anxiety, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Three Ring Circus

Don’t tell my baby, but my third pregnancy was a huge surprise.

My husband and I cut our wedding cake to the tune of Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” – we envisioned a life with ‘three little kids for the flavor’. But just like the top to the spice jar coming loose unexpectedly and dumping a whole pile of paprika in the pot, we got all that flavor all at the same time.

When Julia, our second, was born, we said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely have to be older than Bella is now when we have a third.” God chuckled at that one. Just after Christmas just under two years later, we found out Number Three was on its way. Angela was born when Julia was four months younger than Bella was at her debut as a big sister.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were instantly wrapped in a cocoon of haze. Everything seemed blurry and just out of reach. Lost in our own thoughts, we wandered around in shock. We didn’t tell anyone right away because we’d always waited until we knew the baby was well on its way, but also because we were waiting to wrap our heads around it.

Mere days after proof positive, we attended a New Years’ Party. In attendance was a mother of three I’d come to know through the host. I knew wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to tell her I was about to join her club, but I needed some assurance that I could do this. She always seemed such a magnanimous mother, building her children up while laughing enough with them to keep them grounded. If she said it was do-able, I could do it. I asked her what it was like going from two to three children. She said, “I have never been more acutely aware of the fact that I only have two hands.” We laughed, her sense of humor seemingly able to overarch any obstacle in her way. I can still see her standing there, those two hands raised in front of her.

Her words came back to me once we were all home from the hospital. When someone asked me what it was like going from two to three, I said, that yes, there is some truth to the theory that it’s easier than going from one to two because you’re used to keeping all the balls in the air – but what no one tells you is that there’s always. a. ball. in. the. air.

I was a veritable ringmaster with all the balls I kept hurling into the air and trying frantically to catch and hoist again. There was no intermission. No time to catch my breath. And I felt like I’d missed a very important set of lessons at circus school. The fact that this circus took place under the big top of postpartum depression did not lend any sort of solace to the situation. There were times I felt like I was the #1 attraction for the freak show. But even though I was at the mercy of my hormones, I somehow made it through – and thankfully didn’t end up looking like the bearded lady.

Life is still crazy, but I’m feeling less so lately. It’s just the usual brand of crazy, the kind that comes with three little kids and the flavor they bring (aided by the hula hoops the Easter Bunny brought each of them this year). It may have been an acquired taste, but now it’s my favorite flavor.

Living, Writing

Dreaming in Blog

Last night, I dreamt I was walking down the broad, curving main road that passes by my street. I waved to my daughter’s playmates. I laughed at the bizarre boat race in the bay. I pushed my children to the side of the road when a snow plow came careening around the corner. It was at that point that I probably should’ve realized my subconscious was in control. Even though I live in New England, the weather does not shift that abruptly.

But no, I continued on down that street. I think there may have even been a parade. Then as easily as they do in dreams, the street morphed into another, further removed from my home. I passed by small businesses, restaurants whose culinary ancestors hailed from various countries. In fact, there were two such restaurants from two apparently feuding South American countries directly across the street from each other. I knew the origin of each cuisine from the outline of its country on the front of the restaurant, of course. And I knew they were feuding because, well, some things are just understood in dreams.

As I passed the front porch of the restaurant closest to me, a man in an apron stepped onto it and deposited something that looked like a pizza box on one of the outdoor tables. He was trying to sneak off the porch when another man in an apron stepped out the door.

He questioned him. “Aren’t you from [feuding country’s restaurant]?

“Yes, I’m just taking part in the ancient tradition of the holiday truce in which we share our culinary treasures with our foes,” he said, and moved off the porch.

The second man’s face softened. “I thought that tradition had died out,” he said. “I’m glad to see it lives on.”

All this as I moved (apparently very slowly) past the building. But time, like place, is also fluid in dreams.

As my husband and I (who knows where the kids had gone!) moved on to a nearby hotel’s sorely lacking continental breakfast and I melted my swizzle sticks in my cup of coffee, I thought, “What an amazing blog entry this would make! A story of cultural divides torn down, if only for a day. And I witnessed it firsthand!”

