Disordered Thinking

Wednesday night is what I consider an “off” night. That means, in general, we don’t have a soccer practice, and I don’t have to do baths (obviously, the two are related). Often I dump M in the bath anyway because he manages to get a little dirty and/or by 7:15 I need to occupy him in one place until bedtime.

Plus, California Baby Calming Bath Bubbles.

This past Wednesday night, I cooked All The Things.

While my children played outside for about half an hour, I started slow cooker fried rice, easy peasy dinner pie, and considered also baking a pizza (premade). I fed the kids peas, tofu, and leftover rice. I made a salad. I also put the dishes from the dishwasher away.

I didn’t sit down to eat until 7:30.

This is not how I cook during the week, and the whole time I was doing it, I was wondering WHY I was doing it. But I couldn’t stop. I had to cook, and I had to cook those specific things.

And now I have an appointment on Monday with a psychologist.

So there ya go.

Random Thoughts: The M.I.A. Continued Edition

Do you wonder about your brain? Does that seem solipsistic? Thinking about thinking?

It seems to be what I am doing a lot of lately. The upshot is that I am trying to decide if my brain is “normal”, or if I need to seek some help.

I suppose even asking the question somewhat answers it, no?

I am — I seem to be — having troubles that can be labeled, and therefore, treated. In theory, anyway.

Obsessive thinking — oh, the obsessive thinking. It’s a little embarrassing, the way this manifests itself. Let’s just say that although I haven’t crossed over into celebrity (celebrity? HA!) stalking, it’s been a close thing.
Sexual impulsiveness. (Expression of which is strictly confined to my marriage, so no worries there.)
Focus issues.
Emotionality: short tempered, easily enraged or, conversely, weepy. Maybe this is what the decent into aging looks like from a certain perspective, i.e. hormonally. I don’t know. I’ve never been this age before.

My appetite has dropped, a clear sign of depression. And, people, not to put too fine a point on it, but I cannot afford to lose any weight.

Sleeping is a disaster. I can almost always fall asleep. I’m tired. Staying asleep is another issue entirely.

About once a month, once every six weeks, I crash and burn. I really do. I sit and do as little as possible. I think it’s a combination of exhaustion, depression, and hitting reset. I call it “getting sick”. It usually doesn’t last for more than a day.

I am unable to get things done at home. Really done. My house is an embarrassment. Now, this could very well be a time problem, as in, I don’t have a lot of it. The girls recently started soccer, and that’s two practices a week, and the games pretty much occupy our Saturday mornings. It could be an organization + time problem, as in I’m not organized enough to use the little time I have well. And it could be a focus issue. I did get some things done this weekend, but in a very haphazard manner. I changed all the sheets, and mopped the kitchen floor, I organized our billing and banking. I didn’t cook very much. And the clean laundry is still in baskets.

I am trying to take care of myself, I really am. I make myself eat regularly, and I am a healthful eater. I have been trying to focus on exercise as well, playing with the kids, walking, doing a core workout and an arm workout at least once a week. And of course I am trying to take care of the kids and not lose my patience with them too much.

I’m not sure of next steps. I lean toward talk therapy (it’s helped immensely in the past), but I’m not sure I have time for that. I’m not sure about medication because I think… well, I think what I am going through is normal. As long as I’m not in danger (or a danger), I just think I have to get through this… roller coaster.

Soccer is finite.
The work project that has me locked down is finite.
Summer is coming, and summer means the nanny, and less housework for me. (She’s a slave driver. I love her.)
I have time scheduled for myself (a spa day, a vacation at the beginning of May).
Dan and I are communicating fairly well.

I guess the question that remains is that after these external factors have reached their ends, what the internal landscape looks like.

And go from there.

Incidentally, this blog is standing in for talk therapy at this time, so if you feel the need to weigh in, please do so. Be gentle. I haven’t engaged well here lately. Maybe I need to get back to that as well.

And Another Thing

(This is a continuation of my replies to @mindymin from yesterday’s post. I think she makes valid arguments, and I completely understand her POV, even though I don’t share it. Also, I don’t think this is a matter of taking sides — I think it’s a matter of recognizing that workplaces can’t be one size fits all any longer. IMO, anyway.

