Or maybe the dog shouldn't come with...

Poor pupper. She gets a lot of flack from us at mealtimes. She has started cruising not only the dining room table but also the kitchen counters. We used to never give her food that we ate, apart from a piece of bread here and there. And once in a while, she would get her claws into a loaf (or, on miraculous days, the butter next to the bread). But she very rarely went for the high surfaces.

But not anymore. She is a fully, two-legged creature when it comes to relieving our tables and counter tops of their edible offerings. It drives me up the wall. I yell and clap at her. I don't like baby A seeing that behavior from me, but she is part instigator - it is her food that the dog has started to get access to. By accidental drop on the floor followed by our lack of energy to clean it up before the dog gets it. Also on purpose, when the roaming eater that is our child meets the roaming eater that is our dog.

This has also led to our dog gaining some kilos.

Tonight the dog was away during dinner and bedtime, and it was so much calmer. Now I just have to figure out a way to translate that to when the dog is home. She already has to "go to bed" (i.e. her crate) when the food is on the table. But afterward is it one long inhale, as her nose travels the floor. Food goes in, fluff goes in, who knows what else makes it in there.

There are times I wish we had a yard. Very few, given the amount of work it takes to maintain even a simple one, but this is one of them.

On being human

When I told friends that M got baby A to laugh for the first time, one of them emailed me to say that in Navajo culture, the advent of the first laugh is considered a special moment when the child truly becomes human. And the person who gets the first laugh from a baby is supposed to throw a party to celebrate. Well, the party has yet to be thrown, in line behind so many others we have yet to throw - to meet our neighbors in the building, to have M's students and postdocs over, etc.

Last night was another tough one for baby A, and us, by extension. She seemed to have a lot of painful gas and would cry for 10 seconds, whimper, scream, then fall asleep again on the bed next to me, or on my chest. This went on for a while, and at times I was frantically looking for her binky in the dark, because I was sure that this time she might finally fall off to sleep for longer, taking me with her. Well, usually we have 2 glow-in-the-dark binkies in her room - one in her possession and one for when that first one gets chucked into some far corner of the room, under or behind something and we can't see it glowing. Last night, however, at bedtime, we couldn't find anything more than 2 non-glowing binkies.

Seriously? Two?! And neither glow?! This is cause for great alarm in our still sleep deprived household. Nothing is open at that hour, and we'd better be ready to find a stealth binky with our hands and knees in a dark room full of hiding places if things get unsettled.

Luckily, the unsettling of last night didn't have to do with plain-old, sub-glorious binkies. M wound up feeding baby A a bottle and rocking her upright until she fell asleep and the rest of the night went pretty well.

This morning, after a heartier than recent breakfast, baby A was playing in the dining room as we were getting her ready to leave for daycare. She started playing with a cardboard box by the window, and as M went to go help her open it, they both gasped. And he started laughing. "Guess what's in here."

I had no idea.

Baby A stuck her hand in, and came out with 4 glow-in-the-dark binkies.


We both started laughing. She's been creatively stashing all sorts of things lately, in her onesie (toy cars from school), in her diaper (not just things coming out of her back end), in her pajama feet. And the girl is most serene and grounded when she has one binky in her mouth and another one in her hand. Having 4 of them to stash in the cardboard box must have felt like a mindfulness meditation workshop to this baby.

I remarked to M that she's getting to the age where she makes him laugh. A very important quality to him. Especially these days, when things can still get overwhelming, and it still feels like a trudge to bedtime some nights.

And he said, "Yeah, she makes us human again."

The pupper needs an iPhone

Angry Birds is a very addictive game for the iPhone. It probably comes with a version for any smartphone and beyond. Uses real physics principles for catapulting variously talented (they split into 3, they drop egg bombs, they explode) birds at creatively protected pigs. In the game, the meanie pigs have stolen the birds' eggs, so they have it coming. And when you don't blow them all up using all the birds you've been allotted, they smile smugly at you. At this point, your heart rate goes up, you vow to show those pigs a lesson, and as soon as the screen asks you "try again?" your finger slams the "ok" (or as I experience it "hell yes!") key.

