Today a friend talked to me about her reservations about taking medication to cope with mental health issues. I didn't want to leap at her like a freak and overwhelm her with my enthusiasm, especially since everyone is different and the right answer for me isn't the right answer for everyone. But on this here blog, I can do whatever I want! Wheeeee!!!! So here is how I feel about Prozac.
Prozac quite literally saved my life. When I was pregnant with P, I was hit pretty suddenly and unexpectedly with very severe depression. I had wanted P and was happy to be having him, so I knew that it wasn't circumstantial. Nevertheless, I found myself lying on the floor sobbing several times a day. One day I became completely overwhelmed and I had a conviction that I was going to kill myself. It was a very calm, collected thing. I had a to do list -- I needed to fold the laundry, prep some food, and then I would go do it. I had a method, though I won't go into that.
It freaked me out. It really scared me how real and how inevitable it felt. I got in bed, which is my short-term advice for all suicidal people (provided you don't have a handy method in your bedroom). Just get in bed until the feeling passes. It's nice and soft. You're not going to up and die from being under the covers and you might feel better. Don't come out until killing yourself seems like a bad idea. I told a friend how I had been feeling, and she said I needed to call my doctor right away and not wait for my next appointment.
Of course, being a pleaser, I was hesitant to bother when I had appointments all the time anyway but I called. To my surprise, the nurse took it very very seriously and I was in within a matter of hours. I guess having suicidal patients is a red flag. Who knew. My doctor was wonderful and kind and affirming. She hugged me. She set up an appointment with a therapist as soon as possible. And she got me a prescription for Prozac, which I started taking immediately. Very quickly I started to feel better, and that persisted up until my PPD with Fred a few months ago.
I have been struggling with depression my entire adult life and I had come to accept that I was going to have to cope with it for my remaining years on this earth. I might have a few good months here and there, but it would always come back and I'd have to wade through it as best I could. Because of recurring suicidal ideation I often thought I might eventually lose my battle with depression. But I don't feel that way anymore.
In church people sometimes say thoughtless things about how nowadays folks just take pills to be happy when really (insert prayer/scripture study/a better attitude/ obedience to commandments etc.) would make them happy. I set them straight. Prozac doesn't make me happy. Prozac enables me to experience a normal range of emotion and to respond to events in a proportional and appropriate way. Setbacks bum me out, but they don't make me sob uncontrollably for hours. I'm able to feel excited, or happy, or enjoy things.
I am happy to report that I'm doing a lot better than I was a month ago. Things got really desperately bad with depression again. But I have upped my dosage and seen a therapist and switched to bottle feeding and sleep trained the lil gremlin and I am feeling much more like myself. My fuse is longer. I don't lock myself in the bathroom and scream. I don't cry uncontrollably.
It isn't easy for me to write about all this, because mental illness is deeply stigmatized. Admitting that, in fact, I have sat on a toilet and screamed doesn't make me feel super proud as a parent or a person. I know talking about suicidal ideation freaks out my family. Lying in bed crying feeling afraid to get out isn't on anyone's bucket list. But my brain chemistry isn't my fault. There are of course non-medical things I can do, and those are important too. I get outside every day. I exercise every day. I make sure to get protein. I get enough sleep. But the fact remains that sometimes doing all that stuff is not enough, because my brain is not like typical brains, and my blues are not the same shade as ordinary sad days.
So all I can say is this: if your doctor thinks you should try medication, then it's okay to try it. There is no shame in getting help and there is a lot of good. We don't shame diabetics for using insulin. We don't mock people with broken arms for using a cast. We don't sneer at cancer patients for using chemo. Medication isn't a crutch of the weak, it's a rational response to a potentially serious medical issue.
Friday, November 10, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
Let us oft speak kind words of our mothers
My motto is "leave no creative writing assignment unfooled with." As long as it can be rendered absurd, I am in. This is particularly true when people ask my mom personal questions and she comes to me and asks "what should I say?" Oh I have got your back mom. The Relief Society Newsletter has asked you what your favorite flavor jelly bean might be? Obviously your favorite flavor is "blood of my vanquished enemies." Usually my ideas are unprintable, but we have a good giggle. Secretly I think I could rock it as editor of the Relief Society Newsletter but it might get shut down after one issue.
About a decade ago my mom participated in a creative writing group designed to help people feel more confident in writing their family history. One of their assignments was to write their own obituary -- they were given license to be humorous. My mom was happy to do the assignment and she wrote a funny obituary. I, of course, took things way farther even though I wasn't part of the class and nobody asked me. This week my mom happened upon our obituary offerings. It's nice to be prepared in the event of tragedy. Without further ado, here is a (now somewhat out of date) rough draft of my obsequies for my angel mother.
****
Last Saturday evening, surrounded by her doting eternal family Carolyn G. Diamond was taken by her Guardian Angel to dance with the Saints in the Eternal Gold and Green Ball. She was 92.
