I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22.

Coming off the heels of my 33rd birthday and breathing down the neck of my 10 year wedding anniversary, I'm feeling nostalgic.

My 22nd birthday. I'm a baby!


(Those are bar bathroom condoms that were gifted to me.)
Also note the adorned left hand. I was also given a ring.

Spaced out, cold having, ring giver:

(Also a baby.)

Cold medicine kicked in:

Adorable. I loved him then but it's even better now.

Happy Throwback Thursday. Have some good memories with me!

My Diagnosis. Also? I think I have a mustache.

Had you told the girl in this picture that in ten years' time she'd be sitting in the bathroom putting Rogaine on her head with hair remover on her lip and an estrogen patch on her butt, I'd wager she'd keel over. Either that or punch you. Probably punch you. I use to be really bitchy. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that at the age of 32 I'd be dealing with the body of a 55 year old. The official diagnosis is estrogen deficiency. My body thinks it's in menopause. I've lost at least 50% of my hair, my ovaries have shut down, and for the past 6 years I've honestly thought I was losing my mind. The anxiety, depression, memory loss, COMPLETE emotional instability: ALL symptoms of estrogen deficiency. How did it take so long to figure out? Well, since I've been pregnant or breastfeeding since 2006, it was kind of hard to tell what was what. Certifiable problem or hormonal pregnant girl? Your guess. It wasn't until my body really started shutting down and I really started getting scared that I actually had dementia did I get full bloodwork. What's next? For the time being while we wait for Zofia to wean I'm on an estrogen patch. I shed my tears about the hormone replacement therapy drying up my milk and bringing an end to this stage of Zofia's life, but if left untreated, estrogen deficiency leads to osteoporosis, stroke, and heart disease. As my mom pointed out, Zofia would rather drink out of a cup than have me die of heart disease. Touche, mom. I'm not going to cut her off cold turkey though, so they aren't going to test for the cause of this deficiency just yet, such as tumors, as breastfeeding would skew the findings in lab work. (For now I'm going to pretend like there's never been any mention of tumors as I MIGHT FREAK THE FREAK OUT!!!!!!)

So, that's where I am. Estrogen patch firmly on my butt and a lot of fixing and healing to do. The toll that it has taken on my body, marriage, kids, career, and relationships is hard to put into words. The task of rebuilding everything makes me feel like an asthmatic acrophobic about to scale Mt. Everest. Impossible. I'm scared y'all. Real scared.

If you're the praying type, send me a prayer. If you're the hugging type, send me one of those. If you're the forgiving type, well thank the Good Lord for you.

Down the rabbit hole of my brain.

It's easy for me to get lost within myself. A comment uttered, a story read, and I'm stuck deep within the recesses of my brain. I'm dark and emo like that. I've fallen down the rabbit hole. I'm spinning and falling past pictures of me smiling. Pictures of me with lighter hair and one brown eye and one blue. Pictures of me, my mom, and a happy, regular family

Recently a beloved Twitter friend and her daughter went through a surgery to have a G-tube removed from the wee lass. I inquired as to why this was happening and it turns out her sweet girl was born at only 23 weeks.

23 weeks. Let that sink in a moment. Maybe go read up on their stories.

This affected me. It kicked me right in my subconscious. I read everything about them and cried for their loss. I then cried for the loss my mom endured and the brother I never got to know. At the tender age of 19 my dear mother was happy, pregnant, and engaged to a gentleman named Ken. They were just about to start their American dream when September 10, 1971 Ken died. He was involved in a car crash leaving his bachelor party, driving to the home they were going to rent. Months later, December 14, 1971 baby Ken was born at 23 weeks. He lived for 12 hours.

What if these events never happened? What if Ken stayed home with my mom? What if my mom was allowed a normal, stress free pregnancy and baby Ken was born and survived? Where would that put me? Would I still be me but 50% different? Would I still have severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had I never encountered my biological or step dads? The life I think my mom and I could have had but didn't get to makes me sad. She deserves more.

What do I do with these feelings?      

Come Visit My Humble Abode

Every so often it happens. A little snide remark, an all out question of "Why do you live here?" or passive-agressive comment of "Well my husband is doing very well." Yes, every so often over the past 10 years it has happened and I lose a little footing for a second.

But only for a second.

Then I remember I'm proud of modest living. I'm proud of what we're teaching our daughters and I'm proud of us for living in a way that has little stress on my husband and me at home every day with my kids... because that's what I so desperately want. Because of our modest living style my husband was also able to take very long paternity leaves with both girls and that's generally unheard of.