And then I woke up. Is it bad to say I was disappointed when I did? When I found out that none of that which seemed so vivid and heartfelt was real? And that I missed out on a kick-ass blog entry?

Now, those that analyze dreams would have a field day with this one. I walked through all these scenes without interacting. I created hybridized cultures and foods. I thought I’d found the answer to many of the world’s problems. I lost my kids. And thought melting plastic into my morning drink was a good idea (not to mention I don’t even drink coffee).

But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d have the following to say:

I stayed up way too late blogging because I was so psyched about my new-found versatility; said staying up late caused restless and insufficient sleep
Cause of staying up late meant I had blogging on my mind
I dreamt of coffee because I knew once I woke up I’d be dragging; I screwed up the coffee because my subconscious knew I wouldn’t like it
I saved my kids because I’m always afraid I won’t be able to some time in real life
I dreamt of varied foods because I’m always looking for something new and delicious; and because I’m apparently in denial about this blog not being about food.
Holiday traditions? Thinking of the true meaning of what we hold dear after Easter’s recent celebrations?
And I’ve always wanted world peace – even if it’s one restaurant at a time. What can I say, I’m a sucker.

parenting, Writing

A fabulous lady who stepped out of the blogosphere and onto my stats page nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. Tiny steps, big journey first found me sometime in February, then we bonded over Star Wars and a predisposition to dressing our kids in Star Wars garb! No matter what our parenting experience, it’s the commonalities that draw us together, isn’t it?

So I looked up the definition of versatile for a deeper understanding of it. Visuwords, one of my favorite language sites, says versatile is varied, which I knew, but also skilled and mobile. I’d like to think I’m not only a versatile blogger, then, but parent as well; skilled in handling the various crises that come my way, such as shuddering and moving to another room when my seven year-old daughter sings “I’m Sexy and I Know It”.

If you find yourself nominated, you’ve been awarded The Versatile Blogger award. And then, you need to pay it forward:

Thank the person who gave you this award
Include a link to their blog
Select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly
Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this site.
Tell the person who nominated you seven things about yourself

Seven things about me:

I love the combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
I was slightly obsessed with anything Jack Kerouac for the better part of ten years.
I am neither a morning person nor a night owl; I thrive between the hours of 10 AM and 2 PM.
I was born tired (which may explain # 3).
I am an only child raising three children (at times, bizarre!)
I love to sing.
I love to compete with my husband as to who can first name the title and artist of a song within the first few beats.

And the nominees are . . .

1. The Fulcrum Chronicles

2. Burgeoning School Psychologist

3. Mermaids Love Sushi

4. grrlscene

9. misslisted

10. A Calibama State of Mind

11. Sassy Sass

12. Unexpectant

13. Momma Swears

14. Off-Duty Mom

15. For His Love . . .

These fifteen fabulous blogs are not ranked in any way, shape, or form. I’ve found something that speaks to me in all of them, as I hope you have in mine. Thank you!

I’m Versatile and (Now) I Know It

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Torn

I felt like a thief, stealing away in the gloom before the house’s inhabitants awoke from their slumbers. My voice caught in my throat when I called to my husband, “Give them kisses for me when they wake up.” It felt so wrong to be leaving, especially when they didn’t have the chance to protest. They’d been prepared well in advance, but somehow, it still felt covert.

I looked at the house as I drove away and waved at the closed curtains, the locked doors, the house already closed to me mere minutes after my leaving. In my mind’s eye, I saw my youngest’s eyes peeking over the windowsill to wave another time I recently left. I missed them already.

It took me awhile to settle into the drive, but eventually I pulled out the CDs I’d packed for the trip. (Yes, CDs – apparently, my technology is at pace with the frequency of solo road trips). I’d packed selections to fire me up for a marathon drive and a fun reunion at the end with a friend I don’t get to see nearly enough. I’d also picked stuff I can’t listen to when driving the kids around. I listened to the entire Beastie Boys’ Sounds of Science anthology and then switched to The Clash. While I was having a grand old time car-dancing and singing along, it was about this time that I realized, I must be angry. Punk rock, rap, ska with a driving back beat, songs with titles like, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.

