I’m Ten Pounds Overweight and I Cannot Be Bothered to Even Try to Lose Those Stupid Extra Pounds

I used to care, you guys. I used to REALLY care about my thighs. And sometimes my arms. If they weren’t as toned or as thin as I thought they ought to be, it really ruined my mood. I wasted a lot of good years being moody about a lot of stupid things, one of the biggies being my body. I’ve reached the point where I am working actively on being happy and I’ve crossed off my stupid thighs from the list of things that determine my happiness. Here are some reasons why:

Stretchy work pants exist. Seriously, these things are the champion of all chaps. You know how clown cars can hold a ridiculous number of people in their teeny-tiny automotive space? These pants are kind of like the that – you can fit a ridiculous amount of your stout self into a seemingly tiny leg hole. I will forever own pants made of “super stretch” material, whatever the hell that is. They are comfy and cozy and don’t overly embellish my flaws with weird curves or creases. Plus, I can run, skip, hop, or do a reverse roundhouse kick if I ever needed to, without splitting a seam.

Some foods really do taste better than being skinny feels. Anyone who tells you otherwise has some sort of deep-seated psychological turmoil going on. I mean, come on. Bacon, pizza, nachos, chocolate…wine…need I say more? Every time I am on a restrictive diet I am CRANKY as hell. Or at least not nearly as pleasant and boisterous as I am when I’m eating what tastes good. And in case you didn’t realize, SO ARE THE REST OF YOU. Trust me. People who want to hang out with other fun people generally do not choose to surround themselves with the ones who refuse to eat anything other than kale and baked chicken breast. There’s a reason for that and it’s called being laid-back and happy. I’m quite sure there’s some research-based study waiting to happen out there that could prove this. (If you’re running the study and looking for participants, I want in as a control subject. Can I get paid to eat nachos and report my mood?)

Being overweight doesn’t equate to mushy and out of shape. Not only does skinny not equate to happy, it also doesn’t equate to healthy. Even though most of my pants are a bit snug these days, I actually am more fit than I’ve been in a while. I’ve been focusing on working out some previously neglected muscle groups and have been pleasantly surprised at the results. My hips are stronger, my ass is stronger, my arms are stronger, my core is stronger. I am physically more capable than I’ve been in a while. I’m so much stronger than I was in the past, though not nearly as svelte.

My body is just a shell. My extra ten pounds are not ME.They just give my passions, my ideas, my insights (and okay, yes, my organs and definitely my ass) a little extra cushion. When I’m doing something that gets me excited, makes me feel alive, makes me feel strong, or smart, or ridiculously silly, I forget to notice my body. I need to fill up my life with more of those things. No matter how big or small they seem, and no matter if anyone else around me understands why they make me feel so good, THOSE ARE THE THINGS.

I know I won’t give a shit about those ten pounds years from now. Years from now, I’ll look back and think how great I looked, because I will be old and wrinkled and lumpy. Do you ever notice how old people who are too skinny look kind of like gross crepey-skinned skeletons, but those who have a bit of chub look a lot healthier? So really I could just be giving myself a little boost for looking my best as a senior. That could be my prime, who the hell knows? Or maybe I’ll go just be a real disaster and I’ll have bunions and skin tags and a bladder that is sitting precariously perched, far too close to the outside of my body. I could have dementia, or cancer, or a degenerative disease that makes it difficult to open jars or go for a walk or maybe even to just comfortably sit. Or maybe I won’t even be here at all. It seems rather prudent to get over my physical self now and move on with more important things in my life.

I’m over caring about those last ten pounds. I Can. Not. Be. Bothered.

Hooray.

 

Don’t Forget.

Don’t forget.

Where you put the keys.

To get the milk.

To turn off the lights.

 

 

Don’t forget.

To say words that are true.

And kind.

And to say them often.

 

 

Don’t forget.

To focus.

On what’s important.

On who’s important.

 

 

Don’t forget.

That inside, somewhere,

Could be the monster

that will erase the past.

 

 

Know today, that I love you.

Delight in you.

And etched in my brain, right now,

Is every bit of you.

 

 

In case I can’t say it tomorrow,

Or the next day.

It’s important, this.

Please honey, don’t forget.

Alzheimer's takes away the past.  Please honey, don't forget.

Alzheimer’s takes away the past. Please honey, don’t forget.