Carolyn was born in a vermin-infested shack in Louisiana where she spent her carefree girlhood. At 18 she finally realized what joy is by joining the church and she was able to spend the rest of her life testifying to how people in "The World" are categorically incapable of experiencing happiness.
At BYU she was the head Cougarette and won the prestigious Golden Hairspray Can for her expertly coordinated slap the him and turn move. Unfortunately she did not graduate with her Mrs. and so she was forced to continue to go to school in the hopes of finally being fulfilled as a human being.
She eventually married P. G. and had two precious angels of children, LeVurl and Harmony. LeVurl became a mill worker and married his high school Princess Shayna. They have six children, eighteen grandchildren and live in Payson, UT. Harmony went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, which she gave to her mother as a coaster. Carolyn always made sure to remind her ward every fast Sunday what righteous children she had and and how that reflected well on both her valiance in the pre-existence and her excellence as a Mother, and she was right.
After 40 years of unrelieved marital bliss Carolyn was left a widow. The city created a museum to honor their homegirl's handicrafts and she spent several years as head curator of her own museum of crocheted doll ball gowns and acrylic doilies. It was at a demonstration of how to needle-point kleenex box covers that Carolyn met her eternal companion, Neil Diamond. He crooned "Hellloooo again, Hellooooo" and his soft buttery voice melted Carolyn's heart faster than a cube of margarine on a hot potato. He asked her to be his Purl of Great Price and they were married for Time and Part of Eternity in the Provo Temple, after he joined the church and became the Seminary Teacher.
Carolyn was renowned for her charitable works and ability to suck her teeth while giving talks in church. The world has been plunged into universal bereavement by her passing and a dark cloud has settled over the earth that will probably not ever dissipate. We can take comfort in knowing that this sweet, sweet, Angel of Mercy is definitely absolutely without a shadow of a doubt in the Great Relief Society Presidency in the sky, distributing rainbows and gumdrop kisses to those who passed on with welfare needs. Mya our hearts always carry a special glimmer for having known this Beacon of Hope.
*****
I'm getting excited about penning this year's Christmas newsletter.
About a decade ago my mom participated in a creative writing group designed to help people feel more confident in writing their family history. One of their assignments was to write their own obituary -- they were given license to be humorous. My mom was happy to do the assignment and she wrote a funny obituary. I, of course, took things way farther even though I wasn't part of the class and nobody asked me. This week my mom happened upon our obituary offerings. It's nice to be prepared in the event of tragedy. Without further ado, here is a (now somewhat out of date) rough draft of my obsequies for my angel mother.
****
Last Saturday evening, surrounded by her doting eternal family Carolyn G. Diamond was taken by her Guardian Angel to dance with the Saints in the Eternal Gold and Green Ball. She was 92.
Carolyn was born in a vermin-infested shack in Louisiana where she spent her carefree girlhood. At 18 she finally realized what joy is by joining the church and she was able to spend the rest of her life testifying to how people in "The World" are categorically incapable of experiencing happiness.
At BYU she was the head Cougarette and won the prestigious Golden Hairspray Can for her expertly coordinated slap the him and turn move. Unfortunately she did not graduate with her Mrs. and so she was forced to continue to go to school in the hopes of finally being fulfilled as a human being.
She eventually married P. G. and had two precious angels of children, LeVurl and Harmony. LeVurl became a mill worker and married his high school Princess Shayna. They have six children, eighteen grandchildren and live in Payson, UT. Harmony went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, which she gave to her mother as a coaster. Carolyn always made sure to remind her ward every fast Sunday what righteous children she had and and how that reflected well on both her valiance in the pre-existence and her excellence as a Mother, and she was right.
After 40 years of unrelieved marital bliss Carolyn was left a widow. The city created a museum to honor their homegirl's handicrafts and she spent several years as head curator of her own museum of crocheted doll ball gowns and acrylic doilies. It was at a demonstration of how to needle-point kleenex box covers that Carolyn met her eternal companion, Neil Diamond. He crooned "Hellloooo again, Hellooooo" and his soft buttery voice melted Carolyn's heart faster than a cube of margarine on a hot potato. He asked her to be his Purl of Great Price and they were married for Time and Part of Eternity in the Provo Temple, after he joined the church and became the Seminary Teacher.
Carolyn was renowned for her charitable works and ability to suck her teeth while giving talks in church. The world has been plunged into universal bereavement by her passing and a dark cloud has settled over the earth that will probably not ever dissipate. We can take comfort in knowing that this sweet, sweet, Angel of Mercy is definitely absolutely without a shadow of a doubt in the Great Relief Society Presidency in the sky, distributing rainbows and gumdrop kisses to those who passed on with welfare needs. Mya our hearts always carry a special glimmer for having known this Beacon of Hope.
