Category — Post Partum Musings

I’m turning into “that mom.”

You know, the one who’s 10 minutes late to EVERYTHING.

I hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

I’ve always prided myself on my punctuality. I think that tardiness translates, on some minor and occasional level, into self-centeredness. After all, why is your time more valuable than mine? Shouldn’t we both respect the importance of each others’ schedules and plans?

Before kids, and even during the first few months, I was always early to every appointment, meeting, call and date. At worst, I was on time. I get the idea of being fashionably late to parties, but since I considered “fashionable” to be about 10 minutes, I was generally the first one to awkwardly arrive to any event.

Then I had the twins. Over time, my tardiness has gotten worse. Despite my best efforts, despite all common sense, despite pre-planning,  I’m finding myself running late to almost everything.

This is among the many (many) “Oh, I get it now” lessons I’m learning as a mother.

You know what I’m talking about:

Before: Why is you kid so effing filthy?
Oh, I get it now: My kid SCREAMS when I try to wipe off his hands/face/mouth/feet and I have 18 loads of laundry piling up . . . So, after almost dropping him from his high chair and poking him in the eye seven or eight times in an attempt to make him presentable, I concluded that the spaghetti sauce stains kind of match the shirt and hey, aren’t kids supposed to be filthy?

Before: Do you not hear you stupid kid crying in the middle of XYZ Department Store/grocery store/pharmacy? If you can’t shut your child up, you shouldn’t be in public.
Oh, I get it now: Crying is not an emergency. Crying is just someone trying to speak when they have no vocabulary and, in this case, they’re saying “I want to pull everything off the shelves!”

Before: Can you please not expose your freaking BOOBS in public?
Oh, I get it now: Boobs? Oh, I didn’t even notice.

Before: It’s been a year since your kid was born and you’re still holding onto baby weight? No excuses for that one.
Oh, I get it now: OH. I GET IT NOW.

I know, I haven’t been blogging. Shame, as my grandmother would have said.

I’m tired. I’ve been working a lot, mostly at night, and staying up much later than I’m used to. I’ve been working while sitting on an old, uneven couch, which is killing my back and shoulders.

I’m stressed. About the house. About money. About feeling overwhelmed — kids, house, money. What to make for dinner. Laundry piling up and spreading disease and pestilence.  You know, typical stuff.

But mostly, I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because my daughters are going to turn one next week. I’m having flashbacks of where I was, what I was doing, this time last year.

This time last year, I was spending most of the day on the couch, having contractions that I didn’t know were contractions.

This time last year, I was shuffling down the street, trying to walk myself into labor.

This time last year, I had (gestational) diabetes.

This time last year, I had a 50-inch waist.

This time last year, I knew what day my daughters would be born.

This time last year, I didn’t know what my daughters looked like.

This time last year, I had no idea what I was in for. I had mentally checked out. All I needed to know, all I needed to do, was give birth to healthy twins. I didn’t know about the worry, the ignorance, the fear, the sleep deprivation, the protectiveness.

The hopes and dreams. The smiles. The laughter. The pride. The love. My god, the love.

***

I don’t know these folks. Haven’t interacted with them prior to their loss — a loss I truly, truly can’t imagine (happy birthday, little one). Even now, I feel that all I can do is leave sympathetic comments. But I think about their family often, especially in times like these when I get caught up in the charade that being a parent can bring on.

***

Now, typing all of that, I feel ridiculous for worrying about a fucking party. Fucking streamers and fucking balloons and the fucking idiotic Dixie plates I bought at Walmart, worrying that they weren’t fancy enough and theme-y enough and that people would judge me as an uncaring mother because I didn’t pay $5 for eight paper plates.

I love my daughters. I love my daughters.  And that is what’s important — to them, to me, to us.

I bought these today.

Freaking out. Freaking. Out.

When I think about what I thought I’d be like as a mother — let me tell you, it didn’t include being all sentimental at $8 “Birthday Girl” shirts. And it certainly didn’t involve walking into a Carter’s outlet store and almost having sex with the first guy that walked by in order to get pregnant after seeing an adorable (ADORABLE!) teensie tiny wittle baby newborn onesie.

Every day, I see my babies looking a little bit more like little girls. Little girls who will start walking soon. Walking by themselves. Talking. Talking to themselves. Pretending. Playing. Going to school. Having a crush. Getting in trouble. (I really hope they play pranks on teachers, because what good is it being an identical twin if you don’t?)