Flu Season Preparedness Tips For Parents (Hint: You’re Screwed)

Flu season is upon us. Flu shots, Vitamin C and hot green tea with honey can help keep the symptoms at bay….for awhile. But, even if you lucked out before, at some point it is inevitable that the flu will wreak havoc through your household.  Vaccines, vitamins and all-natural remedies can support your immune system functions, but they’re not magical potions.

I’m generally opposed to parents complaining about anything related to taking care of their own children. Sleep deprived? No personal space? Have to play with your kids and teach them stuff? And you’re STILL expected to clean your own house? Yeah, shut up. That’s what you signed up for. There are plenty of people out there without kids who have other responsibilities that result in them feeling just as tired and stressed out. And, don’t even get me started on the many who are struggling to conceive who would do anything to have our so-called “problems”.

Except there’s this. Being sick when you have children is a specific type of agony.

Uh huh.  You parents know what I’m talking about.  Being sick is never fun, but when you’re a parent, it brings the misery to a whole other level.  Here’s why:

1)  You can’t rest.  Back in the day when you were sick, you’d stay in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself, sleep for hours on end, and give your body some time to heal.  You might manage to summon the energy to call your mom or your significant other to ask for a home delivery of saltines and ginger ale. But, once you’re a parent, there is no resting in bed. You still need to feed your children, get them ready for school, and then feed them AGAIN for dinner (they’re so demanding).  You also need to make sure they don’t flush all of their toys down the toilet or impale themselves with a shish kabob skewer they pull from a kitchen drawer.  You trying to “take it easy” is exhausting and physically demanding.

2)  You don’t get any sympathy.  In the PK (pre-kid) era, your spouse used to feel bad when you got sick.  They’d make you chicken soup, take your temperature and say sweet things like, “Feel better, babe!”.  Nowadays when you mention your scratchy throat, or cough extra loudly for attention, your significant other just responds by getting pissed off. Gone are the days of getting special treatment and here to stay are the times of getting leered at with disgust and a growled, “Don’t get sick” request/threat. Because chances are, if you’re sick, so are they.  Or, at least on the verge and you being sick means more work, and more exhaustion, for them.

3)  Your body never actually gets a chance to heal.  In the past, an infection would run its course, and be in and out of your system in a jiffy.  No, back then a few days didn’t FEEL like a jiffy, but now you have the perspective to realize that your body used to heal itself with lightening speed.  These days, your immune system is less efficient than the federal government, and you’re lucky if that seemingly harmless cold doesn’t linger for weeks, or more.  A virus that doesn’t mutate into a lethal condition is reason to celebrate. I’m quite certain that the white blood cell count of parents are at a perpetually statistically significant level of elevation, compared to non-parents.

4)  You might infect your poor child. It’s not just about you anymore.  Nothing is worse than a sick child.  In contrast to being completely pissed off when it comes to your spouse being sick, you have nothing but sympathy for your little one. When your spouse gets sick, don’t be surprised if you alternate between thoughts of, “Help me out you lazy bum!” and, “Get away from the baby – what are you trying to do, kill your own offspring?!”

5) You will probably get infected by your poor child if you have escaped contamination thus far. This sucks for multiple reasons. For one, you probably got infected while having face the repugnant task of cleaning up a bunch of puke from the kitchen floor, from the kid’s car seats, or – the worst – out of the heat vent when your kid leans over the side of the bed to puke in the middle of the night. Great placement, kid!  You earn some parenting bonus points if this happens when you’re sitting on the side of the bed, placing a cool dishcloth on your germy bundle of joy’s head, and some of it splatters on your face/lap/in your own mouth. Not only does this make you sick in the Stand By Me sort of a way, but it exponentially increases the chances of you becoming actually infected, and from the looks of it, possibly with Ebola. If this happens to you, suck it up and don’t expect any niceties from your spouse until Spring.

If you liked this post you may also like 10 Key Pointers For Picking A Mate or Ten Tips For Sustaining A Long-Lasting Marriage.

Chicken soup is a common classic comfort food ...

The Office Is The Only Hope

The office is the source of hope.

But it brings with it, more.

 

Fluid filled, cystic anxiety.

Blood soaked uncertainty.

Regression, after success.

Loss.

 

It brings stomach aches and heart palpitations.

Emotions and exposed nerves that are scrubbed raw,

to maintain sanitary conditions in the sterile environment.

 

It’s a recurring nightmare that offers the promise of a dream.

The office is the source of hope.

But, it is not free for the taking.

 

You must pay, with more than only money or time.

You pay with undignified prods and pokes and pills.

With screams and moans that are saved for later.

With tears that are held back and with some that escape.