*****
I'm getting excited about penning this year's Christmas newsletter.
Friday, October 13, 2017
Let's just put that into perspective, shall we?
Things have gotten really rough with breastfeeding. Gotten? oh, yeah it was horrible from the start. But it was working, in that my baby was gaining weight. Three weeks ago I returned to work and so Grandma started feeding Fred frozen Mom milk from a bottle. He was happy as a clam about the bottle (phew!) but it turned out that the amount my bod pumps and the amount Fred wants are not one and the same. So we were blowing through my stash really fast and the thought of pumping and pumping to feed the lil glutton was disheartening. I talked to the lactation consultant and she said that, all things considered, it was just fine if I chose to supplement with formula. What a huge relief!
Then, tonight, Fred went on strike. He absolutely refused to nurse and screamed and screamed and screamed. I get it, nursing takes effort, a bottle much less so (for him anyway). I was in tears as I warmed him expressed milk and fed it in a bottle. I'm such a failure! I can't even feed my baby! Do I just go to a bottle now, long before the six month mark the World Health Organization has recommended for our guilt? Another magical evening spent feeding and crying.
I decided to google "am I a terrible mother for switching to formula," a search that has doubtless been run millions of times. I opened my browser and you know what I saw? Stories about Donald Trump and Harvey Weinstein. Oh. So let's just think about the "am I terrible" question. I am considering changing from one healthy way of nourishing my child to a different one because our needs as a family have changed. Both means of feeding a baby are equally likely to produce a happy, healthy, wonderful human being. Theoretically breast is best. But it stops being best if I contemplate suicide and cry through feeds and my baby starts screaming and refusing to do it. What exactly are we accomplishing here? So yeah. I'm not a terrible person. Terrible people are rapists and creeps. Terrible people threaten war for no reason and deny health care and withhold life saving help out of spite.
I talked to my lactation consultant on the phone, an angel of a human being if ever there was one. When I asked how I was hurting my baby if I stopped breast feeding she said "let's reframe that. Let's celebrate that you were able to give your baby ninety days of breast milk, overcoming some really big obstacles." Yes. Let's celebrate that!
Fred is three months old. That means I have now put in a full year of my life of making horrible physical sacrifices so he can be healthy and exist. I was willing to keep doing this until next July. But I don't have to, and every minute that passes is making that sound better and better and better. I am planning to pump/nurse a few times a day still but not fight Captain Shrieky. Maybe now I can feel more like a person -- go to a movie! Out to dinner! Take a freaking break! It sounds pretty nice.
Side note to the soon to be born baby who has been promised a backup stash of Palmkey's Best: Count on it still. It's in the freezer just waiting for you. Fred won't miss it and you're not to feel fretted about it.
Then, tonight, Fred went on strike. He absolutely refused to nurse and screamed and screamed and screamed. I get it, nursing takes effort, a bottle much less so (for him anyway). I was in tears as I warmed him expressed milk and fed it in a bottle. I'm such a failure! I can't even feed my baby! Do I just go to a bottle now, long before the six month mark the World Health Organization has recommended for our guilt? Another magical evening spent feeding and crying.
I decided to google "am I a terrible mother for switching to formula," a search that has doubtless been run millions of times. I opened my browser and you know what I saw? Stories about Donald Trump and Harvey Weinstein. Oh. So let's just think about the "am I terrible" question. I am considering changing from one healthy way of nourishing my child to a different one because our needs as a family have changed. Both means of feeding a baby are equally likely to produce a happy, healthy, wonderful human being. Theoretically breast is best. But it stops being best if I contemplate suicide and cry through feeds and my baby starts screaming and refusing to do it. What exactly are we accomplishing here? So yeah. I'm not a terrible person. Terrible people are rapists and creeps. Terrible people threaten war for no reason and deny health care and withhold life saving help out of spite.
I talked to my lactation consultant on the phone, an angel of a human being if ever there was one. When I asked how I was hurting my baby if I stopped breast feeding she said "let's reframe that. Let's celebrate that you were able to give your baby ninety days of breast milk, overcoming some really big obstacles." Yes. Let's celebrate that!
Fred is three months old. That means I have now put in a full year of my life of making horrible physical sacrifices so he can be healthy and exist. I was willing to keep doing this until next July. But I don't have to, and every minute that passes is making that sound better and better and better. I am planning to pump/nurse a few times a day still but not fight Captain Shrieky. Maybe now I can feel more like a person -- go to a movie! Out to dinner! Take a freaking break! It sounds pretty nice.
Side note to the soon to be born baby who has been promised a backup stash of Palmkey's Best: Count on it still. It's in the freezer just waiting for you. Fred won't miss it and you're not to feel fretted about it.
Friday, September 29, 2017
So good at this.
I pulled up the dashboard of this blog and saw that I had an unpublished post titled "This is not going well" -- I'll say. So I hit publish. And now I write a little more, because writing makes me feel better, sometimes.
