Bootylicious

I am no Beyonce'– http://www.veoh.com/browse/videos/category/music/watch/v6302541T8YtNTHX . And yet my current bootyliciousness (at least in the view of one 3-foot-tall fan) is becoming a real nuisance. 

My booty, as is were, is vast, squishy and irresistible, when viewed from Elias's eye level. He just can't keep his little hands off it. The result is that I spend my days trying to do ordinary housework with a small child always on my heels and sexually harrassing me. Well, "just say no" you say. Sure. I've said no– four hundred million times. I've screamed no. I've given time outs. I've lost my cool completely. I've caused the little one to sob and cry in shock and anguish. And then, four minutes later, he's back at it again. He follows me. He buries his face in my butt. He pats my butt. He pokes my butt with whatever is in his hands at the time. He has a wonderful move where he clasps his hands in the back pocket of my jeans, then lifts his feet from the floor and swings. Wherever I go he's one inch behind me, so that when I turn around (as I often do when, say, attempting to put away the dishes) he's directly underfoot.

Yesterday I was wishing for a taser, or at least an electric dog training collar.

I know this is all very flattering– a reflection of total love. It's even mutual– I'm enraptured in love with him too. But for god's sakes!! let me put away the dishes!

Yesterday I was almost in tears myself with the hopelessness of it. I was so tired, having so much trouble standing up as it was, and this little person was making it worse. We had a ridiculous day lined up– Elias's belated b-day celebration at school, gymnastics after school, an school open house right after that, with no time for dinner. The only window of down time was between about noon and two p.m., during which I was trying to clean. The house was a complete mess (still is, for that matter), as little destructor has been going full tilt for days, while Isaac was sick in bed and I was feeling pretty bad myself, needing and wanting to rest. But I was trying as hard as I could to restore some semblance of order, and my little booty fan club was hindering me at every step of the way, hanging from my pockets. Every time I bent over to pick something up, which I had to do constantly, he took the opportunity to pat my soft parts. (Oh yes, the booty isn't the only soft part that he adores. Other soft irresistibly fleshy parts fall prey too– especially when my hands are full and I don't have a quick defense.) 

[Can I add that as I write this they are both climbing on me, and kissing me, and trying to get in my lap? Elias IS in my lap and Isaac, nearly 8, can't fit.]

[Insert interlude here where I take them upstairs and get them both dressed– picture trying to dress a bag of squirrels– and bring them back down and get them dry cereal, little bowls of salt, and sippy cups of milk, per their specific requests. Now they are watching the Clone Wars and I have a moment again.]

[I am reminded of Isaac's latest tactic– to remind me that I was the one who wanted to have kids! The other day in the grocery store we were having an especially trying situation surrounding candy or no candy. I was strictly refusing. The kids were melting down. And Isaac said, lawyer-like, "YOU'RE the one who signed up for this! You're the one who chose to have us!" How can you respond to that? Yes, of course I wanted to have you, you little so-and-so, but that doesn't mean I wanted every trip to the store to be a LIVING HELL.]

It was too much as it was, but I knew that coming home at 9 pm to total chaos wasn't going to help and so I was trying my hardest to get things into some semblance of shape. I did get the dishes unloaded and the pile in the sink all cleaned up, with my little friend attached to my butt all the while. But then I had to lie down. There was no option. At times like these I really remember that I do have POTS.

I read yesterday some more about Greg Page, the Yellow Wiggle, who had to leave his career due to orthostatic hypotension, which is part of my diagnosis too. Officially I have "orthostatic hypotension and late POTS. I found this article, which opens, "The longish walk to find the cafe leaves him short of breath. A wait in a coffee queue is uncomfortable. Even just getting around the city now is more tiring than years of performing in two high-energy shows a day, six days as week, as the Yellow Wiggle." 

The once youthful, bouncy, fit Greg walks with a cane, "That's one reason I wanted to have a walking stick, apart from the physical support it gave me," he says. "It made me feel that at least people would realise something was wrong and I wasn't just wandering around shopping centres as an aimless drunk. It was embarrassing. To go from doing two shows a day, an hour and twenty minutes each show on stage in the US, to getting round with a walking stick in a matter of a month was a real shock."

Yes– I understand, Greg! I feel your pain. There's this POTS blog called "But you don't look sick," which is as apt a title as any. We with POTS don't look sick. We just have to lie down– like right now.

I did get some promising news regarding the POTS study. My neuro apparently changed his mind or found out more about what it would entail, and it seems, that he has decided to help me do it. He wrote an e-mail to the study lady, and asked whether I would need to quit the Cymbalta to be in it. She wrote back that I would NOT. Yes! And then sent him all the forms and whatnot that it entails. I have to pass (or fail?) this ten-minute POTS test, in which my heartrate has to increase at least 30 bpm when I stand up for ten minutes. I started worrying that I wouldn't pass it for some reason, and then realized — hey– if I don't pass it then I don't have POTS anymore so it's win-win. In any case, this is all still pending, as I'm awaiting a reply from the neuro one way or the other. They study lady did say that they will NOT release the protocol to me without a dr involved. Also we can't share it. We have to sign something saying that we won't (the doctor and I both have to sign). Hence the idea of doing it on my own is not an option. I hold out hope that this will work out and soon I'll be in the office, standing there for ten minutes and feeling like crud in doing so. And that the information will be in hand sometime soon and I'll be able to proceed accordingly. 

Today the kids are off school due to a teachers' conference. [And again screaming and climbing on me!] I have to bring the boys to vestibular therapy with me, in which I will bribe them with the promise of smoothies if they adhere to the rules (no running, no fighting, no climbing on the equipment) for the full hour and fifteen minutes. It's going to be a challenge, for all of us!