With exhaustion.

 

And even with a visceral reaction to the office itself, you keep going back.

It’s where you hate to be

and want to be

and must be.

Because the office is the only hope.

Waiting room

The Reproductive Endocrinologist’s Office Is The Only Hope For Those Dealing With Infertility (Photo credit: Melissa Venable)

The Monster’s Comforting Cloak

She had a monster inside her.

He was shadowy and spiny and ran he laps around his home, inside of her heart.  His talons took chunks out of her flesh as he stomped his feet on her. In her.  The bristles on his back scraped and poked and gouged her insides as he turned and twisted.  He dug in. He chomped at her flesh and took sips of her blood; he drained her. He wounded her heart, leaving it loose, saggy, shriveled.  As tiny as he was, that monstrous speck in her heart, he weighed her down.

On the day the woman became a mother, her body opened up and the child emerged. With the child came gristle, blood, and watery fluids.  And also the beast.  The dreadful speck got washed away, expelled for good.

But, while her body was open and vulnerable, a new monster crept in.

The new creature surreptitiously found its way inside and into her heart. It filled the void The Other had left.  Only this monster was not a speck. It was a giant.  It packed her heart full, and crouched inside, with its arms around its knees and its back squashed up against the sides, for lack of space. The woman felt  an intense tightness in her chest from the pressure.  But she did not complain.

Unlike The Other, this monster was not covered in bristles.  It was cushy and downy soft. The pressure from this monster comforted the woman.  It made her feel complete. Warmed.  Full. Even though her heart now held more weight, the woman felt lighter. Over time, the new monster fed on her happiness and it continued to grow fatter and fatter inside the woman’s heart, which stretched and stretched to accommodate it.  The intense fullness usually felt good.

But sometimes it didn’t.

Sometimes instead of filling her with happiness, the distention scared her. Terrified her. Paralyzed her. Because the tiniest notion that there could once again be emptiness where the fullness now was, was unimaginable. Unthinkable. Unbearable.

The woman came to realize that the new monster wasn’t new at all.  The Other had not actually disappeared.  The tiny, barbed monster had simply put on a thick, cushioned, cloak. He was hiding underneath the happiness, growing larger.  Stronger.  And if the soft veneer were to be shed, the stiff bristles, which would have once left only a scratch, would now impale her from the inside, killing her for sure. The monster chuckled menacingly as it leaned back, settled in, and kept feeding, growing more and more obese, stretching her heart even further and further.

monster2

Secondary Infertility: What I’ve Been Telling Myself

It’s no secret that Mr. Grouch and I have been trying for Baby Grouch #2.  We’ve been “not not trying” since she was only a few months old, and we started seeing our reproductive endocrinologist again back in May.  As we embarked on this journey for a second time, I told myself I’d maintain a positive attitude.  That I wouldn’t get sucked back into a self-pitying hole.

I’ve been telling myself  that I should be grateful for my family of three, when so many others are struggling to become parents for the first time.  I am grateful our process wasn’t as long, expensive, or invasive as what many others have endured. I am so very, very, lucky and I tell myself not to be greedy.

I’ve been telling myself that no matter what, I’ll be happy with the family that I end up with, whether we can ride as a group in a small sedan or if we require a van to haul us around.  I have a smart, interesting, silly, happy, curious and delightful one year old who amuses, thrills and amazes me each and every day.   She defines beauty, inside and out. And, if she’s the only child I am able to have, I couldn’t have been blessed with a better little human being.

Yet, a nagging whisper coming from inside me keeps saying But I want one more….If one is this good, two can only be better.

So, as we’ve begun the second round of fertility treatments, I’ve been telling myself that we got pregnant using this combination of meds the last time around, so it should work again this time, and that I just need to be patient.

I’ve been telling myself that I should relax, and if the upcoming blood draw turns out to be a big fat negative, that it will be okay, and we can always try again.

But, apparently it doesn’t matter how much I tell myself those things, however true they may be.

As the two week wait comes to a close and the blood draw date looms ahead, I can’t help but feel incredibly anxious.  I can hear my heartbeat and feel it in my throat.  My face is shiny, sticky, slick with sweat.  My hands are shaky, my knee won’t stop bobbing when I sit. My breath is labored, shallow, my lungs are tight.  My high pitched voice barks at those around me and while I try to rein it in, my responses are often short, brash, sharper sounding than I want them to be.  At first I couldn’t pinpoint my anxieties, but now I know why.

I don’t want the test to be negative.