I'm not a high and mighty stay at home mom. I'm just as proud of the career moms that do what THEY want and teach their kids their way, not being forced into a homemaker role that they don't want. We're all doing damn fine jobs with our kids in our own ways. We're all, ahem, mom enough.

We've gotten a lot of questions as to why we live in the house we do and why we don't upgrade. I'm hoping to give a peek into our home and try to explain why, to me, it's so lovely. First of all, this has been our home for 10 years. It's the first home Louis and I bought, we got married here, and we've had our babies here. Take a tour with me and see if you can find its charm.

Our street is very established. Multiple generations stay in these homes and pass them down.

It dead-ends on both ends to water. The ladies LOVE to walk to the lake.

Our sweet, wee house. All of the landscaping has been lovingly done by my mother and Louis,

Our backyard has hosted birthdays, fireworks, and the ladies think it's a playground.

(Athena's pride and joy is her container garden in the background.)

The kitchen and living room are where I spend so much time with my ladies.

(I lusted after that sectional until my mother in law gave it to me.)

And the ladies' rooms were made just for them... even if we do all sleep in one bed.

Perhaps they'll want space some day? (I hope not.)

(Zofia's)

(Athena Bee's)

(I'm a sucker for 50's tile.)

(Downstairs family room. More 50's tile and comfy furniture.)

(The ladies' play room built by their dad...)

(...and creation station.)

I know I don't have to explain myself, but I just really wanted to share why I love the charm of my home. We have no financial pressure, a comfortable life, plenty of time to be together, and an adorable neighborhood. We'd love to have you over. :)

*Also, I'd like to point out that no cleaning was done for this tour.

I want you to see us in our natural states :)



A Body's Journey Through its 20's - A Weight Loss Story

Here it is. The picture that started it all:

TwoPretzels posted this on my Facebook page as she was reminiscing about her wedding. When I saw it, my mouth hit the keyboard. That was me? Where did she go? I must investigate.

In this photo I'm 22 and in a totally rad wedding. I adored the dress but was devastated that my bottom got into a 4, but the up top was a 6. Such fatness. (rolls eyes) I had a gym membership that I didn't use, I ate a grande plate of nachos right before the wedding, and I never considered a single calorie. Yep. At 22 life is pretty good, and it stays good for a while.

Let's venture down the road a bit to 26. Pushing 30 but not really thinking about it. Beer doesn't have calories, right? I couldn't possibly be putting on weight RIGHT?!? If your husband is getting chubby too, well then that just cancels everything out!

Then this happened:

That right there is 210lbs of pregnant girl. Much to my dismay, a 40lb baby didn't come out.

I breastfed for 2.5 years and got down to this:

Not too bad. I can live with that. I had a baby, after all. Lay off!

However at the age of 28, I became a 210lb pregnant girl again.

Dammit! How does this keep happening? And guess what? A 40lb baby didn't come out that time either! And when you've got 2 kids to take care of, post partum depression like a mofo, OCD, anxiety, and a pinch of denial you get:

WTF?! My clothes don't fit, I haven't been able to get my wedding ring on for 2 years, and I would NEVER let my husband see me in my underwear.

Sweet double chin.

What in Hades happened? Comparing these last two pictures to the first one jump-started my weight loss desire. I rode an elliptical 5 days a week for 20 minutes, monitored a diet of 1,300 calories on MyFitnessPal, totally eliminated beer, and changed EVERYTHING about how I cooked. No more Paula Dean and everything cooked in butter and cream soups.

I went from 162lbs and an overweight BMI to 138lbs and a normal BMI.

I still track my calories, but I'm back up to a normal amount. I don't kill myself with exercise anymore, but I'm much more active. This is better. This is healthier. This I can maintain.

Prom Circa 1998 - Rawr

Behold the glory that is Facebook. A high school boyfriend (pictured, obvs) came across a prom photo and posted it. I don't know if I could possibly love my Real Housewives of Atlanta dress any more than I do. I can tell you right now that I thought, no, KNEW, I was hawt.

Let's talk about the boy. Tsali. Nadja n' Tsali. Fun names, huh? Oh, poor boy. I made him cut all his beloved hair off prior to this, stuck him in a tux, and then dumped him not much later. I was a world class bitch. I have since apologized and GOSH do I hope he knows how truly sorry I am for the way I treated him. Nadja in her 30's is a changed girl. He's doing well and that makes my heart very happy.

I love high school memories. Show me yours.

So I guess I'm doing this...

Hold my hand, internets. I'm skeered.

