When I wrote about panacea songs, I forgot to mention George Winston’s December. Years ago, when I lived in Philly, my girlfriends and I would go for sushi at Genji when we needed to talk or build up emotional reserves. December was often playing in the background, and it will always remind me of good sushi and supportive friendships.
Today I have been:
peed on
smeared with poop
stabbed at with a pen
hit
kicked
smeared with snot
coughed on
sneezed on
screamed at
I don’t know why I’m depressed. Motherhood is SO rewarding.
Kidding. I can tell I’m doing better because today has merely bent, not broken me. I got a long, hot shower in, and that made a world of difference.
Another of my bizarre theories is that we’re born knowing yoga. Baby Guppy did an extraordinary bound angle pose this morning. Last week, I was watching 3yo Drake at the park. He flopped down, and I thought, oh, look, he’s in plank position. He then moved his chest forward into upward dog, then shifted his weight back into downward dog, doing the moves in sequence from a sun salute. And no, I don’t and haven’t done these yoga poses in front of him. I tried to teach him triangle pose, and that was a complete flop. But every so often he’ll bust out another move, so I continue to believe that yoga classes merely remind us of skills our bodies have forgotten from childhood.
People who know me may be familiar with my habit of forming bizarre theories. The fact that I have had little scientific education does not deter me.
Three fourths of our little family is in the throes of a nasty cold, and one of my theories is that viruses are sentient life forms, intent on propagating themselves on a microcosmic level. I only have to observe toddlers with colds for supporting evidence. My usually introverted son Drake suddenly becomes very physically affectionate, far beyond needing some extra physical comfort because he’s sick. He especially becomes more physical with baby Guppy, giving sticky hugs and snotty kisses. He also becomes even more enamored of things in the kitchen. Yesterday I caught him licking the lid of the honey bottle, sticking his hand into the salt dish, and groping food in the refrigerator.
The health cautions of magazines primly advise parents to wash hands, and keep hands away from faces. But I’m pretty sure the only way a toddler can resist the biological imperative of that virus to spread is through quarantine.
Our parenting class instructor says it’s best to leave junk food in the store. My favorite baby book, Baby 411, advises that parents foster healthy eating habits by eschewing the four Cs: cookies, candy, chips, and cola. I saw this when I flipped through the book the other week, and kept it in mind during last week’s grocery trip, and didn’t buy any of those items. That week, Drake may not have known what he was missing, but I did, and it made me cranky.
The next grocery trip I bought a bottle of black cherry pop, a dark chocolate bar, a bag of Kettle chips, and a bag of chocolate Newman O’s. I’ve kept all but the chips out of 3yo Drake’s hands. While I agree that the ideal is to not to have them in the house, I’ve found my mood improves appreciably when I have access to an occasional treat.
The bad news is that I have post-partum depression. The good news is that I’m working with a doctor and a therapist to treat it and try to bring some balance back to life. It turns out that feeling tired, frustrated, and angry after having a baby may be normal, but it’s still a good idea to get it checked out.
On the theme of balance, I offer three depressing things (meta depression?) and three good things about depression:
Depressing things about being depressed:
1. I’m even more likely than previously to take things personally
2. Being on the wrong dose of an anti-depressant provides side-effects, but no benefits
3. Answering the diagnostic questions truthfully, especially those about whether I think about harming myself or my kids, makes me feel like a failure, and a deadbeat mom.
Good Things:
1. I’ve decided to take nothing personally unless someone says something to me directly.
2. Side effects go away, and the right dose of an AD builds my reserves, and reminds me of my former, more balanced state.
3. I have been heartened by how responsive doctor, family and friends have been. I am also proud of myself for not dithering about getting help, or quibbling about the advice I’ve gotten. All of these have helped lessen the severity of a discouraging situation.
I hesitated about writing about this here–too personal, too controversial, too trite. Yet writing helps at least me, and might even help someone else, too.
Some friends of mine used to joke that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing twice, and expecting different results. After spending yesterday in the kitchen and using just about every utensil and gadget, I think I have a new definition.
Insanity is making baby food from scratch.
Jars of organic food are easy, readily available, and not that expensive, though maybe not at the rate and volume baby Guppy consumes them. I don’t care what the books say, making it from scratch is time, labor and dirty-dish intensive. Plus I’m not sure I’m allowed to complain about being stressed and busy if one of the things that takes up my time is making baby food.
And yet, homemade peaches taste really good; homemade zucchini is very pretty; homemade green beans are a bitch to puree, but are way more appetizing looking and tasting than what comes in a jar. I shop for organic produce for the rest of the family anyway, and avoid packaged food when possible. Buying produce for Guppy and pureeing isn’t inconsistent from a quality of food standpoint.
