You know what sucks?
The fact that I was sick with a sore throat just before coming home from the hospital, baby A had a great night the first night home, only waking once (needing our intervention) to feed, and then got my cold just as I was stopping pumping milk.
I made the decision to finally stop because at 3 hours/day, it was time I could have spent enjoying her or doing a bit of something for myself. And today, I'm still coughing and having trouble sleeping, she is sleeping less and having a hard time falling asleep, and it feels like the one reason I decided to stop feeding her breast milk is moot. Total loss.
I guess I really still do believe that good things happen to good people. And I was trying to be so good, and grown up, and make an adult decision.
We had 24 hours with her home, happy, all of us doing so well. Then last night she kept waking up because she was coughing and the binky kept falling out, or because she just had a hard time settling. A month of good nights at the hospital, one at home, and now a cold.
Yes. I know. The cold will pass. But we had hope that the month of good sleep would rub off on her here at home, at least a bit, and we could work towards good nights here. And this was already pushing our luck. Just to hope that we could piggyback on the good sleep habits.
I hear getting the bare minimum accomplished by is the new black.
Am I in a mood? Sure I am. First day home, and on my own, and she and I are sick. And my spirits are not all that solid yet. I just so wanted a grace period to build up momentum.
Were there some good things, too, today? Of course - I had a baby nestle into my chest in her carrier many hours today, just to be close. I got more tissues for the house. We saw baby A's future daycare and it was sweet.
So, head down and keep plowing forward. This all doesn't have to mean anything, or to be preparing us for something else, or in any way intended or directed at us. There is no greater power because if there were, I'd be pissed and expecting some answers. Today is just hard. And I'm just tired. And if I'm not the best me, that is fine.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Enough
I've come to see this word, "enough," as pretty two-faced. Like that friend who was all buddy buddy with you outside of school and then at school you weren't cool enough or interesting enough, and suddenly acted like you weren't that close.
Ok, maybe it isn't like that, but I wanted to dis a bit on those kinds of people this morning.
It is a two-sided word, though.
There is what I think of as the powerful, positive side of "enough." You are a good enough ________. Fill it with "student," "researcher," "parent," or any other category and if you can believe that, you feel pretty good. It lets you feel ok just as you are, doing what you already do, not needing to change to be a member of that group. Or, "You have enough." "You've done enough." All very accepting, forgiving, gentle. The judgment starts with a positive outcome, and you go from there, retroactively reaping the benefits of this pat on the back, whether it is from yourself or someone else.
Then there is the nastier side of "enough." When it is used as a vague guide for trying even harder on something hard or impossible to do. "You will hear God speak to you if you have enough faith." That one is my poster-child for the destructive power of the word. Just keep trying, and if you keep not hearing God, you're still not doing enough.
Or, "if you relax enough you'll get pregnant." Another winner in the "makes me feel like a pile of poo" category. If you get pregnant, you did (in retrospect) enough. If not, you were at fault. You didn't do enough. It is a way to tie your worth to an outcome. And like I said, the outcome may well have nothing to do with that action.
It happens when people start with the belief that "there is a God who will speak to you" or "there is nothing medically wrong with you that you can't get pregnant" or any number of things that seem way more about belief systems than about logic, or actual cause and effect. And they put such pressure on the one who gets the "not enough" tag. Since God can't fail, you must have. Since medicine is infallible, you must be fallible. They start with a dogmatic belief in absoluteness.
The first use of "enough" places such great faith in the human being and her or his intrinsic completeness, just as they are. The second seems to never bestow that faith in the first place and make the human struggle to prove her or himself worthy.
I hate that. Just thought I'd mention it.
And since, by definition, my blog post is done when I'm done, I've written enough. Phew.
Oh, but here's a family photo since I don't put many photos in anymore and I like seeing photos in other people's blogs....
Ok, maybe it isn't like that, but I wanted to dis a bit on those kinds of people this morning.
It is a two-sided word, though.