When I was a fresh-faced 17-year-old, I enrolled in college to pursue a degree in Psychology focusing mainly on children. I took a job at a government mental health facility as a respite worker for troubled kids. I ADORED working with the children, but the way they were handled and the jaded dispositions of everyone above me left me with a horrible taste for the career path.

Next I attended a career school for real estate. I loved my work and made great money. The hours were so ideal I figured this would be the perfect career for me to stick with after having children. Well, I don't have to tell you guys what's happened to the housing inustry in the United States. The career of Realtor has changed so much and is so unsure, I just don't see myself surviving out there right now.

The kids are going to get older. They're going to go to school and not need me sitting at home all day
.

I enrolled back in college.

I'm nervous, excited, and hopeful. The ultimate goal that my husband and I have worked out is me finishing this program, get my foot in the door at the university hospital where my mom works, start contributing to our health insurance and retirement, and secure a discount on our kids' college tuitions.

Big steps. Adult steps. College text books again. Exams again. My head is a bid swirly.

This is a good thing, though.

Flashback Continued - Senior Picture Time

I was talking to some Twitter Besties recently about high school pictures, looks, and whatnot. I said I would look for mine and share HOPING that some others would do the same. (HINT HINT!!!!)

Well here it is in all it's 1998 glory:

I seem to be posing for a jeans ad in a JCPenney catalog, no?

Mmmmm.... my foot tastes scrumptious.

While cleaning out our linen closet, not only did I find plenty of drugs that expired during the Clinton administration, I also stumbled upon my brush belt from my days as a makeup artist. It got me all reminiscent of the time where I actually left the house, talked to adults, and wore makeup and fancy clothes. A time where I was "Nadja" instead of just "mommy."

Speaking of being Nadja...

You'd think that someone with a name so similar to the word "nauseous" would be extra sensitive to others with, ahem, different names. As I was looking through my old work stuff I thought of the time that I had to ring a transaction for a fellow makeup artist. She was making a purchase for her mother and needed me to look up her mother's credit account.

Her: "I'll just spell her name for you and you type it in."
Me: "Okilly dokilly."
Her: "D-O-N-G..."
(I give her a smirk and one-eyed glance.)
Her: "S-U-K."
Me: GUFFAW!!! "Very funny! I typed the whole thing in!"
She raises her eyebrow at me. "What's so funny?"
Me: "Seriously, funny. I fell for it and typed the whole thing in. What's her name." (Why isn't she laughing? She's good at this game.)
Her: "That IS her name. My mother is Japanese. I'm Japanese. Her name is pronounced "Dung Sook."

Unfortunately the ground did not, in fact, swallow me up like I was praying. I apologized profusely, gave her her items, then rolled around on the floor in stupid agony.

Moral of this story? Be kind to all the Nauseas, Dong Suks, and Colon (sic) Powells because that REALLY is their name. You don't want to look like and ass like me now do you?

Oh my gosh I did it! I wrote my story.

Please. Read it. Understand me.

Sunday Sharing - Beer and Family Resemblance

I know. I'm reaching. What kind of topic is this? But I would like to introduce to you (if you don't already know) the greatest tasting lager I have ever had the joy of drinking. My mom got some for me to see if drinking one helped calm the old nerves on particularly bad OCD days. It's delicious, works like a charm, and boosts the old milk supply.

From their site:

Wild Blue is a blueberry lager that fuses the juice of nature’s perfect fruit – blueberries – with premium American and German hops, two row and six-row barley malt and cereal grains. Wild Blue has a full taste with a pleasant blueberry aroma and flavor, and contains 8 percent alcohol by volume

My mom shared this picture from my youth. I think I'm starting to see myself in Athena. Maybe. Just a little bit.

Happy May, y'all. I hope the weather gets nice and warm. SPRING!!!

Underachieving

For quite some time now I've been thinking about finally finishing up my degree. I've been working on it off and on for 12 years, but every time I really get going in school I panic and stop. My whole life I've always stopped just short of achieving my goals. You see, if I don't try my hardest to complete something, then I don't have to worry about the embarrassment of failure.

My intelligence and success in school were always points of pride for me when I was younger. Classes were generally a breeze for me and I rarely had to try very hard. "Rarely" being the key word. Superman has his Kryptonite and I have mine: Math. Calculus, algebra, basic math; it doesn't matter. They're all terrifying words to me. The one and only negative note my mother ever received about me was that I was struggling with my math lessons. I. Was. Mortified. From that point on, all the way through high school, I did everything I could to cover up my struggles. I cheated. Rather than ask for help, I cheated. Can you imagine the mental relief I would have felt if someone would have set me up with a math tutor? I can tell you one thing, I'll be much more aware and watching for any signs of struggle with my ladies. I don't want them to feel like I did in school.

