I was drowning in paperwork, so my husband rescued me.

On Sunday, I spent five hours of a beautiful, sunny day locked up in my room surrounded by piles of SSI forms, pay-stubs, bank statement, savings statements, insurance statement, medical reports, old IEP's, current evaluations, CCS authorizations, Regional Center authorizations, receipts, artwork from my daughter, articles I wanted to read but never managed to, advocacy information, special education legal guides, a few Johnny Depp pictures, and paperwork filed under "miscellaneous." My entire room, from floor to desk to bed, was covered in white and beige paper.

I was preparing for our annual Social Security interrogation... I mean the "Representative Payee" interview. Every year I need to show Social Security that I am wisely using the money they give my daughter for her care, while also showing we need the help and that I'm not trying to screw the government out of benefits we don't need. I have to justify every expenditure and keep track of every penny, showing bank statements and pay-stubs for an entire year. I imagine it must feel a lot like preparing for a deposition.

Since I had to organize the paperwork for that, I decided I might as well tackle the whole mess. My filing system of throwing paper behind the bed was no longer working. Typically, I keep excellent records, but this last year has been a tad more hectic than normal, so in a rush I'd toss documents into a pile to put into the filing cabinet "later." Later had arrived, and I plowed into the pile with determined dread.

Two hours in, I was in full blown panic; my body was shaking and I couldn't make sense of the forms I was reading. Is this my bank statement, or Queen Teen's? What year is it? How far back do I need to go for pay stubs? Is this an original or a copy? How long do I have to keep this shit? The filing cabinet was packed with every important document since Queen Teen's birth and here was more needing to be filed. More and more and more and it just kept coming and I had to keep track of it all and if I lost anything it seemed to cause problems but how much more could I cram into the filing cabinet and OMG!

My husband entered the room. "Honey."

I jumped. "What?"

He looked at me and then the pile, asked a quick question, then left. Smart man.

After another thirty minutes I walked out of the room needing to escape the claustrophobia of paperwork. My husband handed me a glass of wine and said, "Come outside."

"I need to finish filing."

"Just a minute. I want to show you what I'm doing."

"You mean you want me to help you." I scowled at him.

He shook his head and said, "I just like the company."

I sighed and resigned myself to going outside to look at the fence he was repairing. We chatted about lattice and rotten wood and how many posts he had to replace. I looked at the flower pots he bought earlier that day and remembered the succulent still sitting on my kitchen window. It would look lovely in that pot. Soon, I was happily potting the little succulent and taking it to its new home in the back garden.

Oooh, my husband is good. All he had to do was get me outside near my plants to help me calm down. Just touching a little dirt and smelling the damp soil after I watered made the panic leave my body. The sun was warm but not too hot and the breeze smelled like jasmine and old wood. I smiled at my husband who was busy tearing out old boards from the rotting fence.

Smart man.

There's just so much positive thinking a girl can do

It's all in your outlook. Think happy thoughts. Remember the positive. Count your blessings.

You know, there's only so much positive thinking and counting your blessings a girl can do before she just can't do no more!

To say I'm in a dark mood is an understatement: I've reached my limit on bullshit and stress. I cannot take one more ounce of worry or anger. Not one more. I'm serious, Universe, so knock it off! Let me say thank you to everyone who sends me positive energy and warm fuzzy thoughts, but unless you're showing up on my doorstep with a bottle of Sapphire Gin and a basket of limes, I don't want to hear it.

Yes, I know, it's all in the way you look at things and it really is important to stay focused on the good. There are many many many happy and wonderful things in my life and I am the master at redirecting the negative into something creative and life affirming. My every waking moment is a battle to keep "happy thoughts" at the front of my brain while watching my only child suffer. But I'm human, okay. I'm not a frickin Saint, although people seem to believe I am. "How do you do it, Terena?" they wonder while shaking their heads in amazement.

Anti-depressents, therapy and alcohol. How do you do it?

I hate feeling sorry for myself, in fact I go to great lengths avoiding that particular emotion. It's a waste of energy and time. Life's too short to be resentful and angry. Life is a gift, and we only get one (as far as we know for sure) so what's the point of worrying about what has happened or didn't happen? The problem with this theory is that we're also human, and humans are... human. We're frail and we break easily, especially our psyches.