Was/is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Is some part of me totally repressed by my current state of affairs? Am I really unhappy with the way life is? Am I speeding down the highway chasing after the ‘me’ I lost somewhere along the line? Am I doing such a sucky job at getting respite time that I’m about to blow? Or did I really just need a road trip?

Somewhere around hour four of the six-hour trip, the soothing effects of the road took over. I got used to the hum of the motor around 2800 rpms, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel, the crick in the back of the heel from my foot’s constant 45 degree angle on the gas pedal, the dull ache of the full bladder that I’d chosen to ignore till the final destination. The traffic thinned, the sun came out, and my mind cleared. I thought about everything and nothing.

I realized that one freeing thing about being totally overwhelmed and screwing up postpartum was that my heretofore-crippling bent toward perfectionism was thrown out the window. Now, if not ever before, it was blindingly clear that it just wasn’t gonna happen. And that theory was thrown out the window, when later that night, I confided to my friend that I felt like I couldn’t possibly do everything for my children. She said that feeling came from me worrying so much about doing such a good job (i.e. perfectionism).

The whole weekend was a study in contradictions, me being torn in different directions.

Fear gripped me when we headed to the restaurant at 3 PM for lunch. What about dinner? Used to following a schedule acceptable for little bodies needing balanced meals, it took me awhile to adjust to eating whatever, whenever I wanted. I ate so much at “lunch”, I had chips and Twizzlers for “dinner” at some point in the evening – I lost track. I ate granola and yogurt for breakfast the next morning, but then gorged on a short stack with all the sides for “lupper” (we messed with meals so much this weekend, my friend started giving them her own names).

I wistfully noticed the babies in the arms or on the hips of nearly every person we passed. Were there really that many small children in the state of Maine or was I missing my own babies that much it just seemed like it? Though my husband does say all there is to do in Maine during winter is drink and have sex, so maybe there really are that many kids – and maybe that’s why he’s always wanted to move there ☺

Yet, I relished in looking at every single item on every single aisle of every single store if I felt like it – with no one to whine at me. I loved chatting with my friend with no screeching interruptions – though we had so much to catch up on, we interrupted each other plenty of times. I loved not waking up in the middle of night!!!!!!

I think what I liked most of all was being able to operate on the basest of levels. Basic functions: eat, sleep, pee, laugh, breathe, be. The weight of responsibility was lifted from my shoulders – if only for 36 hours. And that’s what I meant when in my last post, “that which I was trying to escape had stowed away in the backseat”. I don’t want to escape my children at all. I love them and will always – even if it’s the death of me.

It was just really nice to get away. Though, the squeezes I got when I walked in the door Sunday night were more powerful that any pressure I’ve ever felt in this trip called motherhood.

Automobiles, Living, parenting

Escape Has Been Compromised

I’ve spoken before about the nostalgia and melancholy with which I think of the sedan I once drove daily, but which has been consigned to the driveway due to passenger limitations. My escape vehicle.

When my husband and I bought the car, a Saab 9-3, we asked a mechanic friend for his take on the vehicle. He told us it was an electrical nightmare. But I’d grown up hearing stories my father had told with misty eyes about his own Saabs, “you know, the cars we owned before we had you.” I’d heard the wonders of heated seats with cooled air coming through the vents, uncompromising safety, and cool design. And they were born from jets, for goodness sake! What more could one want? I fired back at our friend the mechanic, who went on to bust me that I just wanted it for the prestige, “our baby will be sitting in the lap of safety!” Granted, we didn’t have babies, yet. But when we started our family within the next few years, our vehicle would be up to snuff with the latest safety standards.

We had no worries when Baby # 1 arrived. Then we had to install the car seat. Placed in the middle of the backseat, rear-facing, to ensure her ultimate safety, we cracked our heads times innumerable as we bent down to click the infant carrier into the base. When my belly swelled enough with Baby # 2 to make wedging myself into the backseat to strap her into her now convertible seat nearly impossible and very uncomfortable, we moved it directly behind the driver’s seat. Soon, we had another seat behind the passenger seat, too.

