As this pregnancy progresses, there are more ways in which I have to change my usual behaviors, from the trivial to the more impacting of my daily life.
I've stopped wearing even the lowest of heels (actually, I only wear the lowest of heels anyway, cowboy boots) because they tilt my pelvis and arch my back enough, given my lack of core strength, to make me feel my disk issues. How un-feminine:
feminine
adjective
1 a very feminine young woman: womanly, ladylike; girlish; soft, delicate, gentle, graceful; informal girly. ANTONYMS masculine.
I've also added, rather considerably, to my medicine cabinet, from antacids to anti-constipation measures (just writing that is unfeminine!) and hemorroids cream. Yup, my body is under siege in a way that seems so un-dignified as well:
dignified
adjective
a dignified and courteous butler: stately, noble, courtly, majestic, distinguished, proud, august, lofty, exalted, regal, lordly, imposing, impressive, grand; solemn, serious, grave, formal, proper, ceremonious, decorous, reserved, composed, sedate.
And yet, there is nothing that says womanly like pregnant belly, and there is definitely nothing that says impressive and distinguished like creating another human being, by way of giving up even the calcium in one's bones, the space of one's stomach and bladder, and the oxygen in one's lungs (albeit involuntarily). So I'm choosing to think of my European Preparation-H substitute as quite dignified, really. And if my burping and flat shoes, by way of growing belly, seem unfeminine, maybe it is time to revisit the definition of female.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Friday, January 17, 2014
Ignore
There are a few people on my Facebook list who I've put on ignore (no, you are not one of them,). I sometimes wish I could do this in real life, too. Ignore isn't an unfriending on Facebook. I can still check in with these people's feeds from time to time, and see when they post something on my page. But I noticed that certain people's posts, instead of making me feel more connected to them and the world, were making me angry. Or dismissive.
So, apparently I can't handle people saying things I don't like. Or saying too much of them. Maybe it is partly because I have a hard time knowing how (and if) to respond. If we are "friends" then shouldn't we engage with each other? I'm still learning to live and let live. There are certain topics that still get my blood boiling. And, honestly, it doesn't matter. So I choose ignore, as a kindergarden way of letting live.
Now if I can just figure out how to do this in real life, maybe I'll get better at just chilling out. I've done it a few times, with extreme cases, not people I'd even call acquaintances. Just people I know and cross paths with sometimes. And it can be really stressful to just not respond, but at the same time, with some people it can be as stressful to engage with them.
Time was, I'd run head-first into altercations, to make sure the other person knew I disagreed with him or her. At least that I've learned to do less of. It doesn't make me less genuine to not tell someone I think they are wrong.
Still, an ignore button in real life, that could cut out even hearing what a person said unless it was directly to me, that might be nice some days.
So, apparently I can't handle people saying things I don't like. Or saying too much of them. Maybe it is partly because I have a hard time knowing how (and if) to respond. If we are "friends" then shouldn't we engage with each other? I'm still learning to live and let live. There are certain topics that still get my blood boiling. And, honestly, it doesn't matter. So I choose ignore, as a kindergarden way of letting live.
Now if I can just figure out how to do this in real life, maybe I'll get better at just chilling out. I've done it a few times, with extreme cases, not people I'd even call acquaintances. Just people I know and cross paths with sometimes. And it can be really stressful to just not respond, but at the same time, with some people it can be as stressful to engage with them.
Time was, I'd run head-first into altercations, to make sure the other person knew I disagreed with him or her. At least that I've learned to do less of. It doesn't make me less genuine to not tell someone I think they are wrong.
Still, an ignore button in real life, that could cut out even hearing what a person said unless it was directly to me, that might be nice some days.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Do I want my daughter to be nice?
Last week there were a number of discussions on Facebook about a blog post on girls and the concept of "nice." The original post was about not wanting a daughter to feel she had to smile at others for no other reason than that is what women are supposed to do. There were various reactions to the post - it really hit home with me on the point of not feeling like it is my job to put others' feeling comfortable above my own, but there were valid arguments against how the author wrote about her daughter's personality and what she was trying to say as a mother.