There is what I think of as the powerful, positive side of "enough." You are a good enough ________. Fill it with "student," "researcher," "parent," or any other category and if you can believe that, you feel pretty good. It lets you feel ok just as you are, doing what you already do, not needing to change to be a member of that group. Or, "You have enough." "You've done enough." All very accepting, forgiving, gentle. The judgment starts with a positive outcome, and you go from there, retroactively reaping the benefits of this pat on the back, whether it is from yourself or someone else.
Then there is the nastier side of "enough." When it is used as a vague guide for trying even harder on something hard or impossible to do. "You will hear God speak to you if you have enough faith." That one is my poster-child for the destructive power of the word. Just keep trying, and if you keep not hearing God, you're still not doing enough.
Or, "if you relax enough you'll get pregnant." Another winner in the "makes me feel like a pile of poo" category. If you get pregnant, you did (in retrospect) enough. If not, you were at fault. You didn't do enough. It is a way to tie your worth to an outcome. And like I said, the outcome may well have nothing to do with that action.
It happens when people start with the belief that "there is a God who will speak to you" or "there is nothing medically wrong with you that you can't get pregnant" or any number of things that seem way more about belief systems than about logic, or actual cause and effect. And they put such pressure on the one who gets the "not enough" tag. Since God can't fail, you must have. Since medicine is infallible, you must be fallible. They start with a dogmatic belief in absoluteness.
The first use of "enough" places such great faith in the human being and her or his intrinsic completeness, just as they are. The second seems to never bestow that faith in the first place and make the human struggle to prove her or himself worthy.
I hate that. Just thought I'd mention it.
And since, by definition, my blog post is done when I'm done, I've written enough. Phew.
Oh, but here's a family photo since I don't put many photos in anymore and I like seeing photos in other people's blogs....
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Goin' home
We're almost at the end of our stay.
Baby A is now crawling fast and standing when she can. She eats carrot mush and Zwieback crackers with the best of them. And she thought the new backpack hiking carrier was pretty fly. She's a daycare champ.
She still doesn't sleep so well on our visits home (waking 5-7 times a night instead of 10-12 like last month), so things will still be a bit rough. But this month has been about my connecting with her and having enough rest to do it well. And about learning to handle the thought of a small, simple, slow life better. So what if we don't do a lot of what other parents are doing with their 6 month olds. This is our life, and it is enough.
We'll probably never know what the issues with sleep were. That's a hard one to let go of given the academic background and how much the exhaustion can slow down the days. But if we, I, can learn to roll with this reality, I think I'm better of in the long run anyway.
It won't stop me from wanting to bring some serious pain to that 80 year old Swiss ladies who told us we HAD to get baby A's ears surgically corrected because they were so big that they would make her life hard. Yeah, ok, bite me. Oh wait, after a month of therapy I can just smile and walk away. Lucky biddy.
Baby A is now crawling fast and standing when she can. She eats carrot mush and Zwieback crackers with the best of them. And she thought the new backpack hiking carrier was pretty fly. She's a daycare champ.
She still doesn't sleep so well on our visits home (waking 5-7 times a night instead of 10-12 like last month), so things will still be a bit rough. But this month has been about my connecting with her and having enough rest to do it well. And about learning to handle the thought of a small, simple, slow life better. So what if we don't do a lot of what other parents are doing with their 6 month olds. This is our life, and it is enough.
We'll probably never know what the issues with sleep were. That's a hard one to let go of given the academic background and how much the exhaustion can slow down the days. But if we, I, can learn to roll with this reality, I think I'm better of in the long run anyway.
It won't stop me from wanting to bring some serious pain to that 80 year old Swiss ladies who told us we HAD to get baby A's ears surgically corrected because they were so big that they would make her life hard. Yeah, ok, bite me. Oh wait, after a month of therapy I can just smile and walk away. Lucky biddy.