That’s when my husband started car shopping. His car, a Jeep Cherokee so old it actually looked like one, was rusting apart on the road. The girls loved riding in it because they bounced all around the back seat, but even my husband, an off-roading enthusiast, was getting nervous. He wanted air bags and latch-capability. He wanted more space. He did not want a mini-van. Neither did I – really. I wanted one when I sat inside it, flipped and folded the seats, slid the doors open. But when I stood back and looked at the thing, ugh. I was out-voted anyway. He decided on a Ford Flex, at the time, a brand-new vehicle from Ford. We got one with captains’ chairs in the second row, allowing for a pass-through to the third row, where we could put our oldest who was now more self-sufficient, should we need a third seat in the future, you know?

You know how people say the more money you have, the more you spend? Well, apparently the same goes for cars; the more seats you have, the more kids you will have to fill them. The Flex hadn’t even lost the new car smell before we found out Baby # 3 was on the way. Good thing we opted for the family car.

I was ambivalent. Three kids needing three car seats meant that the mommy who was home with them all day would be driving the RV-like vehicle all the time. No more Saabie. When I did drive it, I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of loss – loss of freedom, of my personal desires, of my tastes. Because I was no longer driving it wherever and whenever I wanted. Because I very rarely went out by myself anymore. Because it was cool – and now life wasn’t always such.

The Saab is a five-speed manual. It has a sunroof. It has bucket seats in leather. It is low-slung and hugs the corners. The Flex is automatic. It is has cloth seats that sit so high I feel as if I’m suspended above the road. It is a tank. Now, in deference to my husband, it is cooler than a mini-van. It’s got a cool, retro beach-wagon vibe that sets it apart from other vehicles on the road. It is beautiful and certainly has get-up and go. But it does not inspire in me a feeling synonymous with winding down a tree-lined road curving into oblivion.

However, that may be a thing of the past as well. In response to rising gas prices and only two girls needing daily transportation for the most part, we bought an additional car seat for the Saab. Today was the first day I tried out this new arrangement. I honestly thought I’d like it because I’d be able to run the Saab about more often and not chance the battery dying or the brakes rusting together. Plus, I love driving it.

But after looking down on the road from my perch in the Flex, I suddenly felt very small. The cockpit that always fit me like a glove suddenly felt tight. I felt claustrophobic as I ducked into the backseat to avoid the rain and fasten the kids’ seat belts. Little feet could reach the back of my seat and little hands could reach the window and door handles. Worst of all, my calm had been jettisoned out the window. That which I usually try to escape had stowed away in the backseat.

Escape has been compromised.

I do have a road trip planned this weekend, though, so we’ll see if I can reclaim some of the former glory of the Saab. Take-off is scheduled for 7 AM Saturday. No delays are anticipated.

Intimacy, Living, motherhood, parenting

Making Whoopee

In the middle of the pain-induced delirium of my first labor, I turned to my husband and said, “How can something that is so much fun lead to so much pain?” We laughed: at the absurdity of the situation; at the fact that I could still joke in between contractions; at the ultimate truth of the statement.

And little did I know that as we pressed forward into parenthood, that statement would stretch and morph to encompass so much more.

When we returned home with our infant, my husband and I camped out on the couch passing the baby between us. They fell into dreamland while I fell into the throes of a fever, my milk coming in with a vengeance. I didn’t know why I had the chills, why I couldn’t lift my arms higher than my shoulders without hurting, why my baby wouldn’t latch on . . . I just watched my husband sleeping peacefully, the baby nestled on his chest, and shook with wracking sobs, realizing that the one I needed most couldn’t comfort me because some other little thing needed him even more than I did.

When we added a second child to the mix, the house was never quiet enough, the baby never had uninterrupted sleep, our nearly-three year-old never caught a break. The pained look on her face when one of my tirades went a little too long and a little too loud broke my heart – because I was afraid I had broken hers.

Baby Number Three ushered in a matrix of physical and emotional pain unimaginable. It took me months to figure out what the hell was going on and years to fix it (or work on it – I’ll let you know when I’m done).

