am not a psychologist by any means, but I think that all of those things above have contributed to the fact that she is a compulsive hoarder.  You know, where she can't throw anything away and there are small paths throughout the house to get to the toilet, the bed, the shower, etc.  

this used to be my sister's childhood bedroom

It started with the refrigerator of all things.  I remember being in junior high and embarrassed to open the fridge if I had friends over.  There is barely room in there to fit a can of soda and she lives by herself.  She has more stuff crammed in there than I have in my fridge to feed my family of five.  From the fridge, it moved on to the garage.  There is a large storage area above the garage that is filled with all my toys and furniture from childhood.  Once that was full, the stairs to the storage area started to fill up.  You can't even make it up the stairs any longer.  She hasn't been able to park her car in her two car garage for years.   

mom's master bedroom

She saves magazines, wrapping paper, random purchases from TJ Maxx.  One of the cupboards in her kitchen is full of dog biscuits, leashes and dog dishes.  Our dog died 15 years ago and she has no plans to get another one.  There's no where to sit and eat a meal because her dining table is covered with stacks and stacks of papers.  Her bathroom is filled with bags of random shampoo and conditioner bottles with just a few drops left in them.  

I could go on and on, but you get the idea.  My sister and I estimate it will takes us weeks if not months to clean out her house when the time comes.  She only lives about 10 minutes from me, but I rarely let my kids go over there because it's just too dangerous.  She knows she has a problem, but it would be incredibly difficult for her to let go of her piles.  I know she'd be mortified if she knew I put pictures of her house on the internet, but she doesn't read my blog.  She doesn't even own a computer.  More people know about her compulsion than she will admit to herself.  She hasn't had any of her close friends over in years, they must know.  My sister and I have tried to intervene to no avail.  It's like an addiction.

Maybe as a result of the state of my mom's house, I tend to lean in the other direction.  I throw everything away.  It makes me feel good to clean things out and get rid of them.  I don't like clutter and it's easier for me to relax when my house is clean and organized.  

I do have one little problem though.  Toothbrushes.  I have a strange urge to buy my kids new toothbrushes every time I'm at the drug store.  I am powerless to resist the latest toothbrush innovations, characters my kids love, toothbrushes that play music or toothbrushes with little suction cups that stick to the wall.  That is all well and good, but then I can't throw the old ones away.  Then they get new toothbrushes every six months at the dentist's office.   Therefore we have a toothbrush collection that looks like this:

Is there such a thing as compulsive toothbrush hoarding?  PsychMamma?  Anyone?

In all seriousness, I know that compulsive hoarding is no laughing matter.  My sister and I discuss it often and it breaks our hearts to know that we will probably never have a meal at her house again and our kids will have no memories of playing at Grammy's house.  Not to mention the fact that her house is clearly a dangerous fire hazard.   We are at a loss.  Her compulsion/addiction not only hurts her, it hurts her family and friends and it has damaged my relationship with her.

I've merely scratched the surface of my multi-faceted relationship with my mom in this post.  I'm sure I'll revisit the subject.  

I Need to Get This Off My Chest

At BlogHer I went to a panel on Naked Blogging.  Naked Blogging is not typing with no clothes on apparently.   Imagine my surprise when I was the only one who showed up in a toga.  

I jest.  Naked Blogging is laying it all out there.   Naked posts are the ones I find most interesting and worth reading.  It can be scary, but if a woman can get up and talk about trying to commit suicide while 7 months pregnant in front of 1,000 women and get a standing ovation AND everyone wants to be her friend (myself included), then I think it's worth it.   Another blogger said that if you aren't a little bit hesitant when you hit publish, then it probably isn't your best writing.  

So anyway, here I am exposing something I would normally keep private.  Two weeks ago I had a breast reduction.  It's was my second one.  I had the first at age 20.  I am 5 feet 2 inches tall and I developed large breasts around my sophmore year in high school.  I learned how to dress to minimize them, but I was always self conscious about it.   I overheard a guy telling someone I had the body of a fox, but the face of a dog once when standing by my locker.  I remember almost every detail of that day.   When I was a senior my mom took me prom dress shopping.  I desperately wanted to buy a cute, lavender strapless number from the Jessica McClintock outlet.  Every dress I tried on that I was able to stuff my boobs into, was dragging on the floor.   If the dress was the right length, I wasn't able to zip it up.  I ended up buying a dress that was two sizes too big and my mom hemmed it for me.   I remember coming home that day and laying face down on my bedroom floor, crying and just willing my damn boobs to shrink.  