Balboa makes for much better soothing a baby than a lindy basic
“Inside each joy was a hard kernel of sadness, as if I was always preparing myself for impending loss.” 3am and I’ve just started reading a book called Devotion, by Dani Shapiro. It is light and heavy all at the same time, and I like the sense of humor, mixed in, lightening the dark fears and big questions she carries around with her. And this line appears, in the middle of a paragraph. And I know exactly what she means. Moments like this make me feel less alone in the world. That my worries or fears or troubles are just part of being human.
I’ve woken up at 1:30am, to pump, and knew I was going to have a hard time falling asleep. I often do at this time of night. Especially, like tonight, when I’ve had a lot of sleep already. I put baby A to sleep in the room next to mine here at the hospital and the night nurses are taking care of her tonight. I’ve already slept some 5 ½ hours.
So I laid there, listening to the rain sound on the white noise soundtrack I’ve got going. I breathe, I try to calm down, I try to stop hearing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” in my head. I do that – play songs in my head over and over. It keeps me from going to sleep, like some little nudge to push me back in to consciousness. Doesn’t have to be pop music, could well have been the Sesame Street theme song, or one of the strange concoctions we’ve introduced to soothe Baby A. And it is usually just a snippet of the song, over and over. With how much it resembles a mantra, I should be enlightened ten times over by now.
Open the window to cool off the room.
“…caught in a bad ro-mance!”
Turn over and put a pillow over my ears.
“Oooooo, caught in a….”
Try to release that feeling that has been with me so long. That grip on my heart. The one that I’ve never been able to relax through meditation. And believe me I tried a lot. It is like Dani Shapiro’s hard kernel. Yoga used to work sometimes, or a long session of dancing. I need to be exhausted to let it go. As if I’m the one holding it.
Like waiting for the other shoe to drop but it is not only clenched in my hand, it is superglued there.
“I want your love. La la la, I want your…”
So I’m the patient this time, at this hospital visit. They gave me a schedule, and “music and movement therapy” was on there this morning. Um, yeah. Really? I’d better not have to bang on some non-Western rhythm instrument, naming my demons in time with some beat. Or do some sort of theater movement exercise where I pretend to be angry, then, sad, then curious, then…do I have any idea of what exercises theater people do? No. But I can sure imagine some stupid ones!
But it was okay. And the person leading the session was young, and hip, and friendly, and most importantly, really normal. She had all sorts of great CDs in her case – the kind that make you relieved. Music that has once been on a radio station and not in a new age shop. I am happy to report a total lack of pan-flutes. And there I was, with a group of other people all with their own sadness or pain or exhaustion or questions. I danced. For the first time in 14 months, I danced as a single, self-contained individual. Not to make Baby A smile (although that is fun), or to rock her to sleep with a Balboa step. Not adapting to the need to hold her. My arms were mine, my legs, I could bounce or jump as hard as I wanted and not worry about a little brain in a little skull. All I had to worry about was not knocking myself out. Mission accomplished. It was good.
In the afternoon, in the daycare, I sat with a few other moms and we had craft time. Another chance for a totally dumb or cliché or infantile experience that was just really nice instead. Someone had said we were making bracelets…great, can I just end it all now with the nearest blunt utensil? But we used fishing wire to string together handfuls of different buttons. A teething toy, full of textures and colors, and totally spit-up resistant. A chance to make something for Baby A, and just sit and play with something tactile instead of just trying to pay bills and do laundry and get her to nap and and and…for those 2 hours. Of course, little miss “it goes in my mouth and if it happens to be any part of your skin, all the better, but I’ll settle for anything within reach” loved it. How nice to have a chance to think about her development stage with intent instead of just rushing to the store to buy yet another toy to keep her growing curiosity satisfied. Completely un-sickly sweet experience. Sentimental in a nice way, not in a lederhosen and cuckoo-clock way. Or in a “Precious Moments” way. In a way I could actually appreciate – quiet, simple, clever.
I just heard her crying next door. I let the nurse take it. I stayed in my room, and listened to it. It was fine. It is okay for me to have some alone time, even if I can’t sleep. I can read, write, stare at the ceiling. I can just be for a while.