Then there’s the toll parenthood takes on the bond between husband and wife, or ‘Mom and Dad,’ as it seems you will now forever be known as. In the beginning, doing the act that landed you in this predicament in the first place does not seem appealing at all; never mind the doctor’s estimation that you will be back to ‘normal’ in six weeks, ludicrous.

In fact, I used my pregnancies as warnings to others. When I overheard two of my twelve year-old students discussing sex, I piped up, “I hope you’re not thinking of becoming sexually active,” at which their pretty little jaws hit the floor. I went on, from my perpetual position behind my desk because I was too tired to stand, “Because you don’t want to end up like me. I’m married and it’s hard enough.” At a wedding shower about a month before the due date of my second-born, I told the bride not to break any of the ribbons from her presents. Circling my belly with a pointed finger, I said, “This is what happens when you break a ribbon.”

But that weird mind-blanking trick that humankind’s desire to procreate does to our memories soon kicks in, allowing you to forget the (seriously) gut-wrenching pain and remember the joy of intimacy again. That is, when time and circumstance allow. When you’re alone. When the kids are sleeping in their own beds. When you’re not so exhausted you fall asleep before your head hits the pillow. When you can think like man and woman and not Mom and Dad.

Just last week, as my husband reached for me, brushing my arm in the process, I cried out, “Ow, watch out for my boo-boo!” Nothing like the mention of a decidedly kid-term to ruin the moment. Even when they’re not there, they’re there. But, all parents somehow find a way around such dilemmas. You lock the door. You find a way to connect without hurting the various wounds you’re nursing. And you learn to have fun.

When we were invited to a party at our newlywed friends’ place, we decided to bring whoopee pies for dessert. We thought they fit well with the southern menu of pulled BBQ, cole slaw, and corn bread, but also that they were somehow apropos for newlyweds. Wink, wink. Then the girls, who love anything sweet, wanted to help prepare them. I couldn’t help but see the irony as I watched them. Here, in living color, devouring what was left of the frosting, were the literal fruits of my labor.

That’s what you get when you make whoopee. Three gorgeous girls.

It’s been a long road since the first pangs of labor, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I wouldn’t do it with anyone other than my husband. (Wink, wink).

anxiety, motherhood, parenting, Recovery

Escape Artist

It being close to St. Patrick’s Day, I’m going to invoke Murphy’s Law: all that will go wrong, shall – especially if you speak to the opposite.

Just last week, I was telling my father that I always thought Angela, two and a half, would behave just as Julia, now four, did when she was that age. And how, surprisingly enough, she wasn’t. That what I thought was ‘terrible two’ behavior was in fact, Julia’s unique disposition.

Julia was by no means a terrible toddler. The second born, she was accustomed to following her big sister around (see previous post on how I dragged her to the library as an infant). Going places and doing things made her more gregarious and more kinesthetic. Plus, she needed an easy-going nature in order to survive toys being perpetually shoved in her face or being startled out of a sound sleep without posttraumatic stress disorder. Unfortunately, easy-going was also her attitude towards rules and directions.

Crossing the street a danger? Nah. I can run at full-tilt with my eyes closed. Wait for Mommy? Nah. The world is a safe place. Stay dressed in the outerwear Mom turned herself inside out to get me into? Optional. I’ll just run fast enough to stay warm.

Julia entered this phase of independence and autonomy just as I entered an unexpected phase of disability. In the latter days and weeks of my pregnancy and during labor, I suffered what is medically referred to as pubic symphysis diastasis. In laymen’s (or women’s) terms, it hurt like hell. The muscles in my pelvis had stretched just enough that I could not sit up in bed or get out of it without excruciating pain. I had to sidestep the stairs one at a time. I had to bend to the floor to slide my pant legs up.

While my pain and limited mobility were very real, to everyone else I was a young woman shuffling like some sort of invalid with no reason at all. I imagined them thinking, “What, does she think she’s the first woman to have ever given birth? Women in some parts of the world go back to working the fields the very same day!” In fact, many of the nurses in the hospital thought this birth was my first when they saw me lolling about the room – until they heard my diagnosis.

