...if I don't post something to let you know I'm okay! I'm sorry, that was really rude. I am actually doing...well! Even, dare I say it, happy? Yes, at times I'm feeling happy! I've spent some time away from the Internet almost entirely, partly because work was actually busy so I couldn't surf all day and then when I did think about blogging, it just didn't happen for whatever reason. I actually haven't even opened my email for two weeks. It wasn't intentional, but I think the Internet vacation has been good for my psychically. But I'm not saying I'm not going to blog anymore. And I'm not even saying I'm not going to bitch and blog either. But right now I'm kinda thinking I might try to make this more of a positive experience rather than a forum for my prolonged temper tantrums. We'll see how it goes. We'll PBE it (play it by ear--LilCherie came up with this acronym-expression and I just think it's fabulous so I'm trying to spread it around).
So that's a little update, and I will see you when the juices start flowing again!
karmagirl, you are so sweet to worry about me and I love you and I hope I get to see you again soon!
Showing posts with label CrazyMama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CrazyMama. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Fuck it all
I am going crazy.
It's scary.
Last night: Woke up at 10:30 to coughing-to-the-point of vomiting child. Got him calmed down, nebulized, and back to bed but I was worried so I slept with him, waking up each time he coughed.
This morning: Woke up, did all the morning shit, got Bubba dressed and ready for school, drove J. to work so that I could have the car to take Bubba to his 10:30 doctor's appointment. When I climbed into the driver's seat I noticed the gas tank was far down into the red. "Thanks for leaving me some gas," I call to J. as he gets his stuff out of the car. He shuts the door and leaves, not saying anything.
Get Bubba to school and am at my desk by 8:40 or so. Finish work project in time to go get Bubba from school and take him to doctor. Doctor can't hear anything wrong with Bubba's lungs, but since the neb worked last night she prescribes an inhaler and spacer that we can use that will hopefully ease the coughing while he sleeps and also take less time/effort to give him, because Bubba doesn't like the neb so much.
Stop at gas station on way back from doctor's office. Cannot get gas cap off. This is an issue that's been going on for about a year, and about a year ago I asked J. to get it fixed. Since then, there have been occasional mentions of this problem, but no action. I wrestle with this thing for 10 minutes. Call J. to see if there's anything else I can try. He has no suggestions. I tell him that if I can't get it off I will call him back and he will have to get a ride to gas station so that he can get it off because I can't go any further without gas, especially with Bubba in the car.
Another five minutes and I get the thing off. Fill car with gas. Take Bubba, who has fallen to sleep in the car by now, back to school. Go to pharmacy to drop off Bubba's prescriptions. Pick up lunch to go and then pick up J. because he wants the car to go to the library over his lunch hour. He takes me back to work. The stress of the whole damn day pretty much has me in overdrive, and by 1:30 or so I'm starting to have the panicky anxiety set in.
At 3:45 I hear wailing on Bubba's daycare's playground below my office. I look out the window and see Bubba crying. He walks over to the teacher, explains something and points, she talks to him and he wanders back to a sled where some kids are playing. The teachers are standing there talking to one another. Bubba gets on the empty seat of a two-person sled, and is promptly shoved off, twice, face-first into the snow. No action from the teachers. Nothing, even though Bubba is seriously crying.
I truck it down to the daycare and take a minute to peer through the door to the playground before making my presence known. I see the teachers still standing there. Then I see one of them rush over to Bubba, at which point I go out to see what the situation is. I am seriously pissed. I call for them to bring Bubba over to me since I have crappy shoes on.
"Joe...pushed....me...off...the...sled," Bubba tells me in between hysterical cries, coughs and gags. I tell the teacher what I saw and that I was concerned that nobody was handling the situation. The teacher backpedals, saying that Bubba had been pretty much crying since he woke up from his nap 45 minutes earlier and that the incident she just took care of was the first one that period (which I know is false because I saw it evolving). I was so upset I was shaking and could barely speak myself. I reiterated that I was concerned and then scooped up Bubba and went in to get his stuff for the day. I ran into the lead teacher in his room and told her the same story, and she pretty much told me the same story that the other one had, you know, that my kid is sick or crabby and THAT's what was causing the problem, not the other kid or the negligent teachers. I am paying them $950 a month. This is the premier center in our entire town/area. The teacher/child ratio in Bubba's room is 1:4. They should be able to make sure my kid doesn't get shoved into the snow, especially after my child alerted them that there was an issue. The kid that shoved him is alternately Bubba's best friend and worst enemy. I know their relationship is difficult, and the teachers know it too. So wouldn't you think they'd pay special attention when they are playing together to make sure nobody gets hurt?
We always tell Bubba that if he's having a problem with another kid, he should go tell a teacher rather than hit or act out. I saw that that's exactly what he did, and the teacher did nothing. That makes me feel like I failed him.
I will be setting up a conference to talk to his teachers about this. Anyway.
I take Bubba up to my office and call J. to come get us (he has the car so he could go to the library, remember). I wait 15 minutes or so then go down to meet J., who is wandering around looking for us at the daycare (he can't call me because he hasn't gotten a new cell phone yet...another bone of contention since he hasn't had one since September and it causes a lot of problems). We get in the car and talk about the incident. I am shaking, sick to my stomach, crying but trying to hide it from Bubba, in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. It's 4:15 p.m. on the day that J. is technically supposed to get off of work at 3:45 p.m.
"Please tell me you're not going back to work," I say to him.
"I have to. I didn't shut anything down or anything and I have stuff I have to do."
"But isn't this your early release day?" I ask.
"Well, it just didn't work out that way today."
Nevermind that I spent three hours of the morning with Bubba/doctor/pharmacy, and now I'm leaving an hour early due to the playground incident. Let's not let that infringe on J.'s day at all.
So we get home, J. finds the time to get Bubba settled before racing back to work for another hour. I take an anxiety pill and vent, rather crazily and panicked, to LilCherie while Bubba watches a movie. J. gets home at 5:45 p.m., 15 minutes before the pharmacy closes. I give him a blank check so he can run up and get Bubba's meds (and mine, which I also had refilled). You see, he couldn't pick them up on the way home because he has no fucking money, even though he never gave me one dime from his last paycheck.
He gets home and I go lay down. I only intended it to be for a couple minutes, but the pill conks me out. I wake up at 11:30 to Bubba coughing and throwing up in his bedroom. J. is in there trying to get Bubba calmed down enough to take a neb treatment. Did J. think to give Bubba a neb treatment before bedtime? Nope. Did J. take the new spacer out of the soapy water I'd put it in to let it dry so we could use it? Nope. Did J. wake me up before Bubba's bedtime to get the spacer and inhaler together and give it to Bubba? Nope. Bubba coughed and threw up for about 15 minutes before he could calm down enough to have the neb, then had to watch a movie for awhile to settle back down for bed. Meanwhile, I'm starving since I missed dinner, and because I am the only one who buys groceries, and I haven't gone for a few days, there's not a damn thing in the house to eat, so I go to the store at midnight and buy $140-worth of food.
And here I am now, sitting in the living room, listening to Bubba's terrible cough and stressing out about it. I haven't eaten anything yet because I'm going back and forth between nausea and hunger and it seems like so much of an effort and nothing sounds especially good.
I hate my life, oh my god I hate it so fucking much. I am trapped. I can't live like this and maintain my sanity. I can't check into a hospital because I can't leave Bubba in the care of my worthless husband. I can't kill myself because of the same reason. Fuck.
Don't feel like you have to comment. I know it's getting old.
It's scary.
Last night: Woke up at 10:30 to coughing-to-the-point of vomiting child. Got him calmed down, nebulized, and back to bed but I was worried so I slept with him, waking up each time he coughed.
This morning: Woke up, did all the morning shit, got Bubba dressed and ready for school, drove J. to work so that I could have the car to take Bubba to his 10:30 doctor's appointment. When I climbed into the driver's seat I noticed the gas tank was far down into the red. "Thanks for leaving me some gas," I call to J. as he gets his stuff out of the car. He shuts the door and leaves, not saying anything.
Get Bubba to school and am at my desk by 8:40 or so. Finish work project in time to go get Bubba from school and take him to doctor. Doctor can't hear anything wrong with Bubba's lungs, but since the neb worked last night she prescribes an inhaler and spacer that we can use that will hopefully ease the coughing while he sleeps and also take less time/effort to give him, because Bubba doesn't like the neb so much.
Stop at gas station on way back from doctor's office. Cannot get gas cap off. This is an issue that's been going on for about a year, and about a year ago I asked J. to get it fixed. Since then, there have been occasional mentions of this problem, but no action. I wrestle with this thing for 10 minutes. Call J. to see if there's anything else I can try. He has no suggestions. I tell him that if I can't get it off I will call him back and he will have to get a ride to gas station so that he can get it off because I can't go any further without gas, especially with Bubba in the car.
Another five minutes and I get the thing off. Fill car with gas. Take Bubba, who has fallen to sleep in the car by now, back to school. Go to pharmacy to drop off Bubba's prescriptions. Pick up lunch to go and then pick up J. because he wants the car to go to the library over his lunch hour. He takes me back to work. The stress of the whole damn day pretty much has me in overdrive, and by 1:30 or so I'm starting to have the panicky anxiety set in.
At 3:45 I hear wailing on Bubba's daycare's playground below my office. I look out the window and see Bubba crying. He walks over to the teacher, explains something and points, she talks to him and he wanders back to a sled where some kids are playing. The teachers are standing there talking to one another. Bubba gets on the empty seat of a two-person sled, and is promptly shoved off, twice, face-first into the snow. No action from the teachers. Nothing, even though Bubba is seriously crying.
I truck it down to the daycare and take a minute to peer through the door to the playground before making my presence known. I see the teachers still standing there. Then I see one of them rush over to Bubba, at which point I go out to see what the situation is. I am seriously pissed. I call for them to bring Bubba over to me since I have crappy shoes on.
"Joe...pushed....me...off...the...sled," Bubba tells me in between hysterical cries, coughs and gags. I tell the teacher what I saw and that I was concerned that nobody was handling the situation. The teacher backpedals, saying that Bubba had been pretty much crying since he woke up from his nap 45 minutes earlier and that the incident she just took care of was the first one that period (which I know is false because I saw it evolving). I was so upset I was shaking and could barely speak myself. I reiterated that I was concerned and then scooped up Bubba and went in to get his stuff for the day. I ran into the lead teacher in his room and told her the same story, and she pretty much told me the same story that the other one had, you know, that my kid is sick or crabby and THAT's what was causing the problem, not the other kid or the negligent teachers. I am paying them $950 a month. This is the premier center in our entire town/area. The teacher/child ratio in Bubba's room is 1:4. They should be able to make sure my kid doesn't get shoved into the snow, especially after my child alerted them that there was an issue. The kid that shoved him is alternately Bubba's best friend and worst enemy. I know their relationship is difficult, and the teachers know it too. So wouldn't you think they'd pay special attention when they are playing together to make sure nobody gets hurt?
We always tell Bubba that if he's having a problem with another kid, he should go tell a teacher rather than hit or act out. I saw that that's exactly what he did, and the teacher did nothing. That makes me feel like I failed him.
I will be setting up a conference to talk to his teachers about this. Anyway.
I take Bubba up to my office and call J. to come get us (he has the car so he could go to the library, remember). I wait 15 minutes or so then go down to meet J., who is wandering around looking for us at the daycare (he can't call me because he hasn't gotten a new cell phone yet...another bone of contention since he hasn't had one since September and it causes a lot of problems). We get in the car and talk about the incident. I am shaking, sick to my stomach, crying but trying to hide it from Bubba, in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. It's 4:15 p.m. on the day that J. is technically supposed to get off of work at 3:45 p.m.
"Please tell me you're not going back to work," I say to him.
"I have to. I didn't shut anything down or anything and I have stuff I have to do."
"But isn't this your early release day?" I ask.
"Well, it just didn't work out that way today."
Nevermind that I spent three hours of the morning with Bubba/doctor/pharmacy, and now I'm leaving an hour early due to the playground incident. Let's not let that infringe on J.'s day at all.
So we get home, J. finds the time to get Bubba settled before racing back to work for another hour. I take an anxiety pill and vent, rather crazily and panicked, to LilCherie while Bubba watches a movie. J. gets home at 5:45 p.m., 15 minutes before the pharmacy closes. I give him a blank check so he can run up and get Bubba's meds (and mine, which I also had refilled). You see, he couldn't pick them up on the way home because he has no fucking money, even though he never gave me one dime from his last paycheck.
He gets home and I go lay down. I only intended it to be for a couple minutes, but the pill conks me out. I wake up at 11:30 to Bubba coughing and throwing up in his bedroom. J. is in there trying to get Bubba calmed down enough to take a neb treatment. Did J. think to give Bubba a neb treatment before bedtime? Nope. Did J. take the new spacer out of the soapy water I'd put it in to let it dry so we could use it? Nope. Did J. wake me up before Bubba's bedtime to get the spacer and inhaler together and give it to Bubba? Nope. Bubba coughed and threw up for about 15 minutes before he could calm down enough to have the neb, then had to watch a movie for awhile to settle back down for bed. Meanwhile, I'm starving since I missed dinner, and because I am the only one who buys groceries, and I haven't gone for a few days, there's not a damn thing in the house to eat, so I go to the store at midnight and buy $140-worth of food.
And here I am now, sitting in the living room, listening to Bubba's terrible cough and stressing out about it. I haven't eaten anything yet because I'm going back and forth between nausea and hunger and it seems like so much of an effort and nothing sounds especially good.
I hate my life, oh my god I hate it so fucking much. I am trapped. I can't live like this and maintain my sanity. I can't check into a hospital because I can't leave Bubba in the care of my worthless husband. I can't kill myself because of the same reason. Fuck.
Don't feel like you have to comment. I know it's getting old.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Today's Musings
Today I learned that...
Two pieces of cheesy garlic bread are not enough.
I'm done fuckin' around with those generic, cheaper brands of frozen garlic bread. If it's not Pepperidge Farm Garlic Texas Toast® then it's not worth it.
It's not a good idea to broil your second set of cheesy garlic bread Texas Toasts on "hi" without watching them or setting a timer.
While you're fucked up.
And your husband is just about there in terms of getting the 3-year-old asleep.
When the smoke alarm goes off.
Things I Feel Compelled to Share With You Tonight
The thought of LilCherie, in the Grumpy Pants I made her for her birthday, standing in the snowy parking lot of the hospital this morning after finding out that her surgeon was snowed in in another city and would not be able to perform her tonsillectomy, kicking her car in anger, really makes me laugh. Now that she's accepted it, I mean. I really felt bad for her at the time. But I still wish her husband could have secretly videotaped it for me.
I read the Lunchables® post over at A Little Pregnant and it really pissed me off. But I was too much of a chickenshit to post a dissenting view, because Julie is blog royalty and I didn't figure it was really worth it. Of course now that I'm putting this on my own blog it's "out there." Oh, jeez, what are we supposed to do? It's already out there! Call the cops! It's already out there! (Random movie quote -- do you know which one it's from?) But I was excited to see that Patty from Monday Changed Everything stuck up for herself. If you read her blog you'll see that she has a good excuse. I just feed my child crap because I'm lazy and depressed.
I'm half-afraid that I'm dying of cancer because I haven't felt like eating much lately, I'm really tired, and I have several unaccounted for bruises on my upper thighs (and one on my forearm). Of course, the appetite and fatigue could be attributed to the depression, even though I'm usually a "fat depressive" (I just made that term up. Impressive, huh?). And I guess the bruises could be from beating my fists against my legs in hopeless frustration, right?
I found out tonight that when trying to disinfect a light green throw rug after a dollop of your child's almost-diarrheal poo drops on it, a bleach-based cleanser should not be your first choice. There is now a five-inch circle of my throw rug that's the same shade as Greg Brady's hair in the episode where he buys the hair tonic from Oliver. Or, baby-ate-carrots-shit orange. I couldn't have just thrown it in the washer because you know, I was just too lazy and depressed.