And even though I have no control over the outcome, and my rational self knows “if not this month, maybe next month” the horrible dark little corner of my heart whispersmaybe never...  And it chews little holes inside me with those words, turning my insides to mush, and squeezes my juices out of the corners of my eyes.

I guess it isn’t just this test that I’m anxious about.  My overreactions, which at first glance appear to be over a relatively trivial event, are really projecting my true fear. Going through this process again (for how long?) with maybe nothing to show for it in the end, other than mountains of bills and valleys of disappointment.

But, just continuing to go through the treatments in an indication of hope, isn’t it? That I must think it’ll work out in the end, and that, in the not-to-far future, my heart will be doubly full and this will all be behind us.  So louder than the dark voice, I keep telling myself.Don’t give up

secondary-infertility-300x300

secondary-infertility – what i’ve been telling myself-300×300 (Photo credit: Argyropoulos)

If you liked this post you may also like: The New NormalTop 10 Things Infertiles Want You To Shut The Fuck Up About, and the other pieces in my Infertility/Pregnancy page.

Traits I Inherited From My Dad

My dad is pretty awesome. Happy Father’s Day, Pa!  Love ya.

1.  Eat healthfully.  Have an apple a day.  Don’t eat just to eat.  Enjoy cottage cheese as a delicious protein-punched snack.  Except also love pizza.  And love it with a passion.

2.  Make smart financial decisions.  Don’t overspend.  Save, save, save.  And then save some more. I didn’t follow this advice so well, however I did marry my husband, and he does this, so I count it as a win for myself.

3.  Be creative.  My dad once created this elaborate hoax where he and my younger sister “kidnapped” the neighbor’s Santa Claus around Christmas-time.  He wrote ransom letters and thought he was really helping the family nextdoor get into the holiday spirit.  Turns out, he actually traumatized those poor children, who thought Santa was in danger and that they weren’t getting any presents.  It still makes me laugh out loud when I think about this.

4.  Have incredibly large eyebrows.  Ok, eyebroW. Black one(s).  This one wasn’t so much a lesson learned, but more of a genetic characteristic.  A very bountiful one.

5.  Love your spouse.  My dad writes my mom little love notes and draws her pictures and writes her poems to tell her how much he adores her.  He’s been doing this now, for over half of his life.  It’s beautiful.

6.  Love your family.  Even your children or your wife or your siblings, when they are assholes going through a rough patch.  Maybe especially then.

7.  Get pissed off about things.  And act, for about 1 minute, like these things are the most important thing on the planet.  Especially if they’re not.  This doesn’t only come from my dad, I come from a long line of people who get pissed off over things.  Countertops.  Lights.  Carpets.  I don’t get pissed off so much over those things, but definitely over others and I think sometimes the “passion” over countertops and lights and carpets comes across much more strongly than it is really felt.

7.  Be committed.  Not to a mental hospital.  Well, yes, if you need one.  But, that’s not what I mean.  If you say you’re going to do something, do it.  If you are going to be married, be faithful.  If you are working with others, be honest.  Don’t do anything half-assed.

8.  Have at least a little bit of fear of getting Alzheimer’s.  And, maybe the gene.  We won’t really know for sure for a while now, but we know it runs in the family.  The good news is, we know how to love creatively, and how to save, and how to get pissed off, and how to remain committed, despite the pissing and moaning.  So, we should be okay.

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Parenting: Reasons to Panic #2: The Sleeping Newborn

I have vivid memories of Mr. Grouch, in his college apartment, during muggy summer months.  I can picture him, stripped down to his whitie tighties, sprawled across his twin bed, with the oscillating fan one centimeter from his toes, the soggy air leaving him too lethargic to move. A sexy, sweaty, beast.  The two of us are different in so many ways but in this way we are oh so much the same.  Wait, not in the sweaty beast way.  Well, actually, yes, in the sweaty beast kind of way.  What I mean is, neither one of our bodies can adequately handle the oppressive heat of July, August, September.  Our air conditioning runs on high all summer long and we keep our home chilled enough to be able to walk around the house in jeans and hoodies.  We do not like to be sweaty beasts.

So, when Baby Grouch was born, in the fierceness that is August, as ridiculous as it seems, we felt the need to put a little heater in her bedroom.  You turn on the heater, and then set it to the appropriate temperature, which, in our case, was around 71 degrees, and it has it’s own internal thermostat.  At the time of this episode, Baby Grouch was a couple of months old and was sleeping 3-4 hours at a stretch.