It's been a rough week. I went back to work this week, and that in itself was fine but it still amps up the ambient stress of my life considerably. I still feel very disoriented by playing trucks all morning, then dashing to campus to be Professor Me, then hurrying back home to feed and care for fractious little ones again. I know that it'll get better and I'll get used to it again, but right now I feel very out of kilter.
Pip has been sick. Nothing serious. Just enough to make him contrary and stubborn. Fred is getting better at sleeping all night (well, he gets up to eat. But he goes to bed reasonably well and what more can I ask really). But he fights naps with all his strength and will basically only sleep soundly if the house is quiet and I"m rocking him and holding in his binkie. Obviously morning naps are therefore all but impossible and I spend the entirety of Pip's nap trying desperately to get my baby to sleep enough to compensate for his inappropriate wakefulness the rest of the time. Oh a tired baby is super fun by the way. I loooooooove the constant screaming. Love it. Every instant of my day is spent in meeting other people's needs. I don't even shower alone a lot of the time. I certainly wouldn't dream of peeing alone and if I do I pay for it in destruction. And yet despite how relentlessly I'm trying to care for my kids, I constantly feel like a failure. If I'm caring for Pip I'm ignoring Fred's screams. If I'm caring for Fred then Pip is awfully sad I'm not reading and playing and doing what he needs. Its a fun game of constant failure. Meanwhile the house deteriorates to the point of unliveability and we subsist on hot dogs and cereal.
On top of that my D-MER/PPD is just killing me. A big part of it I'm sure is that I'm unable to do all the self care that would make things better. See previous paragraph. I'm doing what I can. I take my medication. I go outside everyday. I walk several miles every day but it still doesn't feel like enough exercise to really cheer me up.
This morning I woke up depressed. I just couldn't believe it was all starting again and it would be another twelve hours before I had any hope of real relief. Its hard having to leap into action the minute you wake up. First I feed Fred. Then I get Pip up who is usually clamoring. Then I change diapers and get kids dressed and pump milk for the freezer and try to get me dressed too, and then I get Pip breakfast and Fred is starting to get mad I haven't gotten him and oh by the way his morning diarrhea has manifested itself right on time. Feeding Fred and pumping triggers D-MER and suddenly I'm crushed by feelings of sadness and suicidal ideation. It goes away when I'm done pumping, but I'm totally drained. Meanwhile Pip does the usual kiddo thing -- using his spoon as a weapon, fiddling in the dishwasher, throwing cars.
Fred is now full on screaming to be held. So I put him in the frontie pack and he's mellow enough that I can do other things, except doing the things with an extra 15 pounds strapped to your chest is awfully difficult. Pip messes up the dishwasher one to many times and I yell at him and scare both my children. Now Fred is screaming inconsolably again and I start sobbing because I'm a bad mother and my house is a mess and I can't face it all anymore. Pip keeps saying "mama sad? mama sad?" but I can't stop crying and I don't know what to do.
My MIL is out of state. I try calling mom but no answer -- she must be out of the house. I keep getting the thought "call Amber. Call Amber." But it is very hard to call someone and admit that you can't handle what everyone else seems to handle. Its hard to say "drop everything in your life and come help me survive mine." But I did. And she came immediately. She played with my kids for over an hour so I could just clean my house without being pestered and hassled. It is amazing what you can do with two free arms. My house is all clean. Well, as clean as it needs to be for my peace of mind. My children got the attention they desperately wanted from someone who wasn't sick of it all. So thank you Amber. For meaning it when you said "if you need anything just call."
I packed up my crew to take on the first rain walk of fall. Pip loved the new yellow boots I bought him and splashed happily in the puddles. We walked with my mom to the bakery and I bought us all treats. Pip played in the wet park and sat on the dinosaur that has been there since my childhood. We came home and Pip announced he wanted a nap and a "time out" (I had to give myself a time out earlier this week and he's been very interested in the idea that you can just declare you need solo time and shut the door.) So I snuggled him up in his bed for his self imposed me time.
Now Fred is screaming and I must away. I can do this. But not without my village.
It's been a rough week. I went back to work this week, and that in itself was fine but it still amps up the ambient stress of my life considerably. I still feel very disoriented by playing trucks all morning, then dashing to campus to be Professor Me, then hurrying back home to feed and care for fractious little ones again. I know that it'll get better and I'll get used to it again, but right now I feel very out of kilter.