This "nice" construct can be such a maze of things I want to encourage and discourage in A. Each time we are on the escalators at a train station during morning rush hour, I remind her to stand to the right and let people on the left walk up past. I do want her to be considerate of others. Each time she gets out a snack we already talked about sharing (or, really any food), in front of her close friend (who ALWAYS shares and never seems to have issues with it), I remind her it is a good thing to share with people who share with you. I stop short of saying (although it is always just below the surface), that if you don't share, people won't share with you, because it feels like a threat. I don't want her to be scared. And yet I'm physically holding myself back from all sorts of strong reactions where she doesn't want to share. There is definitely my own shit to deal with on that topic, still, because my feelings are so strong. I'm embarassed (and obviously not a champion speller), I feel like it says something about my whole family and who we are, and maybe I'm worried that people won't like me if my kid doesn't share. And at the end of the day, I'm scared to let my kid possibly lose a friend who really enriches her life. At the same time as I think she really should experience consequences of her actions. But, since this sharing of food from the other end comes at the reminder of a mother, and just doesn't entail as much of a strong reaction as it does with my child, it isn't just about the two kids.
Come to think of it, when they are on their own, they share most things better than when I'm there. I've removed myself from the room where they are playing many times to get out of the way of a perfectly functional (and sometimes not) relationship they have.
Oh food, why you gotta be so complicated?
So, I'm not really sure where I put the line on being nice. I want it to help my kid know how to be a part of society that helps increase the good in the world, without the concept of "nice girl" or "good girl" tempting her too often to put people at ease in cases where it makes her feel lesser. And that is a pretty hard thing to figure out. Compassion and politeness versus calling out people's bullshit. Case by case, really, isn't it? Or maybe it is about knowing when you're feeling too used and readjusting.
I do know I'm scared to let A do the snack thing on her own. She so wants her own snacks. That no one touches, and on one level I get that. But she also so wants a bite of your, and my, and her friend's snacks. I guess it is time for me to rethink my own relationship with food and sharing first. For now, I'm of the "if you don't want to share it, don't show it in front of others" camp. You can keep things for yourself, but don't be waving them in front of another child.
It is now 4am. Hopefully I'll just be tired again soon. Maybe I'm hungry. Time, also, to go visit my secret snacks stash.
This "nice" construct can be such a maze of things I want to encourage and discourage in A. Each time we are on the escalators at a train station during morning rush hour, I remind her to stand to the right and let people on the left walk up past. I do want her to be considerate of others. Each time she gets out a snack we already talked about sharing (or, really any food), in front of her close friend (who ALWAYS shares and never seems to have issues with it), I remind her it is a good thing to share with people who share with you. I stop short of saying (although it is always just below the surface), that if you don't share, people won't share with you, because it feels like a threat. I don't want her to be scared. And yet I'm physically holding myself back from all sorts of strong reactions where she doesn't want to share. There is definitely my own shit to deal with on that topic, still, because my feelings are so strong. I'm embarassed (and obviously not a champion speller), I feel like it says something about my whole family and who we are, and maybe I'm worried that people won't like me if my kid doesn't share. And at the end of the day, I'm scared to let my kid possibly lose a friend who really enriches her life. At the same time as I think she really should experience consequences of her actions. But, since this sharing of food from the other end comes at the reminder of a mother, and just doesn't entail as much of a strong reaction as it does with my child, it isn't just about the two kids.
Come to think of it, when they are on their own, they share most things better than when I'm there. I've removed myself from the room where they are playing many times to get out of the way of a perfectly functional (and sometimes not) relationship they have.
Oh food, why you gotta be so complicated?
So, I'm not really sure where I put the line on being nice. I want it to help my kid know how to be a part of society that helps increase the good in the world, without the concept of "nice girl" or "good girl" tempting her too often to put people at ease in cases where it makes her feel lesser. And that is a pretty hard thing to figure out. Compassion and politeness versus calling out people's bullshit. Case by case, really, isn't it? Or maybe it is about knowing when you're feeling too used and readjusting.
I do know I'm scared to let A do the snack thing on her own. She so wants her own snacks. That no one touches, and on one level I get that. But she also so wants a bite of your, and my, and her friend's snacks. I guess it is time for me to rethink my own relationship with food and sharing first. For now, I'm of the "if you don't want to share it, don't show it in front of others" camp. You can keep things for yourself, but don't be waving them in front of another child.
It is now 4am. Hopefully I'll just be tired again soon. Maybe I'm hungry. Time, also, to go visit my secret snacks stash.
Crazy dreams
For me, pregnancy is the time of vivid dreams. They are elaborate, with such a long, detailed story arc that I often wake up in the middle of the night still in the dream world. Mind you, it isn't usually a very emotional story, or scary, just detailed.