Best friends. Back stabbing. Crying.

First kiss.

Second kiss.

Beyond. Etc. (Freaking out!)

Broken hearts. Hugs. Hugs hugs hugs.

I have a lot on my mind as we approach the end of the girls’ first year with us — all conflicting and confusing and convoluted thoughts, of course. Thoughts about breastfeeding and weaning, thoughts about the future, thoughts about our house and our families and my age. Thoughts involving teensie tiny wittle baby newborn onesies.

Shopping sure can be complicated.

While sitting on the pot lounging by the pool So I was flipping through an issue of Parenting magazine.

(Don’t laugh. It was free with my purchase of a Boppy pillow. Yeah, I filled out the card and sent it in. At the time I mistakenly thought I’d have all sorts of free time to read magazines while my children were entertained by our sophisticated and hilarious yet not-too-attractive nanny.)

(Anyway.)

I was flipping through Parenting magazine and saw this McDonald’s ad.

Don’t see anything interesting about it? How about now?

Mama’s hip and cute and . . . and she’s got a tattoo on her arm.

Coincidence, as one of my fave bloggers, Nic @ My Bottle’s Up, wrote up an insightful bit (as a guest poster) about tattoos and other scars and marks, how they tell a story.

I have three tattoos: one on my shoulder blade, one on my hip (or maybe it’s a flank? it used to be a hip) and one below the belt. (Sorry, mom.) None of them are especially visible unless I’m wearing a bathing suit or spaghetti-strap tank top, which I will never in my life ever wear again unless I drop like 10 or 15 pounds.

I’m not “into” tattoos, but I like them and think that, if you put thought and feeling into them, they’re pretty awesome.

All three of mine were meaningful for me at the time. Now, with the exception of the first one I got, they’re really just memories of who I used to be. I’m not ashamed of them or anything. It’s just that I’ve changed and I don’t think about them much anymore.

I’d like to get another one, though. One that will always, always be relevant.

Since the girls were born, I’ve thought on and off about getting another tattoo to signify or commemorate or honor or . . . something my daughters. I think Angelina Jolie had kind of a cool/unique idea with hers. And my gal pal, Mommy Melee, got a really pretty, symbolic piece of art to acknowledge her sons.

Really, I’m not looking to copy anyone else’s ideas or designs. I just need the seed of an idea to make my own. I need some inspiration.

I’m not in a rush. I want to find something meaningful for me and fitting to my daughters. I also want to be able to add onto it to acknowledge future children (what, did you think I’d stop at two?).

So, I’d love to hear about your tattoos. Did you get one for your kids? Or what are your thoughts on mommy tattoos?

I’ve kinda sorta been feeling better lately.

Oh sure, I still struggle to stay awake the first two hours of the day, yawning constantly and pouring cup after cup of coffee down my throat. I’m still sleeping like shit, tossing and turning and unable to get my mind to shut off. And, just to add more insult to injury, I think it’s safe to say that I’m experiencing the diarrhea side effect of Zoloft. Take that image to bed with you.

But the tears, the anxiety, those horrible feelings of despair, desperation, loneliness and emptiness . . . they’re fading. I’ve actually left the house the past two days in a row.

It’s bittersweet. The “sweet” part is that it’s best for me, best for the girls, best for my husband. The “bitter” part is that I hate that it takes pills to fix me. It is what it is.

Friday, I see the psychiatrist. I’m nervous — my insurance apparently sucks donkey balls and there’s only one psychiatrist in a 15 mile radius, so I’m just kind of settling. If he blows, I’ll just have to find someone else.

While the Zoloft is at least doping me up enough to not want to drive off a cliff, I’m having tons of side effects. I’m groggy, tired, run down, hazy, unmotivated. I sleep about four hours before tossing and turning for most of the rest of the night. Plus, it’s making me have to pee a lot at night, so I’m constantly running to the toilet. I was sick to my stomach for several days and could hardly eat anything except Cap’n Crunch.

Is this progress?

My experience is always that the side effects taper off with time, so I assume the same will happen here again. But man . . . I really just want to feel better. I’ve already backed out of a freelance job because I just can’t pull myself together to earn the money. I have another editing job hovering over me that I keep putting off. I skipped a much-needed social opportunity last night because I was just so overwhelmed with sadness and exhaustion that I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house.