But it might be inconsistent with a quality of life standpoint.
Way back, pre-kids, I tried to do the bulk of my grooming the same way I tried to do laundry and other chores: once a week. I’d reserve one day, usually Sunday, for a long shower, exfoliation, shaving, plucking, clipping and even sometimes finger- and toe-nail painting.
Those days are gone. Now I feel lucky if I get a medium length shower twice a week, and anything else is gravy. The fatigue of parenting plus the additional work makes it harder to muster the energy for maintenance work: ah, I’ll just get dirty again, why bother? Yet ever-increasing levels of filth (on me, rarely the kids) weigh upon my psyche. They’re like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Showering, then has become another of the several things (like writing and naps) that I have learned to shove to the top of the list. Because there’s not much that kills the simple pleasure of a shower like knowing Drake has the run of the house, or listening to the escalating screams of Guppy, who decides that shower time is EXACTLY when he wants to be held, or fed, or whatever.
And all that other stuff (shaving, et. al) just has to get worked into the crevices, like most things these days.
I forget how long ago it was that I bought a neti pot, but it was many years. It might’ve been during my pregnancy with Drake when I had a cold and was all “oh, I can’t take conventional drugs.” (As opposed to my pregnancy with Guppy, during which I was sick all the time, and was not nearly so cautious–Dimetapp, Robitussin, Pepcid, Tums, echinacea, zinc…) I tried the neti pot, nearly drowned at my own hand, then put it away, thinking to myself, “crazy alternative therapies.”
Recently, my nose has been in bad shape due to hot summer, allergies, and air conditioning. It was both dried out and stuffed up. I decided to give the neti pot another try. I followed the directions and the ridiculous picture of the girl pouring salt water through her nose and smiling, and this time it worked! It didn’t feel pleasant, but I poured salt water in one nostril and it came out the other. Then Drake came in to see what I was doing, and I had to smile just like the women in the picture so he wouldn’t be alarmed, but then he wanted to use it, and I had to explain that, like fancy chocolate, gum and lipstick, neti pots are just for mommies.
After the neti pot, I felt a little wet down deep in the ears (during his bath, when he gets water in his ears, Drake says, “I have diapers in my ears.”) but that passed quickly, and then my nose felt great–clear on both sides, moisturized, fresh–like it had been to a spa. I’ve used it a few more times, and while it still feels like I’m wilfully choking myself with salt water, my nose feels much better. So: crazy but effective alternative therapy.
I think there’s a tendency in childcare books and in advice of extremes. One camp says babies are evil geniuses, adept at manipulating their caring, sleep-deprived parents. The other says babies are like little buddhas, who know exactly what they need, if only their parents are attuned enough to divine it. The reality, of course, is much more murky and middle ground. It also changes as babies get older, and can learn cause and effect.
Our first parenting book was the Dr. Sears Baby Book. Initially, I thought it was great. I aspired to be an attachment parent. I had not, however, consulted Drake about this. Drake did not like the sling. Drake did not like to be held. And Drake would not, could not, sleep. I consulted the Sears Baby Book, where it said disparaging things about sleep training, and that it set children up for unhealthy dependencies later in life. It was not what I needed to hear at the end of my rope. Next, I consulted The No-Cry Sleep Solution by Elizabeth Pantley. It also disparaged the so-called sleep-training books as cruel. I read it, I tried its recommendations, but Drake’s sleep did not improve. Finally, I took the advice of our pediatrician, and I purchased the book of the sleep trainer the other books reviled: Dr. Ferber. I read the book, and was shocked at how reasonable it was. I’d expected some baby-ignoring devil based on what I’d read in Pantley and Sears. My husband and I followed the advice in the Ferber book, and finally Drake’s sleep improved. He liked to go to bed, and he slept well once there.
It was the Ferber book I opened when Guppy began to wake more often, at about four months. I supplemented it with a book by Jodi Mindell, billed elsewhere as a “kinder, gentler Ferber” though I found it so nearly the same I’m surprised at the lack of attribution. This time, I tried to approach it more like sleep learning than sleep training. We checked on Guppy at lengthening intervals. I decreased the duration of night feedings by a minute a night. I stopped nursing him right before bed and directly after waking to differentiate those events. Gradually, Guppy learned not only to fall asleep by himself, but that waking did not mean nursing. Within days, he was sleeping longer and waking less. Guppy did cry more for a time, which set the rest of us on edge. Faced with little sleep and much crying, it was often difficult to determine the best thing to do. But now we are all four doing much better than we were a month ago.