So I'm now awake at 3am, trying to shake off the huge term paper I was just trying to write on copper. In my dream. And let me tell you, it was so much longer and more detailed than the one my friend had written on calcium (by way of milk and thus milk chocolate which lead to, basically, a report on various chocolate chip cookie recipes). I mean, I had terrestrial and cosmic copper stuff in there, and I wasn't about to take a break with writing until my first, loooooong draft was finished. There were also some photo albums being thrown out and some issue with opening a cellar door. But tonight, it was all about the Cu.
Weird. And pointless. Well, maybe related to something I'm working on, but hard to see the connection.
My mattress in the guest room is propped up with sofa pillows, which means I've not fallen asleep nor woken up to acid reflux for a few days. And when I do wake up in the middle of the night, there is this one, rogue Christmas light ball that hangs down from our balcony to the top corner of the office window, that glows like a stationary full moon up there. If I don't close the metal shutters for the night, there it is, blueish-white, all night long. Not a strong enough light to bother my sleep, and I kind of like it up there. Tonight it is still dripping with rain from a miserable yesterday that was almost cold enough for snow, but actually only cold enough to soak winter coats and land me on the couch, feeling "off" for the afternoon. Pregnancy can be a harsh mistress and there are times when I know I feel wrong, and completely out of the game (the game that is dinnertime, last night), but I couldn't even tell you what is wrong - some chills but not a cold, some reflux maybe or perhaps hunger because I don't know if I'm too full or not full enough, and some exhaustion but not sure if it is hormonal or being sick. Nothing is wrong enough to make me want to go to a hospital, but nothing is right enough to make me want to sit at the dinner table.
So I'm now awake at 3am, trying to shake off the huge term paper I was just trying to write on copper. In my dream. And let me tell you, it was so much longer and more detailed than the one my friend had written on calcium (by way of milk and thus milk chocolate which lead to, basically, a report on various chocolate chip cookie recipes). I mean, I had terrestrial and cosmic copper stuff in there, and I wasn't about to take a break with writing until my first, loooooong draft was finished. There were also some photo albums being thrown out and some issue with opening a cellar door. But tonight, it was all about the Cu.
Weird. And pointless. Well, maybe related to something I'm working on, but hard to see the connection.
My mattress in the guest room is propped up with sofa pillows, which means I've not fallen asleep nor woken up to acid reflux for a few days. And when I do wake up in the middle of the night, there is this one, rogue Christmas light ball that hangs down from our balcony to the top corner of the office window, that glows like a stationary full moon up there. If I don't close the metal shutters for the night, there it is, blueish-white, all night long. Not a strong enough light to bother my sleep, and I kind of like it up there. Tonight it is still dripping with rain from a miserable yesterday that was almost cold enough for snow, but actually only cold enough to soak winter coats and land me on the couch, feeling "off" for the afternoon. Pregnancy can be a harsh mistress and there are times when I know I feel wrong, and completely out of the game (the game that is dinnertime, last night), but I couldn't even tell you what is wrong - some chills but not a cold, some reflux maybe or perhaps hunger because I don't know if I'm too full or not full enough, and some exhaustion but not sure if it is hormonal or being sick. Nothing is wrong enough to make me want to go to a hospital, but nothing is right enough to make me want to sit at the dinner table.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
That wrinkle
We stayed home, in Switzerland, this Christmas. Although there were times when we were all just kind of bored of each other's personalities and of how little there seemed to be to do in town, I think it was a good decision. To not be traveling pregnant, with sick toddler and husband, internationally, that was a good thing.
Because I'm not just pregnant, I'm old and pregnant. Yes, yes, 40 is not that old in this day and age, but I feel the pregnancy more this time around. The wheezing from getting to platform 5 at the train station (this requires some 10 extra stairs), doesn't make a person feel young and vibrant. The constantly telling my kid I'm tired and that I can't pick her up, ditto. And then there is the wrinkle.
Now, I take pretty good care of my skin. To start with, something that has nothing to do with my effort, I have "good skin." I rarely have any sort of spots or breaking out. It isn't too oily or too dry. I got lucky in the genetic lottery with my skin. But I also tend to make sure I always have an SPF 15 moisturizer and a hat in summer. Living in Arizona showed me what happens when you don't. I don't aim to tan, ever. And, again with the luck of the draw, I tan more than burn.