Unfortunately, pubic symphysis diastasis is not something that rolls off the tongue, nor something you want to share with the ladies at preschool pick-up; a fact which made one pick-up in particularly very interesting. Bella, the preschooler at the time, was due to return from a field trip. The time stretched and stretched as myself and two other mothers with small children waited, the little ones growing more and more antsy. They edged closer and closer to the corner of the building, then toward the rusted metal bike rack that looked infinitely interesting amidst the sea of concrete, then into the wide open expanse of the school yard on the far side of the building. One of the other mothers engaged her son in a game of tag designed to lure Julia back towards us, he being more compliant than my child. She played along for a few minutes, then made a break for freedom, shooting across the play yard toward the driveway and street beyond. My heart leapt to my throat as I weighed my options. Yell to her? Abandon her baby sister by the door and chase after her? My hesitation gave her a healthy head start, after which I shuffled like a decrepit zombie across the pavement, waiting to watch in slow motion as she was squished like a bug by a passing car. Luckily, the other mothers, despite no prior knowledge of my condition, took pity on me and ran to her aid. We only knew each other in the hellos and goodbyes of the previous weeks, but they rallied to the universal crisis call of motherhood and helped me. Thank God.

We returned to the door to resume our wait, me clutching Julia fiercely and muttering something about, “Wonder what my physical therapist would say about that?” to somehow excuse my absolute ineptitude at chasing after my daughter. Angela lay sleeping in her infant carrier right where I had left her, totally oblivious to the melee.

So, perhaps you’ll understand my concern when another year of preschool drop-offs and pick-ups – this time Julia’s – rolled around. I think I was the one with posttraumatic stress. I dreaded that Angela, now that magic number, would put me through the same paces Julia had. As the year progressed, I started to think that it was still Julia who was the difficult one; the one who channeled Goldilocks when it was time to choose shoes; the one who ripped out her perfectly parted ponytails mere seconds before it was time to go; the one who refused to even step out the door. Angela seemed easy in comparison.

Enter Murphy’s Law. Mere days after my proclamation to my father, Miss Angela entered the dreaded phase. Pulling into the driveway and springing the kids so they could run about in the yard while I unloaded, Angela disappeared. Julia hadn’t left the grass of the front yard, but Angela had wandered off somewhere. I finally found her standing in my neighbor’s backyard, grinning. A few days later in said neighbor’s backyard, while her sisters played with the girls, Angela moved out to their driveway to take their tricycle for a spin. I watched her over the gate. When I turned to say something to my neighbor and then back, she was gone. I heard Julia calling for me, and found her chasing her sister and the trike down the street. And just this morning, as I trucked groceries from the trunk to the kitchen, Angela followed along – until I stopped to yell at a squirrel to stop digging up my fledgling garden. At the end of my tirade, I sensed her absence and hurried to the front yard – to find her strolling down the street, hands in pockets. I called to her as I approached, at which she laughed and broke into a run. I’m still out of shape, but at least this time, I was able to catch my escapee.

So, lessons learned. Never let your kids get a running start – regardless of your level of disability. Never peg one child as the challenging one – another one will step up to prove you wrong. Never accept any platitude about parenting – circumstances will change the very next day.

anxiety, Literacy, motherhood, parenting

Story Time

It’s a good thing I believe in the power of reading – because if I didn’t, there’s no way I’d take my kids to the library. Time after time, it proves to be a taxing experience – one I’m not sure is balanced by the benefits of the books we obtain.

The kids, however, love it. So much, in fact, that they burst through the doors like an invading army, one running this way, one the other. Unfortunately, the front doors deposit us right into the “quiet” section of the library. While I try to corral them towards the book drop, they dodge and weave, this last time with Julia lighting upon the stack of rolling bins “just like the ones at the grocery store, Mama” to tote books around in – even though I can’t get her to carry our tote bag.

After numerous shushes on the way to the reserves where Mommy’s book is waiting, it’s time to commandeer the children’s section. They rush to the stairs with renewed vigor, Angela’s voice reverberating through all the levels as we ascend.

