Category — Post Partum Musings

Throughout the years, I’ve documented my ups and downs with bipolar/depression here. (I always feel the need to temper the word “bipolar” with the word “depression” because the former generally invokes visions of a manic person staying awake for a week while they paint the corners of their closets and then cry for three days. [Or maybe that's crystal meth?] I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar II, a milder form of bipolar disorder that consists of euphoric highs cycled with very deep, dark lows.) Unfortunately, it’s a constant part of my life. I don’t deal with it well. It’s uncomfortable. And perhaps the worst part is that I can feel it coming on.

When I’m in my euphoria, life is AWESOME. I’m happy, bubbly, expressive, fun, maybe a little wild (okay, maybe pretty wild. I try to blur out most of my teens years and 20′s because some of the stuff I did makes me cringe.). I convince myself that everything is okay and that my depressive bouts must be a distant memory — that this time, things will be different.

It never is. It never, ever is.

Since having Amaia, I’ve been mostly stable. Even as recent as a few weeks ago, I felt pretty great. Life was fulfilling and I had a positive and generally even-tempered outlook on things. The regular exercise must be helping, I told myself. Having a break while the girls are in school is really doing wonders, I thought.

But I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling that the next depressive low was just around the corner. Like I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of course, the shoe dropped. It’s dropping now. I’m not doing well. Again. It’s not as bad as it was when it hit after the twins, but it’s not good. Every day, every hour, feels harder than the last. I’m holding onto my sanity by ever-thinning threads. I feel like some days are getting too much for me to handle. I need more help than I can possibly bring myself to ask for — because of course, asking for help makes me a fucking HORRIBLE mother, which intensifies the feelings of worthlessness, failure, guilt, and anxiety.

Interestingly, I noticed that the downward turn coincides with the return of my period — just as it did last time when my period came back after the twins. The hormones probably have a big impact and it makes me wonder how things will look after I finish nursing.

And speaking of nursing, the onset of a depressive episode reminds me of how long this rollercoaster has been going on — the pregnant-nursing-weaning-woops-pregnant-again-nursing-again-need-to-wean-soon rollercoaster, that is. I had only weaned the twins because I needed to get back on my medication (Lamictal), only to immediately get pregnant with Amaia as soon as I weaned.

I do NOT want to stop breastfeeding because of this FUCKING disorder. BUT. I can’t go on like this. I’m not a good mom like this. I am NOT a good mom like this.

I know there’s more to me than what I feel now. I know that I can love and feel good again. I know because I’ve felt it.

So I will eventually wean Amaia because I love her that much. I love all my kids that much.

The baby is now 9.5 months old and I’m getting close to being able to do that. I just need to hang in there for a few more months.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been having some serious shit going on with my hormones. My hair finally stopped falling out in clumps since having Amaia (EIGHT MONTHS ago), but then I started breaking out like a teenager in  heat. And not in silly little whiteheads. No, I’m talking gigantic, flaming-red balls of yellow-filled pustules. My face is oilier than a frying pan. It’s totally disgusting.

Then, the scale started creeping up.

Then, I started wanting to eat everything in the refrigerator.

Then, I got a familiar pain in my uterus.

I just realized all that made it sound like I was pregnant again. I’m not.

I’m freaking ovulating again and I’m going to get my first post-partum period. Dammit. I got off period-free for eight months this time. It was 9 1/2 months with the twins.

But that’s not all. I’ve written before about how I get some extremely intense ovulation pain (called mittelschmerz), so I know exactly when it happens and which side the egg comes from.

Well, this time, I ovulated from both ovaries.

Yes, there are two eggs floating around my fallopians as we speak. Chris has been ordered to keep his penis as far away from me as possible for the next few days because if I so much as look at Mr. Happy Pants, I’ll end up pregnant with twins again.

Amaia turned six weeks old on Wednesday. I think it’s generally accepted that the first six weeks of a newborn’s life are the roughest (followed by the subsequent, oh, 27 years or so) and it’s certainly been true for us.

I don’t want to say Amaia’s an unhappy baby, but it certainly feels that as long as she’s awake, she’s crying. She cries after she eats, she cries in her car seat, she cries during car rides, she cries in the stroller. She cries if you hold her to the left. She cries if you hold her to the right. She cries in the bouncy seat, the swing, the Boppy. You get the idea. She’s hard to please and it’s been rough. I find myself really agitated sometimes when she’s especially fussy. My patience gets short.

I remember feeling this way with Althea and Elise too, but that may have been because there were two of them so chances were that someone would be crying at any given time. And as the weeks went by, things got better and better. I’m hoping that’s happening with Amaia, too. We’ve had a few decent nights of sleep the past few nights. She’s sometimes awake without crying.

She still screams in the car seat, though, and that’s incredibly aggravating, not to mention stressful and almost dangerous. There’s really nothing I can do except drive and hope I don’t hit something. I tried dangling some toys from the carry handle, but she’s not especially impressed so far. I got some of those pads for the shoulder strap in case the belts are hurting her neck, but they interfere with the correct positioning of the harness so I can’t use them. I’m out of ideas. Help?