Despite all of that, the genetic (or cultural conditioning) lottery has also passed on this thinking-frown. My mom has it, some of my aunts and cousins, too. We knit our brow when we are thinking through something, or a bit confused, or looking far away. Or really anytime our eyes are open. And my daughter has it. Ok, I have no idea whether this is genetic or learned, but I do know that when she was 1 year old, I noticed that frown on my kid in the lightbulb aisle of the hardware store, in contemplation of all the colors and shapes. She wasn't upset. She was thinking. It was adorable.
So, there is this potentially adorable wrinkle that, given 40 years of use, has gotten ingrained between my eyebrows. And, seemingly, it is now frozen in. Personally, I think it just decided to become a wrinkle (one that doesn't go away no matter how much I try the surprised look instead of a frown), the day I turned 40. And for the first time in my life I feel old. The wheezing, the back pain, the broken tooth, all of those help. But you can have times when you don't feel or show those. The wrinkle, it is just there.
"How do I get rid of it?" was one of the first thoughts I had. All 6 feet of unshaven me. Even the leg hair is an option, but this thing, that in some ways marks me as part of my family, and in other ways as a critical, thinking human, both things I think are positive, has me asking for bangs each time I'm getting my hair cut. Even though I'm trying to grow my hair on my head out more, a ponytail will never look quite the same to me again. Not on my face. Ponytails are for younger women.
On rough days that follow sleepless pregnancy mornings, I look in the mirror and think it is odd for someone with this kind of wrinkle to be carrying a child. Somehow, not even all of the life force involved in the creation of a human life is a match for all those make-up ads and airbrushed images in magazines I barely even read anymore. Why is it so hard to look and see something new as acceptable because it comes under the heading of "part of my body and my life, which is good and valuable"?
M and I had a discussion about this while out and about on errands yesterday (thank god the babysitter is in town this holiday season, when neither child nor dog have daycare). More than one of my friends has told me, as she passed a certain age as a woman, she started to feel invisible. No, people didn't trip over her or try to walk through her, but they all said that there were increasing incidents when they would feel ignored - no one asked if they wanted help with something, or held a door for them, as they started to show some sort of age - something that indicated they were leaving reproductive years. Or they were more often overlooked. They were no longer a potential mate, so they didn't count as much. I think there is a part of being female and appreciated that is linked directly to age and looks, and you can ignore it or be unaware of it until you realize it is gone. I'm not saying you get fired or that your friends all leave you. I'm saying that you start to notice some of your value in little interactions with strangers, was your sexual potential. Your youth. And that this is not something men experience in the same way.
I have a favorite excerpt from an article about teaching students about hidden sexism. An alien lands on Earth and notices that, on average, men are holding doors open for women, and not vice versa. This alien asks someone what it is all about and is told that this is done to show respect, that women are special. "Oh, it isn't because they are weak?" "No, we value them, we treasure them." "Ah, I see, so then that must be evident in other parts of your culture - do they also make higher salaries and hold more positions of power as treasured, special humans?" Touche. Seems like an unfair trade.
Anyway, that is me and my wrinkle. Still thinking about what it means to be a woman. (And probably out in its full glory the anytime someone tries to hold open a door for me just because I'm female).
Because I'm not just pregnant, I'm old and pregnant. Yes, yes, 40 is not that old in this day and age, but I feel the pregnancy more this time around. The wheezing from getting to platform 5 at the train station (this requires some 10 extra stairs), doesn't make a person feel young and vibrant. The constantly telling my kid I'm tired and that I can't pick her up, ditto. And then there is the wrinkle.
Now, I take pretty good care of my skin. To start with, something that has nothing to do with my effort, I have "good skin." I rarely have any sort of spots or breaking out. It isn't too oily or too dry. I got lucky in the genetic lottery with my skin. But I also tend to make sure I always have an SPF 15 moisturizer and a hat in summer. Living in Arizona showed me what happens when you don't. I don't aim to tan, ever. And, again with the luck of the draw, I tan more than burn.
Despite all of that, the genetic (or cultural conditioning) lottery has also passed on this thinking-frown. My mom has it, some of my aunts and cousins, too. We knit our brow when we are thinking through something, or a bit confused, or looking far away. Or really anytime our eyes are open. And my daughter has it. Ok, I have no idea whether this is genetic or learned, but I do know that when she was 1 year old, I noticed that frown on my kid in the lightbulb aisle of the hardware store, in contemplation of all the colors and shapes. She wasn't upset. She was thinking. It was adorable.