I’m likely to hit my minimum yearly book and movie goals of fifty, perhaps for books even by the end of August. After we had our first son, Drake, I found I was reading less often, and seeing movies hardly at all. Both reading and movies felt too important to become casualties (even temporarily) of parenthood, so last year and this I set movie and book challenges, with a hope that, at minimum, I’d be reading one book and seeing one movie a week. These challenges are reminders to myself (and perhaps to readers) that there IS time to read and to see movies. I make time for these things by not doing other things, like housecleaning and yard work, or doing them less often. Mental Multivitamin re-posted this entry on how she makes time to read/write/live/learn. Her post is a good reminder: time is limited and distractions many. My challenges help me focus on my priorities. My summer reading challenge has helped me focus on the reading list I set, rather than haring off whenever something new catches my eye, or comes in at the library. I’ve still departed from the list, but much less frequently, and with more deliberation, than I would if I had not set a reading list.
I stopped going to yoga during my first trimester carrying Guppy, since I was so tired all the time. I had the choice between yoga class or a nap; I picked the latter. I returned to my yoga mat yesterday for the first time in about a year; I went to a 90-minute class at my local gym. While my husband thought I might want to take it easy and leave early, I stayed to the end, and was rewarded with a nice, long savasana. I love instructors who don’t skimp on this essential part of the practice. It was a humbling class; I had to do many modifications and rest often. Previously, when I’ve been away from yoga, it took as long to recoup as I’d been away. It is discouraging to think it will take a year to work back to my former practice, which wasn’t any great shakes to begin with. Who knows, though. Perhaps I’ll end up being able to do poses that I could not before. In any case, it was good to be back.
I’ve been checking out a few new book and reading blogs lately. Today at Book Moot I found a link to MotherReader’s 48-hour reading challenge. Since the challenge arose from her reading backlog of literature for older kids/teens, and since I have several of that kind of book already on my summer reading challenge list, I think I’ll give it a shot. I’m also interested in showing when and how I read, because I hear other moms say they don’t have time to read. I’ve got a four-month old and a 2 year old, and I make time to read for myself, in addition to the reading I do to them. Other things go undone, but reading ranks right up there with eating, sleeping, childcare and writing. Most everything else is negotiable.
I spent today and one day last week in an uncharacteristic manner: driving around. I was in and out of the car with both boys all morning, and in the car for a long time. Drake did very well, and Guppy slept the whole time, but it isn’t an experience I want to increase in frequency.
We only have one car that G. Grod and I share. He can take the bus to work or drive. One of the reasons we like where we live is that we’re within walking distance of several parks, a coffee shop, restaurant, two libraries, our grocery co op, and more. I enjoy walking to these places. I get exercise, and my sons get fresh air and a scenic stroller ride.
Running back and forth in the car felt only like it was a means to an end. I know lots of people for whom driving is an everyday event. They live in suburbs and have to drive to everything. I also know people who live near me and drive their kids around to museums, gyms, and other kid venues. I know those has value, but for me and mine, so does avoiding time in the car. The park down the block may be smaller than one I can drive to, but I don’t think Drake enjoys it any less, and I know we’re both better off not having to negotiate getting in and out, and in and out, of the car to go someplace further away.
I’ve written before that I do not want this site to be a mommy blog, but if you look at my recent infrequent posts, I know that’s what it looks like. I’m not going to apologize, though. It’s just that the mom stuff is very front and center for me now that we have a new baby in addition to a two year old. Their needs are often necessarily in advance of mine, and blogging falls pretty low on Maslow’s hierarchy, though I’m sure Maslow’s list for a mom of a new baby is different from the general one. For instance, need for sleep now trumps need for food, and Maslow doesn’t even mention the need for a shower.
A Mom’s Credo has been banging about in my head like Athena, though, and I think it encapsulates a lot of what this weblog is about, and why I write it:
Be I sleep deprived, covered in spit up, unshowered, and clinging to my last frayed nerve, I will continue to pursue a life of mind. My own needs are physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. I may need to delay my own fulfillment of these needs to meet more immediate ones of my children, but I refuse to forego them.
***
For example, I resume this after fetching a crying Guppy after his nap, waking Drake from his nap, and putting on a sling, in which I now nurse the baby while typing one handed.
Well, yes, at nine months pregnant I am rather larger than I was previously, but still, as I waddle about, struggling with heartburn, hip and back pain, and various other unpleasantries, it doesn’t help to be reminded.
I remind myself, though, that I’m in the home stretch of this pregnancy that’s been less than smooth. My definition of annoying has had to expand a lot, encompassing everything that’s not outright dangerous. Soon, I’ll have a whole different set of issues.