I'm reading a great book right now called "Mommies Who Drink," by Brett Paesel. When reading books like this, I momentarily think to myself, "I could write this well! I could be this funny! Why am I not a published, successful author?" Then I remember, oh yeah. I'm too lazy and depressed.
I'm thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Lazy and Depressed." Do you think that would pull in the readers or what? Sadly, I would be all about a blog named that. I should do a blog search...maybe it's already out there?
Today's Aha! Moment
I think I've come to a realization about how men--or at least J.--think, and why it causes a problem in relationships. I think he is mentally incapable of moving past the first most-likely outcome of an action or comment. Here are a couple examples, including the correct "Mom thought" as well:
J.'s first thought: Bubba is thirsty.
Most likely outcome: I'll give him some milk, then he won't be thirsty anymore.
Mom thought: But Bubba has to drink four ounces of juice laced with laxative so that he won't have a hard poop because is his holding his poops in and we are trying to get him to go without the hysterical drama and causing Mommy to have to take one of her anxiety pills. So, I'll give him the laxa-juice now and then milk later.
J.'s first thought: I want to make Bubba laugh, so I'll put some Toobers and Zots® (I'm lovin' that symbol tonight, by the way) up my nose and pretend they are boogers.
Most likely outcome: Bubba will laugh. Job done!
Mom thought: Bubba will think it's great, then put them up his nose, and then put other things up his nose, and then we'll be in the emergency room at 3 a.m. while some poor staff physician fishes pus-covered gravel from our child's infected nose. So maybe we'd better not model putting stuff up our noses as appropriate behavior for our 3-year-old.
J.'s first thought: It's time for Bubba to go to bed, so I'm putting him to bed.
Most likely outcome: Bubba will go to bed.
Mom thought: It's time for Bubba to go to bed, so we better get him his allergy medicine because if he doesn't get it he will be stuffy and he already has a cough; fill and turn on the humidifier because of the aforementioned cough; see if he has to go potty one more time so that he doesn't wet the bed; and bring in a glass of water and the toothpaste so we can brush his teeth.
I think you get what I mean here.
And now I guess it's also perfectly clear why, when I was having a spiral last week and told J. I felt like I was turning into my mother--the ultimate killjoy-- J.'s. answer was a sobering, "Yep."
Two pieces of cheesy garlic bread are not enough.
I'm done fuckin' around with those generic, cheaper brands of frozen garlic bread. If it's not Pepperidge Farm Garlic Texas Toast® then it's not worth it.
It's not a good idea to broil your second set of cheesy garlic bread Texas Toasts on "hi" without watching them or setting a timer.
While you're fucked up.
And your husband is just about there in terms of getting the 3-year-old asleep.
When the smoke alarm goes off.
Things I Feel Compelled to Share With You Tonight
The thought of LilCherie, in the Grumpy Pants I made her for her birthday, standing in the snowy parking lot of the hospital this morning after finding out that her surgeon was snowed in in another city and would not be able to perform her tonsillectomy, kicking her car in anger, really makes me laugh. Now that she's accepted it, I mean. I really felt bad for her at the time. But I still wish her husband could have secretly videotaped it for me.
I read the Lunchables® post over at A Little Pregnant and it really pissed me off. But I was too much of a chickenshit to post a dissenting view, because Julie is blog royalty and I didn't figure it was really worth it. Of course now that I'm putting this on my own blog it's "out there." Oh, jeez, what are we supposed to do? It's already out there! Call the cops! It's already out there! (Random movie quote -- do you know which one it's from?) But I was excited to see that Patty from Monday Changed Everything stuck up for herself. If you read her blog you'll see that she has a good excuse. I just feed my child crap because I'm lazy and depressed.
I'm half-afraid that I'm dying of cancer because I haven't felt like eating much lately, I'm really tired, and I have several unaccounted for bruises on my upper thighs (and one on my forearm). Of course, the appetite and fatigue could be attributed to the depression, even though I'm usually a "fat depressive" (I just made that term up. Impressive, huh?). And I guess the bruises could be from beating my fists against my legs in hopeless frustration, right?
I found out tonight that when trying to disinfect a light green throw rug after a dollop of your child's almost-diarrheal poo drops on it, a bleach-based cleanser should not be your first choice. There is now a five-inch circle of my throw rug that's the same shade as Greg Brady's hair in the episode where he buys the hair tonic from Oliver. Or, baby-ate-carrots-shit orange. I couldn't have just thrown it in the washer because you know, I was just too lazy and depressed.
I'm reading a great book right now called "Mommies Who Drink," by Brett Paesel. When reading books like this, I momentarily think to myself, "I could write this well! I could be this funny! Why am I not a published, successful author?" Then I remember, oh yeah. I'm too lazy and depressed.
I'm thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Lazy and Depressed." Do you think that would pull in the readers or what? Sadly, I would be all about a blog named that. I should do a blog search...maybe it's already out there?
Today's Aha! Moment
I think I've come to a realization about how men--or at least J.--think, and why it causes a problem in relationships. I think he is mentally incapable of moving past the first most-likely outcome of an action or comment. Here are a couple examples, including the correct "Mom thought" as well:
J.'s first thought: Bubba is thirsty.
Most likely outcome: I'll give him some milk, then he won't be thirsty anymore.
Mom thought: But Bubba has to drink four ounces of juice laced with laxative so that he won't have a hard poop because is his holding his poops in and we are trying to get him to go without the hysterical drama and causing Mommy to have to take one of her anxiety pills. So, I'll give him the laxa-juice now and then milk later.
J.'s first thought: I want to make Bubba laugh, so I'll put some Toobers and Zots® (I'm lovin' that symbol tonight, by the way) up my nose and pretend they are boogers.
Most likely outcome: Bubba will laugh. Job done!
Mom thought: Bubba will think it's great, then put them up his nose, and then put other things up his nose, and then we'll be in the emergency room at 3 a.m. while some poor staff physician fishes pus-covered gravel from our child's infected nose. So maybe we'd better not model putting stuff up our noses as appropriate behavior for our 3-year-old.
J.'s first thought: It's time for Bubba to go to bed, so I'm putting him to bed.
Most likely outcome: Bubba will go to bed.
Mom thought: It's time for Bubba to go to bed, so we better get him his allergy medicine because if he doesn't get it he will be stuffy and he already has a cough; fill and turn on the humidifier because of the aforementioned cough; see if he has to go potty one more time so that he doesn't wet the bed; and bring in a glass of water and the toothpaste so we can brush his teeth.
I think you get what I mean here.
And now I guess it's also perfectly clear why, when I was having a spiral last week and told J. I felt like I was turning into my mother--the ultimate killjoy-- J.'s. answer was a sobering, "Yep."
Friday, January 18, 2008
"You happy now Mommy?"
Disclaimer: This is a long post bitching about being a mother. Which makes me feel guilty because I wanted him so bad and I'm a deadbabymama and had infertility and all that stuff. And guilty that some of the people reading this have suffered infertility and losses, some recent. So if you don't want to read the bitching, please, don't feel obligated. I understand.
Do ever get to work and think OH MY GOD because the last two hours you spent at home seemed like more work than the next 8 to 9 you are going to spend at work and then you know that the four hours after that will be more work than the two you just did?
Last night I came home and crashed at 6:30 p.m. The next time I awoke was at 3 a.m. when Bubba was having a hysterical meltdown because he wanted Daddy to sleep with him. Once again, we are trying to get Bubba to sleep in bed, by himself. J. actually started crying last night because it hurt him so much to say no. Eventually Bubba settled in on the floor in the hallway, and apparently later moved to the couch. Is this acceptable? I'm not sure where I should stand on that one so input is welcome!
This morning I woke up and took the morning shift because I knew J. had been up most of the night on the computer/dealing with Bubba. So from 6:30 to 8:15 a.m., I threw some clothes in the dryer, folded the laundry that J. has been working on all week but apparently just couldn't take it that extra mile and bring it upstairs while watching Bubba while he played with his Thomas toys in the basement.
Then I took a shower, got myself ready, dug through the clean laundry that was hidden in J.'s room to find Bubba's fresh jammies--one of only two pairs that really fit him--because today is jammie day at school. (Yesterday was blue day; we narrowly missed disaster because J. forgot and was about to dress him in a khaki theme before I figured it out. Next week I have to bring an orange-colored food to daycare for the coup de grâce of their colors week.) Then I fixed Bubba breakfast, put away the clothes I folded, fixed Bubba more breakfast because he was still hungry, and cleaned up the kitchen. Then lotioned and dressed Bubba, had the "we HAVE to go to school today, Bubba," argument while J. was getting ready, found him some Monster snacks for the car because apparently two waffles and three glasses of juice wasn't enough for him, got all suited up for the Arctic cold, and got in the car, where Bubba spent the next 20 minutes alternately arguing with us ("No it's NOT wintertime! No the sun ISN'T shining!") or telling us in detail the parts he really likes on Lilo & Stitch.
I'm sure this post is really boring, but I just had to get it out because my kid is driving me crazy. I think that's why I've been sleeping so much this week--I just can't take it! Yesterday I tried taking half an anxiety pill about half an hour before going home. I figured half a pill might keep me calm but conscious enough to function. I guess not.
Lately I just dread going home. Wednesday night (remember Wednesday? The day I posted about what a good mood I was in?) we got home and J. had to work late so it was Bubba and me. Because Bubba holds his poop in and it's a problem even with the Miralax he's on, I've been trying to get a habit going where every night, a few minutes after supper, he sits on the potty and just tries. Wednesday night he threw a huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to do it. After I got him calmed down and on the pot (he didn't go), then he had another huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to take a bath. Then he didn't want to get out of the tub. Then he fucked around while I was trying to get him in his jammies. Every fucking thing is a struggle. At that point I got the closest I've been to slapping him in a long time. I was kind of proud of myself because I didn't. Which is kind of pathetic. (One of the few things I can pride myself on in my parenthood "journey" is that I've never hit him.) He realized I was at the snapping point and started listening a little bit more, and then asks, "You happy Mommy?" I just could not bring myself to "get over it." I told him no, I wasn't happy. A few minutes later he says, "I'm listening now, you happy Mommy?" I barked back, "No! I'm still not happy!" Oh is he going to need therapy.
I feel like every time I start enjoying him, he enters a new phase that is totally and completely infuriating. I feel like I keep going back to that postpartum time when I couldn't stand being a mother. Then I wonder if I really did have postpartum depression or if it was just that I'm really not cut out for this parenthood thing. Then I feel really guilty because I finally got my living, healthy kid and this is how I feel.
Do ever get to work and think OH MY GOD because the last two hours you spent at home seemed like more work than the next 8 to 9 you are going to spend at work and then you know that the four hours after that will be more work than the two you just did?
Last night I came home and crashed at 6:30 p.m. The next time I awoke was at 3 a.m. when Bubba was having a hysterical meltdown because he wanted Daddy to sleep with him. Once again, we are trying to get Bubba to sleep in bed, by himself. J. actually started crying last night because it hurt him so much to say no. Eventually Bubba settled in on the floor in the hallway, and apparently later moved to the couch. Is this acceptable? I'm not sure where I should stand on that one so input is welcome!
This morning I woke up and took the morning shift because I knew J. had been up most of the night on the computer/dealing with Bubba. So from 6:30 to 8:15 a.m., I threw some clothes in the dryer, folded the laundry that J. has been working on all week but apparently just couldn't take it that extra mile and bring it upstairs while watching Bubba while he played with his Thomas toys in the basement.
Then I took a shower, got myself ready, dug through the clean laundry that was hidden in J.'s room to find Bubba's fresh jammies--one of only two pairs that really fit him--because today is jammie day at school. (Yesterday was blue day; we narrowly missed disaster because J. forgot and was about to dress him in a khaki theme before I figured it out. Next week I have to bring an orange-colored food to daycare for the coup de grâce of their colors week.) Then I fixed Bubba breakfast, put away the clothes I folded, fixed Bubba more breakfast because he was still hungry, and cleaned up the kitchen. Then lotioned and dressed Bubba, had the "we HAVE to go to school today, Bubba," argument while J. was getting ready, found him some Monster snacks for the car because apparently two waffles and three glasses of juice wasn't enough for him, got all suited up for the Arctic cold, and got in the car, where Bubba spent the next 20 minutes alternately arguing with us ("No it's NOT wintertime! No the sun ISN'T shining!") or telling us in detail the parts he really likes on Lilo & Stitch.
I'm sure this post is really boring, but I just had to get it out because my kid is driving me crazy. I think that's why I've been sleeping so much this week--I just can't take it! Yesterday I tried taking half an anxiety pill about half an hour before going home. I figured half a pill might keep me calm but conscious enough to function. I guess not.
Lately I just dread going home. Wednesday night (remember Wednesday? The day I posted about what a good mood I was in?) we got home and J. had to work late so it was Bubba and me. Because Bubba holds his poop in and it's a problem even with the Miralax he's on, I've been trying to get a habit going where every night, a few minutes after supper, he sits on the potty and just tries. Wednesday night he threw a huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to do it. After I got him calmed down and on the pot (he didn't go), then he had another huge, hysterical, kicking, screaming fit because he didn't want to take a bath. Then he didn't want to get out of the tub. Then he fucked around while I was trying to get him in his jammies. Every fucking thing is a struggle. At that point I got the closest I've been to slapping him in a long time. I was kind of proud of myself because I didn't. Which is kind of pathetic. (One of the few things I can pride myself on in my parenthood "journey" is that I've never hit him.) He realized I was at the snapping point and started listening a little bit more, and then asks, "You happy Mommy?" I just could not bring myself to "get over it." I told him no, I wasn't happy. A few minutes later he says, "I'm listening now, you happy Mommy?" I barked back, "No! I'm still not happy!" Oh is he going to need therapy.
I feel like every time I start enjoying him, he enters a new phase that is totally and completely infuriating. I feel like I keep going back to that postpartum time when I couldn't stand being a mother. Then I wonder if I really did have postpartum depression or if it was just that I'm really not cut out for this parenthood thing. Then I feel really guilty because I finally got my living, healthy kid and this is how I feel.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Still here.
Thanks everyone for your comments on my last two posts. I really appreciate the support and the encouragement.
So I went to the psych yesterday (since we are a one-car family, I had to wait for J. to come pick me up. He was late!! Can you believe it? My appointment was at 11:45 and he got to our house at 11:43. That was helpful. If I would have been in a better mood, I would have laughed at the fact that all the way to the psych office, the song on the radio was "Love Isn't Always On Time.")
Anyway, she upped my dosage of Effexor. I'm not really sure this is going to be effective; the way she explained it is that at the dosage I was at (150 mg) it acts as a pure serotonin booster but at the higher dosage (225 mg) the norepinephrine part of it kicks in so it's almost like adding an additional medication. We'll see.
I also talked to her about the possibility of me having bipolar II, which I discovered recently in my obsessive googling. It's characterized by periods of deep depression alternating with periods of being in a really good mood but not quite mania, as well as the problem of antidepressants "pooping out" after a few months. I would put a link here but my computer has been infected, I think, with some kind of virus that hijacks my google searches so until I get that fixed googling is a pain in the ass. Anyway, it's a milder version of bipolar, and one of the big parts of it is that antidepressants don't really work for it--you have to use mood stabilizers instead. My doctor doesn't think I have that, but I'm not so sure. I didn't think I have the periods of really good mood, or hypomania, but when I talked to Tingle she thought I did. Anyway, my doctor said if we can't get things under control with the antidepressants then she can try adding in a mood stabilizer drug and see if it helps.