Of course, my mother would probably point out about now that I should have become a pharmacist.)

Let’s also recognize that in the face of high unemployment numbers and a poor economy in general, the American workplace is even less likely to feel the need to change to accommodate any workers, let alone parents. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue to fight for optimal working conditions for everyone, or ask for more options. If they feel they can screw you, they’re going to screw you. People are accepting lower wages, fewer benefits, higher health care insurance costs, and so on, because the thinking is: “Well, at least I’m working” or “At least I’ll be working again.”

This is a major story line on Parenthood, the NBC show, right now. A once-senior executive of a shoe company is thinking of taking a job driving a truck to deliver beverages just so 1) he is working and 2) he can appear to be providing for his family again. But at a significantly reduced wage and with a job that takes him away from his family, what is he really gaining?

Slate examined this too, what people — the long-term unemployed, specifically — are doing to get back to work. I don’t think this article was critical enough. They simply reported what strategies people adopted to get back to work. They don’t ask, “Is it [the particular strategy] worth it?” I think that should be examined also.

These are hard questions. It’s a hard economy right now. Losing my job would be devastating in economic terms. Would my family adjust? Yes, we would. I think there are things that I could do, steps I could take, to get back to work in some fashion without making the current sacrifices I am making. But until I’m up against the wall, I will keep making the sacrifices I am making (a long commute, missing my children, etc.).

Also, from yesterday’s comments, what do you think about @FunkyDung’s point about SAHDs? They are fighting on a different front for some of the same respect that SAHMs have access to: community, acceptance as primary care givers, etc.

Anyway, those are some of my thoughts. More below! Weigh in! Be nice. (Like I have to tell you that…)

Black Hole Sun

Because my father reads this blog, let me offer this disclaimer: I am fine.

Saturday, however, I was not fine.

I experienced for the first time ever true, black-hole depression.

I felt broken. I felt that I couldn’t go on, that I didn’t want to operate another day doing what I was doing. I didn’t want to work, I didn’t want to be a mother or a wife, I didn’t want to clean or do laundry. I did not want to shower or eat or get out of bed.

As a matter of fact, I spent quite a bit of the day in bed. If Michael — my dearest son, who was also sick with a fever and an ear infection (diagnosed Sunday), and who made this sound all weekend, “eehhhhh” “eehhhhh” — If Michael was asleep on Saturday, so was I. My other two children watched Looney Tunes and played with their cousins, and were largely looked after by their Tadone and Bella. (Thank you, Tadone and Bella.)

Two things set off this feeling. Well, no, I shouldn’t say that. I have been feeling increasing pressure for weeks now, pretty much since I went back to work (see: plate spinning). I guess there were two straws that broke the camel’s back. So to speak.

One was a minor argument that Dan and I had Friday night — it just soured things, and when things aren’t right with Dan, nothing is right for me. Then on Saturday, we were late for Flora’s last soccer game of the season. Because: I couldn’t find her shin guards or her uniform; I had to bring snacks; I had to wrangle children who were intent on doing anything but what I told them to do; and because after sleeping well all week, Michael picked Friday to Saturday to get up twice in the night.

All the plates came crashing down, and I didn’t care.

Every day is a struggle for me. Not as bad as Saturday, but definitely a struggle. Even to do the simple stuff. Every day I pick and choose what I am going to do well, if at all. And Saturday wasn’t a struggle simply because I didn’t do anything. After soccer, I let the kids loose in the yard (except for Michael, who was sleeping), and went to bed. When Michael went in for his other nap some time around 2:30, I went to bed again. He got most of my care on Saturday: he got fed, changed, and held. I gave him Tylenol for his fever. I can’t say a was a very excellent mom, especially to  my other two, but everyone survived.

Including me, apparently. Sunday I slowly emerged from the black hole. I talked to Dan about how I felt; I listened to him talk about how he felt. I don’t know that we solved anything. Given that our situation hasn’t changed, I suppose it’s perfectly possible that I could have another bad — really, really bad — Saturday any day now. I don’t know.