The important things to remember, though, are that I’m healthy, and Drake’s imminent sibling seems healthy, too. I’m going to try and keep us that way through labor and delivery.
Lately I am frustrated that I am less active and less creative–writing both for the blog and on my novel has been difficult. The only thing I don’t have trouble writing is lists. Yet I know this is a phase. Conventional wisdom says I’m nesting. I’m feeling very inward and static, which is yin, according to Chinese philosophy. I will swing back to the complementary yang eventually, expanding once again creatively and intellectually.
For the record, Hypnobirthing by Marie Mongan was my #6 book for the year, though it seems weird to mention, since it’s obviously a situational thing. The name sounds very cheesy, and some of the assurances a little too good to be true, e.g. birth doesn’t have to hurt! But I’m doing two big things differently this time: using hypnosis as a relaxation tool, and working with a doula. When I had Drake, my water broke after a long day; I was exhausted and probably dehydrated. Then when I had tough contractions, I threw up, making things worse. I would love drug-free pain, but I’ll settle for no vomiting. Also, when I had Drake the hospital was full, and G. Grod and I were left alone for long periods of time, with me in a labor whose details were not by the book. This time we’re working with a doula, in the hope that if things go weird again, we’ll have a calmer, more experienced person with us the whole time.
I made a decision soon after I had my son Drake that I didn’t want us rushing hither and yon on a daily basis to this class or another, no matter how edifying or enjoyable. As I learned quickly, much of the difficulty is getting out the door. Transitions are hard, as is getting dressed, shod, and provisioned. A class or playdate might be fun, but getting ready and getting there rarely is. However, I did make it a priority to get outside and get some fresh air and exercise for both of us except in the most miserable weather. Lately, with winter and advancing pregnancy, I have done this less and less. To my surprise, though, Drake isn’t bored and he isn’t getting cabin fever. Some of the days he’s been happiest have been days we’ve done the least. My husband and I had the flu a few weeks ago, and could do little more than lay about moaning and twitching like zombies. We took turns when Drake demanded attention, but for the most part he played happily on his own and near us. The number of potential activities is growing all the time as Drake gets older–music class, swim class, gymnastics, library storytime, art class, playdates, outings, and more. I try to quell the voice inside that worries that I’m depriving him by not exposing him to things he would enjoy. But I think it works out pretty well to do a little at a time–at most one class-type thing with me a week and one with my husband. This may be even more important for some one-on-one time with Drake once his little brother arrives.
We’ve had a rough couple days in our house. Thursday Drake was sick. He seemed better Friday, but didn’t nap. I should’ve been tipped off that he didn’t have a standard virus. Alas, it took another day and a very rough night to convince me of that a trip to Urgent Care was in order. Both Drake’s ears were infected, and he was just starting with pinkeye. So we’ve procured drugs aplenty and he should be better soon.
But no nap on Friday meant no blog, and I’m reminded of my dad’s favorite phrase, “all of life is a compromise.” I’ve been steadily editing my novel, a chapter per day during the week. The good news is that I’m making progress. There’s a cost, of course, though. I haven’t read other blogs in over a week. I get easily frustrated when I’m not able to do everything that I want to, or that I imagine I should do. I have to keep reminding myself to take a long view. Just because I can’t get something done today doesn’t mean I won’t get it done.
My husband G. Grod brought home an article from his daddy and me class last weekend that has been on my mind ever since. It’s a publication of the College of Education and Human Development of the University of Minnesota, and titled “What is Meant by ‘Infant Mental Health?’” The article centers around the phrase “good enough”:
…children’s development depends on their parents and other caregivers to provide a “good enough” environment. British pediatrician and psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott coined the term “good enough” when he described an environment where parents respond consistently enough and well enough to their children. From those consistent reponses, children learn to expect care, comfort, and pleasure in their achievements. And “good enough” means just that–good enough. It would not be good for babies to have their every uncomfortable feeling sootheed from the outside, because then they would not learn how to wait, to tolerate some discomfort, and to soothe themselves.
The article is short, but worthwhile, and contains the kind of information that I find rare as a parent–realistic, human, and the kind of common sense that sometimes has to be learned. I think the phrase “good enough” is a remarkable help both as a parent and as a human being. I won’t be perfect, so I needn’t bother exhausting myself as I try to be, or worse, second-guessing and overanalyzing mistakes of the past.
I thought of this when a friend asked me recently if my husband’s and my night out for our anniversary was romantic. It wasn’t, really. Rain and a rushed dinner made things a little hectic. But we had a nice time, and appreciated the time out together. It was better than good enough, even if it wasn’t romantic. And after seven years of marriage, good enough is pretty good, and romantic will happen when it will, not on demand.