Why so blue? I turned 45 on Feb. 4th and ever since that day life has taken a dramatic downward spiral. I've had to deal with my crazy mom (I'm speaking literally here), a shoulder injury (mine. try taking care of someone when it hurts to move), illness (again, my own. 2 weeks of feeling like hell while still taking care of everything), Queen Teen's new and sudden physical problems (gagging on her food, a throbbing knee and her right hand that's been tingly for weeks. this is the same one she injured two months ago.), and to top it all off, the almost collapse of her school program.

You want to know how strong I am? I can sit through a two hour meeting with teachers and therapists and discuss unforeseen problems with her educational program while keeping my growing anger in check and mediate for the others who are becoming frustrated, all with the goal of keeping the communication going, and even with the knowledge that I'm not able to fix a damn thing.  I did all of this with the flue! And I still need to keep my emotions in check if anything will change, especially because I'm walking that very thin line between "Mommy" and "Teacher." Lets see any so called Super Mom do the same.

So if I want to feel sorry for myself and hate the world now and then, I think I've earned it. Forgive my dark, sarcastic ass. I don't want to think happy thoughts!

I'm a leaf on the wind...   Splat!

What has changed since asking for help

Well, Ty Pennington hasn't shown up at my door yet, and I still haven't won the the lottery. We're still working our assess off to keep a roof over our head and food on the table, and my car is starting to show signs of wearing out (why do my door latches keep "clicking"?). Queen Teen struggles to make sense of an increasingly incomprehensible world while Rick and I desperately try to communicate with her. Things really haven't changed much around here...

... except me.

In December when I reached the limit of my mental endurance and yelled for help, my life felt beyond overwhelming. Here it is May, and life is whole lot easier to navigate. Of course, finishing grad school helped. What I realize is that my life is hectic without school, so how on earth did I manage to fit a graduate degree into the mix? I must have been insane.

Some of that insanity has lifted, and it isn't just graduation. What has changed is the idea that I'm some kind of super hero who can do everything all by herself with one eye closed and my feet tied together. I don't need anyone, I'm a rock. Grad school showed me how much I do need help, and that it's okay to need help. It's okay to publicly announce to my friends, family and a hundred strangers that I need HELP. And by doing that, I set myself free.

There wasn't an outpouring of tangible help, like casseroles showing up on my door step or friends asking to help with the yard work. Some people I was certain would call didn't, but many people I thought would never offer to help actually did. And more of our friends and family are learning sign language so that they too can talk to Queen Teen without having to go through me all the time. And like I said, it doesn't look like Extreme Makeover is coming to my house any time soon, so I guess Rick and I will have to fix the kitchen on our own. All of that is okay. We have wonderful support from our friends and neighbors and Queen Teen is loved by everyone. We really aren't alone, even when it feels like we are sometimes. I had to admit to human frailty and imperfection in order to see that.

By letting go of always having to be on top of everything, in charge of everything, being strong and fearless all the frickin time, I have set myself free. My life didn't change, I did. And that makes my life so much sweeter. 

That dirty little four letter word... help

I admit it: I'm depressed. It feels a bit more intense than my usual end of the year, post-holiday, too much sugar and noise, depression. After some serious thought, I realize the reason I'm so depressed this year is because I am absolutely exhausted. I've worn myself out to the core and I simply do not have another ounce of thought, energy, emotion or knowledge to give. Somehow though, I have to keep giving. Otherwise this hectic but beautiful life of mine will come crashing down. What to do?

Usually, I don't make New Year's resolutions. Instead I lean toward general promises, like last year when I said I would "Be kinder to myself." I can say that despite my crazy life, I've managed to make some progress on that promise. I'm eating better (if you exclude December... and November... and September... and... never mind). I'm exercising more (except for December... and November... and September...). But mainly, I'm just not being so hard on myself. My tendency is to punish myself for any perception of weakness, like this...


You only got a B on that test? Why didn't you study harder? 
You just had to eat that other cookie, didn't you? You have no self control!
Stop being such a whiney baby! 
Oh for heaven's sake, stop crying. I don't care if you're tired. You've got dishes to do!


But in 2010, I managed to combat that evil, vindictive voice in my head with thoughts like this...

It's okay. You're tired. The dishes can wait.
You're a human being, Terena. Remember that.
Queen Teen can wait a minute. Finish your shower.
Look at everything you've taken on this year. No wonder you're worn out.


And so, instead of beating myself up for being tired, depressed, 10 pounds overweight and in a bad mood, I sat myself down and asked myself out loud, "Why are you feeling this way? What can you do to change that?"

Besides the obvious of finishing grad school, there is the not so obvious fact (at least to me) that I am doing all of it with very little help. My husband and I struggle to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. We work hard to care for our child, who at 15 is still unable to be left alone for any length of time. Our families live far away and our friends are scattered with busy lives of their own. Ultimately, caring for Queen Teen falls to me. Rick helps when he can, but he needs to work more or the bills go unpaid. He and I are overstressed and overburdened. Something has to change.

And so, my New Year's resolution in 2011 is "Look for more help, and ask for it."

It won't be easy. With California's budget not just in the toilet, but all the way at the bottom of the fiscal septic tank, services for people with disabilities and their families are extremely limited. What little we had is being cut even more. But we need help, and I am determined to find it.

Being capable can be a curse. People look at me and see how strong and responsible I am, how much Queen Teen is thriving, how hard we all work and manage so beautifully. Because I appear so on-top-of-it, people don't think to ask if we need help. Well I am here to state for the record that

WE NEED HELP!!!!!!!!!!!


Was that loud enough?

I need help. Really. I know I look like I've got everything under control, but inside I am a shaking, weary, terrified, mess in need of a housekeeper, cook, secretary and chauffeur. I need therapy and a massage. I need two weeks of sleep and one-on-one meditation lessons followed by a month of yoga.

But I'll settle for someone to point me in the right direction toward getting more support for my family.

Any ideas?

Proof I'm still a bit batty

I've been feeling a tad overwhelmed lately. Too much to do, all of it important, all of it needing to happen today. And the fatigue has come back with a vengeance. I wake up in the morning and actually feel pain when I force myself out of bed. I'm back on coffee just to get my body into some kind of shape before I tackle the day (but not so much caffeine that I turn into bitch-mom. It's a fine line).

"I feel like such a wimp," I whined one day to my husband. "Other people can do this, why can't I?"

He nodded sympathetically, but went on working on his computer.

"I know I'm doing a lot, but I'm so frickin tired all the time. Seriously, how do people raise kids and work?"

"You've got a little more on your plate than most people," my husband said, still working on his computer.

"Yeah, we do. But I know people who's kids are more disabled than ours and they can manage to hold down a job. I'm just a wimp."

He just kept working on his computer.

I waited for some kind of response, for him to say, "You're not a wimp, honey."

Nothing.

"Your silence makes me feel that you think I'm a wimp."

He glanced at me quickly, gave me a quick smile, then went back to working on his computer.

My mind went into panic mode. Oh my God, my husband thinks I'm a wimp! He's afraid to say anything because he doesn't want me to feel worse, but he's too honest to say he doesn't think I'm a wimp if he thinks I am one, so he's just pretending that I never said anything and then maybe I'll go away. I'm a wimp. I really am! Here's the proof! He won't even look at me...

I got up from the table and walked away, feeling like the bottom of my world had dropped 100 feet and the walls were too slippery to grab a hold of. The feeling stayed with me for two days, a crushing depression that grew as that evil voice in my head chanted loudly "You're a wimp. You're a wimp. You're a wimp..." It got meaner after a while. "You're a loser, a wimp, a weakling, a nothing. You can't do anything. You are the most worthless human being on the planet."

Do you know how much money I've spent on therapy in the last 20 years to get this voice to shut-up? I don't even know where it came from! No one ever said that to me. My parents never sat me down on the couch when I was 5 and declared, "You are nothing." So why do I have the meanest, cruelest, evil inner voice in the world?

After 36 hours, I'd had enough. "Shut up!" I told that voice. "I'm not listening." And I didn't. It took an enormous amount of energy to redirect my thoughts away from that cackling mantra of failure. I forced myself to think of what I had achieved (Grad school, motherhood and a publishing company... Hello!). When that inner voice got extra sadistic and shouted, "And your fat too," I told myself I am beautiful and stronger than I've ever been in my life (which is true. thanks to Kettle Bell, I can now lift my 90 pound daughter over rain puddles without hurting my back, something I couldn't do 2 years ago). Very slowly, that voice lost some of it's power and returned to that nagging whisper that is easier to ignore.

Therapy didn't get rid of that voice, it taught me how to manage it.

I still have a feeling that I am lacking, though. No matter what I do, that feeling just won't go away. I guess this is why I do so much. Time to stop.

Maybe with a little more practice, I'll be able to just live and not have to prove to myself that I deserve to live.

And maybe I'll learn not to try and talk to my husband about something important when he's working on a computer. He probably didn't even hear a word I said. 

Yep, I am still a tad batty. Maybe we all are.

Sanity?

I started my internship two weeks early. My master teacher contacted me and asked if I could observe an assessment of a new student that she thinks I may be working with once I start. "It would be good for you to see her from the beginning." Hell yeah! Not only was I eager to begin, but I'd just found out that due to the university not being able to use student TA's in their O and M classes anymore (thanks to some new accreditation regulations), I'd just lost 20 hours a month of intern hours and it will be a miracle if I finish my internship on time.

Rick rearranged his schedule to accommodate this change and I rushed off to Petaluma to meet my master teacher and my possible first student. I can't go into specifics, but I will say that despite my driving 150 miles in 108 degree temperature with a barely working AC, it was a great day. Finally seeing what I'd learned being used by a professional, experienced, O and M instructor was fascinating. It was so great, I volunteered to come back thursday, friday and the following monday.

But when thursday rolled around, reality set in. I am not prepared to start my internship at all. Rick was stressing, trying to support me by getting all his work done in time to meet Queen Teen's school bus, and I was trying to shove my giant to-do list into one day, something that proved impossible. I haven't even set up regular after school child care yet! What the hell was I thinking?

I observed my teacher again on thursday, then explained that I was wrong about starting so early. She understood completely and told me not to worry. When I explained how I'd lost so many intern hours and was worried about not graduating on time, she was shocked. But she agreed that I shouldn't put my family and myself through so much stress to try and make up hours before any of us are ready.

Is this a glimmer of sanity? Am I really learning to pace myself and make choices that support my mental health, rather than living my life like some kind of marathon with a finish line in sight?

I'm still worried about my internship hours and really angry about it. Losing 20 hours a month is going to be impossible to make up! Oh well...  just gotta keep breathing, stay sane, and keep moving forward.

The feel of hummingbirds zooming past my head

Queen Teen and Rick flew to Austin, Texas to visit family for 10 days and since I had my last internship meeting this past Saturday, I couldn't go. Okay, I admit it, there's a part of me that was happy not to go. I would love to see everyone and I miss my girl and hubby, but the peace and quiet has been amazing! After a few days, the constant ache in my jaw and shoulders dissipated, the knot in my stomach faded, and my thoughts stopped hopping around like a drunk frog on a hot plate. I could take a deep breath and feel calm for the first time in... how long? Years?

I went to the coast with my dear friend, Jody, and stayed at The Howard Creek Ranch B n B, an eclectic, beautiful property tucked between the ocean and a thick grove of redwoods. Built in 1879, the rooms are in the old farm house and the redwood coach house, both crammed with antiques and odd treasures. Hummingbirds battle for the garden, which overflows with flame-red, yellow, ice-blue, and white flowers, nasturtium, berry vines, and roses. Fat, friendly cats curl up in your lap when you sit to read in the sunshine. The inn is run by an older couple who serve you a hearty breakfast every morning. There's a narrow swinging bridge across a creek choked with blackberries, and at night you can hear the ocean crashing back and forth on the beach. It is my favorite place on the Mendocino Coast.

Jody and I spent three days there, lounging, going for hikes, talking, eating, and writing of course. I finished an essay that had been haunting me for months, and started working on my play again. By the time I got home after all that relaxing, I felt as if I'd been smoking dope on a hot beach. My head was fuzzy and the world seemed strangely distant. Walking into my house, the silence felt as loud as a rock concert. There was no Queen Teen shouting "Mom!" as I walked through the door, no husband cussing in the bedroom while he works on another computer, no dog bounding at me in greeting (she was at the kennel), no roar of a dishwasher or radio. Everything was still. I went to bed early with a book and breathed deeply the solitude.

Is it possible to have stress withdrawals? I'm so used to the pace of the last 2 years of grad school, of being mom and wife and keeping a roof over our head and food on the table and running a publishing company... feeling calm was bizarre. I soaked up relaxation like a starving person and now felt fat and lazy on it. But God I wanted more! Give me more calm and peaceful days, more silence. Let me get sick on it until I turn into a lump in the hammock with a book stuck on my nose. I've done constant stress, I'd like to try constant calm.

Saturday was my last internship meeting and during class our teacher explained the certification test and the master's exam. After listening for half an hour, the fog lumbering through my mind cleared and I felt the tension return to my jaw and shoulders. Ah, there it is... the churning knot in my gut. The fear lapping at my ankles. Then when she told us how much the fees for those exams are, I felt a rush of adrenaline flow through my body, chasing out the last bit of lazy still wrapped around my bones.

Back to normal once again.

But now that I know what calm feels like, I wonder if I can duplicate that feeling during my normal days? Can I learn to hold on to the feeling of sitting quietly in the garden at Howard Creek with a fat, black and white farm cat curled up in my lap and the hummingbirds dashing around, fighting for the best blossom just inches from my head. Even though I could feel them flying past me so close their momentum created a breeze on my cheek, I wasn't startled. I watched them and smiled. They are so like me, like all of us I suppose, zooming around and fighting for a crumb of pollen from the best blossom, not able to see the beauty of the flower they're fighting for.

Bourre the dog is back, worn out from playing with the dogs at the kennel for four days, and Queen Teen and Rick will be home on Tuesday.  I have several tasks to get done before then, and an awful lot of studying to do in preparation for my master's exam. But the bigger goal is to remember to stop and enjoy the flower I'm fighting for, rather than being a humming bird all the time.

Um, excuse me... could I have my vacation now please?

I must have been crazy to think I would actually get some time to lounge on the deck in my underwear and read books this summer. Since school ended two weeks ago, I've been racing the clock every day, playing catch-up with the pile of work that's gathered since the first day of Spring semester (back in January). There are forms from various agencies needing to be filled out, doctor's appointments to drag Queen Teen to, book marketing and book orders, submissions to the press needing to be read, mending, housework, inventory, and the end of the business tax season (hello sales tax!),  all joining forces in one colossal mountain of work, demanding attention now. There will be no lounging in our underwear reading books; there will be tasks to complete! Many, many, many, many, many, many, many tasks to complete, and all before the end of the month.

Starting with : your car! 

If I can't keep up with the housework inside the house, do you really think I'd manage to keep my car clean? Not likely. But when my husband pulled half a burger from under my car seat and asked, "How long has this been here?",  I knew the car had surpassed filth. That first Monday after school ended, I cleaned my car from top to bottom, vacuuming upholstery, scrubbing spilled soda out of the cup holder, wiping six months of dust off the console, picking something sticky off the steering wheel (chocolate?)... I won't tell you what other things I found buried under the back seat (things I can't blame on the child, unfortunately). And while doing all this scrubbing, I discovered a universal truth: dog hair is forever. No amount of scrubbing or vacuuming with an industrial Shop-Vac can remove dog hair from the interior of a mini-van. Can-not-be-done. But at least all signs of graduate school filth have been removed from my car.

The next day, we all went to Stanford for Queen Teen's MRI. We made tuesday the fun day, wandering around the Stanford mall and then exploring downtown Palo Alto, which is lovely. Spending the night in a motel, we got up extra early to haul Queen Teen kicking and screaming to the 8:00 am appointment at Lucille Packard. She had to have general anesthesia for the procedure, but you'd think we were asking her to eat that month old burger I found in my car. Rick had to drag her out of the car and into the hospital, and then when the nurse tried to get her to drink the medicine that would help her relax, she started screaming and kicking. One Nurse got so upset she left the room. I can only imagine what she must be saying in the break room. At one point in the battle, Queen Teen managed to break free from Rick's powerful arms, only to be capture by me and then forced to drink that yucky medicine with her head held back and the nurse squirting it down her throat with a syringe. I don't know if the medicine started to work, or she just crashed from the adrenaline, but she looked at me with angry eyes and said, "Let's just get this over with." Then she fell asleep.

Times like those make me wonder if all these tests are really worth the trauma they generate.

Now we're back home. Queen Teen seems to have recovered from the torture of the hospital MRI. She and I are hiding from the 100 degree temperature outside, and fighting epic boredom. The AC in my van died, so we're trapped when it gets over 90. Queen Teen can't tolerate the heat, so we watch movies, color, play games, and try not to drive each other too crazy. I dash around from task to task, constantly interrupted by "Mom...."  There's another reason I was crazy to think I'd be able to do any lounging this summer: Queen Teen is out of school, too. There isn't a mom on the planet who gets to relax when the kids are out for summer.

Maybe next month?

No more caffeine for Mommy!

We ran out of decaf, and even though I knew I should stay away from caffeine, the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee at 5:30 a.m. was too strong to resist.

"You know that's caffeine," my husband asked.

I nodded and poured myself a cup. "A little won't hurt me." I gulped it down with a shot of peppermint-chocolate soy milk, feeling my taste-buds shout to my brain, Wake up! Then I began the task of getting Queen Teen ready for school.

Can someone please explain to me why her Jr High thinks it's a good idea to start school at 7:20 am, which means the bus comes at 7:00, which means we have to get up at 5:30 am?

The morning was uneventful. Queen Teen was her usual sleepy self, eating her breakfast with half closed eyes, brushing her teeth, getting dressed with some assistance from me. I was zooming around getting her school snack ready, cleaning her glasses and hearing aids, finding her shoes, all while noshing on a piece of toast. Then I poured more coffee into my tepid cup.

At 7:00, everything went wrong. The battery door of her left hearing aid fell off completely (it's been broken for a while and only stayed on through careful balancing of the hinge). I had to tape it shut to keep the battery in place. Then I shoved Queen Teen's gloves on while the bus pulled up to the curve.

"Mommy, we have to put my coat on first," Queen Teen said.

"No we don't. Hold still. The bus is here." Yanking the sleeve of her rain coat, I fought to pull her gloved hand through.

Queen Teen jerked away. "It won't work."

"Hold still!" I snapped. Then I jerked the jacket off, pulled off her gloves, shoved the jacket back on, and started yelling at her gloves as I tried to force her fingers into them. "Why does this have to be so frickin hard?"

Queen Teen just stared at me with wide eyes, her lips pressed tightly together.

Finally I got her gloves on and then I yelled, "Come on! The bus is waiting!"

I grabbed her arm and pulled the walker toward her, then practically dragged her and the walker out the door. "Move! We're late." The dog met us at the door, blocking our way, eager to dash outside and say hello to the bus driver.

"Get out of the way!" I shouted. The dog just froze. As soon as Queen Teen had a hold of the door frame I jerked the walker away and swung it toward the dog. "I said get the hell out of the way!" The dog ducked.

Whoa... what am I doing? I took a deep breath, carried the walker down the steps, then turned to help Queen Teen out of the house and to the bus. After buckling her in I kissed her forehead and said, "Have a good day."

She just looked at me with big eyes.

The dog stayed out of my way as I walked into the house and shut the door. Damn! I lost it. Again. "Come here, Boo," I said, leaning down and stroking the dog's head. "Good girl."

What happened? Why did I lose it over a broken battery door and a tangled glove? Usually this kind of thing is so normal I just go on auto-pilot. There's always something to slow us down as Queen Teen gets ready for school.

Then I remembered 1-and-a-half-cups of real, caffeinated coffee on an empty stomach first thing in the morning, something I know makes me jittery and anxious, even after lunch. That's why I switched to decaf.

No more caffeine. Some people suffer a personality change on alcohol; I obviously become psycho-agro mom on a cup of jo.

When Queen Teen came home from school I said, "I'm sorry I got so grumpy this morning. I was mad at the hearing aids and got frustrated. I shouldn't have yelled at you. It wasn't your fault."

She smiled and hugged me. "That's okay, Mommy. I get frustrated too sometimes."

Stress causes hair loss? Who knew?

While my hairdresser was trimming my hair today, she paused and touched a few short hairs sticking straight up from the top of my head."You've been under a lot of stress lately."

"Yeah, a bit," I replied.

"And you had surgery recently too, right?"

"Yeah."

"I can tell." She ran the tiny, one inch hairs between her fingers. "You've had some hair loss."

"What?" Hair loss? Not something you want to hear from your hairdresser first thing in the morning. Or any time, really.

"It's okay. The hair is growing back. But these little hairs may stick up for a while. Just smooth them down with a tiny bit of wax and they should lie down."

More proof that this past year has been even more stressful than usual and my body is feeling the pressure.

I'm already paranoid about losing my hair because I was not gifted with thick, luxurious tresses. Instead I was born with thin, fine, perfectly straight hair, the kind of hair that would look better on a three year old boy than a 42 year old woman. I've pretty much accepted the fact that I'll be wearing wigs when I'm 60. But I really hate being reminded of how thin my hair is and how it no longer grows past my shoulders.

When I was a little girl I used to put tea-towels and baby blankets on my head to pretend it was my long, Princess hair. Although my hair was fine and baby soft, I insisted on growing it long. It was never thick and lovely, except that wonderful time when I was pregnant and my hair thickened and grew to my waist. Of course right after I gave birth it fell out by the hand-fulls, but the hair that remained stayed strong enough to keep long. And then when I got a divorce after Queen Teen turned one, I cut it off short because I felt I needed a change. It never grew back.

And now I'm 42 and my hair line slowly recedes up my temples, so I grew out my bangs to fill in the gap. Eventually that won't work, especially if it keeps falling out from stress.

Maybe I need to look into wigs sooner than I thought.