“la la love, I want your love…”
Oh shut, up.
I’ve woken up at 1:30am, to pump, and knew I was going to have a hard time falling asleep. I often do at this time of night. Especially, like tonight, when I’ve had a lot of sleep already. I put baby A to sleep in the room next to mine here at the hospital and the night nurses are taking care of her tonight. I’ve already slept some 5 ½ hours.
So I laid there, listening to the rain sound on the white noise soundtrack I’ve got going. I breathe, I try to calm down, I try to stop hearing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” in my head. I do that – play songs in my head over and over. It keeps me from going to sleep, like some little nudge to push me back in to consciousness. Doesn’t have to be pop music, could well have been the Sesame Street theme song, or one of the strange concoctions we’ve introduced to soothe Baby A. And it is usually just a snippet of the song, over and over. With how much it resembles a mantra, I should be enlightened ten times over by now.
Open the window to cool off the room.
“…caught in a bad ro-mance!”
Turn over and put a pillow over my ears.
“Oooooo, caught in a….”
Try to release that feeling that has been with me so long. That grip on my heart. The one that I’ve never been able to relax through meditation. And believe me I tried a lot. It is like Dani Shapiro’s hard kernel. Yoga used to work sometimes, or a long session of dancing. I need to be exhausted to let it go. As if I’m the one holding it.
Like waiting for the other shoe to drop but it is not only clenched in my hand, it is superglued there.
“I want your love. La la la, I want your…”
So I’m the patient this time, at this hospital visit. They gave me a schedule, and “music and movement therapy” was on there this morning. Um, yeah. Really? I’d better not have to bang on some non-Western rhythm instrument, naming my demons in time with some beat. Or do some sort of theater movement exercise where I pretend to be angry, then, sad, then curious, then…do I have any idea of what exercises theater people do? No. But I can sure imagine some stupid ones!
But it was okay. And the person leading the session was young, and hip, and friendly, and most importantly, really normal. She had all sorts of great CDs in her case – the kind that make you relieved. Music that has once been on a radio station and not in a new age shop. I am happy to report a total lack of pan-flutes. And there I was, with a group of other people all with their own sadness or pain or exhaustion or questions. I danced. For the first time in 14 months, I danced as a single, self-contained individual. Not to make Baby A smile (although that is fun), or to rock her to sleep with a Balboa step. Not adapting to the need to hold her. My arms were mine, my legs, I could bounce or jump as hard as I wanted and not worry about a little brain in a little skull. All I had to worry about was not knocking myself out. Mission accomplished. It was good.
In the afternoon, in the daycare, I sat with a few other moms and we had craft time. Another chance for a totally dumb or cliché or infantile experience that was just really nice instead. Someone had said we were making bracelets…great, can I just end it all now with the nearest blunt utensil? But we used fishing wire to string together handfuls of different buttons. A teething toy, full of textures and colors, and totally spit-up resistant. A chance to make something for Baby A, and just sit and play with something tactile instead of just trying to pay bills and do laundry and get her to nap and and and…for those 2 hours. Of course, little miss “it goes in my mouth and if it happens to be any part of your skin, all the better, but I’ll settle for anything within reach” loved it. How nice to have a chance to think about her development stage with intent instead of just rushing to the store to buy yet another toy to keep her growing curiosity satisfied. Completely un-sickly sweet experience. Sentimental in a nice way, not in a lederhosen and cuckoo-clock way. Or in a “Precious Moments” way. In a way I could actually appreciate – quiet, simple, clever.
I just heard her crying next door. I let the nurse take it. I stayed in my room, and listened to it. It was fine. It is okay for me to have some alone time, even if I can’t sleep. I can read, write, stare at the ceiling. I can just be for a while.
“la la love, I want your love…”
Oh shut, up.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Public transport junkies
So it seems that the ticket checks on the trams and buses in Zurich have ramped up in the last month or two. It now feels like every other time I ride them, there I am having to dig out my pass, potentially the dog's ticket, while balancing a baby and stroller. What gets me is how much it reminds me of those 80s cop shows where the pimps and drug dealers can totally tell a cop who is trying to go undercover.