The first night she slept for 6 hours, I woke up, in a panic.  I got that surge of adrenaline that I had become so accustomed to, every time she woke me with her squeaks and squawks, but this time it was because she was quiet.

IS SHE OKAY?

Shrouded with the fear of sudden infant death syndrome, I hurried to her room, and opened the door and a wave of heat hit me in the face.

Then the REAL panic started.

OMG OMG OMG IT’S TOO HOT OMG OMG OMG I COOKED MY BABY OMG OMG GREATER RISK FOR SIDS WHEN IT’S TOO HOT OMG OMG I COOKED MY BABY “HUN! GET UP! THE BABY’S TOO HOT. TOOO HOOOOTTT!”

I was screaming and yelling and flipped on all the lights; I opened the windows and took Baby Grouch from her crib and removed her from the sweltering room and laid her in the hallway all the while still yelling panicked nonsense at my husband.  I unswaddled her and took her teeny tiny body out of the sack.  My heart was pounding out of my ears.  Just because she feels warm right now, doesn’t mean she’s okay.

She opened her eyes.

OMG OMG OMG “SHE’S OKAY!  SHE’S OKAY!”  I’m still screaming. Out loud, not just in my head.

This all happened within a matter of seconds and Mr. Grouch wasn’t even out of bed yet.  Er…he may or may not have been laying in bed, watching me silently while giving me the, you’re-such-a-freaking-crazy-hormonal-wife-I-don’t-even-know-what-to-do-with-you-right-now look.  He said calmly, “I think you forgot to set the thermostat on the heater”.  Indeed, I did.  It was over 80 degrees in that bedroom (probably 20 degrees warmer than the rest of the house) and for weeks I was sick about it.

Looking back, I think about that college apartment in the summer and how we didn’t have central air.  I realize that many people, in summer months, allow their houses to reach heinously high temperatures (and some even enjoy it.  What??).  Some of them probably even have babies that sleep there with them, that are okay.

What panicky sleep stories do you have of your newborn?

Still Sleeping

You Need Sleep!

I was recently contacted by a very friendly chap named Peter, who has turned some informative facts about sleep into exceedingly cute info-graphics.  Not only does the data look accurate, but it is easy to read, properly succinct, and, most importantly, super cute.

My personal favorite facts include:

1) Not getting enough sleep increases the risk of being overweight (which means I shall forever blame my love handles on my horrible sleep patterns).

2) Cognitive functionality increases 40% after a 20 minute nap.  I am a huge fan of the 20 minute nap – and more often than not I feel more rested after a high quality power nap during the day than I do after a full night of typical “sleep”.  My favorite 20 minute nap method involves drinking a cup of coffee immediately before taking the nap, so by the time you get up from the nap the caffeine kicks in.  I can also forever blame my apparently slow processing speed and dull nature on my ghastly REM cycles.  Hurrah.

See for yourself how lovely and cute fun facts about sleep can be!  Clicking on the picture will take you directly to the original source.

Provided by: MedicalBillingandCodingCertification.net

Itchy…twitchy…..bitchy

One of my many night time ails is difficult to describe.  We all know that the thesaurus is a girl’s best friend, however when describing this condition, I can hardly think of one accurate descriptor, let alone a synonym. Nevertheless, I’ll attempt to illustrate the symptoms and you start guessing what it is.

Clue # 1:   It is very strange.  You might picture a circular UFO, emitting a phosphorescent stream of particles, beaming me up, or perhaps you envision me getting probed by an extra terrestrial.

Clue # 2:  It comes in the form of an itch.  You could be thinking the problem is bed bugs.   You imagine these tiny, flattened, brown, segmented parasites feasting on me as I sleep.  (Sidebar: Did you know that bed bugs are on the rise?  They are becoming resistant to our pesticides, and are growing in number, at an alarming rate.  We are no longer able to effectively kill these suckers.  They are multiplying like crazy and chomping on people’s exposed bits at hotels, nationwide.  It is actually becoming a huge problem. I’m not making this up.) Perhaps you think that last example was extreme and were really guessing the problem was eczema, since that makes people itchy, too.  You picture me scratching at rough patches of red skin, my fingernails scraping loudly across crusty bumps.  My chunks of skin served to dust mites on a cotton platter.  Or, you might be thinking dry scalp.   You wonder if they gray you see in my hair is actually dandruff, and not ….age.