One of the most anxious moments in Angry Birds comes when you've knocked a wooden or stone beam out of place and it is just barely hanging in place, just above a soon-to-be-mocking-you pig. You tilt the phone in hopes the beam will fall. Maybe you blow at the screen. And about half the time, after a few seconds of wobbling, it falls! Score!

Anyway, even though our dog doesn't play Angry Birds and has never had a physics class, even she gets the point about precariously balanced objects. We gave this one a wide clearance.

Don't tell your kids they are smart

When we were back in the US for Christmas break, I picked up a book co-written by an author I like, Nurture Shock . Po Bronson had written a book about changing careers, "What Should I Do With My Life?", full of stories about people who had made huge career changes. It came at just the right time for me, as I was getting up the nerve to quit astronomy. I remember only a few things about the book (as I do with most of what I read), that I liked it, and that almost all the people in the book were forced to change careers. No one calmly sat down and wrote a list of pros and cons of being a day trader and decided it was healthier to follow their dreams of running a diner. Everyone went through a crisis - a divorce, a death in the family, a stroke or heart attack, a paralyzing depression - and this pretty much catapulted them in a new career. They could no longer do what they had been doing before. It made me realize I didn't have to be ashamed that it "took me so long to quit." Unfortunately, my will was strong enough to get me through 5 unproductive, unhappy graduate school years before a major depression hit and I couldn't continue. But that book showed me that this is the natural order of how big career changes happen to a lot of people.

Anyway, apart from recommending that book, I wanted to talk about the more recent book, Nurture Shock. It is a collection of chapters on child development, and the first chapter lands right in the middle of some of the literature I was reading for my dissertation. On praise and intelligence. The first chapter talks mostly about Carol Dweck's research on the perils of praising kids (and I extended that to adults) for their success as an outcome of being smart. Saying "good job! you're so smart" actually seems to set kids up for trouble. They start to worry that they won't be smart enough for the next task they approach and being to avoid challenges. I think of it as hearing "Each person is some fixed amount of smart. If you were smarter than this math test, the next math test could be smarter than you, and people will know you were not smart enough to pass it. You should hide how smart you are and avoid challenges because it is good to be smarter than others and bad to be less smart."

I'm not even going to get into the concept of intelligence today, but the results of Dweck's research suggest we should praise achievement by attributing it to effort - "Good job! You must have tried hard on that test." This encouraged the children in her studies to see challenges (and trying hard) as a good, fun thing. They enjoyed harder tests, even when they didn't do that well on them. In contrast, the kids who had been praised for smarts tended to try hiding any effort they had to expend.

We say "good job!" a lot around the house these days. And whenever I can, I add in something about effort. I think there is a lot to be learned from this research that applies to the culture of academia, but I'll leave that for another day.

"The American Way of Life"

On the homestretch to writing my thesis, E was my writing partner. We'd meet online, with chat windows open, fill each other in on what we were about to work on, set our Zen-bell alarm clocks and work for 45 minutes.

Ding!

We would take a 5-10 minute break, either go get some coffee in our respective kitchens, or do a debriefing on how our work had gone and anything that had been problematic.

Then the alarm programs would be reset and Ding! another 45 minutes.

Sometimes we did just one or two sessions, but other days, when there was a looming deadline, it would be 5 or 6 sessions. It was the only way I got so much done in such a contracted period of time.

And I think it worked so well because of a quote that E brought to one of our sessions..."Writing leads to motivation, not the other way around." It was that first 5 minutes of the first 45 minute session which were the hardest.

So here I am, trying to put this into practice again. I'm still ramping up to get back to work after a month of debilitating back problems, but I really want to get back to producing something from my dissertation that is accessible (and palatable) to more than just my committee members. I'll try to write about my work a few days a week, but just sitting down to write every day is the best way for me to start again.