So, there is this potentially adorable wrinkle that, given 40 years of use, has gotten ingrained between my eyebrows. And, seemingly, it is now frozen in. Personally, I think it just decided to become a wrinkle (one that doesn't go away no matter how much I try the surprised look instead of a frown), the day I turned 40. And for the first time in my life I feel old. The wheezing, the back pain, the broken tooth, all of those help. But you can have times when you don't feel or show those. The wrinkle, it is just there.
"How do I get rid of it?" was one of the first thoughts I had. All 6 feet of unshaven me. Even the leg hair is an option, but this thing, that in some ways marks me as part of my family, and in other ways as a critical, thinking human, both things I think are positive, has me asking for bangs each time I'm getting my hair cut. Even though I'm trying to grow my hair on my head out more, a ponytail will never look quite the same to me again. Not on my face. Ponytails are for younger women.
On rough days that follow sleepless pregnancy mornings, I look in the mirror and think it is odd for someone with this kind of wrinkle to be carrying a child. Somehow, not even all of the life force involved in the creation of a human life is a match for all those make-up ads and airbrushed images in magazines I barely even read anymore. Why is it so hard to look and see something new as acceptable because it comes under the heading of "part of my body and my life, which is good and valuable"?
M and I had a discussion about this while out and about on errands yesterday (thank god the babysitter is in town this holiday season, when neither child nor dog have daycare). More than one of my friends has told me, as she passed a certain age as a woman, she started to feel invisible. No, people didn't trip over her or try to walk through her, but they all said that there were increasing incidents when they would feel ignored - no one asked if they wanted help with something, or held a door for them, as they started to show some sort of age - something that indicated they were leaving reproductive years. Or they were more often overlooked. They were no longer a potential mate, so they didn't count as much. I think there is a part of being female and appreciated that is linked directly to age and looks, and you can ignore it or be unaware of it until you realize it is gone. I'm not saying you get fired or that your friends all leave you. I'm saying that you start to notice some of your value in little interactions with strangers, was your sexual potential. Your youth. And that this is not something men experience in the same way.
I have a favorite excerpt from an article about teaching students about hidden sexism. An alien lands on Earth and notices that, on average, men are holding doors open for women, and not vice versa. This alien asks someone what it is all about and is told that this is done to show respect, that women are special. "Oh, it isn't because they are weak?" "No, we value them, we treasure them." "Ah, I see, so then that must be evident in other parts of your culture - do they also make higher salaries and hold more positions of power as treasured, special humans?" Touche. Seems like an unfair trade.
Anyway, that is me and my wrinkle. Still thinking about what it means to be a woman. (And probably out in its full glory the anytime someone tries to hold open a door for me just because I'm female).
Monday, December 16, 2013
sleeplesses nites
I stop rubbing my daughter’s back and her breathing doesn’t change. The nose medicine has worked, whether psychologically or physically. She’s asleep again.
5:20am.
I’m not.
My husband patted the bed too many times at 3am, to get the dog up there, and it woke me up. Usually these days, nothing and everything in particular wakes me up. I’m back in the guest room, having vacillated between being mad at him and realizing it could well have happened on its own. Damn dog. What the hell?
Damned cold.
Damned.....well, not damned, but...uncomfortable pregnancy.
I apologize again in my mind to the women I know who wish so much they were pregnant. To myself, 10 months ago, who would have given me a piece of my mind had I complained about the cycle of hunger, heartburn, asthma and now a cold. Back off, I tell her. Just because I really want this and others do too but for random reasons that have nothing to do with anything doesn’t mean I have to ignore that it is hard.
If having no vision without glasses hadn’t meant an early death on the savannah, 20,000 years ago, the birth of my first child might have well meant it. And now it is round two. My body is not made for an easy pregnancy, and maybe neither is my mind.
I watch part of a Lou Reed documentary on TV and it doesn’t manage to put me to sleep. I think about looking up some things that were mentioned in the show but then my internet seems to be down, too, everywhere but my phone. And even that may just be my cellular network getting ready to drop a huge bill in my mailbox.
I eat a banana and wonder how long before I can lay down to try sleeping again without reflux. When was my last herbal anti-runny-nose pill? I don’t want any more medicine at the same time as I just want to drop a few Sudafed Extreme Cold pills down my throat and sleep again. But I’m pregnant, and I’m not going to do that.
Morning gets another 30 minutes closer. But not sleep. I wonder how I’ll feel in an hour, when I no longer have the luxury to pretend I can get another 2 hours sleep. When Monday morning, without daycare, starts. I wonder if I’m getting depressed or just feeling the sleeplessness-induced anxiety that goes away with 2 hours’ more sleep.