I guess that’s the scariest part of this: Nothing has changed. I don’t foresee anything changing. (Flora’s not in soccer for now, so I guess that’s a plus.) And now as I’m going about my plate-spinning life, I’m horribly aware of the black web underneath it all. Waiting to catch.

The Never Ending Story

I have come across a couple of reflections on grief on the Interwebs in the past week.

Her Bad Mother, Catherine Connors, talks about what is beautiful about grief and heartbreak. Catherine’s father died unexpectedly last year, and her writing about the experience and its aftermath is powerful and gorgeous. (You should go watch this video, too, for its graceful beauty.)

A writer from a site I frequent, Slate.com, Meghan O’Rourke, has a book out called The Long Goodbye. It was written in the aftermath of her mother’s death on Christmas Day of 2008. She reflects not only on her own experience, but on the larger context of grief in society. I haven’t read the book yet, but her articles  have been fascinating.

Both of these women have gotten me thinking about my own experience of grief as it pertains to Gabriel. Especially where they touch on the trouble of grieving in our culture. There seems to be a common misperception that the death of someone you love is something to be gotten over, that eventually, a parent’s death, a child’s death, a spouse’s death, is something we move beyond — or it should be.

And, according to our culture (that is, a Western culture) the sooner the better.

In part, I think we can blame the Kubler-Ross model for this idea of “getting over”. I think people mistake the idea of acceptance in grief as “the end” of grief. As someone who has grieved — who still grieves — acceptance means moving forward and through; it means incorporating the grief into your life. We’ve got this tidy little model to look at, and we often overlook the fact that these stages aren’t hard and fast rules. Even Dr. Kubler-Ross noted the stages aren’t meant to be complete or chronological. It was just a way to recognize grief, not a blueprint for how to experience it.

I think we people who experience deep grief need to fight against this idea as grief as something that is supposed to end. Actively. For our own sakes and sanity, as well as those who come after us. Maybe we need to change the culture of grief from the inside.

While I cannot speak to the death of a parent (knock on wood) at this point, I have talked about this in relationship to the death of my first son at Glow in the Woods. In short, you never get over it. And that’s okay.

Mike Spohr of the Spohrs are Multiplying lost his daughter Madeline, and he writes about being defined by that loss. And that it’s okay. Our losses — like so many other things in our lives — define us. Not in a limiting way (unless we let them), but in an expanding way.

I also share in the spirit of Catherine’s comment to the effect that we should — instead of pushing grief or heartbreak away — step back and *feel* it. As she says, “…Try to take the time to go, ‘ow’ and really think about that ‘ow’.”

After all, I was thinking, what is wrong with being sad about losing someone? What is bad about wailing and crying, about the rituals of grief? Someone DIED. Maybe there is something unseemly about a grieving mother or a grieving adult child — the tears, the snotty noses. But I think that’s society’s issue, not the grieving person’s.

Also, what does pushing grief away do to our relationship with the person who died? Encouraging me to “get over” the death of my son sounds to me, “Just forget about him.” That seems so callous! The impatience our society brings to the experience of grieving is damaging — doubly damaging — to the people who have lost. In my opinion.

I also want to say here: I have been incredibly supported in my grief, from the time that I had to make the hardest phone calls I ever made in my life right up to every anniversary of Gabriel’s death. Early June brings emails and cards and phone calls — not the flood that happened when Gabriel died, of course — but one or two (or 10) from people who just say, “I’m thinking of you.” My mother, for one, acknowledges Gabriel regularly. I don’t know that it is easy for her to do it, but I also don’t feel as if she’s forcing anything. Sometimes at a holiday gathering, often on Mother’s Day, she’ll make a passing reference to our loss. And it helps keep me sane. It anchors my son in the world.

I think talking about my grandmother might do the same for my mom. I hope so anyway.

These people who died lived first.

Have you ever grieved? Do you still? How do you do it? And do you think society should be more accepting of grief and grieving than it is?

Bad Mommy Moment

I just flipped the hell out on my children.

I am so tired of the bedtime shenanigans and misbehavior. I have tried everything — short of moving them back into their own rooms — to get them to settle down and listen to me at bedtime, and to go to sleep.