Pip has been sick. Nothing serious. Just enough to make him contrary and stubborn. Fred is getting better at sleeping all night (well, he gets up to eat. But he goes to bed reasonably well and what more can I ask really). But he fights naps with all his strength and will basically only sleep soundly if the house is quiet and I"m rocking him and holding in his binkie. Obviously morning naps are therefore all but impossible and I spend the entirety of Pip's nap trying desperately to get my baby to sleep enough to compensate for his inappropriate wakefulness the rest of the time. Oh a tired baby is super fun by the way. I loooooooove the constant screaming. Love it. Every instant of my day is spent in meeting other people's needs. I don't even shower alone a lot of the time. I certainly wouldn't dream of peeing alone and if I do I pay for it in destruction. And yet despite how relentlessly I'm trying to care for my kids, I constantly feel like a failure. If I'm caring for Pip I'm ignoring Fred's screams. If I'm caring for Fred then Pip is awfully sad I'm not reading and playing and doing what he needs. Its a fun game of constant failure. Meanwhile the house deteriorates to the point of unliveability and we subsist on hot dogs and cereal.
On top of that my D-MER/PPD is just killing me. A big part of it I'm sure is that I'm unable to do all the self care that would make things better. See previous paragraph. I'm doing what I can. I take my medication. I go outside everyday. I walk several miles every day but it still doesn't feel like enough exercise to really cheer me up.
This morning I woke up depressed. I just couldn't believe it was all starting again and it would be another twelve hours before I had any hope of real relief. Its hard having to leap into action the minute you wake up. First I feed Fred. Then I get Pip up who is usually clamoring. Then I change diapers and get kids dressed and pump milk for the freezer and try to get me dressed too, and then I get Pip breakfast and Fred is starting to get mad I haven't gotten him and oh by the way his morning diarrhea has manifested itself right on time. Feeding Fred and pumping triggers D-MER and suddenly I'm crushed by feelings of sadness and suicidal ideation. It goes away when I'm done pumping, but I'm totally drained. Meanwhile Pip does the usual kiddo thing -- using his spoon as a weapon, fiddling in the dishwasher, throwing cars.
Fred is now full on screaming to be held. So I put him in the frontie pack and he's mellow enough that I can do other things, except doing the things with an extra 15 pounds strapped to your chest is awfully difficult. Pip messes up the dishwasher one to many times and I yell at him and scare both my children. Now Fred is screaming inconsolably again and I start sobbing because I'm a bad mother and my house is a mess and I can't face it all anymore. Pip keeps saying "mama sad? mama sad?" but I can't stop crying and I don't know what to do.
My MIL is out of state. I try calling mom but no answer -- she must be out of the house. I keep getting the thought "call Amber. Call Amber." But it is very hard to call someone and admit that you can't handle what everyone else seems to handle. Its hard to say "drop everything in your life and come help me survive mine." But I did. And she came immediately. She played with my kids for over an hour so I could just clean my house without being pestered and hassled. It is amazing what you can do with two free arms. My house is all clean. Well, as clean as it needs to be for my peace of mind. My children got the attention they desperately wanted from someone who wasn't sick of it all. So thank you Amber. For meaning it when you said "if you need anything just call."
I packed up my crew to take on the first rain walk of fall. Pip loved the new yellow boots I bought him and splashed happily in the puddles. We walked with my mom to the bakery and I bought us all treats. Pip played in the wet park and sat on the dinosaur that has been there since my childhood. We came home and Pip announced he wanted a nap and a "time out" (I had to give myself a time out earlier this week and he's been very interested in the idea that you can just declare you need solo time and shut the door.) So I snuggled him up in his bed for his self imposed me time.
Now Fred is screaming and I must away. I can do this. But not without my village.
This is not going well
I really need future me to do a quick "It gets better" PSA for myself. I know that it will get better, and fairly quickly. But right now things are not great. I wake up in the morning and feel completely depressed and unable to face the day. If my children are awake but not screaming I ignore them until they are actually distressed. It isn't that long of course -- Fred usually puts in an order for breakfast pretty insistently. I take my medication and tell myself that suddenly I'll be doing fabulously well.
Every time I feed Fred I feel awful. Sometimes its just fairly blue and other times it is so bad I can barely function. I feel like a failure, like I'm an awful mother. I don't want to feed him and feel cross that he wants to eat. Sometimes I think about throwing myself down the stairs. I have to remind myself that my children actually really like me and would be quite sad if I disappeared. But sometimes I feel like I"m just everyone's meal ticket and maid and errand runner and not a person at all.
I hate having to hitch my happy face on. It's exhausting. Sometimes people who know I've been struggling ask if I'm doing better. Nope. I'm just trying to go through the motions as enthusiastically and authentically as I can manage. I'm glad I'm pulling it off so convincingly.
I feel guilty that I didn't have this problem with Patrick in the same degree, even though none of it is my fault nor is it a reflection of feelings for one child or the other.
I often cry at the end of the day because Fred demands attention until after nine, at which point I"m so exhausted I get straight in bed. Sometimes my little treat is when I wake up in the night and know I still get a few more hours (after feeding) to myself in my own bed with nobody touching me or talking to me or needing me to do stuff.