And hopefully it's not too late to get some math help for me. Someone would help this elderly college student, right?

Dear Big Papa

To little fanfare and many a raised eyebrow, I decided that I'm going to find my biological dad.

It's not that I feel like I need a dad; I've got one. It's not that I feel like I have any unfinished business or need closure. It's that all of a sudden I became aware of my parents' mortality and I internally bugged out. What if he died without us ever seeing each other again? Would I feel guilty? Would I regret it for the rest of my life that we never made amends? Regardless of his assholeness, he IS biologically responsible for me and I don't want him to die alone. Plus, I don't want that heavy shit bogging me down for the rest of my days.

The ladies are another reason I'd like to find him. I feel like I got ripped off since I never got to know anyone from my dad's side of the family, and here I am doing the same thing to them. I don't want the ladies to feel that way. I don't want them to be irritated some day when they find out they had a "Big Papa" that they never got to meet.

So I started Googling him, and I believe that I may have tracked down his address in Florida. This meeting will happen only if he acts receptive and can abide by my rules. My letter is going to go like this:

Dear Big Papa,

It's been about 5 years since we've talked and out of nowhere I decided that, for the sake of my kids and me, I need to track down your ass. I want you to meet Athena and Zofia, and I would like to open up our line of communication. This will happen if you can do the following:

1. Act like no time has passed. Do not make a big deal out of our lack of communication. Simply act as though we are a normal father and daughter getting together after simply living far away from each other.

2. NO GUILT TRIPPING. You are Grand Wizard of guilt trips and need to control yourself. Shit happened, we didn't talk. The end. No one is going to throw you, or attend, a pity party.

 3. Be nice to my mom or I will end you.

Sincerely,
Nadja

So, since I sometimes like over sharing personal things on my blog, like hair loss, tumors, and marital interactions, let's add uncomfortable family adventures to the list.

I love you, you blogger besties of mine, and your support means the world to me... probably more than it should.

For Funnsies - Me at their ages.

Me at 3 or 4.

Athena at 3 1/2.

Me at 7 months.

Fifi at 7 months.



The ladies seem to look very little like their mama.

My vanity shames me...

Did you know that hair loss affects 21 million women in the United States alone? Probably not. Hair loss was never on my radar. I'm a girl and I'm only 30. Why would it be?

Well, I'm losing my hair.

I haven't admitted it to anyone out of complete and total embarrassment, but there's no denying it anymore. It's gone from being irritatingly thin to me having an actual bald spot. I've hid it, I've cried, but now I've gotta find out what is wrong with me.

My hair started coming out at an alarming rate when Athena was about 3 months old. I started to get nervous then, but my OB/GYN assured me that postpartum hair loss is totally normal. A few months later it did, in fact, stop falling out. I was so relieved. However, many months went by and it never came back. I went from having very thick, curly hair to very thin sorta wavy hair. This was strange and unnerving, but since I was still breastfeeding, the doctors figured it was hormonal and would rectify itself when I weaned. Well, Athena didn't wean until I was well into my next pregnancy, and after Zofia was born I braced myself for the next "fall-out."

And fall out, it did.

A couple months ago it started all over again. My scalp is a disaster area and my hair is coming out in clumps again, except this time I don't have any hair to spare. It is so severe I must either wear my hair up or wear a hair piece.

I can't help it. I'm devastated. I've been reading other young women's stories and that helps, so I hope that maybe if I share mine I can help someone too. 

Maybe there's something else going on besides just postpartum shedding, maybe not, but I need to know now.  I'm going to my doctor in a couple weeks so see if it is hormonal, a vitamin deficiency, or maybe a thyroid problem. I just hope so much that it's treatable.

Finding the Happy - Old Friends

This is the house I spent my teenage years in. It was a pretty good time. I didn't hate my parents, no teenage angst to report, and lots of good memories. (Maybe we're all just lucky I'm so resilient.) My parents have since moved on and live in the family homestead in Michigan. They've rented this house out for quite some time, but the renters split. They needed to sell it pronto. As you all know, the economy is busted up dude. Nothing is selling no how nowhere. What were they going to do?

Enter an old friend from those school years that desperately needed a new place to live with her super awesome boyfriend and rad little boy.

This weekend they finally moved in.