Damn dog.
Damn husband.
No one’s fault. Still sucks.
Depression. Is it coming back when the baby arrives? Like some cape tied to my neck, holding me down, keeping me from standing up, always tugging downwards. Tied with some fastener that my hands can’t untie. That only pharmaceuticals can.
I won’t always feel this way - the leap of faith that a depressed person has to keep taking. Because you’ve stopped feeling that way so many times before, each time you felt like it would never change. Ignoring, or even contradicting your gut feeling that this is how it is going to be until the end. Undoing your intuition.
I’m not depressed. I’m just not looking forward to feeling exhausted soon. To wanting to sleep so badly. To wanting to cry, because how can I feel like this about something I want so much. As if one wish that I felt different might bring some tragedy that takes this away from me. It doesn’t mean I don’t want this child. I just want this to be different. I want to sleep. I want to rest. I want to be capable of work. I don’t want to start another child’s life already exhausted. I don’t want this next time to be as hard as the last.
And yet that is what, at least theoretically, I’ve signed up for. I know it could be as hard as last time.
Just some more sleep before that, and maybe I can make better decisions. Maybe I can weather it better. Maybe my family can be shielded from my brain. Maybe this time I will flip everything around and opt for a planned C-section, formula and anti-depressants from the start. I’ll control it better. And find that in trying not to be overly idealistic like last time, I’m just at the other end of the spectrum, still trying to control it all.
Am I hungry? If I don’t eat, will I lie here getting hungrier for the next 30 minutes, losing another chance at sleep, and almost guarantee that I’m a mess in the morning? Or will I fall asleep?
I wish my internet worked.
I wish my body worked, too. And my gratitude.
I guess they don’t.
I guess I’ll have to decide it is okay.
I guess this post will have to wait for me to fix the internet.
(5pm next day. Internet fixed. Sleep fixed (husband let me sleep in an extra two hours in the morning, and happy to report that I didn't lay into him about the dog and managed to just ask about it.). Still sick, but happy to be online. )
5:20am.
I’m not.
My husband patted the bed too many times at 3am, to get the dog up there, and it woke me up. Usually these days, nothing and everything in particular wakes me up. I’m back in the guest room, having vacillated between being mad at him and realizing it could well have happened on its own. Damn dog. What the hell?
Damned cold.
Damned.....well, not damned, but...uncomfortable pregnancy.
I apologize again in my mind to the women I know who wish so much they were pregnant. To myself, 10 months ago, who would have given me a piece of my mind had I complained about the cycle of hunger, heartburn, asthma and now a cold. Back off, I tell her. Just because I really want this and others do too but for random reasons that have nothing to do with anything doesn’t mean I have to ignore that it is hard.
If having no vision without glasses hadn’t meant an early death on the savannah, 20,000 years ago, the birth of my first child might have well meant it. And now it is round two. My body is not made for an easy pregnancy, and maybe neither is my mind.
I watch part of a Lou Reed documentary on TV and it doesn’t manage to put me to sleep. I think about looking up some things that were mentioned in the show but then my internet seems to be down, too, everywhere but my phone. And even that may just be my cellular network getting ready to drop a huge bill in my mailbox.
I eat a banana and wonder how long before I can lay down to try sleeping again without reflux. When was my last herbal anti-runny-nose pill? I don’t want any more medicine at the same time as I just want to drop a few Sudafed Extreme Cold pills down my throat and sleep again. But I’m pregnant, and I’m not going to do that.
Morning gets another 30 minutes closer. But not sleep. I wonder how I’ll feel in an hour, when I no longer have the luxury to pretend I can get another 2 hours sleep. When Monday morning, without daycare, starts. I wonder if I’m getting depressed or just feeling the sleeplessness-induced anxiety that goes away with 2 hours’ more sleep.
Damn dog.
Damn husband.
No one’s fault. Still sucks.
Depression. Is it coming back when the baby arrives? Like some cape tied to my neck, holding me down, keeping me from standing up, always tugging downwards. Tied with some fastener that my hands can’t untie. That only pharmaceuticals can.
I won’t always feel this way - the leap of faith that a depressed person has to keep taking. Because you’ve stopped feeling that way so many times before, each time you felt like it would never change. Ignoring, or even contradicting your gut feeling that this is how it is going to be until the end. Undoing your intuition.