I've noticed now that whenever a person gets on the tram who looks kind of shifty, dressed in not too fashionable clothing, and I start to revert to my CTA brain ("watch your wallet and bag..."), without fail they turn around, flash a badge and ask for my ticket. They stand out SO badly. I always think they are junkies or daytime drunks or something.
"Oh, my ticket? Phew, I thought you were going to try to lift my iPhone. You guys should stop looking around so nervously when you get on. You stand out. A lot. And I've only been here a year and can tell."
One of them ticketed a black lab standing next to us, who was riding with a man who had helped me and another mom with their strollers. That's cold.
I've noticed now that whenever a person gets on the tram who looks kind of shifty, dressed in not too fashionable clothing, and I start to revert to my CTA brain ("watch your wallet and bag..."), without fail they turn around, flash a badge and ask for my ticket. They stand out SO badly. I always think they are junkies or daytime drunks or something.
"Oh, my ticket? Phew, I thought you were going to try to lift my iPhone. You guys should stop looking around so nervously when you get on. You stand out. A lot. And I've only been here a year and can tell."
One of them ticketed a black lab standing next to us, who was riding with a man who had helped me and another mom with their strollers. That's cold.
Who knew I could hate a holiday more than Valentine's Day?
2:06am. Night feeding finished by team effort again. Baby A is on her belly (just you try and flip her over) and finallyasleep again.
Last mothers day I was pregnant. 2 months. It was exciting. I felt like someone who could celecrate motherhood.i looked forward to today when I'd be a real mom.
And here it is. I handed baby A over to M in tears yesterday when I had tried fir a second time to get her to nap unsuccessfully. I yelled "I hate that baby." happy mothers day.
I didn't think this was what motherhood was going to be like. I was going to be totally in love with this baby by now. We'd understand each other and I would know how to soothe, feed, and put this baby to sleep.
And instead I'm packing suit cases full of our clothes to go to a program I desperately hope teaches me to love her. Because I don't even know if I love her.
It doesn't feel like I thought it would. She isn't the love of my life. I smile and laugh and interact with her many times but at other times I'm exhausted and I just want to run away. I don't want to be responsible for making her scream yet again for nap time, or cry during another feeding. Gas? Pain? Some other reason? I can't tell when she is in pain vs hungry vs tired vs frustrated. All cries sound the same to me. (Hint: this is not where you give me advice on what baby cries sounds like. I've heard other babies in the hospital and could read them better after 10 min than I can baby A after 5 1/2 months.)
I don't feel like a mom. I feel like a caretaker. I feel like I put 100% of myself into thus everyday and by 3pm I'm in tears not sure what she wants. How can I not know? How can I not even care by that time many days? Where is that fierce love? How come I just feel numb, silent where I thought I would feel emotion. I am good to her because I believe that is how it should work, not because I can't help myself with love.
I don't even know that I feel she is really my daughter. I look into her face and I don't recognize her like I thought I would by now.
It breaks my heart.
I walk out on her screaming in her crib because I'm just out of everything. "Who cares, don't go to sleep stupid baby. Scream instead of settling. Fine. Leave me alone!"
She doesn't melt in my arms. Does she even differentiate between me and anyone else?
I often worry that we made a huge mistake having a child. I don't know what I was thinking. It isn't at all like I expected. I'm so tired, so sad, so empty. And heading off to a hospital with a psych ward for help learning to read my own baby.
I need other people to teach me about my own child. I don't feel like a mom. I feel like a huge phony celebrating mothers day.
My biggest wish was to know her. Who she is. And to accept that like I believe every person deserves. Not to change her or try to force her into some mold. And yet here I am and I can't even tell hunger from tired. And yelling that I hate her because I feel like a failure when 10 min into her screaming and writhing I still can never tell if I'm pushing a nap on her and stressing her out or if it is a necessary process for her to scream and fight before sleeping. And it makes me feel like a bad person to have pinned her arms down at her sides, to keep pushing back from her arching, to keep covering her eyes with a cloth. Because you get to a place where you realize you may be holding her too tight. And it just makes me want to cry, because there I am maybe just terrifying her when all I wanted to do is help her sleep so that the afternoon would go better. So she wouldn't get overtired, so the night might go well. I wanted to help and I can't tell if I am hurting instead.
I can't tell. And at some point I don't even care anymore and I need to put her down and walk out of the room.
happy mothers day.
Last mothers day I was pregnant. 2 months. It was exciting. I felt like someone who could celecrate motherhood.i looked forward to today when I'd be a real mom.
And here it is. I handed baby A over to M in tears yesterday when I had tried fir a second time to get her to nap unsuccessfully. I yelled "I hate that baby." happy mothers day.
I didn't think this was what motherhood was going to be like. I was going to be totally in love with this baby by now. We'd understand each other and I would know how to soothe, feed, and put this baby to sleep.
And instead I'm packing suit cases full of our clothes to go to a program I desperately hope teaches me to love her. Because I don't even know if I love her.
It doesn't feel like I thought it would. She isn't the love of my life. I smile and laugh and interact with her many times but at other times I'm exhausted and I just want to run away. I don't want to be responsible for making her scream yet again for nap time, or cry during another feeding. Gas? Pain? Some other reason? I can't tell when she is in pain vs hungry vs tired vs frustrated. All cries sound the same to me. (Hint: this is not where you give me advice on what baby cries sounds like. I've heard other babies in the hospital and could read them better after 10 min than I can baby A after 5 1/2 months.)
I don't feel like a mom. I feel like a caretaker. I feel like I put 100% of myself into thus everyday and by 3pm I'm in tears not sure what she wants. How can I not know? How can I not even care by that time many days? Where is that fierce love? How come I just feel numb, silent where I thought I would feel emotion. I am good to her because I believe that is how it should work, not because I can't help myself with love.
I don't even know that I feel she is really my daughter. I look into her face and I don't recognize her like I thought I would by now.
It breaks my heart.
I walk out on her screaming in her crib because I'm just out of everything. "Who cares, don't go to sleep stupid baby. Scream instead of settling. Fine. Leave me alone!"
She doesn't melt in my arms. Does she even differentiate between me and anyone else?
I often worry that we made a huge mistake having a child. I don't know what I was thinking. It isn't at all like I expected. I'm so tired, so sad, so empty. And heading off to a hospital with a psych ward for help learning to read my own baby.
I need other people to teach me about my own child. I don't feel like a mom. I feel like a huge phony celebrating mothers day.
My biggest wish was to know her. Who she is. And to accept that like I believe every person deserves. Not to change her or try to force her into some mold. And yet here I am and I can't even tell hunger from tired. And yelling that I hate her because I feel like a failure when 10 min into her screaming and writhing I still can never tell if I'm pushing a nap on her and stressing her out or if it is a necessary process for her to scream and fight before sleeping. And it makes me feel like a bad person to have pinned her arms down at her sides, to keep pushing back from her arching, to keep covering her eyes with a cloth. Because you get to a place where you realize you may be holding her too tight. And it just makes me want to cry, because there I am maybe just terrifying her when all I wanted to do is help her sleep so that the afternoon would go better. So she wouldn't get overtired, so the night might go well. I wanted to help and I can't tell if I am hurting instead.
I can't tell. And at some point I don't even care anymore and I need to put her down and walk out of the room.
happy mothers day.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Rhubarb and country hospitals
So the first rhubarb of the season showed up on the on-line grocery service we use, and it finally made it into my first compote of the season. Rhubarb, prunes, blueberries, strawberries and honey. I'm never using sugar again after last year's great turnout with the honey. Yum. Bring on the amazing fruit, and maybe some more sun and warmth while we're at it.
Ah, right, you are probably tuning in for the second part of the story. Well, after my very unsatisfactory call with the sleep expert, turns out she felt exactly the same way, and left a message on the house phone about another option for us. Well, I don't really check the messages on the house phone, ever. I should change our message on there to make that clear, huh?
Turns out there is a program run out of a hospital with a counseling/psych department, which deals specifically with moms and tough to read babies. You stay in house for weeks. They video tape you and the baby (and dads, too). They analyze the tapes to look for subtle cues that can help you understand the baby better. They look at sleep patterns, and at how you interact with the baby. They have a daycare which gives moms time to sleep, to talk to doctors and counselors, to recuperate. And, I hope, to learn to bond better.
So, yes, the Swiss never cease to amaze me. I'm all ready to throw in the red towel with the white cross on it, and Bam! Jingle, they bring out an amazing program like this. We go there soon. I can't wait.
And at the same time, I can. Just knowing there is hope, even the tiniest bit, does wonders in a hopeless situation. Just the smallest splinter afloat, that can take even a little of the weight off your shoulders, makes it all bearable. For the next days. I can hang in there, I can even stop worrying so much about what each individual night will be like, because once again, help is on the way. I can put down my incessant wondering what causes the sleepless nights, because someone else has said they will step up and take over for a while.
It is good. Really good.
And in the meantime, there are also rules in place at home to help us out. The schedule can bite me, for all I care, the baby comes first. More importantly, my interactions with her come first. Those have to be as good as possible. Also, M is my backup for night waking/feedings. He takes her when I've woken up in the middle of a sleep cycle and am not in a calm place. And having that partner there is really nice. Who am I kidding - it is vital.
We've even made another leap in getting things done in the apartment and now have 5 out of 6 ceiling lights installed. By Friday, it may be 6 out of 6. The guest couch comes next, and who knows what wonderful things will follow. People may come over. They may stop asking if we've just moved in. The dog might stop obsessing about cats. Ok, maybe not that.
It is a good day today.
Ah, right, you are probably tuning in for the second part of the story. Well, after my very unsatisfactory call with the sleep expert, turns out she felt exactly the same way, and left a message on the house phone about another option for us. Well, I don't really check the messages on the house phone, ever. I should change our message on there to make that clear, huh?
Turns out there is a program run out of a hospital with a counseling/psych department, which deals specifically with moms and tough to read babies. You stay in house for weeks. They video tape you and the baby (and dads, too). They analyze the tapes to look for subtle cues that can help you understand the baby better. They look at sleep patterns, and at how you interact with the baby. They have a daycare which gives moms time to sleep, to talk to doctors and counselors, to recuperate. And, I hope, to learn to bond better.
So, yes, the Swiss never cease to amaze me. I'm all ready to throw in the red towel with the white cross on it, and Bam! Jingle, they bring out an amazing program like this. We go there soon. I can't wait.
And at the same time, I can. Just knowing there is hope, even the tiniest bit, does wonders in a hopeless situation. Just the smallest splinter afloat, that can take even a little of the weight off your shoulders, makes it all bearable. For the next days. I can hang in there, I can even stop worrying so much about what each individual night will be like, because once again, help is on the way. I can put down my incessant wondering what causes the sleepless nights, because someone else has said they will step up and take over for a while.
It is good. Really good.
And in the meantime, there are also rules in place at home to help us out. The schedule can bite me, for all I care, the baby comes first. More importantly, my interactions with her come first. Those have to be as good as possible. Also, M is my backup for night waking/feedings. He takes her when I've woken up in the middle of a sleep cycle and am not in a calm place. And having that partner there is really nice. Who am I kidding - it is vital.
We've even made another leap in getting things done in the apartment and now have 5 out of 6 ceiling lights installed. By Friday, it may be 6 out of 6. The guest couch comes next, and who knows what wonderful things will follow. People may come over. They may stop asking if we've just moved in. The dog might stop obsessing about cats. Ok, maybe not that.
It is a good day today.
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