I didn't specifically talk to her about going to the hospital because I figured that she would be able to discern from my depressive symptoms whether or not I should go. I was completely honest with her. I was a little surprised, really, that my symptoms warranted nothing more than a few sample packs of Effexor and a "come back in two weeks." I mean, what warrants hospitalization? I told her how I was so depressed it was hard to move; that I was fantasizing about shooting myself in the basement (in the little-used bathroom down there, because I wondered how many days it would take J. to find me there); how I usually dismiss the suicide thought because of Bubba but that yesterday and the day before I was actually trying to talk myself into it by telling myself things like Bubba would be better off without having a psycho mother, etc. I admit I was a little disappointed that she didn't recommend the hospital. Is that sick? I guess I wanted some kind of break, to get out of this environment that seems to smother me, and to have my depression validated by something as serious as hospitalization so that my work wouldn't think I was just a fucking slacker.
So after my appointment yesterday I came home and went to bed. Sometime during the evening J. put Bubba in bed with me, thusly ensuring that I would be up every two hours or so every time Bubba cried, had a nightmare, needed to go potty or needed cream on his butt because he's had some itching issues from a large poop a few days ago. Meanwhile J. sat in the living room and played on the computer.
This morning I woke up when Bubba did, at 7 or so, and came out into a complete disaster of a house. Candy wrappers, movies all over the place, Bubba's toys strewn all over, dirty clothes on the floor, dirty dishes all over the kitchen. It really pissed me off that J. couldn't take 15 minutes to at least straighten things up a little bit. Sometimes I am amazed at what an asshole he is. Then I think I'm being a jerk because I should at least be grateful that he takes care of Bubba when I'm incapacitated for whatever reason. Then I think, well, Bubba's his kid too, and I manage to take care of him AND clean up the house, so why can't he?
So to update you on the sex issue, I woke J. up on Tuesday night and made him read my letter, which outlined in humiliating detail exactly what I was hoping for on Monday and why he hurt my feelings, etc. His response was that he was sorry, he "just wasn't on the same wavelength" as I was. That he just didn't "pick up on the vibe." When I said that maybe the bigger question is why he didn't think of it himself, he responded that our last six months or so of pretty much avoiding each other was still affecting his behavior. I told him I was dealing with the same stuff but still was managing to overcome it to try to make our relationship better. I can't really remember the last time he initiated sex. He said he's afraid of rejection. Ain't that a kick in the pants? Jesus.
So I'm home again today, but feeling a little bit better after my sleep marathon. I am hoping to go into work again tomorrow. I still feel tired, so I'll probably sleep some more. Tonight are the caucuses in Iowa and I really wanted to go and caucus for Barack, but I'm not sure I'm up for it. We'll see how it goes. I feel an obligation because even after this depression lifts, I'll still be living in this country, and I really want to have some influence on who will be running it.
Thanks again everyone for reading and commenting.
So I went to the psych yesterday (since we are a one-car family, I had to wait for J. to come pick me up. He was late!! Can you believe it? My appointment was at 11:45 and he got to our house at 11:43. That was helpful. If I would have been in a better mood, I would have laughed at the fact that all the way to the psych office, the song on the radio was "Love Isn't Always On Time.")
Anyway, she upped my dosage of Effexor. I'm not really sure this is going to be effective; the way she explained it is that at the dosage I was at (150 mg) it acts as a pure serotonin booster but at the higher dosage (225 mg) the norepinephrine part of it kicks in so it's almost like adding an additional medication. We'll see.
I also talked to her about the possibility of me having bipolar II, which I discovered recently in my obsessive googling. It's characterized by periods of deep depression alternating with periods of being in a really good mood but not quite mania, as well as the problem of antidepressants "pooping out" after a few months. I would put a link here but my computer has been infected, I think, with some kind of virus that hijacks my google searches so until I get that fixed googling is a pain in the ass. Anyway, it's a milder version of bipolar, and one of the big parts of it is that antidepressants don't really work for it--you have to use mood stabilizers instead. My doctor doesn't think I have that, but I'm not so sure. I didn't think I have the periods of really good mood, or hypomania, but when I talked to Tingle she thought I did. Anyway, my doctor said if we can't get things under control with the antidepressants then she can try adding in a mood stabilizer drug and see if it helps.
I didn't specifically talk to her about going to the hospital because I figured that she would be able to discern from my depressive symptoms whether or not I should go. I was completely honest with her. I was a little surprised, really, that my symptoms warranted nothing more than a few sample packs of Effexor and a "come back in two weeks." I mean, what warrants hospitalization? I told her how I was so depressed it was hard to move; that I was fantasizing about shooting myself in the basement (in the little-used bathroom down there, because I wondered how many days it would take J. to find me there); how I usually dismiss the suicide thought because of Bubba but that yesterday and the day before I was actually trying to talk myself into it by telling myself things like Bubba would be better off without having a psycho mother, etc. I admit I was a little disappointed that she didn't recommend the hospital. Is that sick? I guess I wanted some kind of break, to get out of this environment that seems to smother me, and to have my depression validated by something as serious as hospitalization so that my work wouldn't think I was just a fucking slacker.
So after my appointment yesterday I came home and went to bed. Sometime during the evening J. put Bubba in bed with me, thusly ensuring that I would be up every two hours or so every time Bubba cried, had a nightmare, needed to go potty or needed cream on his butt because he's had some itching issues from a large poop a few days ago. Meanwhile J. sat in the living room and played on the computer.
This morning I woke up when Bubba did, at 7 or so, and came out into a complete disaster of a house. Candy wrappers, movies all over the place, Bubba's toys strewn all over, dirty clothes on the floor, dirty dishes all over the kitchen. It really pissed me off that J. couldn't take 15 minutes to at least straighten things up a little bit. Sometimes I am amazed at what an asshole he is. Then I think I'm being a jerk because I should at least be grateful that he takes care of Bubba when I'm incapacitated for whatever reason. Then I think, well, Bubba's his kid too, and I manage to take care of him AND clean up the house, so why can't he?
So to update you on the sex issue, I woke J. up on Tuesday night and made him read my letter, which outlined in humiliating detail exactly what I was hoping for on Monday and why he hurt my feelings, etc. His response was that he was sorry, he "just wasn't on the same wavelength" as I was. That he just didn't "pick up on the vibe." When I said that maybe the bigger question is why he didn't think of it himself, he responded that our last six months or so of pretty much avoiding each other was still affecting his behavior. I told him I was dealing with the same stuff but still was managing to overcome it to try to make our relationship better. I can't really remember the last time he initiated sex. He said he's afraid of rejection. Ain't that a kick in the pants? Jesus.
So I'm home again today, but feeling a little bit better after my sleep marathon. I am hoping to go into work again tomorrow. I still feel tired, so I'll probably sleep some more. Tonight are the caucuses in Iowa and I really wanted to go and caucus for Barack, but I'm not sure I'm up for it. We'll see how it goes. I feel an obligation because even after this depression lifts, I'll still be living in this country, and I really want to have some influence on who will be running it.
Thanks again everyone for reading and commenting.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Fucking 2008
My parents took Bubba for New Year's Eve so we could party with LilCherie and her hubby. We were to go pick him today at 6 p.m. and have dinner at parents'. We spent the night at LilCherie's and then had a whole day to spend as adults.
The day dawned bright and cold, finding me and in a pretty good mood with the thought of maybe, possibly having sex with my husband, since we could go home to an empty house and do it up, if we so chose. After a many-months-long dry spell because we couldn't stand each other, we finally did it a week and a half ago -- the culmination of us actually getting along for a few weeks.
I blatantly hinted to J. my plans for the day shortly after he woke up. He then spent the next hour and a half playing videogames in LilCherie's basement with her husband and son, even after I called down nicely to "remind" him that we needed to get going if we were to have any time to ourselves today.
I let it slide, and we got back to our house around 1:30. I took a shower, put on a little makeup, put in the diaphragm. So far, so good. Went into the bedroom with some old notes J. had written me in high school. They were sweet and loving and funny. I laughed out loud, calling out to J. (who was in the living room playing his trivia game on the computer) many times about how great they were and how he should come read some.
Now tell me this, friends--to me, it seems pretty obvious that no kid+fresh shower+earlier hints+wife calling out to you from the bedroom=sex. Is it just me, or is that pretty clear?
J. never came to the bedroom. He continued to play his trivia game. I packed up the notes, went out and had a smoke, came in barely holding back the tears then retreated to the bedroom. THIS is when J. chooses to get off his ass and come find me--when I am so humiliated and depressed that he is the last person I want to talk to. I try to pass it off with the "I'm just tired," excuse but it is unconvincing so I admitted I was depressed and told him I just wanted to be alone. He leaves me alone. I sob in bed for awhile. Come out to get a drink and take some leftover painkillers. I ask if J. can go get Bubba by himself so that I can be alone to spiral down into suicidal depression. He agrees. Painkillers cause coma and I fall asleep for three hours.
I wake up, write J. a long letter that he doesn't know about yet because there hasn't been a moment without Bubba around since he got back. Eat something. Start feeling a little calmer. J. and Bubba come home, Bubba's wired. J. lets me know that my parents seemed disappointed that I hadn't come for supper/the Bubba pick-up. I call my parents to apologize for my absence and to explain that it wasn't them, it was me and my depression, etc.
My dad decides to ignore the fact that I was calling to fucking apologize and tells me that I "owed" them at least a phone call to let them know I wasn't coming. He gives me a good old-fashioned guilt trip: about Mom slaving away in the kitchen all day, about how J. and I never seem to get any better and that it's causing HIM problems because he's so worried about us, about how unfair it is that he and Mom and everybody else has to deal with my emotional problems.
I pretty much went off on him. Told him I have an illness and yep, they have to fucking deal with it or not be around me because I have a fucking illness and it's not like I choose to be this way. That I'm not that shitty of a daughter. That reaming me out about not calling to tell them I wasn't going to be there is not "being supportive." That I can't solve my parent's marital problems and he can't solve mine and that's just the way it is. That the reason I couldn't "just make a phone call" in the midst of my emotional and psychological pain is that I was too busy fantasizing about going into our basement bathroom and putting a bullet in my head before I conked out in a drugged stupor from medication to try to calm myself down. When he started ragging on me about something else I said, "I learned from the best!" and hung up on him.
Then I cried, went to the store to get my son some popsicles and ice cream because he was incessantly asking for them, watched half of Shrek 3 while intermittently and surreptitiously wiping tears away from my face. The evening winds down and the bedtime battle with Bubba is beginning. "I wanna sleep in your bed," he whines, over and over again. What does my husband say?
"No, Bubba, you're going to go into your bedroom and Mommy's going to read you a story and then she'll lay with you until you fall asleep." Fuck me. The fucking LAST THING I CAN HANDLE IS FIGHTING WITH MY KID ABOUT GOING TO SLEEP, JESUS CHRIST, I'M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF I SHOULD GO TO THE GODDAMN ER AND GET ADMITTED TO A PSYCH WARD AND YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING PUT THE KID TO GODDAMN BED???? I tell him I can't handle it tonight. He sighs and trudges into the bedroom to do it. It seems I've failed once again.
I suck.
The day dawned bright and cold, finding me and in a pretty good mood with the thought of maybe, possibly having sex with my husband, since we could go home to an empty house and do it up, if we so chose. After a many-months-long dry spell because we couldn't stand each other, we finally did it a week and a half ago -- the culmination of us actually getting along for a few weeks.
I blatantly hinted to J. my plans for the day shortly after he woke up. He then spent the next hour and a half playing videogames in LilCherie's basement with her husband and son, even after I called down nicely to "remind" him that we needed to get going if we were to have any time to ourselves today.
I let it slide, and we got back to our house around 1:30. I took a shower, put on a little makeup, put in the diaphragm. So far, so good. Went into the bedroom with some old notes J. had written me in high school. They were sweet and loving and funny. I laughed out loud, calling out to J. (who was in the living room playing his trivia game on the computer) many times about how great they were and how he should come read some.
Now tell me this, friends--to me, it seems pretty obvious that no kid+fresh shower+earlier hints+wife calling out to you from the bedroom=sex. Is it just me, or is that pretty clear?
J. never came to the bedroom. He continued to play his trivia game. I packed up the notes, went out and had a smoke, came in barely holding back the tears then retreated to the bedroom. THIS is when J. chooses to get off his ass and come find me--when I am so humiliated and depressed that he is the last person I want to talk to. I try to pass it off with the "I'm just tired," excuse but it is unconvincing so I admitted I was depressed and told him I just wanted to be alone. He leaves me alone. I sob in bed for awhile. Come out to get a drink and take some leftover painkillers. I ask if J. can go get Bubba by himself so that I can be alone to spiral down into suicidal depression. He agrees. Painkillers cause coma and I fall asleep for three hours.
I wake up, write J. a long letter that he doesn't know about yet because there hasn't been a moment without Bubba around since he got back. Eat something. Start feeling a little calmer. J. and Bubba come home, Bubba's wired. J. lets me know that my parents seemed disappointed that I hadn't come for supper/the Bubba pick-up. I call my parents to apologize for my absence and to explain that it wasn't them, it was me and my depression, etc.
My dad decides to ignore the fact that I was calling to fucking apologize and tells me that I "owed" them at least a phone call to let them know I wasn't coming. He gives me a good old-fashioned guilt trip: about Mom slaving away in the kitchen all day, about how J. and I never seem to get any better and that it's causing HIM problems because he's so worried about us, about how unfair it is that he and Mom and everybody else has to deal with my emotional problems.
I pretty much went off on him. Told him I have an illness and yep, they have to fucking deal with it or not be around me because I have a fucking illness and it's not like I choose to be this way. That I'm not that shitty of a daughter. That reaming me out about not calling to tell them I wasn't going to be there is not "being supportive." That I can't solve my parent's marital problems and he can't solve mine and that's just the way it is. That the reason I couldn't "just make a phone call" in the midst of my emotional and psychological pain is that I was too busy fantasizing about going into our basement bathroom and putting a bullet in my head before I conked out in a drugged stupor from medication to try to calm myself down. When he started ragging on me about something else I said, "I learned from the best!" and hung up on him.
Then I cried, went to the store to get my son some popsicles and ice cream because he was incessantly asking for them, watched half of Shrek 3 while intermittently and surreptitiously wiping tears away from my face. The evening winds down and the bedtime battle with Bubba is beginning. "I wanna sleep in your bed," he whines, over and over again. What does my husband say?
"No, Bubba, you're going to go into your bedroom and Mommy's going to read you a story and then she'll lay with you until you fall asleep." Fuck me. The fucking LAST THING I CAN HANDLE IS FIGHTING WITH MY KID ABOUT GOING TO SLEEP, JESUS CHRIST, I'M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF I SHOULD GO TO THE GODDAMN ER AND GET ADMITTED TO A PSYCH WARD AND YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING PUT THE KID TO GODDAMN BED???? I tell him I can't handle it tonight. He sighs and trudges into the bedroom to do it. It seems I've failed once again.
I suck.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I'm Wearing My Grumpy Pants
I am seriously grumpy today. I called in to work because I just couldn't face it. I'm counting on the assumption that if my absences become termination-worthy, someone will warn me and then I will have to start hauling my ass in even when I'm emotionally in the shitter.
I'm not sure exactly what it is. I think it's partly Christmas fallout. I woke up yesterday morning in good spirits, actually, and we had a fine present-opening with Bubba. with only a little bit of disappointment about the fact that my husband hadn't gotten me anything at all. I kind of expected it because he never has any money, but I figured maybe he could have found a little token something just so I'd have a present to open. It was a little bit sad when I gave J. the books I'd bought him, and the calendar with Bubba's picture and handprints that we'd made for him, and then Bubba said "Where's your present, Mommy?" and I had to say "I don't think I have one, honey." Sigh. J. said, "Mommy's going to get her present later. That's how it works sometimes." Yeah right. I don't even want the THING, whatever it is, I really just wanted to have something to open. Next year I'll buy myself a present to have under the tree, I guess.