I am happy for parts of every day, and I am a good mom. Patrick and I have been playing an awesome new game on my bed (allowing me to lie around as I want to) in which his playmobils colonize my pillows. I help to make them houses out of bedding and they go in and take naps, and sometimes come out to play tag or hike mommy mountain or engage in other fun playmobil activities. I bought Pip a balloon that has provided hours of family fun. I bought hot dogs and so P has had is all time favorite meal (hot dogs and grapes) two nights in a row. Is it because I can barely function? Maybe. But he's also thrilled to pieces and that feels good. Previously I think he thought you could only get hot dogs at the Costco kiosk -- a fancy dining experience. But no! You can have them at home too!!! Living the good life.
I'm also good to Fred. Much as I hate breastfeeding I am chunking that boy up. He weighed in at 13 pounds which is fairly hefty for a two month old. I make sure he gets a nice clean fuzzy sleep sack to sleep in. I let him stay up watching Grantchester with me (okay actually I have to stay up soothing his shrieking)
Every time I feed Fred I feel awful. Sometimes its just fairly blue and other times it is so bad I can barely function. I feel like a failure, like I'm an awful mother. I don't want to feed him and feel cross that he wants to eat. Sometimes I think about throwing myself down the stairs. I have to remind myself that my children actually really like me and would be quite sad if I disappeared. But sometimes I feel like I"m just everyone's meal ticket and maid and errand runner and not a person at all.
I hate having to hitch my happy face on. It's exhausting. Sometimes people who know I've been struggling ask if I'm doing better. Nope. I'm just trying to go through the motions as enthusiastically and authentically as I can manage. I'm glad I'm pulling it off so convincingly.
I feel guilty that I didn't have this problem with Patrick in the same degree, even though none of it is my fault nor is it a reflection of feelings for one child or the other.
I often cry at the end of the day because Fred demands attention until after nine, at which point I"m so exhausted I get straight in bed. Sometimes my little treat is when I wake up in the night and know I still get a few more hours (after feeding) to myself in my own bed with nobody touching me or talking to me or needing me to do stuff.
I am happy for parts of every day, and I am a good mom. Patrick and I have been playing an awesome new game on my bed (allowing me to lie around as I want to) in which his playmobils colonize my pillows. I help to make them houses out of bedding and they go in and take naps, and sometimes come out to play tag or hike mommy mountain or engage in other fun playmobil activities. I bought Pip a balloon that has provided hours of family fun. I bought hot dogs and so P has had is all time favorite meal (hot dogs and grapes) two nights in a row. Is it because I can barely function? Maybe. But he's also thrilled to pieces and that feels good. Previously I think he thought you could only get hot dogs at the Costco kiosk -- a fancy dining experience. But no! You can have them at home too!!! Living the good life.
I'm also good to Fred. Much as I hate breastfeeding I am chunking that boy up. He weighed in at 13 pounds which is fairly hefty for a two month old. I make sure he gets a nice clean fuzzy sleep sack to sleep in. I let him stay up watching Grantchester with me (okay actually I have to stay up soothing his shrieking)
Sunday, August 6, 2017
Because, it turns out, I matter too
Or, why I'm not going to have a large family
Well, I do have a large family in the sense that my babies are hefty. Phred was 9 lbs 5 oz which is no pixie. But I'm not going to keep doing this.
I hardly need to hash out why I wouldn't relish another pregnancy -- anyone who knows me or reads this should be well aware that I view pregnancy as some kind of prolonged torture, all the more so because of the pressure to "love" or "treasure" it. What else are we supposed to cherish? Having a newborn because it goes so fast and these moments are so precious etc.
Well, I don't. I love my baby. I love his soft fuzzy little head and his snuggles and his weird facial expressions. But I think about future milestones with glee I don't bother to conceal. My body has apparently signed up for the "weird and rare and miserable" version of bringing children into this world. First I vomit for nine months straight. Now (as I did with P) I have D-MER -- Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex. In more simple terms, producing milk feels emotionally horrible. I'll leave it to the scienticians to explain the whys and hows, but basically milk letdown is triggered by various hormones swimming around my body. I experience this horrible wave of depression and sadness that comes out of nowhere. It subsides, and a few seconds later I can feel milk letdown.
So imagine that many times a day you're living your life (boiling water, combing your hair, having a conversation) and suddenly you feel like you could never be happy again. The feeling lasts for maybe 30 seconds, and then it goes away just as suddenly. Then your nipples start stinging. A few minutes later your baby starts screaming. It's like the world's worst alarm clock reminding you to feed your child, as if the crying weren't going to tip you off. Also if you forgot to put in absorbent pads, now your underwear is soaked with sticky milk that will smell terrible tomorrow. Wheeee!!!!