Clue # 3:  The itch is located exclusively waist down.  You might guess athlete’s foot, my toes an array of colors, my feet a fungal disaster, smelling like moldy cheese and Tinactin.  Or perhaps, since I am a girl, you think it could be a yeast infection and imagine curdled, moist, panties with the scent of baked bread.    Boys can get yeast infections too, you know.

Clue # 4:  It comes in the form of a twitch.  You might be worried about me and now think I have seizures.   You imagine me biting down on a stick to prevent me from swallowing my own tongue (This perpetuates a myth, by the way.  If someone is having a seizure, do not stick something into their mouth!  They can’t actually swallow their own tongue, but they could choke on the stick).  You might be getting really worried and think I am now disclosing one of my secrets from my last post, which is that I have a horribly unkind, lethal, neuromuscular disorder.  You might think I’m a goner and may already be thinking of me in the past tense.  Here is a test:  Are you describing me as passionate, endearing, advocate, or an opinionated, judgmental, loudmouth?  One of those descriptions would be accurate, and the other would be used in my eulogy.  You could wonder if I have contracted The Dancing Plague, the delightful-sounding disorder that causes people to dance for days or weeks on end, eventually causing them to collapse in a heap and die from exhaustion.  After hearing your wild conjectures, I’m thinking that perhaps the word twitch is leading you astray.

Clue # 5:  It is definitely an ache.  Ah, you are back in known territory.  You think I have a bruise, from running into coffee tables or chairs, or even walls. Because I do those things.  Or, maybe you wonder if I have simply strained a muscle, picturing my out-of-shape ass attempting a work out (I did actually pull a muscle doing a hurkey yesterday – ask L.R. in B Hall).  You could possibly presume it is tendonitis, resulting from some sort of repetitive motion.

Clue # 6:  It’s my legs.

Ah ha!  Ding ding ding! You figure it out.  Restless leg syndrome!  I was starting to wonder if you would ever get it.  On many nights, the moment I lie down, I can feel my legs get antsy.  It is strange because up until I lie down they aren’t really too antsy at all.  But, once I’m horizontal, they NEED to move, it is not an option.  They get twitchy.  The longer I lie (lay?) there, the worse it gets.  The itch I referred to earlier is an odd one, since it isn’t on the outside of my skin, it is buried far below the surface.  Muscle deep.  Bone deep.  They ache so badly it hurts.   I have experimented with a few remedies.

The first countermeasure is getting up and walking around.  This helps quite a bit, actually.  One problem with this method is the fact that I am blind without my contacts, so I often run into things like doors, doorframes and my cat.  Perhaps the more critical problem is that I am unable to sleep whilst walking around (unlike a friend of mine who sleepwalks nightly, more on her later).   The walking helps, until I get back into bed, at which point the legs start screaming at me again.  So I get back up.  Sometimes this is a process that begins when I go to sleep, and continues for hours, and other times I will fall asleep, and then these legs of mine will wake me up, on fire.  Another semi-useful remedy is to repeatedly flex my quads as hard as I can, hold them there as long as possible, and then release.  I do this in an attempt to wear out my legs.  It doesn’t work that well, but I get a brief reprieve while flexing.  A third remedy I have tried involves slathering my legs with Flexall 454.  This is most effective immediately after a shower.  (If you thinking you might try this remedy, just be careful during application as there are sensitive bits located near your thighs).  I have also tried an herbal pill, which tastes sweet and dissolves quickly when placed under the tongue. I am 90% sure it is made solely of sugar, so I refuse to look at the ingredient list. I understand the placebo effect and sometimes the little pill works. No matter the remedy used, eventually I fall asleep, but just like my legs, my slumber is restless.

A remedy I have not yet tried, but have fantasized about for years involves a unique bed furnishing.  I have seriously contemplated constructing this contraption for my bed.  I know what you are thinking, and no, it is not a sex swing or some type of kinky bed-sex furniture.  What I have envisioned is a stationary bed-bike.  So, when I am laying on my back, legs refusing to let me sleep, I could go to the side of the bed, where my bed-bike is attached, by a hinge.  When not in use, the hinge allows it to fold down, on the side or under the bed.  When needed, I simply flip the bed-bike up, and I am able to use it, while positioned on my back, horizontally in bed.  I know, it’s definitely not the sexy bedroom accessory a husband may dream about, but at this point I am pacing like a zombie and smell like an arthritic anyway.

Since reading with my light on, or moving my leg or foot back and forth keeps my husband awake, I’m guessing the whirring noise of pedals circling and the bed shaking wouldn’t be very welcome.  Perhaps I should check into this bed and breakfast?