This morning I saw a post on Facebook about a guy I used to date; his wife wrote that they are expecting triplets. I was stunned-- largely because I can't imagine ANYONE having three babies at once-- but also because it's weird to think of him as a dad.
I don't mean any slight against this guy. We dated in 2008, during a summer and fall that were among the most frivolous seasons of my life. Looking back, we had little in common besides summer rental houses in Newport. He was a generous, kind, gentlemanly type when we were alone, and a partying, immature man-boy when with his friends. Once out for dinner, as I talked of how I liked the book Catch Me If You Can better than its film counterpart, he said with both astonishment and disdain: "You read? Who reads?" Um, have you forgotten the part about how I am an English teacher? A week later we were broken up, and I know he was just as bored with me as I was with him.
Still, after our break- up phone conversation, I was a little sad. We'd had a lot of fun together, and I'd gotten used to talking to him every day at exactly 5:30 when he would call on his way home from work. He was funny, and he listened. And we had a physical attraction and connection. When I thought about it, I knew I'd never see him again despite that age- old break- up promise to "stay friends." He continued to drunk- text and Facebook chat me with booty calls (NONE to which I obliged, thank you very much). There was some satisfaction in knowing he was still thinking of me, but I knew why; hence, I never went to see him. I ran into him at a PF Chang's once a few weeks later, and he was sweet. I remember knowing I didn't want to go back to dating this guy at all-- he was all wrong for me-- but there was something about this boy. And probably, I just missed the companionship.
About three months later, a friend told me that this guy had a serious girlfriend. I was upset. "How could HE end up with someone while I've found nobody? And how could he go from sending me those inappropriate texts to falling in LOVE with someone?!"
I got over these feelings soon enough. Fast- forward several years and we are still friends on Facebook. I've gone through my list and unfriended almost every guy I went out with in the past. I don't need these now- random men, to whom I have not even a tenuous friendly connection, seeing pics of my children, or any other aspect of my life. But this guy still seemed harmless, and I felt I'd shared more with him than with some of the others. Plus, I somewhat enjoyed seeing his updates. There is something fascinating about his being a husband and dad-- and I'm sure he is good on both counts. He came from a nice family, and he really did want to settle down with the right person. But it's hard to reconcile that this silly and childish lush is now about to be a dad of four.
It got me thinking about how we consider people from our pasts-- however insignificant or significant they may be. This guy I have been describing, for all the descriptions I gave, really is rather insignificant in terms of the chapters of my life. Yet, he spurred me to think more about this whole "break- up and break- all- off" concept.
I still think of.. was it Mack that I called my ex- husband in another post? Think so. I don't think of him daily, but I think of him. And I have, yup, I will confess it, searched him in Google and on Facebook. I can never find much, but a few basic searches have opened up a bit about his current life.
I know he is a dad to three. I truly am happy for him. I know he always wanted a family. I think he must be a pretty good father-- I can only assume he's very involved in his kids' lives. I start to shudder when I think of how controlling he also probably is, but I bet he cares lots for his kids.
I have no idea what his kids look like, or what their everyday life is like. I really have no more outlets to Mack's life, as our mutual friend list has dwindled over time. I haven't seen Mack since March of 2008, and haven't spoken to him since that July. Some days, it's incomprehensible to me that someone I spent 8 years with, and 4 years married to, could be a 100- percent stranger to me now. I wonder if I'd know him if I saw him in a crowd.
And so all of these thoughts led me to see that demises to relationships-- be they big or small-- are deaths. I grieved my divorce in terms of the fact that love had dissipated over time, or changed form or whatever. I grieved his moving on to a new girl really freaking fast. I grieved the loss of a husband, through and through. But I never really thought of how sad it was that Mack would ultimately end up "dead" to me. I don't mean that in a Mafia way, but more just that he is in no way involved in my life in any form.
And as a woman of 35 who dated through her teen and college years and then again from 28 to 31, I see that there are lots of guys who are dead to me. I know I sound naive because, yes, that's the essence of a break- up--- getting to say, 'I don't want to see you anymore." But it's weird. You let people in, share tons about yourself, experience all these things that become memories, and then eventually you never see them again. What a crazy phenomenon.
As time passes, the same thing happens with friends, coworkers, and even just the people you have little everyday encounters with, such as the dental hygienist. You talk lots and let people in, and then they're gone. One of my "best friends" from high school is now nothing more than a Facebook acquaintance, for no reason other than the fact we lost touch, she lives far away, and we don't seem to have much in common. No fight. No blow- out. No break- up. No divorce. Time just.... happened.
The same sadness comes over me when I think of former students. By this point, I have taught thousands of kids. I like to think each year, "There is no way I will ever forget any of these kids." But I do. Of course I do. The human memory is not capable of more. And even with the ones I remember, I know I won't see them again. These kids who spent ten months in my room, sharing insights, working hard, and laughing at jokes, and even sometimes crying to me or sharing life's difficulties--- most of them I will never see again.
All I can make of this realization is that life is about the people whom we come in contact with, and each time, it must be for a reason. Some people teach us little things, and some, even when they don't know it, play much larger roles. Even a silly fling that lasted 4 months could end up showing you a lot about your needs and emotional well- being. A long relationship or friendship could have played a role of support for you for many years-- and then maybe they go help someone elsewhere. Maybe neither of you needs the other anymore, and there wasn't enough in common to begin with in order to keep the friendship going.
I have people in my life whom I could not imagine EVER straying from or leaving behind. EVER. And there must be some kind of tight indescribable bond that ropes us together. It's a good thing, because we need them there when the other ones come and go. It's hard sometimes for me not to be bitter after friendships fade or people leave, but it's a damn good thing there are those who will always stick around. And when a relationship ends that you never thought would, you get to find out who the ones are that really care-- and they will, thankfully, remind you over and over.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Name
On Facebook, as with many social media outlets, you choose how you want your profile to look to others. You pick a photo, and you decide what info about yourself is to be displayed-- including your name. One might think the name is the most basic of profile elements, and I always thought it was too. When I got married to J, though, I started to think more about what's in a name.
After our wedding, a couple weeks went by and one of my girlfriends commented on a picture of mine that it was "time for the name change!" I hadn't even really thought about the change in terms of Facebook. I'd always known that I would be happy to have J's name once we were married-- it's a great name-- and I like that it's his, and our family's, and I want to have the same name as my kids. I had already started thinking about the paperwork I needed to do with Social Security and the like to change my name officially-- I just hadn't thought about it on Facebook.
J and I chatted about the whole name thing one night, and he said he wanted me to do what I preferred-- that he would love for me to take his name but if I felt strongly about keeping my maiden one, he understood. I told him that while I can be feministic in many ways, not having changed my name on Facebook or at school was in no way a "women's rights" move. I just hadn't felt comfortable switching my name at work well into the school year, and with Facebook, well, it just hadn't crossed my mind. Since I had joined FB in 2008, I'd always had one name-- my maiden name-- and that's all I knew.
But I really was (and am) proud of my new name; I hopped on Facebook and went to change "Brown" to "Thayer" (yup-- pseudonyms). I liked very much looking at my first name with Thayer. But it seemed natural to post my name as "Brown Thayer." There was just no question that I would leave the maiden name with the new one.
Most of my married friends-- all but just a couple-- have their maiden names with their married names on Facebook. I think the most common reason is that people are often searching for/ coming across folks they grew up with or haven't seen in 20 years. Those people wouldn't know you by your married name. When I thought about why I insisted on keeping Brown, that common reason was one of mine. But I knew that wasn't the whole picture.
After my divorce in 2008, I had to reinvent myself. I had been with my ex since I was 21. I was his girlfriend, then his fiancee, and then I was his wife. I never took his name-- not through the government nor at work-- though I had taken it in a couple places (voter's list for the town, a couple credit cards, the phone book). I hated his name. It was one of those names that make middle- school kids (and let's face it, adults) chuckle. It had a word in it that is a nickname for testicles. As a high school teacher in her twenties, there was no way I was being Mrs. You- Know- What. Just no way. And truth be told, I was embarrassed of the name in general life too. He and I had many a squabble over this issue. He didn't see anything wrong with the name, and I tried not to hurt his feelings but I loathed it.
Looking back, the distaste for the name was symbolic or maybe symptomatic of grander issues in the relationship. If I'd been happy with him, I would have been able to grin and bear the name for the sake of our family. Instead, I agonized over teasing our future kids would endure, and wondered about ways I could possibly alter or edit the name. These worries were all in the time frame when I was miserable in the marriage, feeling trapped by our ill- suitedness for each other.
So there I was at 28 and a half years old, starting over, and of course I was happy I was still "Brown" and didn't need to revert. No major changes needed. But even though I had always still been Brown on most papers, I was now Brown in heart and soul. I was on my own-- nobody to provide for me, nobody to talk about a future with me, nobody to want to start a family with me. I was okay with this. And I grew to be independent-- and to think about how I might always be Brown. There might be no Mr. and no family. I didn't like that prospect but had to make peace with it.
When J and I fell in love and got married, I couldn't have been prouder to be his wife. But there was this nagging from the city- livin' independent lady saying, "Don't give up who you are! You are still YOU! A Brown!" For the past 12 years, I'd been Ms. Brown at work. I'd bought the Brown family crest when I was in Ireland. I had my bills and letters delivered to all my apartments as Brown. I was proud to have my parents' name. A piece of me didn't want to let go.
My real name is longer than Brown, and my married name is a lot longer than Thayer. It probably looks somewhat ridiculous on Facebook for me to have such a long name. But I won't take the Brown out. I love being a Thayer-- and now am one officially in every way, shape, and form. On my Social Security card, on my license, on bank accounts and ATM cards, at work (still getting used to my students calling me Mrs. Thayer), and on mailings. I love my newish name. I love being a Mrs. I love having the same name as J and my kids. My heart is completely into Thayer-- but I think that forever--- whether it's from what I went through during and post- divorce or whatever else--- my soul will always be Brown.
Most of the students I had last year or the year before, whom I still see in the hallways, call me Brown. They don't know of the change or don't care to get used to it since they don't see me daily. Yet, there is something so endearing and comfortable when I hear, "Hey, Ms. Brown!" in the corridor. I never correct them. Maybe my secret joy in hearing my old name means I haven't fully adjusted to the new one yet, or maybe it means I enjoy thinking about my "old self" as I hope she hasn't totally disappeared.
After our wedding, a couple weeks went by and one of my girlfriends commented on a picture of mine that it was "time for the name change!" I hadn't even really thought about the change in terms of Facebook. I'd always known that I would be happy to have J's name once we were married-- it's a great name-- and I like that it's his, and our family's, and I want to have the same name as my kids. I had already started thinking about the paperwork I needed to do with Social Security and the like to change my name officially-- I just hadn't thought about it on Facebook.
J and I chatted about the whole name thing one night, and he said he wanted me to do what I preferred-- that he would love for me to take his name but if I felt strongly about keeping my maiden one, he understood. I told him that while I can be feministic in many ways, not having changed my name on Facebook or at school was in no way a "women's rights" move. I just hadn't felt comfortable switching my name at work well into the school year, and with Facebook, well, it just hadn't crossed my mind. Since I had joined FB in 2008, I'd always had one name-- my maiden name-- and that's all I knew.
But I really was (and am) proud of my new name; I hopped on Facebook and went to change "Brown" to "Thayer" (yup-- pseudonyms). I liked very much looking at my first name with Thayer. But it seemed natural to post my name as "Brown Thayer." There was just no question that I would leave the maiden name with the new one.
Most of my married friends-- all but just a couple-- have their maiden names with their married names on Facebook. I think the most common reason is that people are often searching for/ coming across folks they grew up with or haven't seen in 20 years. Those people wouldn't know you by your married name. When I thought about why I insisted on keeping Brown, that common reason was one of mine. But I knew that wasn't the whole picture.