Was I not JUST lamenting that I needed a girlfriend to gossip with and drink fruity drinks with? Well she's here AND she already knows I'm six kinds of crazy and she still likes me!

THIS makes me very, very happy.

I use to have a BFF

Once upon a time I had a BFF and it was awesome. I miss having girl talks, going shopping, and drinking fruity drinks out of pretty glasses.

I had a girlfriend that I could talk to about anything and everything. She knew just about everything about me and she STILL liked me.

 We worked together, we talked on the phone every day, and she was even BFF's with my husband. How great is that? She got me through one of the hardest years of my life. People envied our relationship. They talked about how we were the type of friends that were going to grow old and be funny old ladies together.

Then I got pregnant.

I've always had Obsessive Compulsive disorder, this is nothing new, but something in the hormonal changes of pregnancy took it to a whole new level. I was so terrified of leaving my room and having ANYONE see how bad my OCD really was, I shut her out. I stopped returning calls. I stopped accepting invitations. I stopped being her friend. An irrational part of me held against her that she didn't try harder; angry that she didn't see something was wrong. Wouldn't she know that I would never stop being her friend unless something was going on?

Is this inevitable? Do all friends with different lifestyles eventually grow apart? That idea makes me sad.

5 Random Things

From Two Pretzels post yesterday, here is my list of 5 random things you may not know about me:

1. I have an extra bone in my foot.

2. I'm surprisingly conservative.

3. I don't own socks AT ALL.

4. I HATE jeans.

5. I like old fashioned undergarments. (I don't care for mere strings holding my stuff.)

I've been needing to do this for about 10 years

The question I posed before about closure is about to be answered for me... I think.

Either that, or I'm about to open up Pandora's Box.

We shall see...

And maybe I'll quit being so out of it.

I worry about Detroit...

I know this seems a bit long and wordy, but it doesn mean a lot to me.

I worry about it like you would a sick loved one. Are they going to pull through this? What's next for them? Is there anything that can be done to save them? Detroit use to be so fabulous. It use to be the 4th biggest city in the country. Motown was the place to be for music. It was a person's dream to be there.

Even though now as an adult I begrudgingly live in Ohio, Detroit will ALWAYS have a spot in my heart. My grandmother immigrated from Spain, my grandfather from Macedonia, and they wound up in Dearborn where they raised my biological father. When I was born we lived in Oakland County which is part of the Detroit metropolitan area. I went to a FABULOUS Jewish school in Bloomfield Hills that exposed me to so much diversity. We then moved down to Monroe County, which is still considered a part of the Detroit Metro area by the census. Detroit was never far away.

Some of my only positive memories of my dad involve going to Detroit Pistons games (whom I still vehemently support), the Detroit Auto Show (which I believe you are required to attend if you're from Detroit), and being able to jaunt across the bridge with him and visit Canada. Without those things, I'd have nothing from him. Sad but very true.

As a budding adult, I lived in my first condo in Detroit, and that is also where I got my feet wet in the world of real estate. I met some wonderful people, and some not so great ones. To make ends meet after I got fired for being sexually harrassed by some balding bozo, I worked at a Detroit Metro porn warehouse.

I adore going to Greektown with my husband. I love making the drive to shop up there. Being surprised with Pistons tickets and going to the Palace is ALWAYS a winner. I've seen almost all of my concerts somewhere in Detroit (and generally with my mom). I mean, can't almost everyone think of a positive Detroit experience?

I truly, truly hope that they can evolve and join the future. I thought Kwame Kilpatrick was going to be the one to do it, but THAT obviously wasn't the case. But I do still hold out hope.

And just in case you're ever asked (and because I love randomness) here are some fun facts:

-Is home to the Motown sound founded by Berry Gordy Jr. in 1957.
-Installed the first mile of paved concrete road, just north of the Model T plant, on Woodward Avenue.
-Built the nation's first urban freeway, the Davison, in 1942.
-Is home to the oldest state fair in the nation, first held in 1849.
-Is the potato chip capital of the world, based on consumption.
-Is home to the world's only floating post office. The J.W. Westcott II, can be found on the Detroit River.
-Is north of Canada.
-Is second in the nation in fishing rod sales.
-Shares the world's first auto traffic tunnel between two nations *the Detroit/Windsor Tunnel.
-Is home to the second tallest hotel in North America, the Detroit Marriott Renaissance Center, at 73 stories.
-Created the nation's first soda, Vernors. It was created in Detroit by pharmacist James Vernor in 1862.
-Has the most registered bowlers in the United States.
-Was the first city in the nation to assign individual telephone numbers in 1879.