Perhaps you're thinking "30 seconds -- that's not so bad!" Well, neither is breastfeeding if you're imagining it in complete isolation. What's twenty minutes in an arm chair? Why the complaining? Oh, it happens every two hours around the clock for the foreseeable future? You never get a day or even an afternoon (much less a night) off? This is just what your life is going to be for the next year? Cool. My baby is almost a month old. Or, one might say, eleven months away from drinking cow milk and me closing up shop, not that anyone is counting.
So yeah, I'm cherishing ever single precious instant of all of this. Or maybe, just maybe, it's okay not to pretend to love the reproductive aspect of womanhood. I actually think that I have intrinsic value and that my experience and happiness matters too. If formula feeding weren't expensive and an even bigger hassle, I'd be there. In Oregon that is basically like admitting you are willing to feed your children bleach but what can I say, I'm an unnatural and vicious woman. In the mean time I'm treating my body to what it likes best to make up for the many cruelties children inflict. I go for long walks with the stroller and put in my earbuds and pretend I'm alone. I periodically say "mmmhmm" in response to my toddler's chatter but mostly I listen to the vulgar swearing and gore of "My Favorite Murder." I ate most of a batch of cookies this weekend. I do fragments of workout videos before my children interrupt me because I like how lifting weights makes me feel. I took a nap today and it was amazingly wonderful. And I am counting the months until my body is my own again. I don't really care if it's floppy and scarred and limp in some places and rotund in others. I'm just looking forward to having it to myself. I'm going to buy a brand new dress because I won't have to provide access to my chest every few hours. It's going to be dope.
Well, I do have a large family in the sense that my babies are hefty. Phred was 9 lbs 5 oz which is no pixie. But I'm not going to keep doing this.
I hardly need to hash out why I wouldn't relish another pregnancy -- anyone who knows me or reads this should be well aware that I view pregnancy as some kind of prolonged torture, all the more so because of the pressure to "love" or "treasure" it. What else are we supposed to cherish? Having a newborn because it goes so fast and these moments are so precious etc.
Well, I don't. I love my baby. I love his soft fuzzy little head and his snuggles and his weird facial expressions. But I think about future milestones with glee I don't bother to conceal. My body has apparently signed up for the "weird and rare and miserable" version of bringing children into this world. First I vomit for nine months straight. Now (as I did with P) I have D-MER -- Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex. In more simple terms, producing milk feels emotionally horrible. I'll leave it to the scienticians to explain the whys and hows, but basically milk letdown is triggered by various hormones swimming around my body. I experience this horrible wave of depression and sadness that comes out of nowhere. It subsides, and a few seconds later I can feel milk letdown.
So imagine that many times a day you're living your life (boiling water, combing your hair, having a conversation) and suddenly you feel like you could never be happy again. The feeling lasts for maybe 30 seconds, and then it goes away just as suddenly. Then your nipples start stinging. A few minutes later your baby starts screaming. It's like the world's worst alarm clock reminding you to feed your child, as if the crying weren't going to tip you off. Also if you forgot to put in absorbent pads, now your underwear is soaked with sticky milk that will smell terrible tomorrow. Wheeee!!!!
Perhaps you're thinking "30 seconds -- that's not so bad!" Well, neither is breastfeeding if you're imagining it in complete isolation. What's twenty minutes in an arm chair? Why the complaining? Oh, it happens every two hours around the clock for the foreseeable future? You never get a day or even an afternoon (much less a night) off? This is just what your life is going to be for the next year? Cool. My baby is almost a month old. Or, one might say, eleven months away from drinking cow milk and me closing up shop, not that anyone is counting.
So yeah, I'm cherishing ever single precious instant of all of this. Or maybe, just maybe, it's okay not to pretend to love the reproductive aspect of womanhood. I actually think that I have intrinsic value and that my experience and happiness matters too. If formula feeding weren't expensive and an even bigger hassle, I'd be there. In Oregon that is basically like admitting you are willing to feed your children bleach but what can I say, I'm an unnatural and vicious woman. In the mean time I'm treating my body to what it likes best to make up for the many cruelties children inflict. I go for long walks with the stroller and put in my earbuds and pretend I'm alone. I periodically say "mmmhmm" in response to my toddler's chatter but mostly I listen to the vulgar swearing and gore of "My Favorite Murder." I ate most of a batch of cookies this weekend. I do fragments of workout videos before my children interrupt me because I like how lifting weights makes me feel. I took a nap today and it was amazingly wonderful. And I am counting the months until my body is my own again. I don't really care if it's floppy and scarred and limp in some places and rotund in others. I'm just looking forward to having it to myself. I'm going to buy a brand new dress because I won't have to provide access to my chest every few hours. It's going to be dope.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Birth Plan
At 37 weeks I have officially reached the generalized arrival zone for Moppet #2. I asked my Dr. for a "definitely done by" date and so this baby will be evicted no later than July 11th, which is less than a month away. My life as a mobile home is almost over.