Fast-forward to my college years.  By then I was a 36 DD.  When home for the summer after my freshman year and out shopping with my mom, in the dressing room she casually asked me if I would like to talk to someone about having a breast reduction.  Seriously?  Yes, yes, yes.  We made an appointment with a surgeon to get the low down.  The scarring can be pretty severe.  I don't care.  You may not be able to breast feed.   I'm 20, I don't care.  The recovery is long and painful.  I don't care.  

Long story short, I went for it the next summer.  Yes, the recovery was painful.  It was more than a bit awkward to have to explain the scars to every guy that tried to feel me up (I was in college, remember).  But I was thrilled with my new breasts.   I could wear a bikini without feeling like everyone was staring at my chest.  My clothes fit better.  All was right with my body image.

However, 10 years later, I was not able to breast feed my kids.   When I was 20, I wasn't even thinking about children, much less how I was going to feed them.   I gave it a shot.  But it is hard enough to breast feed twins when you haven't had breast surgery, let alone when you have.  I was able to pump a little bit of milk to give them in their bottles, but it was an incredibly painful (and bloody) process.  When I took my twins to their one month check up my pediatrician ask me how breast feeding was going.  I immediately burst into tears.   We ended up having a half hour conversation about it and I gave it up.  I have an incredible amount of guilt about it, but I'm over it now so please keep your breast is best comments to yourself.   I can guarantee you I was a better, more rested mom when I stopped pumping. 

Moving on.

After Gloppy was born my breasts went from a large B back to the DD.  They were heavy and uncomfortable.  I read somewhere that empire waste dresses look great on large chested women.  Well every time I put one on the waste line ran right across my nipple line.   Not exactly a great look.  About two weeks a months my breasts would become so swollen and sore that if someone just grazed one of them, I was in pain. 

Then I read this post.  It had never even occurred to me that I could have the surgery again.   Rebecca is a rock star to me.  I mulled the idea over in my head and finally decided to see a plastic surgeon.  Two weeks ago the amazing Dr. R removed a little over TWO POUNDS of tissue from my chest.  Strap a two pound weight around your neck and walk around for a day.  And (bonus!!) he also lipo-suctioned out some of my back fat.   I am still swollen and sore at this point, but I will end up as a large B, small C.   The recovery has been no picnic.  The doctor sent me home with orders not to lift anything for six weeks.  Um... OK.  Do you realize I have three kids and my laundry is on the first floor and our bedrooms are on the second floor?  And did I mention that I have three kids and my husband travels like a lot?  It still hurts like hell to lift my arms.  Driving sucks.  Every little bump causes a little shock of pain.   And my kids are so over the "be gentle to mommy" thing.  At the end of the day I am so achy from all the hugs, surprise tackles, and daily mom stuff.    I'll spare you the gory details, but if you're interested, check out Rebecca's latest post about breast reduction.  

Despite the pain, I am happy I decided to do it again.  I think I'll be even happier in a couple of months when all the swelling goes down.   My clothes already fit better and when I am able to run on the treadmill again, I know it will be feel more comfortable.   I just feel more like me in my own skin.  

So there you have it, my attempt at naked blogging or blogging like no one's reading (I've always hated that dance like no one is watching crap, but I couldn't resist).  Mr. Mint will be mortified when he reads this post.  I guess some of his co-workers occasionally read my blog.  So if you work with my husband, just pretend you didn't read the one about his wife's boobs and go into his office and tell him how adorable his twin girls are in their dance recital outfits.   Otherwise, feel free to stare at my chest if you know me in real life and ask me anything you like about the surgery.  I am an open shirt... I mean book.

p.s. I usually hate thinking up titles, but this is my best title ever right?  You gotta admit that title kicks ass.