I’m not depressed. I’m just not looking forward to feeling exhausted soon. To wanting to sleep so badly. To wanting to cry, because how can I feel like this about something I want so much. As if one wish that I felt different might bring some tragedy that takes this away from me. It doesn’t mean I don’t want this child. I just want this to be different. I want to sleep. I want to rest. I want to be capable of work. I don’t want to start another child’s life already exhausted. I don’t want this next time to be as hard as the last.
And yet that is what, at least theoretically, I’ve signed up for. I know it could be as hard as last time.
Just some more sleep before that, and maybe I can make better decisions. Maybe I can weather it better. Maybe my family can be shielded from my brain. Maybe this time I will flip everything around and opt for a planned C-section, formula and anti-depressants from the start. I’ll control it better. And find that in trying not to be overly idealistic like last time, I’m just at the other end of the spectrum, still trying to control it all.
Am I hungry? If I don’t eat, will I lie here getting hungrier for the next 30 minutes, losing another chance at sleep, and almost guarantee that I’m a mess in the morning? Or will I fall asleep?
I wish my internet worked.
I wish my body worked, too. And my gratitude.
I guess they don’t.
I guess I’ll have to decide it is okay.
I guess this post will have to wait for me to fix the internet.
(5pm next day. Internet fixed. Sleep fixed (husband let me sleep in an extra two hours in the morning, and happy to report that I didn't lay into him about the dog and managed to just ask about it.). Still sick, but happy to be online. )
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
1:30am and not learning German
I'm always curious. Why do I wake up like this (once a week it is in this mode) when I'm pregnant. This is one of the conditions my body has duplicated from when I was pregnant with A. This capacity, this tendency, to suddenly be awake (as in, just opened my eyes after closing them for a blink 2 seconds ago) in the middle of the night. Did the baby kick, or am I now waking him up instead? My heart is never pounding, and yet it feels like adrenaline. Or like that time in Boston when I was on Sudafed and had the most productive work and writing experience, so much so that I realized I should probably not take it once the worst of the cold was over, because a person could get used to feeling that alert-but-not-jittery.
I'm not wheezing - it isn't the asthma. I'm not hungry. And I don't think it was a super full bladder. Sorry, but I'm ruling out most likely scenarios. I imagine reading some blog post online someday that talks about this kind of phenomenon and I read it, fascinated (because it will be well written, witty, fun to read), and think "Oh, so THAT's what was going on."
Anyway, here I am. Waiting for some part of this to wear off so I can go back to bed.
While I'm up, I finally decided to write here.
It took me 4 1/2 years to get in the elevator I got in last week. Now, I mean, this is the elevator of my apartment building, and I've been in it many many times, but the ride I took last week was monumental. I had showered and even blown my hair dry. I had a bag full of papers. I had my insurance cards in my wallet.
I was going - get this - across the street to go figure out how to deal with health insurance policies in Switzerland. And maybe get some money back. Not a lot of money, so this special elevator ride (and building up to it, making myself call the company, making sure someone there would speak English, making sure I brought all my papers, organized by "first pregnancy", "back problems", "general problems", etc) was about motivating myself. No, motivating isn't the right word. It was about finally getting to this task, that I've dreaded so much because it involves all the things I'm not good at - new systems of bureaucracy, in a language I have not really learned (definitely not well enough to go learn something novel about forms and regulations), in a country where you're just supposed to know how to do this.
The Swiss don't like to pay for almost any of their health care. Not once they buy their insurance, that is. The pharmacists are always surprised when I pay for something out of pocket, and massage therapists are forever offering to check if their service is covered in my policy. Well, actually, they are forever telling me to call my company and check my policy, which means I'm forever feeling guilty that I find this task so difficult.
Of course, I was expecting the worst of this visit - to be told how remiss I had been, how simple this is, to be met with disbelief at how I'd ignored this and how seven plagues should, in fact, befall me and my family just to teach me a lesson. And really, I hadn't learned German yet? I really should be learning that, you know.
It was like the "perfect greeting card that captures your feelings exactly" of living abroad. Except this greeting card was from the fears and worries section. Now THOSE are cards I might actually buy, Walgreens. "Sorry to hear you're terrified of answering the phone." "Just know I'm with you in spirit when you go back to the fridge and finish that pie. I really wish I was there in person." "Too bad you don't yet know German and can't manage to learn about your health insurance in almost 5 years of living in a country. I'll still be your friend, although I may not always admit it."