I have to get better. I’m so frustrated by my own inability to just fix it already. I want desperately to get out of the house and I just can’t. The thought of having the get everyone and everything ready by myself makes me give up before I even try. I feel horrible that the girls are stuck inside all day because of this awful disorder-thingy.

And ultimately, that empty loneliness inside still nags. The leaden weight of sadness fills my head and trickles down to my limbs, making it impossible to move. This has to go away.

I saw the therapist on Wednesday. I chose her because 1) she was on my insurance list; 2) she was a woman; 3) she was about three minutes from the house. All completely awesome reasons to select a therapist.

Her office was full of kid toys and kid books and teen magazines. Paintings of happy children playing with teddy bears. Bean bags. Her business cards were cartoon drawings of children playing with giant blocks.

The charlatan was a damned specialist in child psychology and didn’t have the courtesy to mention this to me on the phone. She must have been trying to diversify her clientele.

I described my feelings,  my history of depression, my life experiences. I told her that I have that empty feeling in the middle of my chest, like someone’s ripped my heart out of my rib cage (which, for me, is the first sign of an impending depressive state). I told her that I spend time curled up on the couch, staring at the wall. I cry a lot. I’m all alone. That the smallest tasks are monumental for me.

With her sparkly purple toenails tucked up under her like an impish teen, she smiled, “Maybe you could pack up the kids in a stroller and just walk down the street?”

Lady. I am almost freaking incapacitated. Don’t you think that’s occurred to me? I’m telling you that it is too much for me.

Anyhow. Nice enough lady, but not for me. I need someone hardcore. Someone with a bowtie or toupee or support hose. Someone who won’t give me advice from the March 1993 issue of Cosmo.

I got a script for Zoloft through my OB and I have an appointment to see a real shrink (psychiatrist) in two weeks. The Zoloft is a mild dose and I’m starting with half a pill, twice a day, which I have timed so that the medication is supposedly peaking when the girls aren’t nursing.

The meds make my face and teeth feel like there’s a tiny vibrator running out of batteries somewhere in the middle of my brain. At least I get to feel dizzy while I wait for it to kick in.

I wanted to thank everyone who’s come out of the woodwork (mostly via Twitter and Mommy Melee’s post pimping) to offer their stories and support. Why do all the cool people live on the Internet instead of next door?

Warning: This post is going to be a mess. A big, embarrassing mess.

I’ve been sitting on a blog post for weeks now, editing and revising and tweaking, but ultimately I’ve been too chicken to hit “publish.” But I have to say something. So I figure I’ll just do what I do best, which is:

• Open mouth
• Eject verbal diarrhea
• Regret everything I’ve said
• Insert foot in open mouth
• Remove foot
• Eat humble pie

We have been here two weeks, and I haven’t felt like writing before, since that first day.

I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.

John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.  I am glad my case is not serious!

But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.

John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him. Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way! I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!

Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,–to dress and entertain, and order things.

***

I’m not doing very well.

Repeat: I’m not doing very well. At all.

This is not “man, I’m kinda down,” or “ugh, I need more sleep,” or “I should get out of the house more often.” This is “I’m really really really in desperate need of HELP.” Like, bad. Like, I need an intravenous injection of happiness to make this stop.

I’ve struggled (blah, I hate that word) the better (or worse) part of my life with depression. It’s my “thing.” Some people have allergies. Some people have arthritis. Me? I’m depressed. I have depression. It waxes and wanes, but it’s always always always there.

Depression is a difficult thing (disease? disorder? illness?) to live with, not only because it makes my life harder, but it also complicates the lives of those around me. They don’t get it. Don’t I know I’m a drag when I’m depressed? Why can’t I just snap out of it? Why can’t I just think happy thoughts? Exercise? Eat vegetables? Take vitamins? Get out in the sunshine more often?

It doesn’t work that way. This is something broken. Inside. In my brains. Something short circuiting, something misfiring. It’s something far far far beyond a sad mood. It’s an emptiness in the middle of my chest. A shriveling gut. A longing. A desperation.

Although I’m used to dealing with these feelings, there’s something about this trip around that’s far more intense than I’ve experienced in probably a decade. Hormones are probably contributing. Major life changes. Intense loneliness. Etc.

But man. It’s kicking my ass.

On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.

The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.

You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.

***

I’ve held back saying anything here for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that mothers aren’t supposed to be depressed.

Oh sure, some moms are alcoholics and abusers and users and cheaters. Some moms are lonely and sad and unfulfilled. Some moms regret becoming moms. Some end up in the psycho tank.

But that’s always someone else, right?

As much theoretical awareness as there is of the psychological complexities of motherhood and womanhood and femaleness, when you deviate from the idealized role of Mother (Mother, Mother), you become marginalized. Castigated. Branded. Feared. Nobody wants to let their kids around you. You’re unstable and bound to snap at any moment. Next thing you know, you’re the main character in a Charlotte Perkins Gilman short story.

You’ve exposed a weakness in the socially constructed role of Mother.

But I know I’m not the only one.

The front pattern does move–and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!

Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.

Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard.

And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern–it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.

***

Big, huge signpost here: I am not a threat to my kids or my family or myself. I don’t want to hurt anyone. My kids have zero to do with this. I feel no hatred or resentment or negativity toward them at all. So you can put the phone down, thanks.

***

I’m going to see someone tonight. As with all other shrinks I’ve seen throughout the years, I’m going to introduce myself with five minutes of bullet points about my past, my depression, my current feelings. I will smile. I’ll make self-deprecating jokes. I’ll laugh. I won’t shed a tear because SEE I’VE GOT IT TOGETHER DAMMIT. I’ve done this before. A million times.

The thing is, this time, I’m nursing. I would like to avoid prescription meds if at all possible.

The thing is, my brains are probably beyond herbs.

The thing is, I’ve waited too long to get help this time and it’s very desperate.

This thing.

But there is something else about that paper– the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.

It creeps all over the house.

I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.

It gets into my hair.

Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it–there is that smell!

Things are up and down with my boobs, which is stressing me out and probably causing more problems.

I went to the La Leche League meeting on Thursday. I, as with most breastfeeding mothers I know, had heard many rumors about LLL. Namely, I’d heard that they were militant, feminazi breastfeeding proponents who advocated “nurse-ins” and attachment parenting. Several of my friends were very eager for me to report my findings from the meeting.

My experience was this: La Leche League is definitely a “niche” group, not appropriate for what I’d consider average, Pamper-using, Babies R Us-shopping type families. I will preface my account with the full acknowledgement that I will come across as judgemental and possibly rude, neither of which I’m intending to be. But I admit that I was kind of disappointed with the experience and will not be attending any more meetings. In detail:

From the moment I walked in, it was glaringly obvious I didn’t really belong there. I was the only woman with a stroller — as in, everyone else was “wearing” their babies in various forms of cloth slings and other baby-wearing contraptions. The leader made sort of a big fuss about where to put my stroller, making things slightly more uncomfortable for me.

One by one, ladies and children filtered in as the leader waxed on for a good 20 minutes about the benefits of LLL membership. (Meetings are free but you have to pay for membership, which made zero sense to me. Not much of a business plan in my opinion, but anyway.)

At one point, a woman walked in and, while I didn’t notice how many children were actually hers, I believe she had no fewer than four. What was interesting about her, aside from the number of children, was the fact that she was wearing an uncomfortably short tennis skirt on her very overweight frame. Like I said, not trying to judge. But when she sat cross-legged on the floor, I was like woah damn.

Moving on.

Maybe I was misinformed, but I thought La Leche League was a breastfeeding support group sort of thing. So I was surprised when the leader presented a topic of discussion and we all had to talk about it like we were at an AA meeting. The topic was how much work mothers do when it appears we do nothing at all. We were told to talk about the things we do around the house, and we “learned” how to say them in a more “high-fallutin’” (the leader’s words, not mine) way to give gravity to the otherwise mundane-sounding chores of motherhood.

I actually really liked the topic, but I was getting antsy because I wanted to ask why my boobs were failing me and what I could do to make them work again, and I had two babies who’d had their nap interrupted to come to this group of breast-baring ladies, and here we were trying to make “I clean up shit and vomit” sound more important.

Next, the leader wanted to provide support for the two pregnant women in attendance, which was awesome. Finally, an hour and twenty minutes after the start of the meeting, she opened the floor for breastfeeding questions from the rest of the moms.

By this time, the children were bonkers. Babies were separated from mothers. Boobs were lactating. Kids were crying. Toys were usurped and diapers were desecrated. The din of wails, sobs, gurgles and giggles was distracting, to say the least. I desperately tried to raise my hand but couldn’t quite get in the loop. The mothers clucked at the evils of plastic toys from China. I shyly tried to retrieve my toxic toys from a hemp-shirt-wearing toddler.

Finally, I managed to jump in. “I started on the mini pill and my supply is practically gone. Does anyone have any experience with this? I’m trying lactation cookies, Mother’s Milk tea, fenugreek and cutting caffeine. It’s very important to me to continue breastfeeding.”

For a couple of seconds, no one acknowledged my question. Then, one mother chimed in, “Try Cat’s Claw tea for contraception.”

“Huh?”

“When taken in excess, Cat’s Claw tea can provide natural contraception.”

The leader further pushed for stopping the pill, which I was leaning toward anyway. Another lady suggested sesame for increasing supply, which I hadn’t heard of but found partially corroborated here.

So, after about 60 seconds of addressing my question, we were done. The meeting further devolved from there and I left shortly afterward.

The fenugreek is helping the most, I think. After just two doses (six pills total), I actually sprayed Elise in the face while feeding her at the meeting and have woken up somewhat engorged on a couple of mornings. Unfortunately, this seems to be short lived. Despite the tea three times a day, the cookies, the pills and the EXTREME LACK OF CAFFEINE, my boobs feel “empty” again.

This might just be them regulating, but it’s hard to  understand why “regulating” means not producing enough for my babies. The girls are starting to wake up earlier and earlier for an extra feeding at night to make up for the lack of food during their bedtime feeding. They usually sleep from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. straight through with no feeding. Over the past week, they’ve woken up at 6 a.m., 5:30, 5, 4:30 and finally 3:30 last night.

I am getting super stressed about it, which I know doesn’t help. The horror with Kramer the Kitty is probably doing a number on me, too. I stopped taking the pill three days ago, but so far no change.

I refuse to believe I’ll have to give up breastfeeding. If the girls were 11 months old, I might not feel as adamant, I might not feel such a profound sense of impending loss and failure. But they’re only seven months old and I’m not ready to give up — not for them or for me.

I just don’t understand. Why is my body failing me?

Why is this happening? Is it really that I had such a negative reaction to the pill and those antibiotics from my rotten tooth? Why aren’t all these lactogenic measures “sticking”? Will I have to keep up with these crazy fixes and potions until I wean the babies? How much more do I have to try to make this work?

This afternoon, I was changing Althea, my little firecracker. She was doing her thing, twisting her back and legs to flip herself over, making me curse a few times in laughter and frustration. After some goofing around, she flipped onto her back and I managed to get a diaper under her. Her happy cheeks round with a smile, she grabbed the fat — er, skin on my forearm with her strong little fingers.

In that moment, an otherwise insignificant moment captured in time, I remembered my grandma.

Grama had a lingering Boston accent and enjoyed a cold beer on a hot day. She smoked. She laughed. She read voraciously and snacked on Spam with crackers, taking careful nibbles with her front teeth while flipping the pages of another Agatha Christie mystery. She took clogging lessons.

Grama was buddies with the Lord and didn’t care which church she found him in (she, an alabaster Irish woman, once attended an all-African American gospel church — even purchased traditional African garb — and found that the Lord there was the same Lord she prayed to anywhere else, goddammit).

When I was a little girl, Grama would drive me to the 99-cent store in her long, white Oldsmobile. On our walk through the parking lot, I would stroke Grama’s arms, the sagging, loose skin so soft under my fingertips. I would explore the thick veins in her hands and caress her freckled arms.

This skin was different from mine. I delighted at this discovery, the soft skin loose and saggy with age. I would rub at it with my fingers and tell her how soft she was.

When I grew up, I wanted to have soft skin like Grama.

Now that I’m an adult, I realize she probably cursed all that loose and sagging skin, probably thought it was disgusting and unattractive, a reminder of how not-young she was. But to me, it was human silk, a touchy-feel that represented all that was comforting and right with the world.

My Grama’s skin.

Althea’s fingers digging into my forearm, I slid the diaper under her tiny little bum. Those big, bright eyes. Those apple-round cheeks. The gummy grin. Grabbing at my skin with exuberance and innocence.