Anyway, the plan was to do our little family Christmas and then head back to my parents' house (about an hour's drive) for the big family Christmas. There weren't any deadlines we had to meet, or so I thought--I just figured as long as we were back before noon things would be good. We all got cleaned up and loaded the car and dragged Bubba away from his V-Smile and were just about to get in the car at 10 a.m. when my sister called.
"Where are you?" was the first thing out of her mouth.
"Well, we're still at home," I said.
"Are you frickin' kidding me?" she says, and I didn't detect any kind of joking tone.
"Well, we had to do our Christmas here first," I said.
"Yeah, but Bubba gets up at 6 a.m. so you should have had plenty of time by now!" she says.
"Bubba didn't get up until 8:30," I reply. "We're just about ready to get in the car."
"Okay...well, Mom says the turkey will be done by noon. But don't speed to get here."
I got off the phone, and I felt like my Christmas mood had just been deflated like a popped balloon. I took my anxiety meds and we got in the car. About 15 minutes into the drive we realized we'd forgotten blankie and puppy, two critical items for both the drive there and back and for any hope of a nap for Bubba, so we had to go back, thus making us even later. We still got home by 11:15 because yes, we did speed--although J. does that regardless.
By the time we'd gotten there I was pretty mellowed out from my pill, and things went fairly well for most of the day, other than Bubba not taking a nap and his incessant neediness, which I feel bad complaining about but jesus, it's tiring. I was also a little disgruntled about how our family Christmas has devolved over the past several years to opening presents, eating, and then my husband and both my nieces playing video games all afternoon. I sat there yesterday wishing we could do something where we could actually connect as a family rather than just be stuck watching them play a game. Oh well!
At about 5 p.m. Bubba falls asleep so I have to wake him up so there will be a chance of him sleeping at night. I was cuddling with him on the couch and we were talking about "the sunshine song" that he likes me to sing to him. It's the "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine" song. I started singing it to him when he was a baby, only I could never make the "please don't take my sunshine away" part come out of my mouth because it always reminded me of Hope and how she had been taken away from me, so I changed the words to "and I know you'll never go away."
I said in passing to my mom and sister that I had changed the words and I sang my version to them. My sister, in one of her typically intense outbursts, says "Oh my God! When I said I would love for my children to live with me forever you were the one who told me I had to let them go and now this is what you're singing to your son!" Like I was some kind of hypocrite or something. I actually sat in silence for a moment wondering if I really wanted to drop the dead baby bomb and then decided fuck it, I'm telling her and I hope she feels bad about it. So I said, "I sing it that way because after Bubba was born it always reminded me of how one of my kids had already died and I didn't want another one to be taken from me." Then I got up and went to the other room, and was explaining the whole incident to J. when she came in and apologized and of course started crying. Her apology was genuine and I let it all go, but I really, really wish she would realize that she is very harsh sometimes and that the things she lets fly out of her mouth can really be hurtful. I don't suppose she will ever change, it's who she is...but in spite of all my therapy and drugs I just can't let it roll over me all the time.
So that incident got me sort of focused on Hope and remembering that first Christmas without her. I think of her every day, and especially on holidays, and in fact J. and I had gone to the cemetery earlier in the day to visit his parents' graves and we stopped by the baby section and I remembered Hope while looking at the stones of other little ones who were gone. So it wasn't like it was a shock or anything to be thinking of her, but usually I can remember her peacefully, and that incident with my sister got me thinking about the pain instead.
We headed back home about an hour later, and I sullenly sat in the car until I fell asleep, then grumpily hauled myself into the house and just went straight to bed, leaving J. to entertain Bubba who was oddly still awake. And I woke up today feeling pretty much the same way I did when I fell asleep. Now I am looking around my house at the post-Christmas disaster and dealing with mood where I just don't know what the hell I feel like doing because really, I just don't feel like doing anything, and yet I also don't feel like doing nothing.
God, it sucks being an emotional mess.
So that was Christmas. Thank god it's over! Hope you all had good ones, or if not, I hope you'll blog about the drama so that I can feel some cameraderie with you all!
I'm not sure exactly what it is. I think it's partly Christmas fallout. I woke up yesterday morning in good spirits, actually, and we had a fine present-opening with Bubba. with only a little bit of disappointment about the fact that my husband hadn't gotten me anything at all. I kind of expected it because he never has any money, but I figured maybe he could have found a little token something just so I'd have a present to open. It was a little bit sad when I gave J. the books I'd bought him, and the calendar with Bubba's picture and handprints that we'd made for him, and then Bubba said "Where's your present, Mommy?" and I had to say "I don't think I have one, honey." Sigh. J. said, "Mommy's going to get her present later. That's how it works sometimes." Yeah right. I don't even want the THING, whatever it is, I really just wanted to have something to open. Next year I'll buy myself a present to have under the tree, I guess.
Anyway, the plan was to do our little family Christmas and then head back to my parents' house (about an hour's drive) for the big family Christmas. There weren't any deadlines we had to meet, or so I thought--I just figured as long as we were back before noon things would be good. We all got cleaned up and loaded the car and dragged Bubba away from his V-Smile and were just about to get in the car at 10 a.m. when my sister called.
"Where are you?" was the first thing out of her mouth.
"Well, we're still at home," I said.
"Are you frickin' kidding me?" she says, and I didn't detect any kind of joking tone.
"Well, we had to do our Christmas here first," I said.
"Yeah, but Bubba gets up at 6 a.m. so you should have had plenty of time by now!" she says.
"Bubba didn't get up until 8:30," I reply. "We're just about ready to get in the car."
"Okay...well, Mom says the turkey will be done by noon. But don't speed to get here."
I got off the phone, and I felt like my Christmas mood had just been deflated like a popped balloon. I took my anxiety meds and we got in the car. About 15 minutes into the drive we realized we'd forgotten blankie and puppy, two critical items for both the drive there and back and for any hope of a nap for Bubba, so we had to go back, thus making us even later. We still got home by 11:15 because yes, we did speed--although J. does that regardless.
By the time we'd gotten there I was pretty mellowed out from my pill, and things went fairly well for most of the day, other than Bubba not taking a nap and his incessant neediness, which I feel bad complaining about but jesus, it's tiring. I was also a little disgruntled about how our family Christmas has devolved over the past several years to opening presents, eating, and then my husband and both my nieces playing video games all afternoon. I sat there yesterday wishing we could do something where we could actually connect as a family rather than just be stuck watching them play a game. Oh well!
At about 5 p.m. Bubba falls asleep so I have to wake him up so there will be a chance of him sleeping at night. I was cuddling with him on the couch and we were talking about "the sunshine song" that he likes me to sing to him. It's the "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine" song. I started singing it to him when he was a baby, only I could never make the "please don't take my sunshine away" part come out of my mouth because it always reminded me of Hope and how she had been taken away from me, so I changed the words to "and I know you'll never go away."
I said in passing to my mom and sister that I had changed the words and I sang my version to them. My sister, in one of her typically intense outbursts, says "Oh my God! When I said I would love for my children to live with me forever you were the one who told me I had to let them go and now this is what you're singing to your son!" Like I was some kind of hypocrite or something. I actually sat in silence for a moment wondering if I really wanted to drop the dead baby bomb and then decided fuck it, I'm telling her and I hope she feels bad about it. So I said, "I sing it that way because after Bubba was born it always reminded me of how one of my kids had already died and I didn't want another one to be taken from me." Then I got up and went to the other room, and was explaining the whole incident to J. when she came in and apologized and of course started crying. Her apology was genuine and I let it all go, but I really, really wish she would realize that she is very harsh sometimes and that the things she lets fly out of her mouth can really be hurtful. I don't suppose she will ever change, it's who she is...but in spite of all my therapy and drugs I just can't let it roll over me all the time.
So that incident got me sort of focused on Hope and remembering that first Christmas without her. I think of her every day, and especially on holidays, and in fact J. and I had gone to the cemetery earlier in the day to visit his parents' graves and we stopped by the baby section and I remembered Hope while looking at the stones of other little ones who were gone. So it wasn't like it was a shock or anything to be thinking of her, but usually I can remember her peacefully, and that incident with my sister got me thinking about the pain instead.
We headed back home about an hour later, and I sullenly sat in the car until I fell asleep, then grumpily hauled myself into the house and just went straight to bed, leaving J. to entertain Bubba who was oddly still awake. And I woke up today feeling pretty much the same way I did when I fell asleep. Now I am looking around my house at the post-Christmas disaster and dealing with mood where I just don't know what the hell I feel like doing because really, I just don't feel like doing anything, and yet I also don't feel like doing nothing.
God, it sucks being an emotional mess.
So that was Christmas. Thank god it's over! Hope you all had good ones, or if not, I hope you'll blog about the drama so that I can feel some cameraderie with you all!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
This moment is unveiling the divine
I just got back from my therapy appointment. I came away with a few good things that I want to note for future reference.
I told her I've been in a rut lately where I feel like I slog through 8 hours of work and then gear up for another shift at home. I told her how I tend to dread doing some of the things that make up our evening routine, like playing with Gary, until they're actually underway and then I usually find myself having at least some fun.
She said, "So what you're telling me is that you get to go home after work, lie on your bed and listen to your son talk about love? Boy, that sounds terrible!" She helped me look at it as a way to unwind rather than something I have to do (even though I do have to do it, because if I didn't, the resulting tantrum would be so not worth it). Truthfully, though, it's my attitude more than anything else that makes it seem like a chore.
Another thing she said really made an impression on me. She said that when Bubba wants me to play with Gary, or "crash cars," or whatever, that he's inviting me into his world, and that as much as I can, I should accept those invitations so that when he's 30 and out on his own with his own family he will still be inviting me in (she's really good at saying things that I know I know as soon as she says them, but that I hadn't really brought up to the conscious level). This really made a lot of sense to me.
The final nugget, one that I think I'm going to post on the wall in my house, is something along the lines of "This moment is unveiling the divine." Translation for those who aren't all Sufi like my therapist: this moment, no matter how challenging--in fact, the more challenging, the more powerful it is--is an opportunity to stretch yourself to see how patient, how loving, how merciful you can be, either to yourself or to the person you are with.
My homework is to dance at least once before our next meeting in January, and to try to think of things that I think are fun, because I told her how I was trying to think of ways to make our time at home more fun and I came up with a big blank space that scared me so I stopped thinking about it.
I told her I've been in a rut lately where I feel like I slog through 8 hours of work and then gear up for another shift at home. I told her how I tend to dread doing some of the things that make up our evening routine, like playing with Gary, until they're actually underway and then I usually find myself having at least some fun.
She said, "So what you're telling me is that you get to go home after work, lie on your bed and listen to your son talk about love? Boy, that sounds terrible!" She helped me look at it as a way to unwind rather than something I have to do (even though I do have to do it, because if I didn't, the resulting tantrum would be so not worth it). Truthfully, though, it's my attitude more than anything else that makes it seem like a chore.
Another thing she said really made an impression on me. She said that when Bubba wants me to play with Gary, or "crash cars," or whatever, that he's inviting me into his world, and that as much as I can, I should accept those invitations so that when he's 30 and out on his own with his own family he will still be inviting me in (she's really good at saying things that I know I know as soon as she says them, but that I hadn't really brought up to the conscious level). This really made a lot of sense to me.
The final nugget, one that I think I'm going to post on the wall in my house, is something along the lines of "This moment is unveiling the divine." Translation for those who aren't all Sufi like my therapist: this moment, no matter how challenging--in fact, the more challenging, the more powerful it is--is an opportunity to stretch yourself to see how patient, how loving, how merciful you can be, either to yourself or to the person you are with.
My homework is to dance at least once before our next meeting in January, and to try to think of things that I think are fun, because I told her how I was trying to think of ways to make our time at home more fun and I came up with a big blank space that scared me so I stopped thinking about it.
Monday, November 19, 2007
I heard her complain, often and loudly
Today I dragged myself into work by 9:20 a.m. At approximately 9:35 a.m. I blew my nose. A big chunk came out; nothing new there, at least not since surgery almost a month ago now. Then watery fluid came pouring out of my right nostril, down onto my desk and onto the floor. With visions of a ruptured sinus and cerebrospinal fluid leak, I called J. for a ride, called my otolaryngologist’s office and started crying when she told me they didn’t have any doctors in the office at that time (what the fuck?) In a semi-hysterical state on the way to the car, I said “Well, do I go to the emergency room or what, because I’m sick and I’m scared and I need someone to look at me so you tell me where to go.” She sent me to the ER since my oto was there anyway in surgery, and he could see me in between cases.
Alas, no cerebrospinal fluid leak—but a CT showed that the fucking infection I’ve been fighting since the week after surgery is still there. It is now apparently invisible to the naked eye, since my oto thought everything looked good on Friday and again today when he looked before the CT. So is it in my bones now or what? I have to ask on Wednesday when I go back for my next follow-up. I got an IV infusion of antibiotics and a prescription for yet another one to take over the next week.
In the last two months, I’ve been on Amoxicillin for an unrelated respiratory infection; Levaquin for the sinus infection that broke the camel’s back and sent me to surgery; Ancef during surgery; Cephalexin prophylactically for the week after surgery; Augmentin for a week for the post-surgical infection, which I finished last Thursday; Rocephin today in the IV, and now Bactrim. As well as methylprednisolone prescribed last Friday for inflammation. And hydrocodone for pain, which I’m trying to limit but did take again today. Strangely, I still haven’t really lost faith in my doctor. I feel like his actions and recommendations have been rational and appropriate given the symptoms I’ve been exhibiting—they just aren’t helping so far. So I’m sticking with him, for now anyway.
I spent most of the six hours we were at the ER in tears. I am so, so very tired. We had to reschedule our marriage counseling appointment this afternoon, and we needed it. J. did come through pretty well at the hospital today, a real sacrifice for him I know since missing work is about his number one pet peeve. I feel like I’m trying to save my sanity, my health and my marriage all at once, and failing at all to various degrees.
I’ve been ordered off work for the rest of the week, which is only three days because of Thanksgiving. I have to give credit where it’s due and report that my Mom and Dad happily and cheerfully took Bubba on Sunday to Monday to give us a break, and then today volunteered to keep him over another night, which they are. So all I have to do tonight is rest…and for once, I just can’t. I’m lonely, but J. had to go back to work for the remaining two hours of the day, and then volunteer for a reception his workplace was hosting for a local athletic team. He is picking me up dinner on the way home so I guess I shouldn’t complain, but I sort of wish he would have just stayed home. Even though we don’t talk anyway. So scratch that. I don’t know what I wanted. Just to feel better, I guess.
I struggle with blaming myself for my bad health, but you know, I'm so tired of it all that I'm not even going to do the blame game. It's pointless. As Best Friend Tingle would say, it is what it is. I'm sick a lot. I've always been like this. What sucks is that I don't really have the mental stamina to deal with it. I've specifically instructed my loved ones that if I died from some kind of painful disease they are to make it known that I complained every chance I got. I hate it when i read about how "She had XYZ Most Horrible Painful Disease in the World but she never once complained." I mean, let's be real, people. Being sick sucks. And I complain about it, a lot, in real life and--so lucky for you--here.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Have you ever seen The Shining?
My weekend bore striking similarities to the good old Jack Nicholson movie, except for the fact that unfortunately my house is much smaller than the Overlook Hotel and Danny Torrance is a lot quieter than my kid (and not half as scary).
12:30 a.m.: I cuddle up with Bubba and go to sleep.
Most of my predictions came true. I was sick. Bubba was kind of sick. LilCherie’s boy really was sick. Girls’ Night was cancelled. The worst winter storm of about 30 years descended upon us and we lost power for a total of about 8 hours. Luckily, four of those hours happened after Bubba was asleep. Of the other four hours, approximately two of them were spent trying to explain to Bubba that the TV was “broken,” that there would be no “Thomas mooo-ie” or “Cars dee-dee-dee (DVD),” that there were, in fact, other fun things to do in the house besides stare at the idiot box, and in the end, just listening to him sob, yes, sob, about the lack of television. At risk of boring you, dear readers, I feel the need to describe my weekend in a little more detail, to purge it from my memory in the hopes that this weekend will be repressed in my memory and that there won’t be too much in the way of PTSD fallout.
For your skimming convenience, I’ve labeled each section so you can skip.
Bitching About the Weekend In General
Friday Night
Typical night; storm starts slowly with just a little rain/sleet mix.
Saturday
5 a.m.: Bubba’s up, therefore we’re all up. My left ear and the left side of my throat are killing me.
7:30 a.m.: We set out early to keep our commitment to be research subjects for a friend of J.’s, who is involved in a study of TENS. J.’s appointment is at 8 a.m. and mine is at 9. We get set up in a physical therapy student lounge that is complete with comfy chairs, a massage table, and a life-size model of a skeleton. Bubba and I had a great time with the skeleton. He wanted to shake hands with it, which was really cute.
10 a.m.: When we leave the building, there is a thin coating of ice over everything with more coming down. We get home without too much trouble and hunker down.
11:30 a.m.: My cold-turned-ear-infection-and-sore-throat gets the best of me, and Tingle pisses me off by making fun of my saggy tits, so I give up and take a long nap.
3 p.m.: I awake to what sounds like someone scraping a very heavy snow shovel across the roof above our bedroom. I stumble out to the living room to find the house quiet and J. and Bubba napping together on the chair. Still looking for the source of the sound, I venture out to our back porch and see that the branches of our tree are so laden with ice that many of them are hanging about 8 feet lower than they should be, and the hellatious wind is whipping them across our roof—thus the otherworldly noises that woke me up. More ominous are the branches that are sagging across the electrical and phone lines running into our house. Soon, the noises wake J. up—Bubba, thankfully, remained asleep for another hour and a half—and after whacking the branches with a machete to no avail, heads out into the storm to buy a set of tree nippers to take down the branches.
Approximately five minutes before he returns, the power goes out—not due to our tree branches but instead a neighborhood-wide issue. J. trims the tree to avoid any further issues and we set up house with candles, flashlights, and some tunes on the radio (before the radio stations went out, that is). For supper, we enjoy a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, slow roasted in a cake pan atop a contraption designed to heat a pot of coffee with a small candle. I was really kinda proud of that idea.
4:30 to 6:30 p.m.: “I wanna watch Car moo-ie! I wanna watch Thomas dee-dee-dee! Mease! Meeeease! MEEEEASE!” Sob, scream, cry.
6:30 to 8:30 p.m.: We decide to build a fire in the fireplace downstairs, and Bubba finds this fascinating which thank god distracted him from the TV issue. We’re actually having fun by the time the power comes back on. As soon as the lights come back on, Bubba runs for the stairs yelling “I wanna watch Bob mooo-ie!”
8:30 to 10:30 p.m.: We put on the damn SpongeBob DVD and hope against hope that Bubba will fall asleep without a fight. Nope. Finally goes down after the usual crying and numerous escape attempts.
11:20 p.m.: Bubba has coughing fit; pukes all over himself. Change jammies, change bedding, squirt cough medicine down crying mouth; peace is restored.
11:30 p.m.: Power goes out again. J. and I, desperate to salvage some sort of enjoyment from the day, stay awake for awhile; I draw by flashlight while J. watches a DVD on the computer (yes, I know…we didn’t break it out for Bubba because we didn’t know how long the power would be out and we knew if it pooped out on us in the middle of the dee-dee-dee it would be worse than not having it at all.)
Sunday12:30 a.m.: I cuddle up with Bubba and go to sleep.
1:30 a.m.: Bubba wakes up crying for Daddy and physically pushes me from the bed. I rouse J. off the couch to come sleep with Bubba and I curl up in my own bed.
2:30 a.m.: Bubba wakes up, jumps out of bed and runs around the house sobbing, having “one of his fits” as J. calls them (I’ve since diagnosed them on Google as confusional arousal episodes. Which you can’t do anything about. Just another fun thing he will supposedly grow out of.) After about 10 minutes he is subdued and the house is quiet once again.
3:30 a.m.: According to my bedside clock, this is when power was restored. I didn’t wake up for it.
8 a.m. to 1 p.m.: The ice is gone and now we just have rain interspersed with sleet now and then. Ear and throat still killing me, and I have a headache. We lounge around and have a decent morning, even though I have to force myself to work through my pain to do dishes, multiple loads of laundry and make lunch because J. is apparently going through a lazy mode lately and is basically doing jack shit around the house. We all watch Wizard of Oz, which Bubba quite enjoys, then switch over to Gone With the Wind, which he tolerates. He is practically falling asleep at his little table so we decide it’s nap time….
1 p.m. to 2 p.m.: Bubba will not go down for his nap. He cries, he screams, he demands a “krabby patty with cheese” and insists he’s hungry (not surprising, since he ate no lunch) so we make him a peanut butter sandwich only to have him refuse it. After half an hour of this nonsense I decide enough is enough, Bubba WILL take a nap. I spend about 10 minutes in the bedroom, physically restraining him to prevent him from crawling out of the bed. He yells, screams, cries and thrashes about. Finally I lose it (I believe the words “Fuck it!” escaped from my mouth….possibly followed by a crazed “Can you say that, Bubba? Can you say fuck it?” as I stomp to the kitchen). I blame J. for Bubba’s awful sleep habits; he blames me for not stopping him from doing them. He finally gets Bubba down and I go to my happy place—i.e., sleep—for the next three hours.
5 p.m.—present: Not too horrible. We ate, watched the Oscars, I did laundry, we didn’t even attempt to put Bubba down, opting instead for letting him play until he drops and then letting him fall asleep in J.’s arms, which happened at about 10 p.m. At 11 p.m., Bubba wakes up and comes out for comfort. At 12 a.m., he demands that J. come to bed with him, and that was the end of my day with the family. Now it’s 2:30 a.m. and I’m not tired at all. And tomorrow’s Monday.
Bitching About Bubba's Sleep Issues
Bubba’s sleeping is completely out of control, and I don’t really know what to do about it. I don’t understand how to do the “crying it out” method if he just keeps getting out of bed as soon as we put him in it. I mean, there’s not even enough time to get to the door before he’s up. When we’ve become desperate enough to hold the door shut so he can’t get out, he screams and cries so violently that he starts gagging and coughing like he’s going to throw up. Eliminating his nap does nothing to prevent the bedtime struggles and nighttime awakenings. We’ve adhered pretty strictly to our “soothing bedtime routine” of jammies, quiet play, brushing teeth and stories for months until recently, when out of desperation we’ve pretty much been doing anything to prevent the nightly struggle.
Bitching About Motherhood Overall
You know what? I’m sick of being a mother to a toddler. I’m sick of catering to the needs of a tiny tyrant all goddamn day. I’m sick of preparing meals he won’t eat, I’m sick of cleaning petrified corn kernels off the floor, I’m sick of sitting down only for Bubba to ask for more juice, more milk, for me to fix his train, get him the orange car, put on the Bob movie. I’m sick of listening to another human being cry multiple times every single day. I’m sick of being sick, of him being sick, of trying to figure out whether or not he’s sick and if so, whether or not he needs medicine, or whether or not he needs a nebulizer treatment, or whether or not he needs to go to the doctor. I’m sick of reminding J. to lotion Bubba’s skin and to take the yellow blankie back to daycare and to limit Bubba’s juice so he doesn’t get the shits. I’m sick of refilling humidifiers and cleaning nebulizer parts. I’m sick of watching SpongeBob and playing with Thomas the Tank Engine. I’m sick of trying to figure out how to get him to sleep.
I feel overwhelmed by the whole thing. I feel like a child myself, wishing that someone would swoop in like a fairy godmother-nanny and say, “Depressionista, it’s going to be all right now. I’m here to take over everything. I will raise your child to be an intelligent, well-adjusted, productive member of society and all you have to do is pop in now and then—and only, of course, when Bubba’s in a good mood.”
I’m sick of feeling inadequate and not up for the challenge. I’m sick of feeling guilty about not enjoying this and bewildered at people who seem to truly get some kind of pleasure out of raising their children. I’m sick of feeling like every time I complain about Bubba I am tempting the fates to take him away from me, or that I am betraying the sisterhood of women who are infertile and/or have lost a child.
When does this get fun? Ever? Or is that just a carrot people dangle in front of us so we won't kill ourselves? Because a lot of the time, it's just pretty unbearable, and I find it difficult to believe I did this to myself.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The rant of a bitter, angry, depressed mother
Well, I couldn't let the One Year Anniversary of My Blog go unrecognized, now, could I?
Yes, folks, its been a year since the scintillating tales of Depressionista and Co. began gracing the Internet. To those of you who read, thank you; to those of you who comment, thank you even more. It makes my day to see comments here!
I have lots to blog about but not enough time, so I'm limiting myself to an article I just had to laugh at. It appeared on CNN.com today. My comments will appear in italics. My comments are bitter, angry, and completely down on motherhood, so be warned. I'm just in that kind of mood today, okay? I'm feeling so rebellious, in fact, that I'm not even going to write the obligatory, "Don't get me wrong, I love my child...." disclaimer. I know, I'm NUTS!
How to Be a Happier Mom: 8 Ways to Focus on the Positive
by Robert Barnett
Yes, folks, its been a year since the scintillating tales of Depressionista and Co. began gracing the Internet. To those of you who read, thank you; to those of you who comment, thank you even more. It makes my day to see comments here!
I have lots to blog about but not enough time, so I'm limiting myself to an article I just had to laugh at. It appeared on CNN.com today. My comments will appear in italics. My comments are bitter, angry, and completely down on motherhood, so be warned. I'm just in that kind of mood today, okay? I'm feeling so rebellious, in fact, that I'm not even going to write the obligatory, "Don't get me wrong, I love my child...." disclaimer. I know, I'm NUTS!
How to Be a Happier Mom: 8 Ways to Focus on the Positive
by Robert Barnett
Parenting.com
(Of course a man wrote this!)
(Of course a man wrote this!)
Ask a mom if she's happier now that she has a child and she'll usually say yes. (Of course. If you say no, people think you're a bad mother, which is the next worst thing after Hitler and al Qaeda). In fact, around the world, children top the list of the most enjoyable things in life. (You've got to be kidding me.) But psychologists who study happiness -- a new field in the past decade -- often report a different picture. (Happiness is a new field. Interesting.)
Being the mom of a young child (especially one under 3) is rich and rewarding, but also a real strain on your mood. (I'm still waiting for the 'rich and rewarding' part). "Moment to moment, you may be exhausted, frustrated, sometimes angry," (sometimes ready to kill yourself. Sometimes crying, sometimes rocking in a corner, sometimes curled in the fetal position) says Peter Ubel, M.D., a professor of medicine and psychology at the University of Michigan. "You may be squabbling with your spouse more. (and threatening to divorce him or have an affair). You have more negative emotions." (Yeah, that all spells 'rich and rewarding to me...how about you?') The time you spend taking care of your child may not even be the high point of your day. (No shit, sherlock.)
On their list of pleasurable activities, moms rank it lower than eating, exercising, or watching TV, according to a University of Michigan study of 900 women. In fact, kid care rates only slightly higher than housework, working, or commuting! (Umm...I like housework, working and commuting more than kid care, in general. Oh my god I'm a terrible person). "This finding shocks people," says Daniel Gilbert, Ph.D., a psychology professor at Harvard University and author of "Stumbling on Happiness." (I'm not shocked.)
"They think psychologists are saying you don't love your children. Of course you love your children beyond measure! And kids do bring joy. They bring transcendent moments in which you feel so happy that it outweighs all the hard work you've done. It's just that children do not increase your average daily enjoyment." (Do you guys agree with this? I mean, yes there are transcendent moments...but does it really outweigh all the day-t0-day crap? I guess what I'm asking is, is it worth it? I haven't figured that one out yet.)
The Happiness Paradox
One reason for the discrepancy between moms and experts: selective memory. When psychologists ask moms in a general way whether they like spending time with their kids, the overwhelming majority say they do because they're thinking of fun activities such as reading a book or playing in the park (or they're thinking that if they say no, they will be judged and shunned). When they're specifically asked to describe their actual daily routine, they remember the hours they spent struggling to get their child dressed or ready for bed. (Because that's what the day usually consists of).
Maybe, though, the cold calculus of psychological science is missing the intensity of joy that time spent with your child can bring. "There are little moments that are grand-slam home runs," says Gilbert.
Luckily, those moments can overcome your daily frustrations. "Happiness is more than just that smiley feeling," says Karen Reivich, Ph.D., a research associate in the Positive Psychology Center at the University of Pennsylvania. "It's also feeling a connection to something larger than yourself. When people are in service to something bigger, they describe their lives as filled with meaning. It's not the smiley face, but when it's all over, you realize you'd do it again." (Or, in my case, it's feeling like you're really fucking up something big, so during those times when your child isn't annoying the hell out of you, you just feel worried and guilty that you're scarring him for life).
And being needed is a rewarding experience as well. "You get back tenfold everything that you put into it," says Elizabeth Howard, mom of Reilly, 2, in Anaheim, California. "I don't think people should have a child just to make them happy, but it's opened up a whole part of my heart that I didn't even know was there." (Okay, I'll concede to the opening up of the heart part. The tenfold part...not so sure about that yet either).
The first step to being a happier mom, then, is to value what you do -- to feel that it's important. The next step is to find ways to make it more enjoyable. Not only will you be doing the best thing for yourself, but you'll also become a more effective mom.
Say you're with your 2-year-old and she wants her juice in the red cup, but the red cup is missing. "If I'm in a grumpy mood, I may just say, 'Drink it in the blue cup,'" says Reivich. "But if I'm feeling more positive, maybe I'll take some red construction paper and tape it around the blue cup. I've transformed something that might get ugly into something playful and fun." (Give me a fucking break!!!! Construction paper around the cup??? Jesus Christ! Anyone whose ever taken care of a young child knows the real answer to this dilemma--you look around like a crazy person for the goddamned red cup so that you don't have to hear a) whining about wanting the red cup or b) complaints about how the kid doesn't want any construction paper on the cup. Gawwd!) The good news for all moms is this: You can learn to focus on the positive -- and learn to make it a daily habit. Here's how:
Admit when you're stressed
Ironically, once you stop expecting motherhood to feel warm and fuzzy all the time, life as a mom gets easier. "It really helps to realize that it's OK to feel frustrated, angry, tired, or irritable sometimes," says Dr. Ubel. (Please clarify 'sometimes'--greater than or less than 12 hours a day?) "You're not a bad parent. It's not even a bad parenting experience. It's just normal." (Can't normal still be bad? For instance, getting colds are normal...and they still suck.
Get enough sleep (Yeah, right. That's all I have to say about this section.)
Most of us know that money can't buy happiness, but who knew that a good night's sleep just might? That's a key finding of that University of Michigan study. "Making $60,000 more in annual income has less of an effect on your daily happiness than getting one extra hour of sleep a night," says study author Norbert Schwarz, Ph.D., a professor of psychology. So how can you sneak in that extra hour or two?
Misha Sauer, mom of 1-year-old Riley, says her husband is good about taking over on the weekends so she can sleep in or nap. "It absolutely makes a difference in the way I feel," says the Culver City, California, mom. "And I'm more willing to do something active, like take my daughter to the park. If I'm tired, the most I can do is sit there and read to her."
(Re)consider your priorities
It may sound simplistic, but one key to being in a more positive mood is to structure your day so you do more things you enjoy. "It's how you spend your time, not your money, that counts," says Dr. Ubel. "If you have any financial flexibility that lets you maximize your family time, use it now. For instance, do you really need to be the one to clean the house? How about paying someone to help out? And if that's not an option, think about how clean your house really needs to be -- do you need to make the beds, or is bed-making time better spent drawing pictures with your kids?" And if you work outside the home, consider exploring whether you can afford to go part-time rather than full-time. (So what about those of us whose priorities are paying for the house, electricity, and food? I don't have the option to go part-time, I don't have the option to get a maid or a cook. Yeah, if I did, I'd probably be a whole lot happier. Duh!)
Go with the flow
Time seems to slow down when you're doing what you enjoy, whether it's gardening or running laps. People who experience this level of engagement -- which psychologists call "flow" -- are happier than people who rarely do. And you're lucky to have a master of it right before you: your child. "To you and me, every leaf and ant is pretty much the same, but not to a two-year-old," says Reivich. "So try to actively notice things as your child does -- that ant is dragging a big piece of bread, for instance." (Fascinating!)
Bringing more of your best qualities -- your strengths -- to the often mundane tasks of child rearing can also help you feel more engaged. "One of my strengths is humor," Reivich says. "I was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my kids one day, and I started talking like it was a cooking show: 'Now I'm browning the bread, now I'm applying a thin layer of peanut butter.' It transformed a mundane task into something all of us could enjoy." (Okay. This is a good idea.)
One mom she knows loves architecture and got passionate about explaining the history of columns as her 4-year-old made sand castles. Her preschooler may not have gotten all the references, says Reivich, "but it was entertaining for both of them." (I can't wait until I can teach Bubba all about the finer points of "drinking coffee," writing erotica and the benefits of the Magic Bullet.)
Savor the moment
One way to nourish positive emotions is to take a moment to appreciate, well, the moment. Just map out two- or three-minute activities that you can do that day to relish that time.
In the morning, for instance, instead of trying to do ten things, take your cup of coffee to the window and sip it while your child watches a video. Notice what's going on. Will it change your life? No, but you'll probably feel calmer.
Gilbert has an even shorter version: "Take ten seconds every hour and look at what you're doing from a higher place." While you're at it, appreciate what a wonderful child you have -- those chubby cheeks, the endearing things she says -- and share that joy with someone who'll rejoice in it with you. That's another way to grab on to the good stuff and prolong your happiness.
Take the long view
Having a sense of perspective will also improve your attitude. "It gives you more patience, and it certainly awakens you to the preciousness of the moment, which is fleeting," says M.J. Ryan, author of "The Happiness Makeover" and mom of Anna, 9. She remembers the times when her daughter wanted to sit on her lap and watch SpongeBob. "Yes, I had other things to do. But I said to myself, 'How long will this last?' I'm grateful for that time with her."
If the drudgery is getting to you, think about life without children. (Yes, keep talkin'...) "You've signed on for a hard job -- it's not supposed to be fun most of the time," says Gilbert. "It's easy to get caught up in the details, but you need to step back and realize how empty your life would be without these people in it." (Okay, I'm good at that. I'm good at imagining the death of my child in order to feel grateful to have him here. Just another one of the "up-sides" to losing a child).
Reconnect with your spouse (When?)
A supportive group of friends and family is one of the cornerstones of a happy life, and for many moms, the center of that social circle is their partner. That's why it's so important to keep the lines of communication open, especially during the "diaper years" -- from infancy to around age 3 -- that experts say are the most stressful (THANK GOD...WE'RE ALMOST THERE!!!) (until your kids become teens, that is!) (Oh.) on a marriage.
"You can't say, 'I'll handle the relationship later,'" says Reivich. "A healthy and realistic goal is to ask, 'What are some small, manageable things we can be doing to keep our connection to each other strong during this rough time?'"
For instance, she and her husband try to have a glass of wine together at night once a week, after their four kids (all under age 9) are in bed. "It's not a date-- we don't need a baby sitter-- it's just 15 minutes. But it's a change to sit together and unwind, and sometimes a chance to dream." (About life without four kids under the age of 9).
When she works with couples, Reivich helps them figure out what they can do for a couple of hours together that interests both of them. With one couple, one partner was very curious, the other really appreciated beauty, so they spent an afternoon museum hopping. (Wow...I wish I could get paid $175 an hour to tell couples to go to the museum together. I wonder if they were also instructed to go to the movies and eat dinner at a restaurant! That's some pretty original stuff!)
"It can be as easy as going food shopping together," she says. Once you make little steps, it's easy to move on to bigger ones, like a night out. Even discussing how stressed you both are can help. "It's affected our relationship a lot; we've both noticed it," says Sauer. "If you can both just say, 'Raising a kid is hard,' putting it out there diminishes the strain." She and her husband are working on having more time together-- by themselves. "We just went on our first date since the baby was born," she says.
Another way to strengthen your connection is to practice what shrinks call "active constructive responding." When your spouse comes home and shares some good news, don't just say, "That's nice." Ask questions that let him tell you about his day, even for a minute or two. At least for that minute, the two of you will be celebrating what's good about your lives.
Say thanks
Feeling grateful is a mood booster. It can be as simple as saying grace every night or finding new ways to acknowledge others.
"When our extended family gets together for a birthday, we go around the room and say one thing we appreciate and the one thing we like best about that person," says Elizabeth Howard. (We do something like this at Thanksgiving, where we all go around and say what we're thankful for. My family always complains about it, so last year I just gave them cards explaining how I'm grateful for each of them. At least one person then said, "I'm grateful we don't have to go around and say what we're grateful for this year!)
Another effective way is to put what you're thankful for down on paper: Write the three best things that happened today. It might be something positive that happened to you, your kids, your spouse or friends, or in the world. It might just be something funny that your child said at breakfast. Experts say that if you do that every day for two weeks, your feelings of well-being will increase. (My therapist wants me to do this too.)
Of course, even if you do all of these things, you'll still have bad days. But at least you'll be less likely to think there's something wrong with you. And the more you engage in positive thinking, the more you'll realize how much happiness is under your control. Not all of it, but perhaps more than you were aware of.
"When I started to research happiness, I thought it was a feeling, and you had to wait to have it happen to you," says Ryan. "But feelings follow thoughts -- they don't precede them. I think of happiness as three things -- enjoyment, satisfaction, and fulfillment. Mothering can give us any one of those at any given moment -- if not necessarily all of them at the same time!"
Robert Barnett is the former health editor of Parenting.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Enriching activity goes horribly awry
First, a disclaimer: I had a really rough day today, and took appropriate pharmaceutical measures to calm myself this evening, so I'm in a rather chatty frame of blogging tonight. Try to hang in there. There's a funny story for you as a reward if you get to the end of the post.
Odd things have been happening lately. Occasionally I've found myself thinking, "I'm happy." Just fleeting moments here and there, but there nonetheless.
Other than last Saturday (which will come later in this post), I've been really handling Bubba very well. Better, even, than SuperDad, I think. I have actually been more patient with him than his father (at times). This has never really happened before. I've been coming up with "creative solutions" to Bubba issues that have actually helped (at times). For instance--and these sound like small things but to me they are some pretty major accomplishments--when Bubba wouldn't try his cream cheese and toast because he was wary of the cream cheese, I explained that it was "just like frosting." And he ate it, and liked it as I knew he would. I also managed to get half a grilled cheese sandwich down his gullet by using little cookie cutters and making his sandwich into a star and two hearts. When he had a meltdown because he couldn't take his Thomas train to daycare, I suggested he pick out a Thomas sticker and wear it to school on his shirt instead, and he was totally excited about it.
Best of all, last week I started using a motivational tool that just came to me like a bolt of lightning, although it sounds pretty obvious. Instead of trying to demand that he do things, like "Come over and get your shoes on, please" (I had to put the please in there because even when he's driving me nuts I'm usually pretty good about phrasing things politely--even if it comes out between my clenched teeth), I started saying "Can you show me what a good listener you are and come over and put your shoes on?" And his little face lit up and he did it, I praised the hell out of him, and the trick actually worked several times.
I'm actually having moments where I feel like I'm a good mother! As my therapist said last week when I told her about all this, let's take a moment to just realize what an accomplishment this is and feel good about myself.
Before you start gagging on the saccharin, here's the slimy underbelly of the week. A coworker (I've blogged about her before--formerly The Breastfeeder, now The Bragger, "Nigel's" mom) had told me there was a special storytime/movie/dogs for petting/crafts event for toddlers and preschoolers at the public library on Saturday morning. Since J. was working and Bubba and I were on our own, I thought hey, let's just do it. I'll do a fun, enriching activity with my child."
Saturday began promisingly. I had Bubba bathed by 9 a.m. and had managed to get some laundry and housework done without totally ignoring him. He was happy, and I figured the event would pump him up enough that he'd be able to push through for a half an hour past his naptime at 11:30 a.m. (at daycare he doesn't go down until noon and sometimes not until 2 p.m. or so at home, so I figured we were safe).
We got to the library on time, Bubba managed to wait in line for the room to open (I played Simon Says with him--another creative mother moment! Yeah, I was rockin' it.) We settled down, saw a couple people we knew, then the movie started and Bubba was rapt. A little more restless during the story, and then practically jumping out of his diaper to get to pet the dogs, but still well within the realm of decent behavior. Things started getting a little dicey toward the end so we skipped the craft stuff and went out to get our coats on. There we ran into Nigel and his mom, who asked if we'd like to go to the noodle place a couple blocks down for lunch. Great, I thought--Bubba and I will get some mac and cheese and he'll be all set for naptime.
As I stuffed my resistant toddler into his parka, Nigel stood in perfect obedience after his mother asked (one time, mind you), in her 'I'm teaching my child how to enunciate clearly' voice, "Can you stand like a statue and not move a muscle?" While she walked and alternatively carried her tiny toddler to the noodle place, I chased my hefty little guy until he refused to walk at all and then hauled his 35-pound body through subzero temperature, feeling every step in my lower back.
At the noodle place, Nigel sat down in front of his disposable placement and the supplementary cup of milk and peach his mother had brought, while my guy begged for a piece of Nigel's cookie and then ate it from the table sans protection (not a problem for me, but probably disgusting to Nigel's mummy). Then he decided he was done. He jumped off the chair and ran down the full length of the long hallway down to the bathroom area. I caught up with him and, still in the "I can handle this/patient-mother mode," I calmly brought him back to the table and resumed trying to bribe him into eating a single noodle, only to be met with "More cookie mease, more cookie mease, COOKIE MEASE!!! MEEEEEASE!!!!" until I just gave in and gave him the damn cookie, which he snarfed down at record pace.
Then, he jumped up again and took off down the hallway. At this point I told him he'd have to sit in a high chair if he couldn't sit at the table and he agreed, so I hauled him in one arm and the clunky wooden high chair in the other down the hallway to our table, removed his chair and finally got him settled in it.
I ate two bites of my macaroni before he began climbing out of the chair, getting his leg stuck with his knee up by his face, twisting and turning and whining. Meanwhile, Nigel is quietly enjoying his tortellini soup and watching my child as if he's a baboon at the zoo. Which he kinda was, really.
Finally it's time to go so I put Bubba down, put his coat on, then turn to grab mine and he takes off running. In spite of my attempts to navigate the crowded restaurant--not especially easy when you weigh 240 pounds--he is gone. This has never happened before. The panic stopped my heart just one second before Nigel's mom yelled to me that Bubba was over at our table again. He'd circled the room, dodging out of site behind a partial wall for part of the journey.
As soon as we left the restaurant, Bubba put his arms up and did the "uh, uh" that of course means "carry me." I tried to explain that I couldn't carry him, that he was too heavy, but of course ended up hefting him anyway. Then he started whining about something, I don't remember what it was exactly, but he kept it up until halfway back to the car when I put him down, physically unable to carry him one step further. I tried to explained that I was too tired, that he had to walk like a big boy. He crumpled to the ground and started wailing. I set him back up on his feet, at which point he dashed away from me and ran down an alley.
Here's where I really lost it. I did the arm-jerk. The horrifying arm-jerk that we've all seen in WalMart and that we've all sworn we'd never do. I jerked the arm, knelt down in front of him and in my sternest, most serious, mother-slightly-on-the-edge-and-one-step-from-insanity voice said "YOU DO NOT RUN AWAY FROM ME!" I grabbed his hand and basically dragged him back down the sidewalk. All the while, he is screaming "NO NO NO NO NO!" I finally picked him up but the screaming continued. I can't believe nobody stopped me to ask if I was kidnapping him; in fact, it's a little disturbing that nobody did.
Then I couldn't find the car, so we carried on this way through two different floors of the parking ramp. The entire morning got put into perspective when, after starting the ignition, I looked into the backseat and he was asleep already. Poor little guy, right?
I'd gotten him into his bed and almost out of his coat before he woke up, and then nothing but "Thomas train movie" would pacify him. In a cruel twist of fate, J. was half an hour late coming home from work. He bounced in the door, cheerily asking "How was the library?"
"It was a horrible nightmare!" I responded.
"Why?"
"Because our kid is an uncontrollable brat!" I said.
"What happened?"
"I don't even want to talk about it. I'm going to take a nap, take a shower, and leave." [I was going to LilCherie's for Girl's Night that evening.]
And that's exactly what I did. Thank god my hubby is willing and able to pick up the duty at times like this because I was fucking burned out.
My other bad motherhood moment for the week? It's short and sweet, unlike the story above. I was heading out to the porch to have a smoke and I had my cigarette and lighter in hand. J. was on Bubba duty but apparently was going to the bathroom or had gone into the other room for something. Bubba comes running up to me and wants to go out on the porch too. I tell him it's too cold, and then he grabs my cigarette out of my hand, runs away, and says "MINE!" Yep, that just warms the heart, doesn't it? Really makes you feel like you're setting a good example.
Obviously, it would be nice if I'd quit, but since that probably won't happen, I refuse to hide it. My mother hid it from us kids but we all knew from the billows of smoke that poured out of the bathroom and the occasional butt floating in the toilet. When I was younger I always felt uncomfortable about it because it was just something none of us ever talked about; we all just instinctively knew it was supposed to be a secret, and of course that's weird. As I got older, my friends would ask me why it smelled like smoke in our house and I always felt I had to cover for her and just pretend like I had no idea, and the whole thing was completely embarrassing. As a teenager I moved into occasionally sneaking one from the towel drawer. So my smoking habit, as disgusting and bad-exampley as it is, will not be a secret from Bubba for those reasons. I can only hope that he'll grow up to be one of those militant "my parents smoked so I hate it with a passion" kind of people (like Tingle).
To leave you on a high note, however, there was one shining moment of hilarity in the whole library debacle. In between movie and storytime, Bubba and I were sitting face-to-face on the carpet when all of a sudden he said "Arrrrr! Pirate!" and crooked his finger at me. He was a pirate for Halloween and you know how sometimes they just regurgitate this stuff with no obvious prompt, so I just did the "Uh huh," and kept looking around for people I knew to see what their kids looked like. With more urgency this time, Bubba said "Ma! Pirate! Arrrr!" and pointed to the area behind me. I looked behind me and saw a little girl, no more than a year older than Bubba, who had a cheery little blue and yellow, cartoon-laden eye patch on. I was simultaneously mortified and filled with the strong desire to laugh out loud. I contained myself, however, and explained, hopefully loudly enough for her mother to hear, "Oh no, Bubba, she's not a pirate. She has an owie on her eye and has to wear a Band-aid." It was pretty freakin' funny. I've gotten a lot of mileage out of the story already. I can already tell it will be one that goes into the Bubba hall of fame. We'll be telling this one to his girlfriend at Thanksgiving in 20 years.
Odd things have been happening lately. Occasionally I've found myself thinking, "I'm happy." Just fleeting moments here and there, but there nonetheless.
Other than last Saturday (which will come later in this post), I've been really handling Bubba very well. Better, even, than SuperDad, I think. I have actually been more patient with him than his father (at times). This has never really happened before. I've been coming up with "creative solutions" to Bubba issues that have actually helped (at times). For instance--and these sound like small things but to me they are some pretty major accomplishments--when Bubba wouldn't try his cream cheese and toast because he was wary of the cream cheese, I explained that it was "just like frosting." And he ate it, and liked it as I knew he would. I also managed to get half a grilled cheese sandwich down his gullet by using little cookie cutters and making his sandwich into a star and two hearts. When he had a meltdown because he couldn't take his Thomas train to daycare, I suggested he pick out a Thomas sticker and wear it to school on his shirt instead, and he was totally excited about it.
Best of all, last week I started using a motivational tool that just came to me like a bolt of lightning, although it sounds pretty obvious. Instead of trying to demand that he do things, like "Come over and get your shoes on, please" (I had to put the please in there because even when he's driving me nuts I'm usually pretty good about phrasing things politely--even if it comes out between my clenched teeth), I started saying "Can you show me what a good listener you are and come over and put your shoes on?" And his little face lit up and he did it, I praised the hell out of him, and the trick actually worked several times.
I'm actually having moments where I feel like I'm a good mother! As my therapist said last week when I told her about all this, let's take a moment to just realize what an accomplishment this is and feel good about myself.
Before you start gagging on the saccharin, here's the slimy underbelly of the week. A coworker (I've blogged about her before--formerly The Breastfeeder, now The Bragger, "Nigel's" mom) had told me there was a special storytime/movie/dogs for petting/crafts event for toddlers and preschoolers at the public library on Saturday morning. Since J. was working and Bubba and I were on our own, I thought hey, let's just do it. I'll do a fun, enriching activity with my child."
Saturday began promisingly. I had Bubba bathed by 9 a.m. and had managed to get some laundry and housework done without totally ignoring him. He was happy, and I figured the event would pump him up enough that he'd be able to push through for a half an hour past his naptime at 11:30 a.m. (at daycare he doesn't go down until noon and sometimes not until 2 p.m. or so at home, so I figured we were safe).
We got to the library on time, Bubba managed to wait in line for the room to open (I played Simon Says with him--another creative mother moment! Yeah, I was rockin' it.) We settled down, saw a couple people we knew, then the movie started and Bubba was rapt. A little more restless during the story, and then practically jumping out of his diaper to get to pet the dogs, but still well within the realm of decent behavior. Things started getting a little dicey toward the end so we skipped the craft stuff and went out to get our coats on. There we ran into Nigel and his mom, who asked if we'd like to go to the noodle place a couple blocks down for lunch. Great, I thought--Bubba and I will get some mac and cheese and he'll be all set for naptime.
As I stuffed my resistant toddler into his parka, Nigel stood in perfect obedience after his mother asked (one time, mind you), in her 'I'm teaching my child how to enunciate clearly' voice, "Can you stand like a statue and not move a muscle?" While she walked and alternatively carried her tiny toddler to the noodle place, I chased my hefty little guy until he refused to walk at all and then hauled his 35-pound body through subzero temperature, feeling every step in my lower back.
At the noodle place, Nigel sat down in front of his disposable placement and the supplementary cup of milk and peach his mother had brought, while my guy begged for a piece of Nigel's cookie and then ate it from the table sans protection (not a problem for me, but probably disgusting to Nigel's mummy). Then he decided he was done. He jumped off the chair and ran down the full length of the long hallway down to the bathroom area. I caught up with him and, still in the "I can handle this/patient-mother mode," I calmly brought him back to the table and resumed trying to bribe him into eating a single noodle, only to be met with "More cookie mease, more cookie mease, COOKIE MEASE!!! MEEEEEASE!!!!" until I just gave in and gave him the damn cookie, which he snarfed down at record pace.
Then, he jumped up again and took off down the hallway. At this point I told him he'd have to sit in a high chair if he couldn't sit at the table and he agreed, so I hauled him in one arm and the clunky wooden high chair in the other down the hallway to our table, removed his chair and finally got him settled in it.
I ate two bites of my macaroni before he began climbing out of the chair, getting his leg stuck with his knee up by his face, twisting and turning and whining. Meanwhile, Nigel is quietly enjoying his tortellini soup and watching my child as if he's a baboon at the zoo. Which he kinda was, really.
Finally it's time to go so I put Bubba down, put his coat on, then turn to grab mine and he takes off running. In spite of my attempts to navigate the crowded restaurant--not especially easy when you weigh 240 pounds--he is gone. This has never happened before. The panic stopped my heart just one second before Nigel's mom yelled to me that Bubba was over at our table again. He'd circled the room, dodging out of site behind a partial wall for part of the journey.
As soon as we left the restaurant, Bubba put his arms up and did the "uh, uh" that of course means "carry me." I tried to explain that I couldn't carry him, that he was too heavy, but of course ended up hefting him anyway. Then he started whining about something, I don't remember what it was exactly, but he kept it up until halfway back to the car when I put him down, physically unable to carry him one step further. I tried to explained that I was too tired, that he had to walk like a big boy. He crumpled to the ground and started wailing. I set him back up on his feet, at which point he dashed away from me and ran down an alley.
Here's where I really lost it. I did the arm-jerk. The horrifying arm-jerk that we've all seen in WalMart and that we've all sworn we'd never do. I jerked the arm, knelt down in front of him and in my sternest, most serious, mother-slightly-on-the-edge-and-one-step-from-insanity voice said "YOU DO NOT RUN AWAY FROM ME!" I grabbed his hand and basically dragged him back down the sidewalk. All the while, he is screaming "NO NO NO NO NO!" I finally picked him up but the screaming continued. I can't believe nobody stopped me to ask if I was kidnapping him; in fact, it's a little disturbing that nobody did.
Then I couldn't find the car, so we carried on this way through two different floors of the parking ramp. The entire morning got put into perspective when, after starting the ignition, I looked into the backseat and he was asleep already. Poor little guy, right?
I'd gotten him into his bed and almost out of his coat before he woke up, and then nothing but "Thomas train movie" would pacify him. In a cruel twist of fate, J. was half an hour late coming home from work. He bounced in the door, cheerily asking "How was the library?"
"It was a horrible nightmare!" I responded.
"Why?"
"Because our kid is an uncontrollable brat!" I said.
"What happened?"
"I don't even want to talk about it. I'm going to take a nap, take a shower, and leave." [I was going to LilCherie's for Girl's Night that evening.]
And that's exactly what I did. Thank god my hubby is willing and able to pick up the duty at times like this because I was fucking burned out.
My other bad motherhood moment for the week? It's short and sweet, unlike the story above. I was heading out to the porch to have a smoke and I had my cigarette and lighter in hand. J. was on Bubba duty but apparently was going to the bathroom or had gone into the other room for something. Bubba comes running up to me and wants to go out on the porch too. I tell him it's too cold, and then he grabs my cigarette out of my hand, runs away, and says "MINE!" Yep, that just warms the heart, doesn't it? Really makes you feel like you're setting a good example.
Obviously, it would be nice if I'd quit, but since that probably won't happen, I refuse to hide it. My mother hid it from us kids but we all knew from the billows of smoke that poured out of the bathroom and the occasional butt floating in the toilet. When I was younger I always felt uncomfortable about it because it was just something none of us ever talked about; we all just instinctively knew it was supposed to be a secret, and of course that's weird. As I got older, my friends would ask me why it smelled like smoke in our house and I always felt I had to cover for her and just pretend like I had no idea, and the whole thing was completely embarrassing. As a teenager I moved into occasionally sneaking one from the towel drawer. So my smoking habit, as disgusting and bad-exampley as it is, will not be a secret from Bubba for those reasons. I can only hope that he'll grow up to be one of those militant "my parents smoked so I hate it with a passion" kind of people (like Tingle).
To leave you on a high note, however, there was one shining moment of hilarity in the whole library debacle. In between movie and storytime, Bubba and I were sitting face-to-face on the carpet when all of a sudden he said "Arrrrr! Pirate!" and crooked his finger at me. He was a pirate for Halloween and you know how sometimes they just regurgitate this stuff with no obvious prompt, so I just did the "Uh huh," and kept looking around for people I knew to see what their kids looked like. With more urgency this time, Bubba said "Ma! Pirate! Arrrr!" and pointed to the area behind me. I looked behind me and saw a little girl, no more than a year older than Bubba, who had a cheery little blue and yellow, cartoon-laden eye patch on. I was simultaneously mortified and filled with the strong desire to laugh out loud. I contained myself, however, and explained, hopefully loudly enough for her mother to hear, "Oh no, Bubba, she's not a pirate. She has an owie on her eye and has to wear a Band-aid." It was pretty freakin' funny. I've gotten a lot of mileage out of the story already. I can already tell it will be one that goes into the Bubba hall of fame. We'll be telling this one to his girlfriend at Thanksgiving in 20 years.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Possible Titles for This Post: My Psychotic Child; Not So Happy Things; or Why Don't They Make Tranquilizers for Toddlers?
The Scene
It's Tuesday night at the Casa de Depressionista, oh 'round 7 p.m. The happy family is engaged in fun but quiet activites like playing with the train and reading books. The three of us are happily snuggled on the bed in my room, reading Everyone Poops and Dinosaur Roar.
7:20 p.m.: Bubba is starting to show the signs of sleepiness. The decision is made that it's time for bed. J. and Bubba go to lay down in J.'s room, which is where Bubba's been sleeping of late.
8 p.m.: J. makes the last of his trips to the living room to get the puppy, the car, the train, the red train, and the kitty that Bubba "needs" in order to go to sleep.
8:05 p.m.: J. gets serious, turns out the light, and says "Bubba, it is time to go to bed!"
8:06 p.m.: "Bubba, lay down, it is time to go to sleep!"
8:07 p.m.: "It is nigh-night time!"
8:08 to 8:20 p.m..: "If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away. If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away. If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away..."
8:20 p.m.: Train is taken away. "TRAIN.....RED TRAIN...WAAHHH!"
8:30 p.m.: "Do you want to rock? Okay, let's rock." J. and Bubba move back into Bubba's room where they rock in a futile attempt to lull Bubba to sleep.
8:32 p.m.: Bubba wrestles out of J.'s arms and makes a break for it to the living room, plants himself on the couch and announces "I wanna wah car movie." "Bubba, no more TV. It's time for bed," I say, and J. repeats it.
8:33 p.m. to 8:45 p.m.: Bubba is taken back to bed, crying, "I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!!! I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!! I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!!"
8:45 p.m.: I hear J. in the bedroom: "Bubba, this is ridiculous. IT IS TIME TO GO TO SLEEP."
8:46 p.m.: "Fine. If you want to cry, then you'll have to cry by yourself. I'm going out to the living room."
8:47 p.m.: A beleaguered J. trudges to the living room. "Do you want me to try?" I ask. J. nods yes, admitting defeat. I go to the bedroom, take all the toys away except for Blankie, lay Bubba down and say sternly, "It is time to lay down and go to sleep."
8:49 p.m to 8:51 p.m.: Bubba has crawled to the bottom of the bed, threatening to fall off head first. I pull him back and hold him in my arms against his will, trying to get him to settle down. This pushes him over the edge from bratty to hysterical. I take Bubba into his room and tell him he's sleeping there. He refuses to go to bed and keeps running for the door. Finally, I leave the room, close the door, and hold it shut so Bubba can't get out. He screams hysterically, you know what I mean--the jagged breathing, the coughing, the high-pitched rhythmic screams that sound like he's being tortured. He tries to open the door handle and then knocks on the door. I can't handle it and cave, opening up the door.
8:51 p.m.: I pick Bubba up, hold him, and go over to the rocking chair, trying to speak to him softly, trying to calm him down. He screams louder and thrashes out of my arms. "FINE! I GIVE UP! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!" I yell at Bubba, marching out to the kitchen while Bubba follows me wailing "DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY." J. comes up from doing laundry and I tell him, "I cannot handle this. This just makes me too angry." I go to the couch and sit crying tears of anger. Yes, anger, at my two-year-old.
8:53 to 9:05 p.m.: J. takes Bubba to Bubba's room, plants him in his bed, and tells him he is sleeping there and that's it. Bubba wails and thrashes and runs around the room, refusing to stay in bed.
9:06 p.m. to 9:20 p.m.: J. closes the door to Bubba's room and holds it shut from the outside. Bubba wails, tries the door, knocks on the door, coughs, calls for his Daddy about 106 times.
9:20 p.m.: Silence. A mere two hours after we began the bedtime routine.
9:20 to 10 p.m.: J. and I discuss the utter ridiculousness of what we've just gone through. We both agree that it's time to lay down the law as far as bedtime is concerned. I said, "If he's going to scream and cry for two hours before we "lock" him into his room, why don't we skip the two hours of torture and just put him straight in there and hold the door shut?" J. agrees. We have essentially agreed to imprison our child in his room until he falls asleep.
Last Night
We put the plan into action. Bubba wails and cries for five minutes and then goes to sleep. However, he wakes up an hour later, crying "Daddy's bed! Daddy's bed!" and J. has to rock him to get him to go back to sleep. The report this morning from J. is that Bubba was up four times through the night wanting to come into his bed, but J. didn't allow it. I know that was a major accomplishment for J.
You know, I thought once we got past the up every two hours to feed thing when he was a month old that things would progressively get better. I thought that by now we'd have a kid who marched into his room when we said "Bedtime!" and went to sleep easily, snuggling his stuffed animal and dreaming of whatever toddlers dream about. Now, this naivete ripped so unceremoniously from me, I honestly believe that we will never have an easy bedtime with Bubba until....well....never. I imagine that he will resist bedtime until he is a teenager and then he'll be out with his friends until all hours of the night and we'll still be laying there awake, worrying and hoping he's okay.
We will not have an easy, restful night until 2022 at the earliest.
You know the funniest part of this whole thing? On Tuesday night, J. actually asked me, with some seriousness, "So...I guess another child is out of the question?"
And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.
It's Tuesday night at the Casa de Depressionista, oh 'round 7 p.m. The happy family is engaged in fun but quiet activites like playing with the train and reading books. The three of us are happily snuggled on the bed in my room, reading Everyone Poops and Dinosaur Roar.
7:20 p.m.: Bubba is starting to show the signs of sleepiness. The decision is made that it's time for bed. J. and Bubba go to lay down in J.'s room, which is where Bubba's been sleeping of late.
8 p.m.: J. makes the last of his trips to the living room to get the puppy, the car, the train, the red train, and the kitty that Bubba "needs" in order to go to sleep.
8:05 p.m.: J. gets serious, turns out the light, and says "Bubba, it is time to go to bed!"
8:06 p.m.: "Bubba, lay down, it is time to go to sleep!"
8:07 p.m.: "It is nigh-night time!"
8:08 to 8:20 p.m..: "If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away. If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away. If you don't lay down quietly, I'm going to take the train away..."
8:20 p.m.: Train is taken away. "TRAIN.....RED TRAIN...WAAHHH!"
8:30 p.m.: "Do you want to rock? Okay, let's rock." J. and Bubba move back into Bubba's room where they rock in a futile attempt to lull Bubba to sleep.
8:32 p.m.: Bubba wrestles out of J.'s arms and makes a break for it to the living room, plants himself on the couch and announces "I wanna wah car movie." "Bubba, no more TV. It's time for bed," I say, and J. repeats it.
8:33 p.m. to 8:45 p.m.: Bubba is taken back to bed, crying, "I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!!! I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!! I WANNA WAH CAR MOVIE!!!"
8:45 p.m.: I hear J. in the bedroom: "Bubba, this is ridiculous. IT IS TIME TO GO TO SLEEP."
8:46 p.m.: "Fine. If you want to cry, then you'll have to cry by yourself. I'm going out to the living room."
8:47 p.m.: A beleaguered J. trudges to the living room. "Do you want me to try?" I ask. J. nods yes, admitting defeat. I go to the bedroom, take all the toys away except for Blankie, lay Bubba down and say sternly, "It is time to lay down and go to sleep."
8:49 p.m to 8:51 p.m.: Bubba has crawled to the bottom of the bed, threatening to fall off head first. I pull him back and hold him in my arms against his will, trying to get him to settle down. This pushes him over the edge from bratty to hysterical. I take Bubba into his room and tell him he's sleeping there. He refuses to go to bed and keeps running for the door. Finally, I leave the room, close the door, and hold it shut so Bubba can't get out. He screams hysterically, you know what I mean--the jagged breathing, the coughing, the high-pitched rhythmic screams that sound like he's being tortured. He tries to open the door handle and then knocks on the door. I can't handle it and cave, opening up the door.