Since Mondays need to be slowly settled into whenever possible, I'm aiming for fun photos and light topics. Like the maple syrup bottle at our table at brunch yesterday. M and I had a lunch date, courtesy of our babysitter, and we opted for comfort food, at Bohemia, instead of the anxiety producing exercise of roaming Zurich's old town in search of a menu and ambiance we liked. Pancakes and eggs benedict won.

And on our table was a brand I'd seen already on peanut butter here in the stores. "Nick: the easy rider." That's a brand? Complete with red, white and blue fonts and stars. What we couldn't decide was if it was really ignorance of Americana, or a deliberate aim at kitsching it WAAAAAY up. Or something in between. Did the company know that the branding was weird and at best American-derivative?

Who knows. The pancakes, although outrageously expensive, were pretty good. And on a cold rainy sunday, in a Cuban-ish restaurant/bar, American enough.

You're only going to take that insulin for a few months, though, right?

Goodbye, 2010. Don't let that door hit you on the way out. Really, no need to come over ever again.

I started anti-depressants a few weeks before baby A's first birthday, and the celebration with helium-balloons, good friends, family Skyping in, and cake (which she held firmly in her death-grip) was fun. Life is settling down. I'm settling down.

How strange it is to hear your baby "crying at you" at 7am in the morning, and try your hardest to stay calm, not take it personally, and not break down in tears, and then, an hour after starting the medication (my body does at least this well...no side-effects), hearing her "just cry." It isn't "at" my, it isn't personal, I'm not struggling, I'm calm. Not getting any more sleep than before the medication, I realized just how much of my energy I had been funneling into JUST...KEEPING...IT...TOGETHER. Not falling apart, not crying when she did, not getting angry. If this isn't a chemical reaction (as opposed to the misconception of depression as emotional weakness), I don't know what is.

Honestly, I wish I'd gotten on the meds earlier. I feel like myself again, whatever that means. Granted, the question in my head now is, which "me" am "I"? Am I the depressed me or the not depressed me? Which me will I be as a result of anti-depressants, and which me will I be when I find some combination of sleep, taking care of myself, work and family that helps me be the mom and wife and adult I want to be? Maybe I'll be a bit less creative, but also have less of a brain that can't stop spinning. Maybe I'll be calmer and not cry as much, even at sad things. Maybe I'll be less emotionally embroiled with my kid and my husband and that will actually be a good thing.

I guess the meds/no-meds question, about who is the "real" me, is not much different than which is the real diabetic, the one on insulin who feels better or the one who isn't taking it and feel worse. They are both "me." Yet, when it comes to drugs that affect the brain we tend to think they are more fundamentally and detrimentally altering of some innate self. Already, I've gotten at least 4 different comments from 4 different people, about how soon I'll get of the meds. That is almost the first thing they've asked when I mention the anti-depressants. Not about how I feel now, but cautionary, "well, but you won't stay on them too long, right?"

Or else, what? Where does this instinct come from? You wouldn't say that to the diabetic. I guess there is still a strong sense of mental illness as different, temporary, and of medications as anti-true-self somehow.

In any case, I'm on meds, and I feel better. I feel calmer, and not like a tiny boat in a huge ocean storm, scared of capsizing every day. I'm not really angry much anymore. I don't cry much until something is really moving or sentimental. A plate of slightly overcooked pancakes, for instance, won't bring out the tears. And in the aftermath of how hard the last year has been, and how much I was afraid of being a monster who yelled at her baby and sometimes picked her up roughly or put her down and pouted (FINE! don't go to sleep! See if I care! Go play by yourself), I think I have a new outlook on domestic abuse.

I never thought I'd empathize with this category, but honestly, if it were for lack of trying, I don't think there would be even half the child and spousal abuse going on that there is. Forget my number, my main point is, I've felt angry, I've acted out against a baby who wasn't at fault, and I've then gone on to feel like a monster, guilty, ashamed, horrified, promising myself I wouldn't do it again. I tried more sleep, more me-time, eating better, getting more rest, putting notes all over the bathroom about trust and anger and reconnection, no caffeine, herbal teas for relaxing, herbal medications for relaxing, therapy (lots and lots of it, all useful in the long run, but none fixing the problem), and a bunch of other stuff. Just like the first time I was majorly depressed, it didn't help. Not enough. Which is why I'm medication. Because it wasn't a lack of trying. By the time I took the first pill, I'd tried and tried and tried, with my body, my mind, peer pressure, therapy, and everything else I could find. When I try, I REALLY try.