They do comment on a few books on display en route to the play area, Julia picking one on various modes of transportation throughout the ages. Story time must have just ended because there are many little people and their parents hovering about. Julia and Angela dive into the crowd, playing with the puppet theatre and puzzles; making friends more easily than I. Julia sits on a low-slung kid couch near another mother and starts a conversation with the Tyrannosaurus she’s operating. Angela giggles at the parrot another mother has squawking. I smile and mill about. These two must already know each other because a few minutes later, I can’t help but overhear one relay the story of her husband’s possible adultery to other. One father with a preschooler and an infant looks up in surprise when he sees his baby smiling through a gap in a bookshelf, playing peek-a-boo with me – maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself either. A grandmother plops in a chair after depositing her toddler into the play area, looking worn out. I want to tell her I feel her pain.

Today, as with nearly every visit here, I’m having flashbacks to when Julia was an infant. So exhausted as a new mother, yet determined to keep my active two and a half year-old busy, I would strap Julia to the front of me and take Bella to story-time. I think I was trying a passive-aggressive attempt at keeping some semblance of pre-baby # 2. I figured if I couldn’t sleep when she slept and lie around all day in my pajamas, I may as well be out and about to distract myself from my misery. I’m still not sure which was worse: a mom who could hustle around two of them, her harried mania bubbling just below the surface, or a mom drooling in delirium with a stir-crazy kid. I was so desperate to latch on to something, I rushed the kids to story time without realizing there is an etiquette to such events. I was lucky enough to attend the first meeting of a new session, at which there would be arts and crafts and for which advanced registration was required. The most dour-looking librarian of the staff came over to me with her clipboard, pointing to my daughter, and asked, “And who might this be?” After introductions, she said, “Ok, I’ll add her to the list for next time as she’s not signed up.” I stammered some statement/question about pre-registration and she assured me it was fine; she had extra materials for the craft. She had moved on to the next child, who was on her list, before I could thank her. We went home with our contraband craft and never returned.

I guess I’m not much of a joiner. One of the things I love about reading is getting lost in one’s own little world, a world that changes from chapter to chapter, book to book. The solitary, quiet joy of it. Although, I do love sharing and discussing the juicy details of a book I’ve just finished with someone else. It has to be someone I know will enjoy it equally though. Someone who loves a good story for the pure, unadulterated joy of it; the thrill of figuring out a mystery; the ache of a loss as if it were your own. Not someone who will rebuff me because I wasn’t playing by a set of rules I didn’t even know existed.

I still take my kids to the library. Though I’d much rather get my books and run, I let them say hello to the fish in the aquarium; put together puzzles that are missing a few pieces; pluck books from the shelf not by their merit, but because they’re at eye-level. I let them scan the books at the self-check station even though their squeals as they push each other off the stool they’re sharing make me cringe – never mind the other patrons. I take them to the library because they need to create their own experiences in the world of reading. I can’t force them to operate under a set of rules made by someone else; they need to be afforded the same opportunities as those kids whose names are on the list.

Plus, it always makes for a really good story.

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Same $*@#, Different Day

There are times when I wake up in the morning and don’t know what day it is. It takes my mind a minute to focus and remember. I can blame a lot of this on lack of sleep. My body feeling like its packed inside a bag of cotton balls, it’s no wonder my head is foggy. But I think most of it has to do with the repetitive nature of my days.

Don’t get me wrong – I love routines. I actually get a bit batty without them. Anxious people like me do not like the unexpected (except surprise gifts on Mother’s Day – much to my husband’s chagrin). I’m much better at fitting everything in if I have a set list of objectives and time frames within which to do them.

I’m thinking you can wear routines out though. Without variety, you ain’t got no spice, right? And life right now is looking pretty bland. It’s the first week off winter vacation. The weather’s cold, actually wet and snowy for once this year, the kids (and I) struggling to get back into the groove of wake-ups, waffle-making, lunch-packing, teeth-brushing, coat-wrestling, out-the-door running.

This morning, Thursday, I woke up saying, Thank God I don’t have to go anywhere besides drop-off and pick-up. Four days into the week, I’m already so beat-down, I could barely crawl into my sweats.