8:51 p.m.: I pick Bubba up, hold him, and go over to the rocking chair, trying to speak to him softly, trying to calm him down. He screams louder and thrashes out of my arms. "FINE! I GIVE UP! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!" I yell at Bubba, marching out to the kitchen while Bubba follows me wailing "DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY." J. comes up from doing laundry and I tell him, "I cannot handle this. This just makes me too angry." I go to the couch and sit crying tears of anger. Yes, anger, at my two-year-old.
8:53 to 9:05 p.m.: J. takes Bubba to Bubba's room, plants him in his bed, and tells him he is sleeping there and that's it. Bubba wails and thrashes and runs around the room, refusing to stay in bed.
9:06 p.m. to 9:20 p.m.: J. closes the door to Bubba's room and holds it shut from the outside. Bubba wails, tries the door, knocks on the door, coughs, calls for his Daddy about 106 times.
9:20 p.m.: Silence. A mere two hours after we began the bedtime routine.
9:20 to 10 p.m.: J. and I discuss the utter ridiculousness of what we've just gone through. We both agree that it's time to lay down the law as far as bedtime is concerned. I said, "If he's going to scream and cry for two hours before we "lock" him into his room, why don't we skip the two hours of torture and just put him straight in there and hold the door shut?" J. agrees. We have essentially agreed to imprison our child in his room until he falls asleep.
Last Night
We put the plan into action. Bubba wails and cries for five minutes and then goes to sleep. However, he wakes up an hour later, crying "Daddy's bed! Daddy's bed!" and J. has to rock him to get him to go back to sleep. The report this morning from J. is that Bubba was up four times through the night wanting to come into his bed, but J. didn't allow it. I know that was a major accomplishment for J.
You know, I thought once we got past the up every two hours to feed thing when he was a month old that things would progressively get better. I thought that by now we'd have a kid who marched into his room when we said "Bedtime!" and went to sleep easily, snuggling his stuffed animal and dreaming of whatever toddlers dream about. Now, this naivete ripped so unceremoniously from me, I honestly believe that we will never have an easy bedtime with Bubba until....well....never. I imagine that he will resist bedtime until he is a teenager and then he'll be out with his friends until all hours of the night and we'll still be laying there awake, worrying and hoping he's okay.
We will not have an easy, restful night until 2022 at the earliest.
You know the funniest part of this whole thing? On Tuesday night, J. actually asked me, with some seriousness, "So...I guess another child is out of the question?"
And then I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Confessions
I have a long list of blogs that I look at quite frequently and others where I just pop in from time to time. All are by women, and most of them are women who have faced tragedy and/or exceptional challenges — women who have lost babies or children, have or have had cancer, have children with special needs. I go to these blogs to lend support if I can, to remind myself of what I've been through or what I could be going through, to learn about what other people are faced with.
Today I went to a blog of someone I don't quite know how to categorize: she and I worked at our college newspaper together for a year and chatted but weren't what I would call friends; later she ended up working for the same institution I do, doing the same thing but in a different, "sister" office. So every once in awhile we would have work interactions but not frequently.
In October 2004, she gave birth to a son at 24 weeks gestation due to preeclampsia. He lived for almost three months before finally succumbing to an infection. Today, they have another son who is almost a year old. She has a blog for him, too, and they look so incredibly happy.
I went back to the posts she and her husband put up shortly before and after their son's death. I thought about the memorial service I attended for him, and how I had pledged to her and to myself that I would be there for her--that I would check on her and see how she was doing. I called her a few times, and sent her a few emails, but that was about it. I don't know why I didn't do more. I wish I had. At the time, Bubba was four months old. I had what I thought was postpartum depression but now I wonder. I wonder because I often still feel the same way I did then, and Bubba is well over two years old now. I felt awkward because I had a new baby and she'd lost hers; I worried that Bubba would cry when I was on the phone with her and she'd hear it; I thought it might be more hurt than help to talk to someone who was "through it" already while she was just starting. And maybe all those things are true; I'll likely never know.
Reading her posts from almost two years ago brought back all the anguish I felt when I lost Hope. It feels like dark, heavy, stifling blanket of grief coming down on top of me all over again--but I do it because I need to remember. She feels so far away from me now.
This year I forgot to hang her little hat on the Christmas tree. I bought the present that we donate every year in her memory at the very last possible minute. Earlier this year, I moved her box with all of her little things in it from "the baby room," which had become Bubba's room, to my own room. Each month, each year, seems more removed from that time of my life. I barely remember being pregnant with her, and some details from my pregnancy with her and my pregnancy with Bubba blend together and I can't quite remember what happened when. I can hardly remember holding her, and my only real memory of her face is now found only in photographs.
The grief, the searing, horrific grief and pain of losing her remains easy to access if not express. I won't and can't break down at any moment thinking about it, but I can feel it, deep in the pit of my stomach, the ache of emptiness, the ache of too much quiet, the physical need to hold her and the knowledge that I never would again.
I have regrets that haunt me. I have moved beyond the thoughts of "if only I'd gone to the hospital sooner" and forgiven myself for those kinds of regrets because I know I did the very best I possibly could with the information I had. But I regret not having a memorial service. I regret not having an obituary. I regret not calling in my entire family to see and hold her. I regret not taking more photos, not holding her longer. I regret not doing something, anything, beyond what I did to hold the hospital accountable. I understand now why a lawsuit probably would have caused more pain than vindication and probably would have been unsuccessful anyway; but why didn't I go back and see the bitch who is the head of the ob/gyn department and demand that she listen to me and answer my questions? Why didn't I write that letter to the CEO of the hospital? Why didn't I try to do something to make sure other people got better care, to make sure other people's babies might live while my daughter died?
Next June it will be four years since Hope was born and died. If I'd kept her in my uterus for just one and a half more weeks, she might be here now, and I'd have a three-year-old. When I had Bubba, my cervix started dilating at 3o weeks, with the cerclage still in. Once it fell out, I dilated to 8 cm and stayed that way for a week, and could probably have stayed that way a few days longer had I accepted the terbutaline shots they wanted to give me (I refused because I felt sure my baby was safer outside of me than in). What if I had refused to be induced with Hope? What if I had laid there still and waited for whatever outcome there might be? Why didn't I refuse it and insist, insist, that they give me some tocolytics to stop the contractions I started having? Why didn't they insist on that before chalking me and my baby up as a lost cause?
There are days when I feel that Hope's birth and death--her life--have enriched my life and taught me important lessons. There are other days, like today, when I feel that there was no greater purpose, no greater meaning. She was my baby and my baby alone, and she died, and it was tragic and painful, and I'm the only one who experienced the full force of that pain. It didn't make my subsequent pregnancy "a miracle" -- it made it heartwrenchingly frightening. It didn't make me a better mother -- it made me a bitter mother.
Last night I almost smacked my son. After a long and trying evening of Bubba's "challenging" behavior and my short-temper, we were trying to put him to bed, and the evening battle began. He completely overreacted and resisted every action involved in going to bed--putting the book away, rocking, laying down in the dark. He finally went into hysterics when I took away the dinosaur book that was distracting him from going to sleep. It was beyond my capabilities to deal with it. I would have left him in his room to cry but he wouldn't stay there, and we have no way to keep him in unless we lock the door, which I refuse to do. I yelled at him, ragefully. Then I left the room and told J. to take over, literally grabbing handfuls of my hair and holding my head in my hands. I sat on the couch and cried as J. calmed Bubba down, Mr. Patient Parent, SuperDad to the rescue again.
The fact is, Bubba wouldn't have let me hold him and comfort him. I've read things about how for the first year, a baby's whole world is his mother--but that wasn't the case for Bubba, because to a large degree, I didn't want to have anything to do with him. And last night, I didn't want to have anything to do with him, and the feeling was mutual. "Why on earth did we do this?" I asked J., and not in one of those exasperated-but-bemused ways but as a serious question. I could not think of one good reason to have a child. I still really can't, to tell you the truth.
Before J. took Bubba back into the bedroom, he said, "Go give your mama a hug and tell her you love her." And Bubba came over, hugged me, said "Luh you" and laid his head on my leg. And I couldn't even bring myself to say I love you back. I patted his head and sent him on his way with a goodnight.
I am a shitty mother. The universe was trying to tell me that when it showed me that I could not naturally conceive a child, when it took Hope away from me, when it proved to me that I could not naturally carry a child. I should have listened, but I was too busy trying, trying, trying to have a child. So focused on it that I never really thought about what it might be like. So sure that it would never happen for me that the only thoughts I was capable of were thoughts of envy and bitterness toward everyone who had managed to pop one out. I never got any further than that. I never got beyond the "having a baby" part to the "raising a child" part.
If it wasn't for the time in which I live, I would have had no choice but to listen to those signs from the universe. I don't understand why we were given Bubba and other people, like Tingle and her husband, who really would be good parents, still struggle.
I love the ghost of a child who will never be here, who will never require discipline, diaper changes, or effort of any sort, and I dread the work and pain and worry and frustration involved in raising my living child. How much more ungrateful can a person be? It frightens me to think about this, to admit this, because it's almost like an invitation to the universe to steal Bubba from me like it did Hope. And yet, I could hardly blame it if it did. Bubba doesn't deserve to have me as a mother--and I don't deserve to have a child.
Today I went to a blog of someone I don't quite know how to categorize: she and I worked at our college newspaper together for a year and chatted but weren't what I would call friends; later she ended up working for the same institution I do, doing the same thing but in a different, "sister" office. So every once in awhile we would have work interactions but not frequently.
In October 2004, she gave birth to a son at 24 weeks gestation due to preeclampsia. He lived for almost three months before finally succumbing to an infection. Today, they have another son who is almost a year old. She has a blog for him, too, and they look so incredibly happy.
I went back to the posts she and her husband put up shortly before and after their son's death. I thought about the memorial service I attended for him, and how I had pledged to her and to myself that I would be there for her--that I would check on her and see how she was doing. I called her a few times, and sent her a few emails, but that was about it. I don't know why I didn't do more. I wish I had. At the time, Bubba was four months old. I had what I thought was postpartum depression but now I wonder. I wonder because I often still feel the same way I did then, and Bubba is well over two years old now. I felt awkward because I had a new baby and she'd lost hers; I worried that Bubba would cry when I was on the phone with her and she'd hear it; I thought it might be more hurt than help to talk to someone who was "through it" already while she was just starting. And maybe all those things are true; I'll likely never know.
Reading her posts from almost two years ago brought back all the anguish I felt when I lost Hope. It feels like dark, heavy, stifling blanket of grief coming down on top of me all over again--but I do it because I need to remember. She feels so far away from me now.
This year I forgot to hang her little hat on the Christmas tree. I bought the present that we donate every year in her memory at the very last possible minute. Earlier this year, I moved her box with all of her little things in it from "the baby room," which had become Bubba's room, to my own room. Each month, each year, seems more removed from that time of my life. I barely remember being pregnant with her, and some details from my pregnancy with her and my pregnancy with Bubba blend together and I can't quite remember what happened when. I can hardly remember holding her, and my only real memory of her face is now found only in photographs.
The grief, the searing, horrific grief and pain of losing her remains easy to access if not express. I won't and can't break down at any moment thinking about it, but I can feel it, deep in the pit of my stomach, the ache of emptiness, the ache of too much quiet, the physical need to hold her and the knowledge that I never would again.
I have regrets that haunt me. I have moved beyond the thoughts of "if only I'd gone to the hospital sooner" and forgiven myself for those kinds of regrets because I know I did the very best I possibly could with the information I had. But I regret not having a memorial service. I regret not having an obituary. I regret not calling in my entire family to see and hold her. I regret not taking more photos, not holding her longer. I regret not doing something, anything, beyond what I did to hold the hospital accountable. I understand now why a lawsuit probably would have caused more pain than vindication and probably would have been unsuccessful anyway; but why didn't I go back and see the bitch who is the head of the ob/gyn department and demand that she listen to me and answer my questions? Why didn't I write that letter to the CEO of the hospital? Why didn't I try to do something to make sure other people got better care, to make sure other people's babies might live while my daughter died?
Next June it will be four years since Hope was born and died. If I'd kept her in my uterus for just one and a half more weeks, she might be here now, and I'd have a three-year-old. When I had Bubba, my cervix started dilating at 3o weeks, with the cerclage still in. Once it fell out, I dilated to 8 cm and stayed that way for a week, and could probably have stayed that way a few days longer had I accepted the terbutaline shots they wanted to give me (I refused because I felt sure my baby was safer outside of me than in). What if I had refused to be induced with Hope? What if I had laid there still and waited for whatever outcome there might be? Why didn't I refuse it and insist, insist, that they give me some tocolytics to stop the contractions I started having? Why didn't they insist on that before chalking me and my baby up as a lost cause?
There are days when I feel that Hope's birth and death--her life--have enriched my life and taught me important lessons. There are other days, like today, when I feel that there was no greater purpose, no greater meaning. She was my baby and my baby alone, and she died, and it was tragic and painful, and I'm the only one who experienced the full force of that pain. It didn't make my subsequent pregnancy "a miracle" -- it made it heartwrenchingly frightening. It didn't make me a better mother -- it made me a bitter mother.
Last night I almost smacked my son. After a long and trying evening of Bubba's "challenging" behavior and my short-temper, we were trying to put him to bed, and the evening battle began. He completely overreacted and resisted every action involved in going to bed--putting the book away, rocking, laying down in the dark. He finally went into hysterics when I took away the dinosaur book that was distracting him from going to sleep. It was beyond my capabilities to deal with it. I would have left him in his room to cry but he wouldn't stay there, and we have no way to keep him in unless we lock the door, which I refuse to do. I yelled at him, ragefully. Then I left the room and told J. to take over, literally grabbing handfuls of my hair and holding my head in my hands. I sat on the couch and cried as J. calmed Bubba down, Mr. Patient Parent, SuperDad to the rescue again.
The fact is, Bubba wouldn't have let me hold him and comfort him. I've read things about how for the first year, a baby's whole world is his mother--but that wasn't the case for Bubba, because to a large degree, I didn't want to have anything to do with him. And last night, I didn't want to have anything to do with him, and the feeling was mutual. "Why on earth did we do this?" I asked J., and not in one of those exasperated-but-bemused ways but as a serious question. I could not think of one good reason to have a child. I still really can't, to tell you the truth.
Before J. took Bubba back into the bedroom, he said, "Go give your mama a hug and tell her you love her." And Bubba came over, hugged me, said "Luh you" and laid his head on my leg. And I couldn't even bring myself to say I love you back. I patted his head and sent him on his way with a goodnight.
I am a shitty mother. The universe was trying to tell me that when it showed me that I could not naturally conceive a child, when it took Hope away from me, when it proved to me that I could not naturally carry a child. I should have listened, but I was too busy trying, trying, trying to have a child. So focused on it that I never really thought about what it might be like. So sure that it would never happen for me that the only thoughts I was capable of were thoughts of envy and bitterness toward everyone who had managed to pop one out. I never got any further than that. I never got beyond the "having a baby" part to the "raising a child" part.
If it wasn't for the time in which I live, I would have had no choice but to listen to those signs from the universe. I don't understand why we were given Bubba and other people, like Tingle and her husband, who really would be good parents, still struggle.
I love the ghost of a child who will never be here, who will never require discipline, diaper changes, or effort of any sort, and I dread the work and pain and worry and frustration involved in raising my living child. How much more ungrateful can a person be? It frightens me to think about this, to admit this, because it's almost like an invitation to the universe to steal Bubba from me like it did Hope. And yet, I could hardly blame it if it did. Bubba doesn't deserve to have me as a mother--and I don't deserve to have a child.
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