It is a bit like a turkey temperature button I once had that required the turkey come out of the oven 10 min. BEFORE the thing popped. Once I've come to a doctor for anti-depressants, I'm overdue for them. I've already been trying too hard to fix it. I don't come in soon enough.

And I think other people with anger issues that manifest against their loved ones are also trying hard. Don't get me wrong, I still think each one of us has the responsibility to do whatever possible to resolve the issues, be it chemical or other intervention. If I had hurt baby A, I would have been responsible. But the depression and things leading up to it were not my fault. And since nothing else worked in my case, I think it was my responsibility to start anti-depressants. But I no longer think of domestic abuse situations as confined to those who just don't try hard enough, or don't care. I think of them as people who sometimes have huge barriers in their way to their acting like they would like to. And unfortunately the ways over and around those barriers are sometimes the things that friends and family find unacceptable or disappointing (going to counseling, taking anti-depressants, choosing a calmer life and job, etc).

Even one of the therapists I've talked to in the last year displayed a surprising misunderstanding of this situation when she asked me "Can you promise me you won't hurt baby A?" Um, no. That is my point, why I'm sitting in your office, and intent on getting some medication. IT ISN'T FOR LACK OF TRYING!!! If I could promise you, I'd have promised myself long ago, and I'm a much harsher judge of myself than anyone else could be.

So, things have calmed down. M and I lit a candle the night after baby A's party and burned little note paper pieces in it. They were filled with the hardest things we went through last year that were most definitely not going to happen this year...being in painful labor, problems with breastfeeding, not knowing when the colic would end, not knowing when she'd stop waking 10 times a night, and so on. We started over. And so far, with Christmas and New Year's and travel and all, things have been good.

12 months old is coming

Just to update on the adventures of Sincere-Girl - her cape was pretty ruffled after the trip to the consulate. Didn't handle it nearly as well as she used to. Almost left a poopy diaper on the window of the woman who "helped" with the passport application. The completely condescending lady with the big gold cross on her neck. The Swiss woman who got bitchy at me when I misunderstood her directions because she didn't use the American English version of some terms. Yeah, glad we made it out of there without too much damage to the process.

Passport arrived. We can escape if we want to!

And baby A's birthday, her one-year-old, is coming. During a sleepless night, I've found myself looking up PTSD and colic. Do I actually think I have PTSD? Probably not. I don't know that I get vivid flashbacks of those early months, but I do still get queasy when I see a twin stroller. The thought of another infant makes me scared, as does getting pregnant again. I realized that as I start thinking about her birthday party, I feel a bit of the sadness I felt at Mother's Day. My heartbeat goes up a bit, in an anxious way, when I think about approaching the anniversary of her birth. That's sad.

As if we might re-live all the things that hit us so hard - the difficult labor, the C-section, the problems (and not great solutions) breastfeeding, the nights of her screaming and no sleep, the confusion and sadness of how this was supposed to be such a happy time ("oh, when she gets older you'll miss those newborn times") of bonding, and quiet cuddling and turned out to be so hard on us, on marriage, on everything.

In a way, I'm looking forward to writing over the coming 5-6 months. How horrible is that? But I am. To replace fear with calm, sadness with laughter, confusion with getting to know our beautiful little toddler better. And I hope that at some point I might feel twinges of happy and not just sad on her birthday. It has to happen eventually, right?

I think it will. I just know that this first birthday is going to be a bit mixed for me. I'm sorry about that, little one.

On a lighter note, from Baby A's first two friends' birthday parties I've learned a lot about what a room full of babies and toddlers need to have a good time: novel crackers, and a bunch of helium balloons. And each other. That, we can manage.