I suppose I could approach this the way Bill Murray did in Groundhog Day, righting all the wrongs the second, third, fourth time around. I could go to bed earlier tonight so I wake up somewhat refreshed. I could make Bella’s lunch after dinner so I don’t have to scramble in the morning. I could plan something new and different for tomorrow to break the monotony. But in real life, unlike the movies, we don’t always get the moral of the story.

Sometimes we get so worn down in our ruts that we can’t see up over the rim. And we wake up in the morning to the same day, essentially, because we’re dealing with the same shit.

But I’m thinking maybe this is nature’s way of getting us to embrace change. We get so sick of ourselves and the monotony that we’re thrown off the track and forced to forge a new one.

It’s times like this that I find the pages in my cookbooks that aren’t yet dog-eared. I purge all that clothing I’ve been meaning to give to good will. I seek out friends that I’ve been meaning to make plans with. I try some long-forgotten yoga pose. I stretch muscles I’d forgotten I had.

All of life is cyclical. Like the tides and the lunar cycle, today and its attendant shit are bound to come around again. But in between, there will be moments of shock and awe and the sublime. I’ll just have to remember not to get caught out too far when the tide comes back in.

So I’m sure I’ll find something exciting to get me through this low point. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and remember what day it is. Until then, you’ll have to excuse me, I have another load of laundry to do.

postpartum depression, Recovery

No Salt in this Wound

There really is no point to a saltine – except for the salt, of course.

For some reason, as many other kids, I loved them when I was little. I think it had more to do with trying to stand it upright in between my top and bottom teeth or shoving it in my mouth in one bite rather than any great gastronomic pleasure. I didn’t return to them until I carried whole sleeves of them around with me during my bouts of morning sickness three times over. That’s the telltale sign of a pregnancy, isn’t it? The white, crinkly cellophane pulled open at the seam, the stack of perfectly pointed squares cascading out into the open, and hopefully, into your belly to quell the ravaging beast that threatens to ruin every waking moment – not just those in the morning. A friend’s mother says that she hasn’t touched a saltine since her pregnancy over thirty years ago. I can’t say I blame her. It is not a pleasant connotation when that’s your last memory.

So, imagine my surprise, when I found myself chowing down on them as I rushed to an appointment in the car. So light and insubstantial, I was flying through the sleeve with reckless abandon – actually just savoring the salt and waiting for some sort of gratification from the mush that the enriched flour had turned to in my mouth. I had bought them for the kids, but running late and low on fuel, I needed a quick and easy – if not satisfying – snack.

After I’d downed a quarter of the sleeve, the sharp bite of the salt searing into my tongue, I realized what I was doing. I was eating saltines! After a miserable last pregnancy, I avoided at any costs anything that reminded me of those memories that made me shudder. I gave away all my maternity clothes with great aplomb. I threw out the sitz baths and lanolin left in the house. A wicked pack rat, I even sorted through and shredded all paperwork from the hospital. Saltines fell into this category. I didn’t fling them out my window, a crazed cracker hail sending birds flying, I just didn’t even think of pulling a box off the grocery store shelf.

In one conversation with my therapist in that first year of recovery, I explained how I felt as if I were grieving a death. I marked each familiar date, each holiday, each anniversary of some hard memory – noting it, like the rung of a ladder I had to climb to get up and out of this hole. ‘Okay, I’ve made it past that one,’ I’d say. I’d survive one set of negative memories at a time and start to wipe them away with new ones.

It wasn’t easy and I knew I wasn’t suffering the same grief as someone who had actually lost a loved one, but, as my therapist so astutely pointed out, I was suffering a loss – the death of my life as I had known it. Things were totally – in some ways, irrevocably – different. It was time to move forward with the positive and with this new knowledge and see what would happen. Life certainly wasn’t over – it was just different.

As was the action of eating a saltine. I wasn’t a kid crushing one into my mouth as I cavorted on the beach with my parents. I wasn’t a desperately nauseous woman at the mercy of her upset stomach (and those damn hormones). I was an adaptable survivor who could do simple tasks again without the crippling connotations once associated with them.

Saltines have never tasted so good.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile