Best laid plans

I had this great idea that for Lent I would try blogging every day.  To give myself an outlet, I guess.  Problem is that since I started working nights, my schedule is so messed up that I can't even remember which days are which.

I started working at a hospital since my last blog post.  And I had a baby girl.  Which is one of the reasons I haven't had three spare seconds to write anything of substance.  I don't know how all those Mommy bloggers do it.  I guess they write while their kiddos are napping?  But when Bug is napping, I'm usually holding her.  Or I'm napping, too.  And both of those things are more important to me than eking out time to write my particular blend of stuff and nonsense.

I've been thinking a lot about names recently.  Probably because we are rapidly approaching the second and first anniversaries of my having to bestow names upon tiny humans.  It's an incredible responsibility, and if anything, in my life I've proven time and time again that I'm not so good at being responsible.  Case in point:

This is a thing that I own.  That I paid money for.  It is a fried chicken.  Get it?  Yeah.  What responsible adult would buy something like this?  Me, that's who.


I did, however, take the naming of my children seriously.  We went back and forth for months about what our first baby's name would be.  We picked out two contenders, and decided that we'd wait until he was born to pick the right one.  But once he was born and we held him, I knew that his name was Matthew.  Matthew means 'gift from God,' and just because we didn't get to keep him doesn't mean he was any less of a gift.  The Other Half picked his middle name - Charles.  The Charles River runs through Boston, and OH wanted a name that reflected where Matthew lived.  I suppose if I ever get to the point where I can scatter his ashes, it would be fitting to do it at the river.  The Charles is a very short river, but has been pivotal in making Boston what it is today.  So, putting it all together, our Matthew Charles was a gift from God who, although he had only a brief time with us, left a permanent impression in our hearts.

I always knew that I would name my first daughter Elaine, after my grandmother.  After all, she was the woman who graced me with my love of fantastic footwear.  When it came to picking a name to go with it, OH suggested Elizabeth, which means 'the promise of God.'  Elaine means 'light.'

In the babyloss community, a rainbow baby is one born after the loss of a child.  It refers to the notion that while nothing can undo the damage left by such a loss, something beautiful can come afterward.  In the Bible, the rainbow is a symbol of God's promise to mankind never to flood the Earth again.  So putting all that together, our Elizabeth Elaine is our promise of God in light - our rainbow.

My name means 'emerald isle,' or Ireland.  But it occurs to me that the 'isle' part applies more to me than I ever realized.  I am an island - a lone mass of land in the sea.  I'm terrible at making friends - I can't count how many groups I've tried to fit in to or people I've tried to befriend.  I'm awkward and dramatic and too smart for my own good.  I was bad at it before Matthew died, and I'm worse at it now.  I don't shy away from talking about my son, and it makes some people profoundly uncomfortable.  And because of that, I am very, very lonely.

I'm not really sure where I was going with all this.  It's just one of the things I think about.

Sorry for any spelling errors

My hands are shaking as I type this. 

It's not an earthquake, or an unsteady chair.  It's not that I'm an emotional wreck or vibrating with joy over something.  It's an autonomic response to the beta agonist I just took.  AKA the albuterol shakes.

See, I have asthma.  I've had it my entire life.  I was diagnosed when I was six.  I have what's called cough-variant asthma, which is just like regular asthma only the main symptom is coughing instead of wheezing.

I have my little arsenal of inhalers - some I carry with me everywhere I go, some I take on a schedule. 

I am a good asthma patient and still use my spacer, even if most adult asthmatics stopped using theirs ages ago.  I sometimes have to take steroids, which turn me into even more of a raging crazy person than I normally am.

(Side note - once, after I got a big ol' steroid shot, I went to the Olive Garden to eat dinner.  It was during their never-ending pasta bowl special.  And I am here to tell you today that it is NOT never-ending.  They cut you off after four bowls.)

8% of adults worldwide have asthma, and 9% of children.  Every day, nine people die from asthma attacks.  It's not something to fuck around with.  And, as a life-long asthmatic, I get pretty irritated when people imply that asthma is something that I could rid myself of forever just by losing weight.  People who can't breathe because they're morbidly obese are just as asthmatic as people who smoke.  Yes, they experience some transient symptomatic relief with albuterol, but it's a bronchodilator.  Everyone in the world would experience the dilation of the bronchioles with that treatment.  When the problem is that your body habitus or chest wall is so heavy that it compresses your lungs, your problem isn't asthma, it's your physiology.  When the problem is that you fill your lungs with smoke and toxins, your problem isn't asthma, it's idiocy.