I think I’m noticing a still-unreliable but vague pattern to her feeding and sleeping. My closest estimation:

8:30am – Wake and eat

10:30am – Eat, fall asleep shortly after

12:30pm – Wake and eat

1pm – Sleep

3pm – Wake and eat

4pm – Sleep

6pm – Wake and eat

7:30pm – Eat

9pm – Eat and sleep

1am – Eat, sleep

5am – Eat, sleep

I also had my six-week post-partum checkup this week. Everything is where it’s supposed to be, with the exception of, um, my butt. I don’t want to talk about it.

Okay, I’ll talk about it. (TMI Alert! TMI Alert!) Things are kind of falling out. It’s not pleasant. Turns out that the ligaments and stuff that hold a woman’s junk all together are estrogen sensitive. The doctor said that for some women who have had multiple deliveries and who are nursing, the suppression of estrogen due to breastfeeding inhibits the repair of the ligaments and muscles of the, um, nether region. So stuff can kind of . . . prolapse. As you wean or your period resumes (and thus the production of estrogen resumes), those things will naturally repair. So in the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep peeing when I run and crapping myself, thanks.

On to other subjects.

Speaking of breastfeeding, it’s going mostly better. Amaia still loses suction at times, but it’s less frequent and I definitely don’t think it’s a tongue tie anymore. Thanks to everyone’s suggestions, I did some reading and I think it’s partly an intense amount of milk for her, and partly just her. She’s gaining weight, she has plenty of wet and dirty diapers, she eats well and has become quite an efficient and thorough nurser.  So I’m just chalking it up to being her nursing idiosyncrasy unless something else becomes cause for concern.

Today, we gave Amaia her first bottle. Next week is my birthday and I wanted to go out for booze with some girlfriends. I’m happy to report that she took the bottle with no problem.

Bacardi, I am looking forward to being reacquainted in the near future.

And how am I doing? Well, I have good days and bad days. Good days tend to follow good sleep. I’m hoping for fewer bad days ahead. I have discovered the frozen foods aisle and can report that Bertolli makes some mean frozen meals. The bathrooms have been cleaned exactly once in the past six weeks and I’m not sure I give a shit. I cannot see the kitchen counters, but I can see most of the floor and that’s good enough for me.

I started working out again this week and I’m aiming to exercise every other day, even if it’s just 20 minutes and even if I can’t get around to showering for many hours afterwards. Considering Amaia tends to nap at the same time that Elise and Althea do in the afternoon, I think I might be able to pull it off sometimes.

Meanwhile, Althea and Elise are very much two year olds and provide plenty of challenges throughout the day. They are defiant and opinionated. They throw tantrums. They kick and protest. They run away when you come after them.

They are also awesome, amazing, intelligent, entertaining, creative, hilarious and beautiful.

Overall, I’m still happy to be a mom, and that’s what matters.

There is no time for creative post titles when your definition of “evening wear” has devolved to this:

Things right now are in a state of controlled chaos. With my mom still here helping, we’re able to get out of the house most days with everyone in tow. We eat breakfast, lunch and dinner and laundry is done on a pretty regular basis.

But around the house, there’s evidence of the underlying bedlam. The bathrooms haven’t been cleaned in a month. There are raisins and remnants of Goldfish crackers smashed into the carpet. All of my wearable clothes are covered, to some degree, in breastmilk. There are burp cloths, wash cloths, receiving blankets and hand towels stuffed into every corner of the house — all also covered in breastmilk.

I do not, as they say, “have it together.”

Speaking of which, breastfeeding is going . . . well, just okay, to be honest. I think Amaia has a bit of a tongue tie. She loses suction during feedings, sometimes frequently. She also chokes on the stream of milk during letdown and pops off, shrieking and crying. She doesn’t always empty my breast either, which may have contributed to the nasty case of mastitis I got earlier this week (104.5 fever = 3 pound weight loss FTW!).

According to my unofficial weighing method (step on scale with baby, step on scale without baby, subtract difference), she’s gaining weight just fine and her diaper output rivals that of a grown man on a high-fiber diet, so I’m not super worried about it. I read that some tongue ties are outgrown in the first year as the frenulum stretches. I’m hoping that’s the case here. But in the meantime, it’s annoying, frustrating and makes for some very messy feeding sessions. We’re working on it. Ideas/thoughts welcome.

Sleep is another subject altogether. With the twins, I started pretty early with scheduled feedings and a set bedtime. A natural and reliable pattern emerged by about 12 weeks and viola, there was our schedule. But with a singleton and two older children, it’s on-demand feeding and haphazard sleep schedules as we work around toddler routines and a house guest. The one thing I am determined to work on first is the afternoon nap because, come hell or high water, everyone is going to be napping at 2 p.m. Ideas/thoughts also welcome here.