Turns out, this time, my worries about how badly it was going to go were way overblown. Doesn't hurt that I'd talked to friends about this. Doesn't hurt that I'd had to organize files the week before for tax purposes (that post will someday be titled "We're moving back to America...because of tax law), doesn't hurt that the company across the street (I see their office from my bedroom window and did confirm for myself that you can't actually see what people in my bedroom are doing) bought our old insurance company, and it sure doesn't hurt that the woman I talked with on the phone was (a) NICE and helpful instead of dismissive, and (b) spoke English and said that anyone I came to talk with could, too. The woman I spoke with in person, who had most definitely not seen me getting dressed for said meeting, was kind, was understanding, did not laugh in my face at how long it had taken me to get there, printed out policy info in English and walked me through the kinds of paper I receive related to medical costs and what to do with each, and did I mention she was nice?
So it was good. Really good. It felt great. I treated myself to forcing M to help me get a Christmas tree 2 days later because I felt that accomplished about it. I will no longer have to hide my secret. And it will make a great story for a cover letter when I apply to be some sort of international student assistant at some university in the US someday.
I'm not wheezing - it isn't the asthma. I'm not hungry. And I don't think it was a super full bladder. Sorry, but I'm ruling out most likely scenarios. I imagine reading some blog post online someday that talks about this kind of phenomenon and I read it, fascinated (because it will be well written, witty, fun to read), and think "Oh, so THAT's what was going on."
Anyway, here I am. Waiting for some part of this to wear off so I can go back to bed.
While I'm up, I finally decided to write here.
It took me 4 1/2 years to get in the elevator I got in last week. Now, I mean, this is the elevator of my apartment building, and I've been in it many many times, but the ride I took last week was monumental. I had showered and even blown my hair dry. I had a bag full of papers. I had my insurance cards in my wallet.
I was going - get this - across the street to go figure out how to deal with health insurance policies in Switzerland. And maybe get some money back. Not a lot of money, so this special elevator ride (and building up to it, making myself call the company, making sure someone there would speak English, making sure I brought all my papers, organized by "first pregnancy", "back problems", "general problems", etc) was about motivating myself. No, motivating isn't the right word. It was about finally getting to this task, that I've dreaded so much because it involves all the things I'm not good at - new systems of bureaucracy, in a language I have not really learned (definitely not well enough to go learn something novel about forms and regulations), in a country where you're just supposed to know how to do this.
The Swiss don't like to pay for almost any of their health care. Not once they buy their insurance, that is. The pharmacists are always surprised when I pay for something out of pocket, and massage therapists are forever offering to check if their service is covered in my policy. Well, actually, they are forever telling me to call my company and check my policy, which means I'm forever feeling guilty that I find this task so difficult.
Of course, I was expecting the worst of this visit - to be told how remiss I had been, how simple this is, to be met with disbelief at how I'd ignored this and how seven plagues should, in fact, befall me and my family just to teach me a lesson. And really, I hadn't learned German yet? I really should be learning that, you know.
It was like the "perfect greeting card that captures your feelings exactly" of living abroad. Except this greeting card was from the fears and worries section. Now THOSE are cards I might actually buy, Walgreens. "Sorry to hear you're terrified of answering the phone." "Just know I'm with you in spirit when you go back to the fridge and finish that pie. I really wish I was there in person." "Too bad you don't yet know German and can't manage to learn about your health insurance in almost 5 years of living in a country. I'll still be your friend, although I may not always admit it."
Turns out, this time, my worries about how badly it was going to go were way overblown. Doesn't hurt that I'd talked to friends about this. Doesn't hurt that I'd had to organize files the week before for tax purposes (that post will someday be titled "We're moving back to America...because of tax law), doesn't hurt that the company across the street (I see their office from my bedroom window and did confirm for myself that you can't actually see what people in my bedroom are doing) bought our old insurance company, and it sure doesn't hurt that the woman I talked with on the phone was (a) NICE and helpful instead of dismissive, and (b) spoke English and said that anyone I came to talk with could, too. The woman I spoke with in person, who had most definitely not seen me getting dressed for said meeting, was kind, was understanding, did not laugh in my face at how long it had taken me to get there, printed out policy info in English and walked me through the kinds of paper I receive related to medical costs and what to do with each, and did I mention she was nice?
So it was good. Really good. It felt great. I treated myself to forcing M to help me get a Christmas tree 2 days later because I felt that accomplished about it. I will no longer have to hide my secret. And it will make a great story for a cover letter when I apply to be some sort of international student assistant at some university in the US someday.
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