Asthma isn't something that exclusively strikes nerds, as it has always been depicted in the media.  Although severe or uncontrolled asthma can certain limit a person's ability to play sports or spend a lot of time outdoors.  It's a chronic disease that can pretty significantly impact a person and those around them.  It can be pretty damn scary to watch someone have a full-blown asthma attack.  Not to mention all the missed school or work, doctor visits, medications, etc that families of asthmatics have to deal with.

But it's also something that, once controlled, can be no more limiting than allergies or nearsightedness.  Bill Clinton is asthmatic.  So is Jackie Joyner-Kersee.  And Martin Freeman, who is one of my favorite British actors.  So now you know a little more about asthma.  And knowing is half the battle.

PS - Lest anyone forget the reason for this blog in the first place, I must give a shout-out to Host Friend and his lovely wife for getting me these little beauties:

I suck at posting things

So again, I have neglected my little corner of the Internet.  I feel like it's a combination of things that keep me away - laziness being the main factor.  Although there's also the bone-numbing exhaustion that comes from working a split schedule (meaning I work days and nights).  It's kind of horrible when I leave the hospital and can't remember how the hell I got home.  I tell you, the worst time for anyone to medically fall apart in a hospital is between four and six in the morning.  The entire night shift has already checked out for the evening, and the second wind that comes from knowing that work is almost over hasn't started yet.

So there's that reason.  Also, about a month ago I had a hilarious diatribe about public transit and behavior all ready to post, but it got eaten by the gods of the Internet.  Either that or the MBTA has my computer bugged in the off chance I might make disparaging remarks about it on a blog that - and I'm not trying to brag or anything - has had over 100 hits in its entire existence.

So what, you may ask, has prompted me to overcome my months of laziness, apathy, and writer's block to again put fingers to keyboard?

Through the combined delights of StumbleUpon and Pinterest, I have recently come across several blogs that detail the (usually female) writer talking about how they've recently lost a lot of weight, or how they're trying to lose a lot of weight, and how much better their lives are now that they're skinny, or how hard they continue to work every day to maintain their new hotness.  Now, I'm not out to rain on anyone's parade, but I'm gonna have to call bullshit on some of these.

I've been on the larger side for most of my life.  And I don't care ONE BIT.  I can't wear skinny jeans.  Fine by me.  Personally, I don't think anyone can.

And what breaks my brain about these girls is that they think that losing weight will magically help them find love.  Really?  Is this what you think life is all about?  Making yourselves miserable and thin in order to attract a douchebag who wasn't man enough to see past whatever external flaws you may have had to see the person you really are?  Because no matter who you are, no matter how hard you work, looks fade.  Whatever paint and polish and Botox and Shellac you put on will eventually chip away.  And you're left with what you have inside your body. And even before that, you're going to get sick one day.  I don't mean cancer or something, but like a really bad cold.  And you're not going to put on makeup and you probably won't shower and your face will be all splotchy and your nose will be swollen and crusty and you're going to look terrible.  And that douchebag that only gave you the time of day because you were skinny is going to take one look at you and head for the hills.

I've been in double-digit dress sizes as long as I can remember, and it hasn't slowed me down one bit. I'm smart and funny and sexy as hell, when I want to be.  I got more attention from men in college than my skinny, miserable friends, mostly because they were too worried about what they looked like than having a good time. I have love and friendship and fulfillment in my life, not because of what I look like, but because of who I am.  And nothing can ever change that about me.

Typed up while wearing super-cute fingerless gloves

I'm feeling particularly Slytherin-like today (and if you don't understand what that means, I don't think we can be friends anymore).  And it's not just because of these:

Although that *is* part of it.  I mean, maybe a true Slytherin wouldn't have the little flowers, but I like to think that at least one would appreciate the dichotomy of liking ambition AND pretty flowers.  And you can't really tell from the picture, but my toenails are painted green, too.  I should be wearing a green shirt, too.  But I ordered this baby from ThinkGeek and it came in the mail today:

It's only the most amazingly epic shirt EVER.  I was so tempted to also purchase the Tim the Enchanter hat and evil bunny slippers, but I refrained - for now.  No promises that they won't be winging their way toward me at some point in the future.

It's been a lazy couple of days at Chez Erin because we got some snow, and as I mentioned before, snow means staying at home if at all possible.  It was very pretty snow, though:

I hesitate to complain about our paltry four inches when I know that New England is getting hammered by feet upon feet of the stuff.  But other parts of the country are far better prepared for it than we are.  Hell, we don't even have snow plows.  We have a couple of Bubbas that slap makeshift plows onto the fronts of their pickups.

So it's not the best of situations.  But it usually grants us at least a couple of days off of work or school, which is always appreciated.  Particularly those of us in college who are not required to physically make up snow days.  Sure, we're responsible for the work missed, but at least they can't add days to the end of the semester.