Elise and Althea are getting used to Amaia’s presence. They now include her in their roll call of objects and people they see in the room. Once in a while, they’ll hold a small toy in the crook of their arm and say “Amaia” or start singing a Yo Gabba Gabba song about babies. Though it was unplanned, I’m glad we had another child while the girls are still younger — I think that emotional issues would have been much more complicated had Chris and I waited as planned to have a third.

Other than that, everything is just freaking great! Here are some photos. Admittedly, we’ve been pretty lame about taking photos lately. As soon as I can stop walking around the house with breastmilk soaking the front of my shirt, I’ll get to work on that too.

I’m pretty realistic about New Year’s resolutions. I dislike the idea of choosing to change something in your life based on a particular date rather than the actual, willful, personal drive at any other time of year. I end up going easy on myself for any resolutions I do make because I figure I probably won’t achieve them anyhow, so why set my sights too high?

I know. The ambition is staggering, isn’t it?

But still, like millions of others, I usually make a mental note of something I’d like to accomplish in the new year.

This year, I have a few things I want to do:

1) Get a rein on my Starbucks addiction. It became a serious problem during the pregnancy, especially toward the end. I kept telling myself “You won’t be able to continue this caloric intake after the baby’s here. Might as well take advantage.” When I found myself at that cursed drive-thru for the fourth time in nearly as many days — amounting to nearly $20 in icy, caffeine-infused deliciousness gone straight to my ass in less than a week — I realized I’d crossed a dangerous line.

So, Starbucks no more than once a month. Promise.

2) Start working out again by three months post-partum. I almost laugh to say this because I tried with every good intention to do this after having the girls. It is freaking close to impossible, I’m telling you. But it’s part of my mental and physical health and, with three kids, I need every semblance of sanity I can get.

I figure I’ll have to be pretty flexible with my definition of “working out.” It’s not going to be my old hour-and-a-half jaunts to the gym or doing a DVD at home. It’ll probably be more like 20 minutes a few times a week, as I make the time. I’ll have to learn to be okay with that.

3) Get back into my pre-Amaia clothes, if not my pre-Elise-and-Althea clothes. I gained 28 pounds with Amaia and have lost 18 of it. Losing that will still have me at 10-ish pounds over where I was before the twins, though, making for a total of 20 pounds to lose. I’ll be ecstatic if I get rid of 15 of it.

The problem I  had during the first year after the twins were born was that I discovered I’m NOT one of the lucky ladies that loses tons of weight by breastfeeding. My body hoards every calorie I give it, and I had a VERY difficult time losing more than five pounds during that first year post-partum. Once I was down to breastfeeding only two or three times a day, the weight finally started coming off. So I have to be realistic about that, too.

Mentally, I’m already antsy to get back into the workout and weight loss swing of things. But physically, I’m not there. I’m still very much freshly post-partum, as evidence by the 80000 maxi pads I go through every day and the ravenous appetite of the early days of nursing. (Hey, you going to eat that?)

4) Go easy on myself with all of the above. Really, I mostly want to get a grip of running the house again and getting out and about with three little ones. I’ll be happy if I manage to get everyone dressed and fed every day.

Notice I didn’t say that everyone has to have clean, matching clothes. Notice I didn’t say anything about being fed healthy foods. I just said that there would be clothes and food involved on a daily basis. And, in general, the clothes and food will not be confused, a la Lady Gaga’s meat dress.

Baby steps, people. Little, tiny, underachieving baby steps.

Rambling post, probably riddled with exhaustion-induced typos and nonsensical statements, to follow . . .

The 12 days since Amaia’s birth have been a blur. I’m tired. I sweat excessively. My appetite is out of control. My skin is changing. My body is squishy and weird, transitioning from the roundness of pregnancy to the limbo of hormonal regulation, tissue repair and early nursing.

Other things are happening to my body that I can’t bring myself to talk about. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

My emotions are all over the place. I’m not sure that others would agree, but I feel like I’m dealing with the emotional instability of the hormones and sleep deprivation better this time than I did after the girls were born. But it’s still a rollercoaster.

The most difficult part has been feeling like I’m losing Elise and Althea. I miss them terribly. I feel so far away from them, so apart. I love being their mom and don’t like feeling these things. They’re changing and I feel like I’m missing every minute of it.

In the past couple of weeks, Althea especially has started throwing very physical tantrums and being noticeably rebellious. I assume it’s a combination of everything — the baby, the lack of routine and rules in my absence, the vibes I’m probably giving off, and the simple fact that they are two years old and they’re supposed to act like maniacs. I don’t know how to deal with it.

Thankfully, none of the emotions have anything to do with Amaia. I don’t resent her or feel like anything is her “fault.” She’s fitting in pretty well and we’re trying not making a big deal of her presence. Chris and I talk about her when the Elise and Althea show curiosity, and act as though she’s always been here otherwise. I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do, but it’s how we’re dealing with it.

I’m trying to keep in mind that it’s all just part of the circumstances. The chaos of these moments is temporary and it’ll all change before I know it. We’ll figure it out. They are all my girls, and Chris is a great husband and father, and we’re all in this together. I’m trying to keep all of this in mind as I sort through my own changes.

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?