I have left night lights on so they don’t have nightmares.

We have a routine, and we follow it.

I have withheld night time treats and night time shows.

I have pleaded and cajoled.

I have separated them.

Tonight. I.just.flipped.

Screamed and banged the wall. Yelled until I was hoarse and they were both crying.

And I did not give them hugs.

It ended with Kate calling me a mean mommy and saying she didn’t like me.

And me saying, Yeah I am, and I don’t like you either.

They may be sleeping now. I don’t even know.

This has not been my proudest mommy moment. It’s not even been a good adult moment. And I don’t know how we’re going to move on from this. How long is kids’ memories?

I’ll bet, probably, not as long as mine.

Anxiety Not At All At Bay Whatsoever

After weeks of struggling, last night, the anxiety got the best of me.

Maybe it was the three-day weekend, the feeling that I had done a lot without getting enough rest, the worry about how my activity is impacting Le Bud (if at all at this point).

I was lying in bed at 10’o clock, worried that I hadn’t felt Le Bud move in a while. Now, at 18 weeks, feeling the baby move is not a given. I had been feeling little random bumps since week 16, but I’m still 2 weeks away from feeling baby move consistently.

I know this; I knew it last night, and I still pretty much freaked myself out.

After 20 minutes of debate with myself, I went down and shared my fears with Dan, and then collapsed in a sobbing heap of helplessness on the couch.

I didn’t want to worry him, but I was driving myself crazy. I couldn’t sleep, and knew I wouldn’t sleep until I got some kind of reassurance.

Dan called the midwife on call, and talked to her when she called back.

I spent the next few hours second-guessing as to whether those random bumps I felt after downing some lemonade and a chocolate chip cookie were movement from Le Bud or wishful thinking or just gas.

And then today, we heard his/her heartbeat, and everything was okay again.

But I can’t do this for the next 20-some weeks.

The ironic thing is that finding time or ways to relieve my anxiety at this point are, in themselves, stressful. Schedule a massage — of course, that’s a great idea. And then I have to find a babysitter, and drive all over creation, and make sure I can actually afford such a thing. Get some talk therapy — again, brilliant and I need it. But then it’s more than an hour away from my desk during the day, or if I find an after 5-p.m. time, then someone has to pick up & take care of my kids in the evening.

Although technically medication is an option, both Dan and I are leery of such a step. I mean, Dan went so far as to say, “I’d rather you had a drink than take anti-anxiety meds.” (I’m not going to drink, either, though.)

Deep breathing and prayer got me to 18 weeks. But I need something else to get me to baby-time.

I wonder how much one of those home doppler heartbeat monitors is going for these days.

Anxiety at Bay. Kind of.

When I was pregnant with Gabriel, a lot of people I knew were pregnant.

Both of my sisters-in-law, two close friends, and then, of course, all the people we met through our birthing classes, some women I met online at a TTC site, etc.

Here I am, I am pregnant again eight years later, and a lot of people I know are pregnant.

Now obviously the population in my daughters’ daycare and pre-school classrooms indicate that there were plenty of pregnant women running (or waddling) around five- and three-plus years ago.

But I didn’t know any of those moms (at the time). One of my SILs was pregnant again, too, when I was pregnant with Kate. That caused me some (extra) anxiety, but everything turned out just fine (her son was born two months after Kate).

Here I am again, trying not to dwell.

It doesn’t mean anything, of course, the number of pregnant women I know personally. Most of them are due in August and September; my coworker gave birth in May; and Stacia gave birth on Mother’s Day; one is due in December (which, technically, I am too); one in January (both Jan. 6 — Kate’s bday — and Jan. 31 — my bday — are lovely days to give birth, Lushie).

And that’s what I keep telling myself.

It doesn’t mean anything. To me. To us. It’s all happy coincidence.

Happy. I want everything to go well for everyone. Everything IS going well, yes?

As you can imagine, the anxious part of me is not wholly convinced.

As an example, I spend time trying not to overthink stupid things. Like being on Twitter yesterday, where many of my tweeps are talking about having their second babies, and there are a lot with a boy having another boy and those with a girl having another girl.

And someone tweets, “I just can’t figure out how most of you arranged to be due at the same time, and with matched sets.”

And someone tweets back, “We’ll have to see what @redpenmama is having to make it official.”

And I tweet, “I already have a matched set!”

And the rest of the night (and STILL) I wish I had added something else. Something like, “Three of a kind beats a pair! :-)” or “We will happily accept a one-off.”

Because I’ve got a paranoid streak. A paranoid streak that insists that the fates are listening, and I can be punished for stupid remarks like that.

And maybe I should be getting some counseling (oh, the irony) or look into pregnancy-safe anti-anxiety drugs.

And this is where prayer comes in. Prayer and deep breathing. And if you felt like kicking in a little of the former, it sure would help a mama out.

Eat You Up

Last night I had two nightmares wherein my children were eating me alive.

Subconscious much?

The first dream was more like a movie, and I was watching a dad realize that his children had turned into flesh eating monsters, and he was struggling to escape from the house. The children were relentless, crashing through doors, breaking through windows, coming on despite the violence they were met with. He finally did get out — and set the house of fire to boot — but then, somehow, he ended up getting dragged back in and consumed in the flames.

In the second dream, I was the one being chased and consumed. I did not set fire to the house, but only because I didn’t get the opportunity.

What was most distressing to me is the lengths to which we went through to get away from the children. Kicking, hitting with lengths of wood (don’t ask me where the wood came from), slamming doors, setting fire to the house.

Not that I would do any of those things to my children, but it makes abundantly clear to me that I need a break. A space of time free of my children.

It’s the relentless logistics of the care (and I’ve written about this before): the feeding, the bathing, the dressing, the putting to bed, the potty training, the brushing of teeth, the putting to bed, again.

I love my children, and I would throw myself in front of a train for them. (Why? Why this metaphor?)

But momma’s feeling a little worn out.

What I Am: Thematic Indulgence

Theme for the month: Spooky

The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love
Colin Meloy is either brilliant or really, really creepy. Probably a little bit of both. But if you want a soundtrack to October or just the week or two before Halloween, you would do well to listen to the latest from The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love.

It’s got everything: an overbearing mother, a rake, a rape, dead babies, ghosts of dead babies, pining, lust, revenge, and a wicked guitar part. I cannot wait to see this thing staged as a rock opera, ala Tommy by The Who.

The Prestige, by Christopher Priest
I found the movie version of this book to be fantastic — an ending I didn’t see coming, plus Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale (and Michael Caine and David Bowie). Oh, my. And they ACT.

The book is even better, albeit different. The ending is much, much spookier. I am still getting chills thinking about it, two days after finishing it. Very satisfying.

The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks
I should not read zombie books. I simply should not. (Or see zombie movies.)

My mind churns into overdrive. I wonder if I could survive a zombie attack; I wonder how I will (WILL, mind you) protect my daughters. I think about stocking up on water, canned goods, and toilet paper (Kate is going to have to get potty trained, and fast), and consider what kind of gun or guns I am going to buy.

I despair a little bit. My basement is barely defensible — and Brooks says to forget about the basement in any case; go upstairs and destroy the staircase. I do have a machete, although it’s not very sharp. My pantry is stocked with lots of soap, paper towels, and lunch snacks. (And about 24 cans of chicken-type soups for Dan. When the zombies come, we will no longer be vegetarians I guess. And we will have very clean hands.) It’s been some years since I used a gun.

In other words, I turn into a crazed, militant-minded nut job. What the government is to a guy in a militia, zombies are to me. To my credit, I don’t own a gun (yet). (As far as you know.)

Reading The Zombie Survival Guide, most of me recognizes that it is satire. Yet it is so well done, that part of me — the militant minded, “this could really happen” part of my brain or gut — thinks, “I gotta go get me one of those. And learn how to use it. Because WHAT IF.” The tone is serious; the tips are practical; and Brooks peppers his advice with just enough “real-life” examples and scenarios, that I think, “See, now, that’s good to know.”

I am seriously considering ordering this book. In hard cover. And learning how to shoot flaming arrows.

Because, WHAT IF?