Preparing for a baby is an endless list of nitpicky little chores, most of which do not really matter but which somehow seem terribly urgent all the same. I mean I haven't hung the curtains in the nursery yet, so my baby will probably refuse to spend the night here as a matter of principle. One of the things I keep putting off is writing a birth plan. I always wonder just how useful this actually is. The mommy community acts like this is as important as having insurance and significantly more important than having a crib. Do medical professionals just read them and laugh? I think I would, especially having seen drafts of them on mommy message threads.
So much about birth and caring for a new baby seems to bring out maternal hubris. Ooooh I have this plan for how my birth is going to be and it will be wonderful and spiritual and meaningful. Okay, maybe. Or maybe your body will writhe in animalistic pain beyond your control and it will all be super gross and kind of awful and either way you get a baby. Making a plan for something that immediately gets out of hand seems kind of futile to me. Nevertheless I have bowed to the pressure of my pregnancy app which relentlessly nags about this and written my birth plan. It has two essential points, which are exactly what I asserted last time with P.
1. I want an epidural and I want it yesterday
2. If/when I poop while delivering I want you to lie to my face and say I didn't if I ask. I don't care how natural or common or unremarkable it is to the L&D team. Have I pooped in front of strangers? Yes, of course I have, anyone who knows my (former) blog knows that! But I do think there is a big difference between having diarrhea in close proximity to a homeless woman and doing so directly in someone's face.
Maybe just for the thrill of it I should think about my alternative, ideal-situation birth plan. Here are some elements of that.
1. I'd like to opt out of being the one to give birth at all, actually. Can Chris and I take turns on this?
2. I would like the room to be set up like a Bachelorette Fantasy Suite -- this means a trail of rose petals, candles everywhere and prurient camera men taking lingering shots of the empty bed.
3. The L&D unit is several floors up. Any chance of an air show going on we could watch while we wait? Maybe some trained birds, stunt planes and fireworks?
4. While they're rummaging around my innards could the team also suck out some of the extra plumpness I've acquired? Might as well.
5. I will, of course, be wearing a hospital gown I brought myself. The emphasis here is on gown. Plan on sequins and jewels, and maybe twinkle lights.
6. I ask that the amniotic fluid be saved and bottled so that I can force my loved ones to toast to my baby with it. This is part of my belief system.
7. I demand that everyone keep the baby's sex a secret. We are planning an elaborate gender reveal party for his/her 14th birthday.
I'm open to further suggestions of course.
Preparing for a baby is an endless list of nitpicky little chores, most of which do not really matter but which somehow seem terribly urgent all the same. I mean I haven't hung the curtains in the nursery yet, so my baby will probably refuse to spend the night here as a matter of principle. One of the things I keep putting off is writing a birth plan. I always wonder just how useful this actually is. The mommy community acts like this is as important as having insurance and significantly more important than having a crib. Do medical professionals just read them and laugh? I think I would, especially having seen drafts of them on mommy message threads.
So much about birth and caring for a new baby seems to bring out maternal hubris. Ooooh I have this plan for how my birth is going to be and it will be wonderful and spiritual and meaningful. Okay, maybe. Or maybe your body will writhe in animalistic pain beyond your control and it will all be super gross and kind of awful and either way you get a baby. Making a plan for something that immediately gets out of hand seems kind of futile to me. Nevertheless I have bowed to the pressure of my pregnancy app which relentlessly nags about this and written my birth plan. It has two essential points, which are exactly what I asserted last time with P.
1. I want an epidural and I want it yesterday
2. If/when I poop while delivering I want you to lie to my face and say I didn't if I ask. I don't care how natural or common or unremarkable it is to the L&D team. Have I pooped in front of strangers? Yes, of course I have, anyone who knows my (former) blog knows that! But I do think there is a big difference between having diarrhea in close proximity to a homeless woman and doing so directly in someone's face.
Maybe just for the thrill of it I should think about my alternative, ideal-situation birth plan. Here are some elements of that.
1. I'd like to opt out of being the one to give birth at all, actually. Can Chris and I take turns on this?
2. I would like the room to be set up like a Bachelorette Fantasy Suite -- this means a trail of rose petals, candles everywhere and prurient camera men taking lingering shots of the empty bed.
3. The L&D unit is several floors up. Any chance of an air show going on we could watch while we wait? Maybe some trained birds, stunt planes and fireworks?
4. While they're rummaging around my innards could the team also suck out some of the extra plumpness I've acquired? Might as well.
5. I will, of course, be wearing a hospital gown I brought myself. The emphasis here is on gown. Plan on sequins and jewels, and maybe twinkle lights.
6. I ask that the amniotic fluid be saved and bottled so that I can force my loved ones to toast to my baby with it. This is part of my belief system.
7. I demand that everyone keep the baby's sex a secret. We are planning an elaborate gender reveal party for his/her 14th birthday.
I'm open to further suggestions of course.
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