After my divorce in 2008, I had to reinvent myself. I had been with my ex since I was 21. I was his girlfriend, then his fiancee, and then I was his wife. I never took his name-- not through the government nor at work-- though I had taken it in a couple places (voter's list for the town, a couple credit cards, the phone book). I hated his name. It was one of those names that make middle- school kids (and let's face it, adults) chuckle. It had a word in it that is a nickname for testicles. As a high school teacher in her twenties, there was no way I was being Mrs. You- Know- What. Just no way. And truth be told, I was embarrassed of the name in general life too. He and I had many a squabble over this issue. He didn't see anything wrong with the name, and I tried not to hurt his feelings but I loathed it.
Looking back, the distaste for the name was symbolic or maybe symptomatic of grander issues in the relationship. If I'd been happy with him, I would have been able to grin and bear the name for the sake of our family. Instead, I agonized over teasing our future kids would endure, and wondered about ways I could possibly alter or edit the name. These worries were all in the time frame when I was miserable in the marriage, feeling trapped by our ill- suitedness for each other.
So there I was at 28 and a half years old, starting over, and of course I was happy I was still "Brown" and didn't need to revert. No major changes needed. But even though I had always still been Brown on most papers, I was now Brown in heart and soul. I was on my own-- nobody to provide for me, nobody to talk about a future with me, nobody to want to start a family with me. I was okay with this. And I grew to be independent-- and to think about how I might always be Brown. There might be no Mr. and no family. I didn't like that prospect but had to make peace with it.
When J and I fell in love and got married, I couldn't have been prouder to be his wife. But there was this nagging from the city- livin' independent lady saying, "Don't give up who you are! You are still YOU! A Brown!" For the past 12 years, I'd been Ms. Brown at work. I'd bought the Brown family crest when I was in Ireland. I had my bills and letters delivered to all my apartments as Brown. I was proud to have my parents' name. A piece of me didn't want to let go.
My real name is longer than Brown, and my married name is a lot longer than Thayer. It probably looks somewhat ridiculous on Facebook for me to have such a long name. But I won't take the Brown out. I love being a Thayer-- and now am one officially in every way, shape, and form. On my Social Security card, on my license, on bank accounts and ATM cards, at work (still getting used to my students calling me Mrs. Thayer), and on mailings. I love my newish name. I love being a Mrs. I love having the same name as J and my kids. My heart is completely into Thayer-- but I think that forever--- whether it's from what I went through during and post- divorce or whatever else--- my soul will always be Brown.
Most of the students I had last year or the year before, whom I still see in the hallways, call me Brown. They don't know of the change or don't care to get used to it since they don't see me daily. Yet, there is something so endearing and comfortable when I hear, "Hey, Ms. Brown!" in the corridor. I never correct them. Maybe my secret joy in hearing my old name means I haven't fully adjusted to the new one yet, or maybe it means I enjoy thinking about my "old self" as I hope she hasn't totally disappeared.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
On The Eve of Change
I should definitely be asleep right now. It's 11pm on the night before I rise early and head back to the job that I've had for 14 years now. Back to school is always bitter- sweet come late August, but it's not usual painful. It's not usually making me sob like a baby into my comforter while I try to use the silly Kardashians as a distraction, and my sweet family sleeps. It's not usually something that terrifies me. And it's definitely never been something that has made me incredibly sad.
Tomorrow I will go to work for the first time in seven months, and as I revealed in a previous entry, I never thought I would wrangle so much with the idea of leaving SAHM- hood. I have shocked myself with how much I have loved being home with my babies. I want to make time stand still.
Since I can't do that, and I also can't stay up all night crying (though I may have zero control over that), I thought blogging would help. Rather than feel terrible, I thought I'd try to practice an "attitude of gratitude." And so, I wish to compose a thank you letter to my maternity leave-- my messy, stressful, life- altering, beautiful seven months with my children.
Dear Leave:
Thank you for sessions of sitting in bed together on rainy days, watching Caillou and Dora and Sesame and deciding that it was okay to go until noon in our jammies. Thank you for bananas and strawberries and "wice cakes" and "seeral with milk." For Dottie's first bites of mangos. For Mabel's obsession with chocolate ice cream, and her drippy chin, and the many clothes she ruined with desserts, even though I pissed and moaned about the stains. Thank you for the jubilation she found in eating that ice cream as messily as she wanted, at Dairy Queen while we talked about the different cars whizzing by, or at Black Cow when Mabel took so much pride in picking our table. Or at Spruce Pond when we all sat on the bench and let the refulgent summer sun hit our faces.
Thank you for giving me the need and then the courage to seek two Mom's Groups, and for the wonderful women I met. For Mabel's delight in playing with Kai and Cece and Julie and Lily and Avery, and for getting so tuckered out she nearly fell asleep in the car on the way home each time. Thank you for letting me see how stay- at- home- moms do it, and for letting me appreciate their work and plight. How great it was to know new people and drive around in one mom's parents' farm tractor, while Mabel lit up and couldn't stop remarking about how "MANY TREES THERE ARE!" Thank you for getting me to my first indoor kids' playspace and making me see they're not so bad, and that if your kids are having a blast, you'll hang out just about anywhere.
And then there were our zoo trips-- to Capron and Southwick. I have never seen a more perfect sight than Mabel's excitement over feeding animals. Thank you for giving us sunshine. And thank you for bringing us to playgrounds and letting Mabel discover monkey bars and Dottie light up swinging for the very first time. Thank you for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, BIGGER! Make the pushes BIGGER!" What a brave and fun-loving little girl she is-- slides, swings, poles, ladders, ropes--- she explored it all.
Thank you for the changing interactions between Dottie and Mabel-- from Mabel's being unsure of how to act around a teeny baby, to understanding it at a level I never thought possible. Nothing compares to seeing them bond as sisters. Thank you for Dottie's gorgeous smile when her sister approaches, and for the change to a big, ecstatic laugh, just because Mabel is there. Thank you for letting me watch Dottie simply stare in awe at Mabel. And thank you for showing me how Mabel "reads to" her sister, and talks to her on the phone (Hull-oh? Oh, hi! What ya doin'?), and says her name with the sweetest accent. Thank you for the way when Mabel wakes up and groggily rubs her eyes, the first thing she does is ask where Dottie is. And thank you for the way Mabel comforts Dottie when she cries; Ryan Huston sings, "Only you know me like the winter knows the rain, and only you know just how to make it all okay." This is Mabel and Dottie.
Thank you for silly bath tub splashes and tickle tortures, and funny chalk drawings. And for chasing and racing, and making Mabel think Dottie was going to get up and start walking to "geeeet her!" Thank you for dance parties to Party Hits, like "Return of the Mack," while Dottie jumped non- stop in her jumper and Mabel did the Shoulder Shimmy and Happy Feet. Thank you, even, for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, DON'T dance!" or "DON'T sing!" because she wanted the spotlight.
Thank you for cooking together, and letting Mabel organize the silverware after dishwasher runs. And for Dottie's quiet contentedness in her Bumbo chair. Thank you for both kids' excited squeals when J got home from work, as we told him excitedly what was for dinner.
And while there were some challenging moments, thank you for the tough times too. Thank you for giving me perspective, and for making me see that even after a temper tantrum, all I wanted to do was hold Mabel or Dottie. Thank you for giving me sympathy and empathy for other mothers in those hard moments, and for not losing my marbles when Mabel wouldn't leave the Providence Children's Museum or whined over and over about wanting to watch TV in the car. And for somehow not flipping out when Mabel colored walls with crayons.
Though I never valued them at the time, thank you for the extremely anxious post- partum days in Jan and Feb, for riding around with Dottie in the back seat and listening to "Magic" and crying my eyes out over how perfect she was. For the days I got to spend with just Dottie while T cared for Mabel. For the hours I spent, total, peering into Dottie's eyes as she ate or just played in my lap or smiled up at me and pulled my hair or scratched at my nose.
No matter where I am, work or home, nothing will ever change how much I love you both. I will only love you more each day. You, with your father, are my greatest gifts. I am blessed to have spent these months with you in our home or at play, near and far-- the three of us. Our conversations. Our time at the lake in Hopkinton. Our outdoor breakfasts. Our walks in the double- stroller. Our car rides to Target and Marshall's and Jamie's house. Our time chilling in Mabel's tent. Our trials and tribulations with tricycles and ride- on cars. Our snuggles while reading Pinkalicious and Little Hoot and Polar Bear, Polar Bear and Does a Kangaroo Have a Mommy Too? Each day you get up, Mabel and Dottie, you have no idea how you make everything in my life better. And while I am thanking my leave-- the time I got with you-- it was the two of you who made the months into the most precious time of my life.
I hope you can learn through me about how women can work in any career they want, and also be moms. They can find fulfillment at work and at home. They can dread going to work tomorrow yet know in some deep cavern of their hearts that going back is actually right, and will be okay. They know they would do anything to provide in the best way possible for their kids. I love you both... How much? As we always say, "This much? Nope. Thiiiiis much? Nope. INFINITY amount. That means no limit, no end. I love you that much."
Tomorrow I will go to work for the first time in seven months, and as I revealed in a previous entry, I never thought I would wrangle so much with the idea of leaving SAHM- hood. I have shocked myself with how much I have loved being home with my babies. I want to make time stand still.
Since I can't do that, and I also can't stay up all night crying (though I may have zero control over that), I thought blogging would help. Rather than feel terrible, I thought I'd try to practice an "attitude of gratitude." And so, I wish to compose a thank you letter to my maternity leave-- my messy, stressful, life- altering, beautiful seven months with my children.
Dear Leave:
Thank you for sessions of sitting in bed together on rainy days, watching Caillou and Dora and Sesame and deciding that it was okay to go until noon in our jammies. Thank you for bananas and strawberries and "wice cakes" and "seeral with milk." For Dottie's first bites of mangos. For Mabel's obsession with chocolate ice cream, and her drippy chin, and the many clothes she ruined with desserts, even though I pissed and moaned about the stains. Thank you for the jubilation she found in eating that ice cream as messily as she wanted, at Dairy Queen while we talked about the different cars whizzing by, or at Black Cow when Mabel took so much pride in picking our table. Or at Spruce Pond when we all sat on the bench and let the refulgent summer sun hit our faces.
Thank you for giving me the need and then the courage to seek two Mom's Groups, and for the wonderful women I met. For Mabel's delight in playing with Kai and Cece and Julie and Lily and Avery, and for getting so tuckered out she nearly fell asleep in the car on the way home each time. Thank you for letting me see how stay- at- home- moms do it, and for letting me appreciate their work and plight. How great it was to know new people and drive around in one mom's parents' farm tractor, while Mabel lit up and couldn't stop remarking about how "MANY TREES THERE ARE!" Thank you for getting me to my first indoor kids' playspace and making me see they're not so bad, and that if your kids are having a blast, you'll hang out just about anywhere.
And then there were our zoo trips-- to Capron and Southwick. I have never seen a more perfect sight than Mabel's excitement over feeding animals. Thank you for giving us sunshine. And thank you for bringing us to playgrounds and letting Mabel discover monkey bars and Dottie light up swinging for the very first time. Thank you for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, BIGGER! Make the pushes BIGGER!" What a brave and fun-loving little girl she is-- slides, swings, poles, ladders, ropes--- she explored it all.
Thank you for the changing interactions between Dottie and Mabel-- from Mabel's being unsure of how to act around a teeny baby, to understanding it at a level I never thought possible. Nothing compares to seeing them bond as sisters. Thank you for Dottie's gorgeous smile when her sister approaches, and for the change to a big, ecstatic laugh, just because Mabel is there. Thank you for letting me watch Dottie simply stare in awe at Mabel. And thank you for showing me how Mabel "reads to" her sister, and talks to her on the phone (Hull-oh? Oh, hi! What ya doin'?), and says her name with the sweetest accent. Thank you for the way when Mabel wakes up and groggily rubs her eyes, the first thing she does is ask where Dottie is. And thank you for the way Mabel comforts Dottie when she cries; Ryan Huston sings, "Only you know me like the winter knows the rain, and only you know just how to make it all okay." This is Mabel and Dottie.
Thank you for silly bath tub splashes and tickle tortures, and funny chalk drawings. And for chasing and racing, and making Mabel think Dottie was going to get up and start walking to "geeeet her!" Thank you for dance parties to Party Hits, like "Return of the Mack," while Dottie jumped non- stop in her jumper and Mabel did the Shoulder Shimmy and Happy Feet. Thank you, even, for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, DON'T dance!" or "DON'T sing!" because she wanted the spotlight.
Thank you for cooking together, and letting Mabel organize the silverware after dishwasher runs. And for Dottie's quiet contentedness in her Bumbo chair. Thank you for both kids' excited squeals when J got home from work, as we told him excitedly what was for dinner.
And while there were some challenging moments, thank you for the tough times too. Thank you for giving me perspective, and for making me see that even after a temper tantrum, all I wanted to do was hold Mabel or Dottie. Thank you for giving me sympathy and empathy for other mothers in those hard moments, and for not losing my marbles when Mabel wouldn't leave the Providence Children's Museum or whined over and over about wanting to watch TV in the car. And for somehow not flipping out when Mabel colored walls with crayons.
Though I never valued them at the time, thank you for the extremely anxious post- partum days in Jan and Feb, for riding around with Dottie in the back seat and listening to "Magic" and crying my eyes out over how perfect she was. For the days I got to spend with just Dottie while T cared for Mabel. For the hours I spent, total, peering into Dottie's eyes as she ate or just played in my lap or smiled up at me and pulled my hair or scratched at my nose.
No matter where I am, work or home, nothing will ever change how much I love you both. I will only love you more each day. You, with your father, are my greatest gifts. I am blessed to have spent these months with you in our home or at play, near and far-- the three of us. Our conversations. Our time at the lake in Hopkinton. Our outdoor breakfasts. Our walks in the double- stroller. Our car rides to Target and Marshall's and Jamie's house. Our time chilling in Mabel's tent. Our trials and tribulations with tricycles and ride- on cars. Our snuggles while reading Pinkalicious and Little Hoot and Polar Bear, Polar Bear and Does a Kangaroo Have a Mommy Too? Each day you get up, Mabel and Dottie, you have no idea how you make everything in my life better. And while I am thanking my leave-- the time I got with you-- it was the two of you who made the months into the most precious time of my life.
I hope you can learn through me about how women can work in any career they want, and also be moms. They can find fulfillment at work and at home. They can dread going to work tomorrow yet know in some deep cavern of their hearts that going back is actually right, and will be okay. They know they would do anything to provide in the best way possible for their kids. I love you both... How much? As we always say, "This much? Nope. Thiiiiis much? Nope. INFINITY amount. That means no limit, no end. I love you that much."
Monday, August 18, 2014
Time in a Foreign Land
I suppose you could say that during the summers, I am a stay- at- home- mom (SAHM). I don't work for those ten weeks, and until this year, the two summers that I have been a mother have meant lots of rewarding alone- time with Mabel. Yet, by the end of August each time, I have been somewhat looking forward to getting us back into the usual routine. I figured I would always feel like that come August.
Dottie was born in January, which meant I started my maternity leave in the winter, and I had seven months off total. I am headed back to work next Monday, and not even an ounce of me is ready or willing.
I am stunned by my own feelings here. I've never felt that I was cut out to be a SAHM, nor that I would want to be one. And I know that deep- down I want to work. But these seven months of existing in the foreign territory of the SAHM have been eye- opening... and even a little appealing.
I keep trying to figure out what's different this time besides the obvious (that I have two kids now instead of one). I think part of my sadness about the SAHM time being over stems from my being able to see my two kids interact a lot as of late. Dottie was not much more than a cute little blob who sat there for a few months, but now she emotes, moves all around, and, most significantly, is in love with her sister.
We've developed quite a few daily rituals over these past months, and I am crestfallen to have to see them go. One is that each morning, Dottie wakes up around 6/ 6:30, and she and I hang in my bed. We "chat" and she drinks her bottle and coos and plays with my face, and rolls around and stretches. After about an hour, the poor thing is tuckered out again and needs a short nap. Somewhere around there is when Mabel gets out of bed and runs into my room, chanting, "Hi, Mommy! I'm awake! I'm not tired! Hi!" She then climbs up into the bed and we watch Caillou until we hear Dottie cry for us. At that point, Mabel insists on going to see her first. She tells me, "Mommy, DON'T come!" and then goes to get her "shtep- shool," and plants it in front of Dottie's bed. That's when I usually creep in and adore what I see.
Mabel sticks her little head down into Dottie's crib and proclaims, "Hi, baby sister!" She then tries to hug her and always asks me, 'Take it out?" I laugh daily that Mabel hasn't mastered those pronouns yet and calls her sister an "it," but I comply and lift Dottie up. I hold her from her underneath area and make it like she's standing in the crib. The two then hug, and Mabel goes absolutely crazy for the whole thing. I can't imagine that anything else could make her as happy as she is when Dottie is awake, which for weeks she called "abake." And the feeling appears mutual; Dottie never smiles so openly and exuberantly as she does when Mabel is around. The moment Mabel walks into any room, Dottie stares and smiles like a romantic kid with a crush. If Mabel cries, Dottie cries because she fears Mabel is not okay. It is incredible to me how siblings sense their bond from the literal beginning.
We then do diaper changes and head downstairs for our breakfast. We sit together, as Mabel insists on being near both me and Dottie in a "grown- up" chair while Dottie chills in the high- chair. Over breakfast, we chat and sing and play songs with our drumming hands on the table. At that point, even if I already have a plan for us, I ask Mabel what she wants to do that day. Sometimes it's something I can make happen. Other times, I love to surprise her with news of a playdate or time at the zoo.
I could go on and on and describe our days in this fashion, as there are so many fun rituals we have created. But it doesn't matter much WHAT the rituals are-- it's that we have them, and both M and D (and I!) have gotten used to them and have found comfort in them. I am terrified to have that security blanket leave us.
In my time at home creating these memories, I have also met some permanent SAHMs. I've made many observations and it's been enlightening to hang with people whose lives are so different from mine. More on that to come in a part 2...
Dottie was born in January, which meant I started my maternity leave in the winter, and I had seven months off total. I am headed back to work next Monday, and not even an ounce of me is ready or willing.
I am stunned by my own feelings here. I've never felt that I was cut out to be a SAHM, nor that I would want to be one. And I know that deep- down I want to work. But these seven months of existing in the foreign territory of the SAHM have been eye- opening... and even a little appealing.
I keep trying to figure out what's different this time besides the obvious (that I have two kids now instead of one). I think part of my sadness about the SAHM time being over stems from my being able to see my two kids interact a lot as of late. Dottie was not much more than a cute little blob who sat there for a few months, but now she emotes, moves all around, and, most significantly, is in love with her sister.
We've developed quite a few daily rituals over these past months, and I am crestfallen to have to see them go. One is that each morning, Dottie wakes up around 6/ 6:30, and she and I hang in my bed. We "chat" and she drinks her bottle and coos and plays with my face, and rolls around and stretches. After about an hour, the poor thing is tuckered out again and needs a short nap. Somewhere around there is when Mabel gets out of bed and runs into my room, chanting, "Hi, Mommy! I'm awake! I'm not tired! Hi!" She then climbs up into the bed and we watch Caillou until we hear Dottie cry for us. At that point, Mabel insists on going to see her first. She tells me, "Mommy, DON'T come!" and then goes to get her "shtep- shool," and plants it in front of Dottie's bed. That's when I usually creep in and adore what I see.
Mabel sticks her little head down into Dottie's crib and proclaims, "Hi, baby sister!" She then tries to hug her and always asks me, 'Take it out?" I laugh daily that Mabel hasn't mastered those pronouns yet and calls her sister an "it," but I comply and lift Dottie up. I hold her from her underneath area and make it like she's standing in the crib. The two then hug, and Mabel goes absolutely crazy for the whole thing. I can't imagine that anything else could make her as happy as she is when Dottie is awake, which for weeks she called "abake." And the feeling appears mutual; Dottie never smiles so openly and exuberantly as she does when Mabel is around. The moment Mabel walks into any room, Dottie stares and smiles like a romantic kid with a crush. If Mabel cries, Dottie cries because she fears Mabel is not okay. It is incredible to me how siblings sense their bond from the literal beginning.
We then do diaper changes and head downstairs for our breakfast. We sit together, as Mabel insists on being near both me and Dottie in a "grown- up" chair while Dottie chills in the high- chair. Over breakfast, we chat and sing and play songs with our drumming hands on the table. At that point, even if I already have a plan for us, I ask Mabel what she wants to do that day. Sometimes it's something I can make happen. Other times, I love to surprise her with news of a playdate or time at the zoo.
I could go on and on and describe our days in this fashion, as there are so many fun rituals we have created. But it doesn't matter much WHAT the rituals are-- it's that we have them, and both M and D (and I!) have gotten used to them and have found comfort in them. I am terrified to have that security blanket leave us.
In my time at home creating these memories, I have also met some permanent SAHMs. I've made many observations and it's been enlightening to hang with people whose lives are so different from mine. More on that to come in a part 2...
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Beast of the Breast-- Part 2
I'm back. One kid is playing with a toy in the bouncer chair, and the other is eating a snack while watching Caillou. We will see how this goes...
So, back to the breastfeeding trials...
As I indicated, I really, really wanted to make boob- feeding work this time around. I ordered that pricy pump and said, "I learned a lot the first time. I have to eat and drink a LOT. And I have to pump a lot to get milk. Maybe this baby will just be an easier breastfeeder-- a better latcher-- and maybe I will be better too."
When she arrived, Dottie was of course hungry, as they all are. The nurse had asked me beforehand if I would be formula or breastfeeding, so when Dottie emerged they knew to put her to my breast minutes after. My kind nurse reminded me of the method: wait for the gape, close down, hold. If it hurts, it's wrong; if you feel pressure, it's right. Try the cross- cradle, and if not, the football hold.
In the elation of just having given birth, I was convinced all was good in the land of feeding. Dottie fed from each boob and seemed satisfied. Of course, in those early days, it's the early milk-- the colostrum, or the "liquid gold" that I am apparently supposed to be very grateful my kids both had. Dottie had a good first day and night-- the nurses brought her in to feed, and just as with Mabel, they helped me get her onto breast well. The second night, she seemed very hungry, very often. One of my favorite nurses decided I should pump since I wasn't producing enough to fill her; the theory is that milk begets milk, so pump and feed, pump and feed, and you'll be able to pump and feed.
That nurse came back, though, and told me they were out of pump tubes. "Let's just try to feed her at breast again," she suggested. I was still on cloud nine, and still willing to do whatever. The summary is that we left the hospital with Dottie thriving.
I remember getting to my parents' house after leaving the hospital, as we had to pick up Mabel, and I fed Dottie on their couch for a while. She was clearly sucking, and I don't think making the clicking noise. Good, I thought. This is already going better. My nipple was starting to look like a used lipstick, which I knew it was not supposed to post- feeds, but we were going with it.
A few days later, when Dottie was about a week old, I set up the pump. My boobs were sore-- one of them being scarily full and not diminishing. Lo and behold, the pump helped. And thus began my regiment of "the machine," as Mabel called it. I had my little pumping station set up by the fire place. Mabel would help me with the cups and it became even a little fun. I alternated feeding Dottie at breast and via pumped milk. Her weight looked fine at her first couple appointments, and I met with the lactation consultant at one of them. I told her about the chapped and sore nipples, and the fact that I still wasn't sure whether I was feeling pain or pressure. She recommended that I buy a nipple ointment available only at old- fashioned apothecaries, as Lanolin "would not work" to heal them. Huh? Do we even have an apothecary nearby? I am just gonna have to suck the pain up.
Meanwhile, we were going through some horrible digestion issues with Dottie. Her gas was so bad that she would scream when pushing gas or a poop out. She began pooping so often that she got the worst diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. She was pooping literally every 30 minutes. And when she would feed, she would often writhe in pain, and arch her back to the heavens. The pedi felt she had a case of acid reflux, and that we could wait it out or decide to treat it. The misery of all this, and my hating to see her feel sick, caused us to add formula-- but we had not yet given up on breastfeeding. I kept at the boob and the pump all the while. She was drinking about 60 percent boob milk and 40 percent formula.
And then came the night of the red... I was waking myself to pump in the night, or else my boobs were in such pain that I wanted to cut them off. I also wanted to keep up a good supply. And so, on this one night, I woke at 3 to pump. I was in the dim living room with only the light of the TV to guide me. My left nipple was beyond pained at this point, and the boob became engorged because I was scared to feed from that side. I pumped for a few minutes and could hear the cup filling, but I couldn't see the white of the milk. Hmm, that's curious. I brought the cup to the TV for light, and there it was-- 2 ounces of blood, with a tinge of milk. I nearly vomited. Somehow I was courageous enough to pump the other side; I got straight- up milk there and went to bed for a few.
The next day on the phone, the lactation nurse told me that I SHOULD FEED DOTTIE THE BLOOD TINGED WITH MILK. Nope, you can't make this shiz up. She told me it was healthy, and she would not be harmed. I promptly told this nutbag that I had discarded the blood- milk, and at this point was truly worried about myself and my breasts. She said it sounded like the chappedness of the nipple gave, and that's why it bled. Or, the engorgement may have been to blame, But that in a couple days time, I should be back to bloodless milk. Ho. Ly. Crap.
When I thought of quitting, there was that damned, dogged guilt. I was chock- full of post- partum anxiety again, and the tears just streamed and streamed. In the midst of all this, J was taking two evening classes, leaving me home alone with a toddler and newborn every Monday and Wednesday night. During the day, I had Mabel and Dottie home with me on Tuesdays and Fridays. Utter tiredness was simply kicking in. I was a mess, but I didn't want to give up, despite the reassurances from several friends, and even the pediatrician.
Once again, the pedi supported me in whatever decision I made. She told me, again, that the important thing would be for the baby to thrive, and for me to be a happy and attentive mom. I continued to pump-- feeding was too painful and wasn't yielding much milk. The pumping went on for another week after that point. My original goal was to give Dottie boob milk for two months. I knew, though, that to tend to my family properly, take care of my anxiety and fatigue, and heal my freaking boob, I would need to relent. Dottie would ultimately get boob milk for over a month, but I wouldn't meet my original two- month goal.
When I felt that I was ready to stop, I chatted with two friends who never boob- fed at all, and two friends who had very briefly tried it but had problems and stopped. Their support was overwhelming. And I know all their kids, who are just fine despite the formula- food.
The funny thing is that this time, despite the determination, I felt better about quitting than I did with Mabel. Maybe it was because I knew I had given it all I had. Maybe it was because I knew Dottie's stomach issues were so much better on a sensitive formula. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping a little more. Maybe it was because I didn't feel as depressed and anxious. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that I had to do what I had to do.
Dottie's stomach issues were far from over. We went through four different formulas-- and even tried thickening via cereal. We were very close to going to Prilosec. Around 3 months, her feeding issues improved noticeably, and by 5 months they were all but gone.
And so here I am, being, for the most part, a formula feeder for my two kids. I still go through pangs of guilt and worry. I become nervous that there's some essential what- have- you that they didn't get enough of. I worry that something is wrong with ME that I couldn't get this to work well. But then I stop myself and remind myself that I COULD have kept going. It's not that I was ill- suited for the job, as I have felt from time to time. I am not lacking a mother gene. When I stopped this time around, I was confident. I knew in my heart of hearts I had done what I could, and since Dottie's health is the most important thing to me in all this, I had done what would honor that importance.
More and more, I hear of people who have chosen not to b- feed or have struggled with it. I do think it comes more naturally to some people than others. I 100 -percent believe that some of us suffer with post- partum depression/ anxiety more than others, and this constant feeding business becomes too much. Not to mention, the strain on the body can be catastrophic. Right now, my Dottie is bouncing away in her Exersaucer after having downed a bottle of "poison," as some would have you believe. Hard to believe she's suffering when I hear her squealing for joy and throwing her toys up.
I also don't mean to sound haughty about bottle- feeding, either, though. How to feed your baby is the most personal choice you make when it comes to a newborn. Let people choose and enjoy, Live and let be. I have to tell myself this mantra if the guilt seeps in. The good news is, as opposed to the Mabel days, that dang guilt is rare.
So, back to the breastfeeding trials...
As I indicated, I really, really wanted to make boob- feeding work this time around. I ordered that pricy pump and said, "I learned a lot the first time. I have to eat and drink a LOT. And I have to pump a lot to get milk. Maybe this baby will just be an easier breastfeeder-- a better latcher-- and maybe I will be better too."
When she arrived, Dottie was of course hungry, as they all are. The nurse had asked me beforehand if I would be formula or breastfeeding, so when Dottie emerged they knew to put her to my breast minutes after. My kind nurse reminded me of the method: wait for the gape, close down, hold. If it hurts, it's wrong; if you feel pressure, it's right. Try the cross- cradle, and if not, the football hold.
In the elation of just having given birth, I was convinced all was good in the land of feeding. Dottie fed from each boob and seemed satisfied. Of course, in those early days, it's the early milk-- the colostrum, or the "liquid gold" that I am apparently supposed to be very grateful my kids both had. Dottie had a good first day and night-- the nurses brought her in to feed, and just as with Mabel, they helped me get her onto breast well. The second night, she seemed very hungry, very often. One of my favorite nurses decided I should pump since I wasn't producing enough to fill her; the theory is that milk begets milk, so pump and feed, pump and feed, and you'll be able to pump and feed.
That nurse came back, though, and told me they were out of pump tubes. "Let's just try to feed her at breast again," she suggested. I was still on cloud nine, and still willing to do whatever. The summary is that we left the hospital with Dottie thriving.
I remember getting to my parents' house after leaving the hospital, as we had to pick up Mabel, and I fed Dottie on their couch for a while. She was clearly sucking, and I don't think making the clicking noise. Good, I thought. This is already going better. My nipple was starting to look like a used lipstick, which I knew it was not supposed to post- feeds, but we were going with it.
A few days later, when Dottie was about a week old, I set up the pump. My boobs were sore-- one of them being scarily full and not diminishing. Lo and behold, the pump helped. And thus began my regiment of "the machine," as Mabel called it. I had my little pumping station set up by the fire place. Mabel would help me with the cups and it became even a little fun. I alternated feeding Dottie at breast and via pumped milk. Her weight looked fine at her first couple appointments, and I met with the lactation consultant at one of them. I told her about the chapped and sore nipples, and the fact that I still wasn't sure whether I was feeling pain or pressure. She recommended that I buy a nipple ointment available only at old- fashioned apothecaries, as Lanolin "would not work" to heal them. Huh? Do we even have an apothecary nearby? I am just gonna have to suck the pain up.
Meanwhile, we were going through some horrible digestion issues with Dottie. Her gas was so bad that she would scream when pushing gas or a poop out. She began pooping so often that she got the worst diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. She was pooping literally every 30 minutes. And when she would feed, she would often writhe in pain, and arch her back to the heavens. The pedi felt she had a case of acid reflux, and that we could wait it out or decide to treat it. The misery of all this, and my hating to see her feel sick, caused us to add formula-- but we had not yet given up on breastfeeding. I kept at the boob and the pump all the while. She was drinking about 60 percent boob milk and 40 percent formula.
And then came the night of the red... I was waking myself to pump in the night, or else my boobs were in such pain that I wanted to cut them off. I also wanted to keep up a good supply. And so, on this one night, I woke at 3 to pump. I was in the dim living room with only the light of the TV to guide me. My left nipple was beyond pained at this point, and the boob became engorged because I was scared to feed from that side. I pumped for a few minutes and could hear the cup filling, but I couldn't see the white of the milk. Hmm, that's curious. I brought the cup to the TV for light, and there it was-- 2 ounces of blood, with a tinge of milk. I nearly vomited. Somehow I was courageous enough to pump the other side; I got straight- up milk there and went to bed for a few.
The next day on the phone, the lactation nurse told me that I SHOULD FEED DOTTIE THE BLOOD TINGED WITH MILK. Nope, you can't make this shiz up. She told me it was healthy, and she would not be harmed. I promptly told this nutbag that I had discarded the blood- milk, and at this point was truly worried about myself and my breasts. She said it sounded like the chappedness of the nipple gave, and that's why it bled. Or, the engorgement may have been to blame, But that in a couple days time, I should be back to bloodless milk. Ho. Ly. Crap.
When I thought of quitting, there was that damned, dogged guilt. I was chock- full of post- partum anxiety again, and the tears just streamed and streamed. In the midst of all this, J was taking two evening classes, leaving me home alone with a toddler and newborn every Monday and Wednesday night. During the day, I had Mabel and Dottie home with me on Tuesdays and Fridays. Utter tiredness was simply kicking in. I was a mess, but I didn't want to give up, despite the reassurances from several friends, and even the pediatrician.
Once again, the pedi supported me in whatever decision I made. She told me, again, that the important thing would be for the baby to thrive, and for me to be a happy and attentive mom. I continued to pump-- feeding was too painful and wasn't yielding much milk. The pumping went on for another week after that point. My original goal was to give Dottie boob milk for two months. I knew, though, that to tend to my family properly, take care of my anxiety and fatigue, and heal my freaking boob, I would need to relent. Dottie would ultimately get boob milk for over a month, but I wouldn't meet my original two- month goal.
When I felt that I was ready to stop, I chatted with two friends who never boob- fed at all, and two friends who had very briefly tried it but had problems and stopped. Their support was overwhelming. And I know all their kids, who are just fine despite the formula- food.
The funny thing is that this time, despite the determination, I felt better about quitting than I did with Mabel. Maybe it was because I knew I had given it all I had. Maybe it was because I knew Dottie's stomach issues were so much better on a sensitive formula. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping a little more. Maybe it was because I didn't feel as depressed and anxious. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that I had to do what I had to do.
Dottie's stomach issues were far from over. We went through four different formulas-- and even tried thickening via cereal. We were very close to going to Prilosec. Around 3 months, her feeding issues improved noticeably, and by 5 months they were all but gone.
And so here I am, being, for the most part, a formula feeder for my two kids. I still go through pangs of guilt and worry. I become nervous that there's some essential what- have- you that they didn't get enough of. I worry that something is wrong with ME that I couldn't get this to work well. But then I stop myself and remind myself that I COULD have kept going. It's not that I was ill- suited for the job, as I have felt from time to time. I am not lacking a mother gene. When I stopped this time around, I was confident. I knew in my heart of hearts I had done what I could, and since Dottie's health is the most important thing to me in all this, I had done what would honor that importance.
More and more, I hear of people who have chosen not to b- feed or have struggled with it. I do think it comes more naturally to some people than others. I 100 -percent believe that some of us suffer with post- partum depression/ anxiety more than others, and this constant feeding business becomes too much. Not to mention, the strain on the body can be catastrophic. Right now, my Dottie is bouncing away in her Exersaucer after having downed a bottle of "poison," as some would have you believe. Hard to believe she's suffering when I hear her squealing for joy and throwing her toys up.
I also don't mean to sound haughty about bottle- feeding, either, though. How to feed your baby is the most personal choice you make when it comes to a newborn. Let people choose and enjoy, Live and let be. I have to tell myself this mantra if the guilt seeps in. The good news is, as opposed to the Mabel days, that dang guilt is rare.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
I haven't forgotten...
... about this blog! I think daily about needing to follow up.
The truth is I am finding it hard to make time to sit down at my computer in peace. I have a couple other blogs for stories and photos about the kids, and I feel like I need to make sure I update those for family. This one has taken a backseat, which I hate! But I will be back soon.
The truth is I am finding it hard to make time to sit down at my computer in peace. I have a couple other blogs for stories and photos about the kids, and I feel like I need to make sure I update those for family. This one has taken a backseat, which I hate! But I will be back soon.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Realization #2: There Are Many Trials at the Teat
This is a long one-- so it'll be a two- parter.
There are lots of mom- wars out there--- let your kid cry it out, or tend to him?; use organic baby food, or go for the cheaper stuff?-- but perhaps none has stood the test of the battle as sturdily as the war of breast or bottle feeding.
When I was prego with Mabel, I didn't really know about the war at first. I knew I could boob- feed her, or I could, as my mother did for us, give her a bottle with formula. I did some preliminary research and was scared into submission. All I could gather from the many sites I slogged through was, "You better breastfeed this kid, or you'll eff her up for life." I decided I would therefore try it. But since I was still a little scared, I didn't even buy a pump, wanting to see first if I could or would commit.
In the hospital, the nurses were helpful in getting Mabel to my teat in the proper way. I remember being half- asleep, and they'd wheel her into the room in her little cart and prop her up, getting that perfect latch accomplished for me. She fed on schedule and was well- nourished, though I was having trouble doing the latches myself and was becoming sore. When trouble arose, I just rang that handy bell and in came a nurse who had the know- how. I remember one saying, "If this is too much, consider supplementing. Being a first- timer is really hard." I thought, Okay, but I think I should be able to get this down.
WRONG. Nervous to abandon my support system, I left the hospital terrified of being on my own with these "perfect latches." Mabel would cry and we'd go into the bedroom where I'd try to get her comfy on the Boppy pillow in the cross- cradle position she seemed to like. I'd tickle her mouth with the nipple, as I'd been advised, and look for the BIG gape. I knew I had to, in that millisecond, get her to latch down. Boom, her mouth would close down, and about 50 percent of the time, I'd be thinking, They said it should not be pain, just pressure. Is this pain or pressure? I don't know... Still, she seemed to be enjoying the experience so I would go with it, but most times, Mabel would come off a teat that looked like a dog's chew toy. Not my best work, but I'll get it next time. I was determined indeed.
It was probably about our third or fourth day home and I was obsessing over how much Mabel was getting at each feed. They said I should hear a swallow-- was that a swallow? They said there should not be a clicking-- was that a click, or a swallow? Why is she hungry every 30 minutes? My mom, a new mother of the late 1970s, was tireless in her pursuit of getting me to quit it and "Just fill her poor belly with some formula, for crying out loud!" But that damn guilt. What if she got Rubella because I didn't breastfeed?
And so we kept on. Now my nipples were cracked and sore and one was bloody. I was beginning to dread each feed. I was struggling with post- partum anxiety and had no appetite, so my milk supply was terrible. At this point, I decided I needed a pump. I went out to the baby store and cried the entire 20 minutes in the car-- I guess because I felt I was screwing up royally, and didn't get why all this seemed so easy for everyone else.
I'd sit in our oversized chair with the two milking devices attached to my teats, and it was truly the end of romance when J had to come over and push my boobs downward to get the milk to flow. Sometimes I would get 2 or 3 ounces-- if I was lucky. I tried hydrating more, and even bought Mother's Milk tea... but the situation was status- quo. No pun intended, I sucked at this.
It was a Friday and I was sleep- deprived and completely out of my head with every emotion I could ever feel zig- zagging around when I finally lost my marbles. I recall that my mom was there, and she and J launched a full- on "Give yourself a break" campaign. J said, "How about if we just give her a little formula?" I relented because I was that tired.
My mother bought Similac and fed Mabel a bottle while I slept. And then J fed her some more. All I can remember is that I slept and slept, and J said Mabel did too.
From there, we did combination feeding, but the more we supplemented, the less milk my body could produce. I was down to a few drops per pump or at- breast feeding. Mabel was starving and restless; I wasn't getting anything close to a "perfect latch" with her; I was still chapped and cracked; and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy. Shortly after, the pediatrician told us she needed to gain more weight, and that I looked "haggard and tired." (She was my pedi too, so she can talk to me like that without it being weird.) "The most important thing here is for Mabel to thrive," she reminded me, "and for you to be a present and healthy mom. You decide, but there's no sense in torturing yourself."
I pumped out the last little bits of breast milk I had and called it a day. In the immediate moment, I didn't feel guilt-- just relief. Mabel would gain weight. We would all sleep. My hormones would take a break and I'd feel better. And so it went for a month or so, when I got into some guilt- inducing reading that made me feel terrible about my choice.
In a fit of self- fury, I flew over to the GNC store at the mall up the street and bought more of the tea and two supplements for re- lactation. I was determined to make my boobs fill again. I pumped once an hour, painfully so, but wanted to jump back on the breastfeeding train more than anything, convinced that I had failed Mabel and she was about to develop every disease and allergy under the sun.
You can imagine how this newest endeavor went. And in time, I had to let it go. She was gaining weight beautifully, we were all getting sleep, and J was participating in feedings, which was probably the best part. People told me over and over that I shouldn't feel bad, but the guilt never really went away. And so when I got pregnant again, I swore I'd do better. I bought a 300 dollar pump this time and got myself ready for a whole new b- feeding experience.
To be continued...
There are lots of mom- wars out there--- let your kid cry it out, or tend to him?; use organic baby food, or go for the cheaper stuff?-- but perhaps none has stood the test of the battle as sturdily as the war of breast or bottle feeding.
When I was prego with Mabel, I didn't really know about the war at first. I knew I could boob- feed her, or I could, as my mother did for us, give her a bottle with formula. I did some preliminary research and was scared into submission. All I could gather from the many sites I slogged through was, "You better breastfeed this kid, or you'll eff her up for life." I decided I would therefore try it. But since I was still a little scared, I didn't even buy a pump, wanting to see first if I could or would commit.
In the hospital, the nurses were helpful in getting Mabel to my teat in the proper way. I remember being half- asleep, and they'd wheel her into the room in her little cart and prop her up, getting that perfect latch accomplished for me. She fed on schedule and was well- nourished, though I was having trouble doing the latches myself and was becoming sore. When trouble arose, I just rang that handy bell and in came a nurse who had the know- how. I remember one saying, "If this is too much, consider supplementing. Being a first- timer is really hard." I thought, Okay, but I think I should be able to get this down.
WRONG. Nervous to abandon my support system, I left the hospital terrified of being on my own with these "perfect latches." Mabel would cry and we'd go into the bedroom where I'd try to get her comfy on the Boppy pillow in the cross- cradle position she seemed to like. I'd tickle her mouth with the nipple, as I'd been advised, and look for the BIG gape. I knew I had to, in that millisecond, get her to latch down. Boom, her mouth would close down, and about 50 percent of the time, I'd be thinking, They said it should not be pain, just pressure. Is this pain or pressure? I don't know... Still, she seemed to be enjoying the experience so I would go with it, but most times, Mabel would come off a teat that looked like a dog's chew toy. Not my best work, but I'll get it next time. I was determined indeed.
It was probably about our third or fourth day home and I was obsessing over how much Mabel was getting at each feed. They said I should hear a swallow-- was that a swallow? They said there should not be a clicking-- was that a click, or a swallow? Why is she hungry every 30 minutes? My mom, a new mother of the late 1970s, was tireless in her pursuit of getting me to quit it and "Just fill her poor belly with some formula, for crying out loud!" But that damn guilt. What if she got Rubella because I didn't breastfeed?
And so we kept on. Now my nipples were cracked and sore and one was bloody. I was beginning to dread each feed. I was struggling with post- partum anxiety and had no appetite, so my milk supply was terrible. At this point, I decided I needed a pump. I went out to the baby store and cried the entire 20 minutes in the car-- I guess because I felt I was screwing up royally, and didn't get why all this seemed so easy for everyone else.
I'd sit in our oversized chair with the two milking devices attached to my teats, and it was truly the end of romance when J had to come over and push my boobs downward to get the milk to flow. Sometimes I would get 2 or 3 ounces-- if I was lucky. I tried hydrating more, and even bought Mother's Milk tea... but the situation was status- quo. No pun intended, I sucked at this.
It was a Friday and I was sleep- deprived and completely out of my head with every emotion I could ever feel zig- zagging around when I finally lost my marbles. I recall that my mom was there, and she and J launched a full- on "Give yourself a break" campaign. J said, "How about if we just give her a little formula?" I relented because I was that tired.
My mother bought Similac and fed Mabel a bottle while I slept. And then J fed her some more. All I can remember is that I slept and slept, and J said Mabel did too.
From there, we did combination feeding, but the more we supplemented, the less milk my body could produce. I was down to a few drops per pump or at- breast feeding. Mabel was starving and restless; I wasn't getting anything close to a "perfect latch" with her; I was still chapped and cracked; and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy. Shortly after, the pediatrician told us she needed to gain more weight, and that I looked "haggard and tired." (She was my pedi too, so she can talk to me like that without it being weird.) "The most important thing here is for Mabel to thrive," she reminded me, "and for you to be a present and healthy mom. You decide, but there's no sense in torturing yourself."
I pumped out the last little bits of breast milk I had and called it a day. In the immediate moment, I didn't feel guilt-- just relief. Mabel would gain weight. We would all sleep. My hormones would take a break and I'd feel better. And so it went for a month or so, when I got into some guilt- inducing reading that made me feel terrible about my choice.
In a fit of self- fury, I flew over to the GNC store at the mall up the street and bought more of the tea and two supplements for re- lactation. I was determined to make my boobs fill again. I pumped once an hour, painfully so, but wanted to jump back on the breastfeeding train more than anything, convinced that I had failed Mabel and she was about to develop every disease and allergy under the sun.
You can imagine how this newest endeavor went. And in time, I had to let it go. She was gaining weight beautifully, we were all getting sleep, and J was participating in feedings, which was probably the best part. People told me over and over that I shouldn't feel bad, but the guilt never really went away. And so when I got pregnant again, I swore I'd do better. I bought a 300 dollar pump this time and got myself ready for a whole new b- feeding experience.
To be continued...
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Exciting News for Rookie Mom and "Fans"
I put that word in quotes because I am not silly enough to think there are actual fans of this blog. Yet, my stats page shows that people do read it (still some of you in Cali and in Ireland even-- thank you!). So I thought you might like to know that I will no longer be boring you with snapshots in time of my kids. I have created a separate page for friends and fam to read that stuff, and for me to look back on.
Instead, I will just use this space to keep driveling on about the trials of motherhood, in all their messy glory!
When I started this page, I didn't have a narrowed enough vision for what I needed it to be. I discovered my purpose was two- fold---- write about my kids' doings and trudge through sometimes funny and sometimes deeply difficult shiz in the world of parenthood. Thus, two distinct platforms now.
I have my next newborn series piece coming soon....
Instead, I will just use this space to keep driveling on about the trials of motherhood, in all their messy glory!
When I started this page, I didn't have a narrowed enough vision for what I needed it to be. I discovered my purpose was two- fold---- write about my kids' doings and trudge through sometimes funny and sometimes deeply difficult shiz in the world of parenthood. Thus, two distinct platforms now.
I have my next newborn series piece coming soon....
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Realization #1: Newborns are Scary
When I first started blogging, I vowed that I always keep it real. I am going to write genuinely on the topic of newborns. Someday if Mabel or Dottie sees this, it's okay, because this is what I am feeling in this moment in time. And they should know I love them more than I ever thought possible.
But here's what I came to terms with this time around regarding newborns: they are frightening. And while they are lovable, they are not likeable. In fact, I think it's okay not to feel an amazing connection with your brand new baby straight off.
I remember a couple years ago at work one of my colleagues advised a pregnant teacher, "Newborn days are hard. It's okay not to be totally in love with the baby at first." A Baby- Boomer generation coworker balked, horrified. "That's awful to say!" she remarked. "How can you not love your new child?" My colleague answered, "I didn't say that. I didn't say it was okay not to love them. I said it was okay not to BE IN LOVE with them. There is a difference."
And I concur. In those early weeks, you have on your hands a teeny, needy being, whose only emotional expression is crying. She does not read your eyes or engage with you, let alone smile. She eats, sleeps, and makes you change her diaper (what feels like) every four seconds. Hell, she doesn't even know her own hands are attached. She can't express what is wrong when something is, and she is so, so, so delicate. Every bath is an anxiety- provoking affair in which you aim simply not to drop her. She can't do much, yet demands boat- loads. Having a newborn is, I will go ahead and say it, not that fun.
Let's also not forget that in these "precious" first weeks you are also jazzed up with some pretty intense hormones. You get these crazy- happy adrenaline rushes that quickly morph into periods of depression and fear. You're likely alone in the house, but can't get out to do much because the little one needs to eat so often. You don't want to resort to TV, but every time you open a book, your eyes get heavy due to the incredible fatigue that only a new mother knows. When your partner or spouse gets home, you want to just run out of the house and escape for a while, yet you are too anxious (due to said hormones) to leave the baby for a flipping second. And the next day it all just repeats.
If you're like me, you also are doing your damnedest to give this kid breast milk, though the odds are somewhat stacked against this pursuit. But more on that in a separate entry...
The first few weeks require a number of doctor appointments for baby weight checks. You show up with a pad of paper listing the many questions you came up with after reading too many dire stories online. Is the diaper rash a sign of an awful bacterial infection or virus? What's up with the red marks on her eyes? Or in my case, why is she still jaundiced? It is fading? We can't get a lot of natural sunlight in the house during this gloomy winter.
After some weeks pass, a few of the worries do too. But of course new ones develop. I remember when Mabel was a newborn worrying about "social smiling." All the online "experts" claimed 6 to 8 weeks was the range to see a social (in response to a face) smile. She had been smiling a lot, but we couldn't tell if they were reflexive, gas- induced, or social. Soon it was obvious that Mabel was social- smiling it up-- and had been for a while. "I won't be such a psycho about it next time," I vowed. Man, I suck at keeping those vows I make to myself. Because there I was with Dottie, sick with fear about the same issue. What if she doesn't smile soon? Resume addiction: going online to find out every possible outcome. Then begin worrying that she has a tumor on her optic nerve, which means she can't see me and hence won't smile. But all the while, it was the SAME pattern as with Mabel. Dottie WAS smiling-- I was just too doubtful to believe they were social smiles. And within two days time, she was smiling like mad. And on the earlier side of the range those experts give. Put me in a lonely house in a dark, dismal winter and I will worry about anything I can conjure. Anything at all.
Through all this, J and I had (and still have) a routine going where he would take Dottie til midnight then pass her over to me. Ostensibly, I was supposed to be upstairs sleeping during his shift. But most nights in the early days-- and even some nights now-- I would just lie there frozen in fear. It's a visceral, inexplicable fear you have when it comes to your offspring and something happening to them. The love you feel is so intense that you don't think you can handle it. When you hold them, you are relieved to be able to protect them. But when you are separated from them, you are stifled.
Still, though I was (and of course always will be) loving Dottie more than my body or mind could handle, I wasn't "in love" with the alien creature that demanded so much--- until she started to smile and express herself a bit. Until she could really look into my eyes and I into hers. Until she could sit contentedly for a while and just BE. Until I could start to predict her movements and reactions and needs. Until she really seemed like a baby and not this little frazzled and frenetic and fickle animal. I loved Dottie (and Mabel) from the second she came out into the world and I bawled my eyes out when I saw each of my kids for the first time. But it takes time to be buddies with a newborn. And I think that's ok.
I'm sure some moms handle the early newborn days better than I did. I felt like some days I was flying down the dip of the roller- coaster, waving my hands up in joy and elation. And other days, I was trudging at a snail's pace up the coaster's hill. I made myself shower and get up and do SOMETHING each and every day. But on some days, the littlest obligations were taxing.
I've gone through spurts of feeling bad about my adverse reaction to a child's newborn days. But I know that any discomfort, fear, or itching I felt was due only to the intense love and care I was feeling simultaneously. It's kind of like Spiderman. With power, comes responsibility. Sometimes I feel like, "How did I end up taking on this mothering thing? Holy shiz, is it scary." But the power of the connection I feel with both my girls is worth those lousy, trembling, nearly paralyzing days in the beginning.
Next up in my series will be along the lines of: I suck at breastfeeding. Stay tuned!
But here's what I came to terms with this time around regarding newborns: they are frightening. And while they are lovable, they are not likeable. In fact, I think it's okay not to feel an amazing connection with your brand new baby straight off.
I remember a couple years ago at work one of my colleagues advised a pregnant teacher, "Newborn days are hard. It's okay not to be totally in love with the baby at first." A Baby- Boomer generation coworker balked, horrified. "That's awful to say!" she remarked. "How can you not love your new child?" My colleague answered, "I didn't say that. I didn't say it was okay not to love them. I said it was okay not to BE IN LOVE with them. There is a difference."
And I concur. In those early weeks, you have on your hands a teeny, needy being, whose only emotional expression is crying. She does not read your eyes or engage with you, let alone smile. She eats, sleeps, and makes you change her diaper (what feels like) every four seconds. Hell, she doesn't even know her own hands are attached. She can't express what is wrong when something is, and she is so, so, so delicate. Every bath is an anxiety- provoking affair in which you aim simply not to drop her. She can't do much, yet demands boat- loads. Having a newborn is, I will go ahead and say it, not that fun.
Let's also not forget that in these "precious" first weeks you are also jazzed up with some pretty intense hormones. You get these crazy- happy adrenaline rushes that quickly morph into periods of depression and fear. You're likely alone in the house, but can't get out to do much because the little one needs to eat so often. You don't want to resort to TV, but every time you open a book, your eyes get heavy due to the incredible fatigue that only a new mother knows. When your partner or spouse gets home, you want to just run out of the house and escape for a while, yet you are too anxious (due to said hormones) to leave the baby for a flipping second. And the next day it all just repeats.
If you're like me, you also are doing your damnedest to give this kid breast milk, though the odds are somewhat stacked against this pursuit. But more on that in a separate entry...
The first few weeks require a number of doctor appointments for baby weight checks. You show up with a pad of paper listing the many questions you came up with after reading too many dire stories online. Is the diaper rash a sign of an awful bacterial infection or virus? What's up with the red marks on her eyes? Or in my case, why is she still jaundiced? It is fading? We can't get a lot of natural sunlight in the house during this gloomy winter.
After some weeks pass, a few of the worries do too. But of course new ones develop. I remember when Mabel was a newborn worrying about "social smiling." All the online "experts" claimed 6 to 8 weeks was the range to see a social (in response to a face) smile. She had been smiling a lot, but we couldn't tell if they were reflexive, gas- induced, or social. Soon it was obvious that Mabel was social- smiling it up-- and had been for a while. "I won't be such a psycho about it next time," I vowed. Man, I suck at keeping those vows I make to myself. Because there I was with Dottie, sick with fear about the same issue. What if she doesn't smile soon? Resume addiction: going online to find out every possible outcome. Then begin worrying that she has a tumor on her optic nerve, which means she can't see me and hence won't smile. But all the while, it was the SAME pattern as with Mabel. Dottie WAS smiling-- I was just too doubtful to believe they were social smiles. And within two days time, she was smiling like mad. And on the earlier side of the range those experts give. Put me in a lonely house in a dark, dismal winter and I will worry about anything I can conjure. Anything at all.
Through all this, J and I had (and still have) a routine going where he would take Dottie til midnight then pass her over to me. Ostensibly, I was supposed to be upstairs sleeping during his shift. But most nights in the early days-- and even some nights now-- I would just lie there frozen in fear. It's a visceral, inexplicable fear you have when it comes to your offspring and something happening to them. The love you feel is so intense that you don't think you can handle it. When you hold them, you are relieved to be able to protect them. But when you are separated from them, you are stifled.
Still, though I was (and of course always will be) loving Dottie more than my body or mind could handle, I wasn't "in love" with the alien creature that demanded so much--- until she started to smile and express herself a bit. Until she could really look into my eyes and I into hers. Until she could sit contentedly for a while and just BE. Until I could start to predict her movements and reactions and needs. Until she really seemed like a baby and not this little frazzled and frenetic and fickle animal. I loved Dottie (and Mabel) from the second she came out into the world and I bawled my eyes out when I saw each of my kids for the first time. But it takes time to be buddies with a newborn. And I think that's ok.
I'm sure some moms handle the early newborn days better than I did. I felt like some days I was flying down the dip of the roller- coaster, waving my hands up in joy and elation. And other days, I was trudging at a snail's pace up the coaster's hill. I made myself shower and get up and do SOMETHING each and every day. But on some days, the littlest obligations were taxing.
I've gone through spurts of feeling bad about my adverse reaction to a child's newborn days. But I know that any discomfort, fear, or itching I felt was due only to the intense love and care I was feeling simultaneously. It's kind of like Spiderman. With power, comes responsibility. Sometimes I feel like, "How did I end up taking on this mothering thing? Holy shiz, is it scary." But the power of the connection I feel with both my girls is worth those lousy, trembling, nearly paralyzing days in the beginning.
Next up in my series will be along the lines of: I suck at breastfeeding. Stay tuned!
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Return
I'm back from the great beyond... of childbirth. Guess I've sort of been on a maternity leave from blogging, which I didn't intend to do. But time has been awash. I had another baby nearly 11 weeks ago, and I can't recall much of the blur of the first few of them.
We are thrilled with our new addition, whom I will refer to in this blog as Dottie.
Mabel has taken a liking to Dottie, though it hasn't been as such from the get- go. At first, Mabel needed to assert her presence all the time, probably in fear of losing attention. Even now there are times when Mabel will fake- cry because she sees how we cater to Dottie when she fusses. But mostly, Mabel loves playing helper. She is great at re- inserting dropped pacifiers, throwing dirty diapers away, and rocking Dottie in her bouncer or car seat. We often must remind Mabel of the meaning of "gentle" but she's getting there.
The strangest phenomenon has been how grown- up Mabel now seems-- both physically and otherwise. Not only does she seems to have giantism when I change her diaper, but I often catch myself treating Mabel like an adult. I'll say things like, "Man, Dottie is really using those lungs today. Annoying, huh?" Mabel humors me with a "yes" but probably doesn't get it. I have to remind myself that Mabel is still a baby herself at 25 months old. Funny.
Mabel has been chatting up a storm, with too many words to count, and her favorites to say being "NO!" and "I'll do it!" and "My turn." She doesn't put up with any bull-- that's for sure. But, wow-- that mild- mannered little thing has become quite a stubborn beast at times. We still love her to pieces, but she's making me feel I should go buy some expensive and probably meaningless parenting books for bratty toddlers. The cutest thing she does is soothe Dottie. She will run over and say, "Dottie, no cry, Dottie!" and give her a huge, sweeping hug.
Dottie is pretty laid back and quite smiley, and only cries when she needs something, but she has a set of lungs indeed. In fact, she is using them right now. And since we have to go pick up Mabel, I shall depart.
For my next few entries, I am planning a series of "Things that happen after you give birth" pieces. Hoping to carve out time to really do them justice! It's good to be back.
We are thrilled with our new addition, whom I will refer to in this blog as Dottie.
Mabel has taken a liking to Dottie, though it hasn't been as such from the get- go. At first, Mabel needed to assert her presence all the time, probably in fear of losing attention. Even now there are times when Mabel will fake- cry because she sees how we cater to Dottie when she fusses. But mostly, Mabel loves playing helper. She is great at re- inserting dropped pacifiers, throwing dirty diapers away, and rocking Dottie in her bouncer or car seat. We often must remind Mabel of the meaning of "gentle" but she's getting there.
The strangest phenomenon has been how grown- up Mabel now seems-- both physically and otherwise. Not only does she seems to have giantism when I change her diaper, but I often catch myself treating Mabel like an adult. I'll say things like, "Man, Dottie is really using those lungs today. Annoying, huh?" Mabel humors me with a "yes" but probably doesn't get it. I have to remind myself that Mabel is still a baby herself at 25 months old. Funny.
Mabel has been chatting up a storm, with too many words to count, and her favorites to say being "NO!" and "I'll do it!" and "My turn." She doesn't put up with any bull-- that's for sure. But, wow-- that mild- mannered little thing has become quite a stubborn beast at times. We still love her to pieces, but she's making me feel I should go buy some expensive and probably meaningless parenting books for bratty toddlers. The cutest thing she does is soothe Dottie. She will run over and say, "Dottie, no cry, Dottie!" and give her a huge, sweeping hug.
Dottie is pretty laid back and quite smiley, and only cries when she needs something, but she has a set of lungs indeed. In fact, she is using them right now. And since we have to go pick up Mabel, I shall depart.
For my next few entries, I am planning a series of "Things that happen after you give birth" pieces. Hoping to carve out time to really do them justice! It's good to be back.
Monday, January 13, 2014
RSG
This morning when I went to drop Mabel off at day care there was a swarm of media trucks and vans parked outside a house just about a quarter of a mile from our house, not even. Ugh, I thought, definitely not good. It was still dark out, and the bright news camera lights were blinding. The shock and horror of the lights would be only a glimmer of the grisly and stomach- knotting event that called the lights forth.
As I drove to work, J called me and said he had just heard on the radio that two children had been found unresponsive in that home. They had been immediately sent to area hospitals. Maybe they will survive, I hoped. I was convinced the perpetrator had been carbon monoxide, and as I lamented the terribleness of the news, my brain went something like this: I know we have carbon monoxide detectors. Tonight we need to check them all. I wonder if the testers on them work accurately. I hope so. What if they didn't? I wonder what would be most likely to cause a carbon monoxide leak? I wonder how many people that happens to a year? Is the beeping loud enough? Who would feel the effects and die first in our house? I shuddered and reminded myself I can't make the event about me, and I can't do anything to change the awful news.
By the time I had gotten to work, every media outlet you can imagine had the updated story. The two young kids had gotten trapped and locked, and they likely suffocated. Why does this feel so much worse than carbon monoxide, I wondered. And then my brain went like this: Ugh, I wonder who found them. What does it look like when someone is unresponsive? The poor doctors who are working on them. And the poor parents. How will they ever forgive themselves for not doing something?
By the time the news came around a couple hours later that the kids did not survive, I was nearly throwing up my breakfast. I shed a few private tears-- it was just so incomprehensible, all of it. But at the same time, so possible-- so easy-- so accidental: how many times have other parents let their 10- year- olds play on their own? Probably a lot. And a long time might pass before you check in on them. I remember going outside at that age and trompsing around the neighborhood until dark-- with no supervision at all. These poor parents and siblings and grandparents and classmates and friends and teachers. It's all beyond devastating.
J texted me a few minutes later telling me his stomach was in knots. He asked if we had anything in the house that locks like that. I said no. We both vowed that we would never take our eyes off the kids. What a hefty promise that one makes in the wake of something such as this. You suddenly become obsessive- compulsive nutball parents who won't walk away from your kids ever, ever, ever-- not for a millisecond. It's all reaction to the tragedy. You empathize to a degree you didn't even know you could. You want to reach out and hug these parents whom you've never met, and you want to put your own kid in some kind of safety bubble.
I couldn't stop thinking about how I always do this: I empathize to a level most would probably say is unhealthy. I found this article online (http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201310/the-neuroscience-empathy) about the part of the brain that feels empathy-- it's called the Right Supramarginal Gyrus. It keeps us from being too egocentric and forces us to consider what others are feeling and makes us compassionate. (One theory about sociopaths is that they don't have a fully- developed RSG, but I digress.)
Maybe I have some whacked- out, weird, overdone RSG, or maybe this story hits home more because it literally hit close to home. But I find I do this over- empathy thing a lot. I can't seem to dismiss myself from horrible thoughts nor from placing myself in the other people's proverbial shoes. It feels irresponsible to avoid the media reports because the victims and loved ones don't have the choice to avoid the tragedy. It's like I feel that to be a good human I need to see all the info and soak it in and feel it. But I do all this automatically. It just happens.
Coworkers were all horrified by the news this morning. And maybe they are just good at hiding it, but they seemed to be able to compartmentalize the sad story and go on. I sat stifled for much of the morning-- wondering what the siblings of the kids are doing right now; whether those media vultures would be on the lawn when I drive past today; whether the parents are able to breathe let alone form coherent sentences. How will they ever move on?
I don't think I am special or in ANY way a better person because of my tendency to use that RSG thing so much. I'm sure it's just a hard-wiring thing that goes concomitantly with anxiety. I wish sometimes that I could turn it off, actually. I have a friend who refuses to watch news about ghastly things happening to children-- she just can't go there. I wish I had the will power to turn it all off and say no because it's not as if my empathy can bring anyone back or change the results.
I guess the argument to empathy being a good thing is that it does make us check our smoke alarms and second- guess our parenting. But with fluke things like this one-- what gives? These are the moments that make me feel that the universe is cruel. And those days are so hard to navigate because you start to wonder what it's all for-- and how you can keep fighting the good fight in the midst of horror.
I haven't figured out the use of this kind of distant empathy-- when you don't know the people involved. I will say my heart breaks and aches for these children and their loved ones. For what it's worth to the universe, I am thinking about and feeling for these people. I wish I could put that RSG to good use and change the whole thing.
As I drove to work, J called me and said he had just heard on the radio that two children had been found unresponsive in that home. They had been immediately sent to area hospitals. Maybe they will survive, I hoped. I was convinced the perpetrator had been carbon monoxide, and as I lamented the terribleness of the news, my brain went something like this: I know we have carbon monoxide detectors. Tonight we need to check them all. I wonder if the testers on them work accurately. I hope so. What if they didn't? I wonder what would be most likely to cause a carbon monoxide leak? I wonder how many people that happens to a year? Is the beeping loud enough? Who would feel the effects and die first in our house? I shuddered and reminded myself I can't make the event about me, and I can't do anything to change the awful news.
By the time I had gotten to work, every media outlet you can imagine had the updated story. The two young kids had gotten trapped and locked, and they likely suffocated. Why does this feel so much worse than carbon monoxide, I wondered. And then my brain went like this: Ugh, I wonder who found them. What does it look like when someone is unresponsive? The poor doctors who are working on them. And the poor parents. How will they ever forgive themselves for not doing something?
By the time the news came around a couple hours later that the kids did not survive, I was nearly throwing up my breakfast. I shed a few private tears-- it was just so incomprehensible, all of it. But at the same time, so possible-- so easy-- so accidental: how many times have other parents let their 10- year- olds play on their own? Probably a lot. And a long time might pass before you check in on them. I remember going outside at that age and trompsing around the neighborhood until dark-- with no supervision at all. These poor parents and siblings and grandparents and classmates and friends and teachers. It's all beyond devastating.
J texted me a few minutes later telling me his stomach was in knots. He asked if we had anything in the house that locks like that. I said no. We both vowed that we would never take our eyes off the kids. What a hefty promise that one makes in the wake of something such as this. You suddenly become obsessive- compulsive nutball parents who won't walk away from your kids ever, ever, ever-- not for a millisecond. It's all reaction to the tragedy. You empathize to a degree you didn't even know you could. You want to reach out and hug these parents whom you've never met, and you want to put your own kid in some kind of safety bubble.
I couldn't stop thinking about how I always do this: I empathize to a level most would probably say is unhealthy. I found this article online (http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201310/the-neuroscience-empathy) about the part of the brain that feels empathy-- it's called the Right Supramarginal Gyrus. It keeps us from being too egocentric and forces us to consider what others are feeling and makes us compassionate. (One theory about sociopaths is that they don't have a fully- developed RSG, but I digress.)
Maybe I have some whacked- out, weird, overdone RSG, or maybe this story hits home more because it literally hit close to home. But I find I do this over- empathy thing a lot. I can't seem to dismiss myself from horrible thoughts nor from placing myself in the other people's proverbial shoes. It feels irresponsible to avoid the media reports because the victims and loved ones don't have the choice to avoid the tragedy. It's like I feel that to be a good human I need to see all the info and soak it in and feel it. But I do all this automatically. It just happens.
Coworkers were all horrified by the news this morning. And maybe they are just good at hiding it, but they seemed to be able to compartmentalize the sad story and go on. I sat stifled for much of the morning-- wondering what the siblings of the kids are doing right now; whether those media vultures would be on the lawn when I drive past today; whether the parents are able to breathe let alone form coherent sentences. How will they ever move on?
I don't think I am special or in ANY way a better person because of my tendency to use that RSG thing so much. I'm sure it's just a hard-wiring thing that goes concomitantly with anxiety. I wish sometimes that I could turn it off, actually. I have a friend who refuses to watch news about ghastly things happening to children-- she just can't go there. I wish I had the will power to turn it all off and say no because it's not as if my empathy can bring anyone back or change the results.
I guess the argument to empathy being a good thing is that it does make us check our smoke alarms and second- guess our parenting. But with fluke things like this one-- what gives? These are the moments that make me feel that the universe is cruel. And those days are so hard to navigate because you start to wonder what it's all for-- and how you can keep fighting the good fight in the midst of horror.
I haven't figured out the use of this kind of distant empathy-- when you don't know the people involved. I will say my heart breaks and aches for these children and their loved ones. For what it's worth to the universe, I am thinking about and feeling for these people. I wish I could put that RSG to good use and change the whole thing.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
The Lull
Sorry for the lull. I don't have a good excuse. I keep thinking, yes, I should write. And I choose to grade papers or clean or play with the kid instead.
In short, I am 37 weeks prego and am looking forward to the end. Not in a dismal way-- in fact, the pregnancy has been mostly fine. I just get antsy around this point.
Mabel has FINALLY come around to the baby being in the belly. For a span of months, she would ignore us-- quite purposefully-- when we would mention the baby by showing her the ultrasound pictures, explaining the baby was in my belly, or showing her new items for the baby. She seemed to sense it meant it would be time for her to share attention, and she wasn't a fan. Just about a month ago, she started to actually CARE for the baby: giving willing kisses to said belly and saying "hi" to the bambino. She even tickles or gently gives it a high- 5. Progress indeed! And she will smile now and point and say "BABY!" at that ultrasound picture she used to loathe. Maybe it's just a natural instinct, or she decided to relent. Either way, we will take it.
Mabel is talking more and more now. She's repeating us lots, and has some favorite words. Overall, Mabel enjoys chatting these days. She's always quieter in other people's houses, but around us she is a chatterbox. She knows a few of her letters now-- can pick out the letter M from a stack and sings, "Mmm! Mmm!" and does the same with D and T and B. She can count to three-- though her favorite number is still 2. She always has 2 of anything whenever you ask her how many. At least it will make saying her next age very easy. :)
While Abby Cadabby used to be Mabel's favorite Sesame segment, she whines a little when it comes on now. She has switched to enjoying the "real life" parts of the show more: the ones where other toddlers and babies are showcased, and the ones in which the Sesame cast members interact. Alas, the days of the animated parts are sort of behind her. But she still loves the show-- and on the tired evenings when I need to sit down before J gets home, it's been a boon.
I will write more at another point-- off to clean the crayon marks from the table. She just colored a cupcake drawing but has not yet mastered the "color only on the pages" precept-- at least Crayola are washable.
In short, I am 37 weeks prego and am looking forward to the end. Not in a dismal way-- in fact, the pregnancy has been mostly fine. I just get antsy around this point.
Mabel has FINALLY come around to the baby being in the belly. For a span of months, she would ignore us-- quite purposefully-- when we would mention the baby by showing her the ultrasound pictures, explaining the baby was in my belly, or showing her new items for the baby. She seemed to sense it meant it would be time for her to share attention, and she wasn't a fan. Just about a month ago, she started to actually CARE for the baby: giving willing kisses to said belly and saying "hi" to the bambino. She even tickles or gently gives it a high- 5. Progress indeed! And she will smile now and point and say "BABY!" at that ultrasound picture she used to loathe. Maybe it's just a natural instinct, or she decided to relent. Either way, we will take it.
Mabel is talking more and more now. She's repeating us lots, and has some favorite words. Overall, Mabel enjoys chatting these days. She's always quieter in other people's houses, but around us she is a chatterbox. She knows a few of her letters now-- can pick out the letter M from a stack and sings, "Mmm! Mmm!" and does the same with D and T and B. She can count to three-- though her favorite number is still 2. She always has 2 of anything whenever you ask her how many. At least it will make saying her next age very easy. :)
While Abby Cadabby used to be Mabel's favorite Sesame segment, she whines a little when it comes on now. She has switched to enjoying the "real life" parts of the show more: the ones where other toddlers and babies are showcased, and the ones in which the Sesame cast members interact. Alas, the days of the animated parts are sort of behind her. But she still loves the show-- and on the tired evenings when I need to sit down before J gets home, it's been a boon.
I will write more at another point-- off to clean the crayon marks from the table. She just colored a cupcake drawing but has not yet mastered the "color only on the pages" precept-- at least Crayola are washable.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Lists for Worriers
I am well aware that not everyone in this world is a worrier like I am (ah, the biting envy to be like they!). But sometimes well- intentioned non- worriers like to dole out advice. And as a worrier, I can see the purpose, but the message gets lost. And so I would like to provide this list of things that are completely unhelpful for worriers to hear.
1. Relax.
Huh, you know what? You're right. I should just relax. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. I will go ahead and find that handy off- switch in my brain and turn it. Then I will calm down, and you will be my savior for imploring me to do so.
2. Don't worry about it.
This one isn't all that different from "relax" but it's perhaps a softer blow-- the diet version of "relax" because it's less of a command. But again, okay, I will inform my brain to stop worrying. That ought to do the trick. If only I were as smart as you and could have figured that out before, my life would be so different. Thank you for suggesting I should change my brain.
3. You can't do anything about it, so worrying won't help.
This one intrigues me. It's partly based on rationale, and rational thinking is commonly known as a good thing. It's like one of those proof things in Logic class: since I can't do "a," I shouldn't do "b." But the mind of a worrier is far from rational. We can know something intellectually and still have that knowledge be of no use. Of course I know that worrying won't really change a situation, but, again, I can't turn worry mode off. Plus, you sound so direly negative when you present the fact that I have no control. Throw me a bone here. Let me think I can do something.
4. If X (bad thing) is meant to happen, it's going to. So just don't even think about it.
Well, now there is some real sunshiny thinking if I ever heard any. I get where you're going with this-- let the world go on as it will; stop trying to intervene. The universe has a plan, yadda- yadda. But all you are doing is making me worry more that the universe has a bad plan for me. You're also telling me not to think about something, which shall, consequently, make me dwell.
5. It could be worse.
Yes, the world can always be worse. I know this. An avalanche of cruelty can always hit. But right now I am focused on worrying about this one thing. All other possibilities are irrelevant, and your mentioning them makes me worry about them. Please don't point out the obvious-- that in life, someone always has it worse. No brainer.
6. I totally get why you are so worried.
This one is my favorite because I can see more clearly than with any of the others the truly good intention here: commiseration. The non- worrier wants to let the worrier know that he or she understands and the worrier is not psychotic. But what we hear is, "Yes, there is a very good possibility that horrible thing is going to happen, so your worry makes good sense." It's definitely kind to let someone know he or she is not a lunatic, but when you confirm one's worry, you perpetuate it. I would rather hear someone say, "Dude, you are being a psycho. That bad thing is never going to happen." I can then repeat that to myself as a mantra.
I'm not just going to bitch about the things people say that are wrong. I am going to also offer up some suggestions for perhaps more successful comments when dealing with a chronic worrier.
1. What would help to ease the worry?
Sometimes I myself need to think about this question as I get so very wrapped up in a rumination. Asking me this question may make me slow down and pause and see how I can find a solution. Even if you don't want to, offering a listening ear could make a world of difference. After all, worriers love venting. We need to get it all out there, all 12 tons of garbled, nervous mess.
2. Stats-- if they are good ones
As I have blogged about before, I have a love- hate relationship with the Internet when it comes to worrying. I can find stats that scare me, but if I look hard enough, I can find ones that satiate me. If you can point out to a worrier the scientific unlikelihood of a possibility, it'll probably help. (If the stats go in the other direction-- and only prove how LIKELY the bad event is-- please, please refrain.) A true worrier will still be a little convinced he or she will be in the wee percentage of the victims, but hearing that you've got a better likely outcome DOES help.
3. LOL-- you are being crazy!
Or something light and airy to that effect. It goes in tandem with what I said in number 6 above. Please do make me feel crazy. I trust your opinion, so I may step back and go, "Huh-- maybe I am psycho." I won't be able to fully relent, but I will a bit.
4. Want to get a beer?
Call me a lush if you want, but a good cocktail can do wonders. Unfortunately, this one is not an option if you are pregnant or at work. Well, I guess some people drink at work, but the vast lot of us don't. Never underestimate the power of a table or bar, a bartender, and good conversation. If you want to hear me put something to rest fast, suggest beers, let me vent for like ten minutes, and then casually move the conversation away. Sometimes talking about it over and over is the key-- and you are going to need some alcohol to deal with the listening.
1. Relax.
Huh, you know what? You're right. I should just relax. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. I will go ahead and find that handy off- switch in my brain and turn it. Then I will calm down, and you will be my savior for imploring me to do so.
2. Don't worry about it.
This one isn't all that different from "relax" but it's perhaps a softer blow-- the diet version of "relax" because it's less of a command. But again, okay, I will inform my brain to stop worrying. That ought to do the trick. If only I were as smart as you and could have figured that out before, my life would be so different. Thank you for suggesting I should change my brain.
3. You can't do anything about it, so worrying won't help.
This one intrigues me. It's partly based on rationale, and rational thinking is commonly known as a good thing. It's like one of those proof things in Logic class: since I can't do "a," I shouldn't do "b." But the mind of a worrier is far from rational. We can know something intellectually and still have that knowledge be of no use. Of course I know that worrying won't really change a situation, but, again, I can't turn worry mode off. Plus, you sound so direly negative when you present the fact that I have no control. Throw me a bone here. Let me think I can do something.
4. If X (bad thing) is meant to happen, it's going to. So just don't even think about it.
Well, now there is some real sunshiny thinking if I ever heard any. I get where you're going with this-- let the world go on as it will; stop trying to intervene. The universe has a plan, yadda- yadda. But all you are doing is making me worry more that the universe has a bad plan for me. You're also telling me not to think about something, which shall, consequently, make me dwell.
5. It could be worse.
Yes, the world can always be worse. I know this. An avalanche of cruelty can always hit. But right now I am focused on worrying about this one thing. All other possibilities are irrelevant, and your mentioning them makes me worry about them. Please don't point out the obvious-- that in life, someone always has it worse. No brainer.
6. I totally get why you are so worried.
This one is my favorite because I can see more clearly than with any of the others the truly good intention here: commiseration. The non- worrier wants to let the worrier know that he or she understands and the worrier is not psychotic. But what we hear is, "Yes, there is a very good possibility that horrible thing is going to happen, so your worry makes good sense." It's definitely kind to let someone know he or she is not a lunatic, but when you confirm one's worry, you perpetuate it. I would rather hear someone say, "Dude, you are being a psycho. That bad thing is never going to happen." I can then repeat that to myself as a mantra.
I'm not just going to bitch about the things people say that are wrong. I am going to also offer up some suggestions for perhaps more successful comments when dealing with a chronic worrier.
1. What would help to ease the worry?
Sometimes I myself need to think about this question as I get so very wrapped up in a rumination. Asking me this question may make me slow down and pause and see how I can find a solution. Even if you don't want to, offering a listening ear could make a world of difference. After all, worriers love venting. We need to get it all out there, all 12 tons of garbled, nervous mess.
2. Stats-- if they are good ones
As I have blogged about before, I have a love- hate relationship with the Internet when it comes to worrying. I can find stats that scare me, but if I look hard enough, I can find ones that satiate me. If you can point out to a worrier the scientific unlikelihood of a possibility, it'll probably help. (If the stats go in the other direction-- and only prove how LIKELY the bad event is-- please, please refrain.) A true worrier will still be a little convinced he or she will be in the wee percentage of the victims, but hearing that you've got a better likely outcome DOES help.
3. LOL-- you are being crazy!
Or something light and airy to that effect. It goes in tandem with what I said in number 6 above. Please do make me feel crazy. I trust your opinion, so I may step back and go, "Huh-- maybe I am psycho." I won't be able to fully relent, but I will a bit.
4. Want to get a beer?
Call me a lush if you want, but a good cocktail can do wonders. Unfortunately, this one is not an option if you are pregnant or at work. Well, I guess some people drink at work, but the vast lot of us don't. Never underestimate the power of a table or bar, a bartender, and good conversation. If you want to hear me put something to rest fast, suggest beers, let me vent for like ten minutes, and then casually move the conversation away. Sometimes talking about it over and over is the key-- and you are going to need some alcohol to deal with the listening.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Groups
There is a picture going viral on social media right now. It's of a group of 20- something girls. Three in the front row, recently engaged, are showing off their new rings, and the girls standing around them are pointing to said bling admiringly and cheerfully... except one. One girl is holding a mock- gun to her temple.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
A Snapshot: Words
I realized it's been way too long since I have posted a snapshot of Mabel's doings. Guess I have been waxing philosophical and deep and emo as of late and have forgotten about the everyday joys and silliness of Mabel. Today I want to give a snapshot of Mabel's words.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
Friday, November 22, 2013
The Post I Didn't Know If I Should Write
When my alarm went off today at 5:15, I was abruptly awoken. Some days, especially lately, I am already awake, just lying there dreading the ironically sing- songy tune I have selected from my iPhone to break my slumber. But today I was jolted-- profoundly in the midst of not just sleep, but a vivid dream.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
People Will Be Able To....
Expectation is something with which I have always struggled. I don't mean I don't like meeting expectations; it's more that I hate the idea of "expecting" -- wanting something to happen or not happen, and then being either let down or excited by the results. It's way too frightening. I lived in complete panic for good portions of my pregnancy waiting for results and likelihoods and odds-- and even jubilation after good results never makes me say, 'Well that worrying wasn't that bad.'
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Hints of the Past
Today is one of those blah days when I should be working on 100 things, but I need to write. I don't think I can even touch a few of the topics that have been swirling in my brain, so I am going to write about something totally different: nostalgia.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
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