Ohmigodseriously, stop. Just stop, I tell myself after the fact. Stop trying to force your kid to do what you want. What is it with wanting to control others? To get them to stop picking their nose so much it bleeds, for instance. Ooh, sounds serious. The kid should really stop that.
Why?
Because it will keep bothering her, at which point, especially when tired, she will keep bothering me.
Hmm. Will she die of this condition?
No.
Will I?
.....no.
I have this habit of trying to verbally coerce my kid to stop doing something, or to say thank you or to share or to...whatever it is I want. And while part of that action is well meaning, another part is about control. About winning. I have some ideas where this desire in me comes from, but what I'm sure of is that it is not something I want to keep doing. Making her scared so that she'll do something. Or ashamed. Or the like.
I don't like a part of myself right after we've had this kind of interaction, which tells me there is something not quite noble about it.
So my new mantra is: "Ask. Listen. Let it go...for at least a day." Basically, find out why she does it. Listen to her. Maybe explain why you don't want her to do it (but not with exaggerated consequences) And, really, just drop it for 24-hours. She won't die. I won't die. And she'll get to be in control of herself. Which is how I think it should be.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Thursday, June 19, 2014
I guess it isn't colic, then.
Colic is supposed to peak at 6 weeks. We're way past that, and let's just say that intestinal gas issues still come up with a vengance. Not every day, which makes me hyper-vigilant about what I ate the day before, but enough that this baby can be tough to put down. He needs to be carried, soothed, if I want to have quiet. If I was okay with screaming, well, that'd be different.
So he's just had a tough 24 hours, which begs the question...why am I unable to sleep at 2am? Hint: it isn't because I'm so well rested from the day. Perhaps it is the opposite, that my brain thinks I need alone time and has decided to provide it in the middle of the night. My night brain doesn't seem to be in consultation with my day brain - the one that has to do all the soothing and not-sleeping.
Here I am, then. Awake. And I can feel the buzz that means I won't be asleep for another hour at least. Lest you be tempted to tell me to stop using a computer, I was already awake for an hour, in a dark room, doing breathing and abdominal muscle exercises in an attempt to fall back asleep. Shouldn't have tried to burp him and change a diaper with very little in it. Maybe then I would have fallen back asleep. And maybe then the next 24 hours would have been bad like yesterday. Maybe maybe maybe.
I'm not very directed right at this moment. My thoughts aren't really collecting to make a point. I'm just awake and decided to write.
Almost three months on, and at least we're surviving. No one is all that well rested, now that A is also waking in the night again - nightmares, coughing, having-a-new-brother-who-takes-her-mom's-time-a-lot. And there is also the small one. Still waking 2-3 times a night. Still waking around 5 or 6 am fussy, and somehow my body keeps not understanding that that is my new waking hour.
The almost three month update: J is a smiley smiley guy when he's not in digestive distress. A loves her brother fiercely and keeps him supplied with lots of passionate head and foot kisses. I didn't gain much weight pregnant, so there is not that much to lose, although for those who think I'm managing a miracle, let me dissuade you - I'm still wearing pregnancy jeans and I've started working with a personal trainer at home to get my back and my nether-regions back in shape - not because I'm going to be out at the beach soon, but because I don't want to be worried about jumping and sneezing. I'm on a mild herbal anti-depressant to help with the waking-in-the-middle-of-sleep-due-to-screaming-baby situation. Our dog sitter is gone for two weeks and let's just say the dog is better than I thought at "holding it." All our visitors (friends and family) got us through to this point, where I can actually manage a sinkful of dishes twice a week, laundry (we're tlaking underpants and baby clothes...the bare minimum) once a week, and paying the bills myself while also having a baby around.
Oh, there is also a babysitter helping a lot because, wow, two kids at once, on my own, is not something I've managed to survive more than 2 times these last three months.
I also happen to be fairly happy and quite taken with both my children. When I'm fully conscious.
So he's just had a tough 24 hours, which begs the question...why am I unable to sleep at 2am? Hint: it isn't because I'm so well rested from the day. Perhaps it is the opposite, that my brain thinks I need alone time and has decided to provide it in the middle of the night. My night brain doesn't seem to be in consultation with my day brain - the one that has to do all the soothing and not-sleeping.
Here I am, then. Awake. And I can feel the buzz that means I won't be asleep for another hour at least. Lest you be tempted to tell me to stop using a computer, I was already awake for an hour, in a dark room, doing breathing and abdominal muscle exercises in an attempt to fall back asleep. Shouldn't have tried to burp him and change a diaper with very little in it. Maybe then I would have fallen back asleep. And maybe then the next 24 hours would have been bad like yesterday. Maybe maybe maybe.
I'm not very directed right at this moment. My thoughts aren't really collecting to make a point. I'm just awake and decided to write.
Almost three months on, and at least we're surviving. No one is all that well rested, now that A is also waking in the night again - nightmares, coughing, having-a-new-brother-who-takes-her-mom's-time-a-lot. And there is also the small one. Still waking 2-3 times a night. Still waking around 5 or 6 am fussy, and somehow my body keeps not understanding that that is my new waking hour.
The almost three month update: J is a smiley smiley guy when he's not in digestive distress. A loves her brother fiercely and keeps him supplied with lots of passionate head and foot kisses. I didn't gain much weight pregnant, so there is not that much to lose, although for those who think I'm managing a miracle, let me dissuade you - I'm still wearing pregnancy jeans and I've started working with a personal trainer at home to get my back and my nether-regions back in shape - not because I'm going to be out at the beach soon, but because I don't want to be worried about jumping and sneezing. I'm on a mild herbal anti-depressant to help with the waking-in-the-middle-of-sleep-due-to-screaming-baby situation. Our dog sitter is gone for two weeks and let's just say the dog is better than I thought at "holding it." All our visitors (friends and family) got us through to this point, where I can actually manage a sinkful of dishes twice a week, laundry (we're tlaking underpants and baby clothes...the bare minimum) once a week, and paying the bills myself while also having a baby around.
Oh, there is also a babysitter helping a lot because, wow, two kids at once, on my own, is not something I've managed to survive more than 2 times these last three months.
I also happen to be fairly happy and quite taken with both my children. When I'm fully conscious.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Almost 40 days gone
almost 4am.
they’re all asleep - my husband, my child and my baby. and, of course, the dog. the dog is always asleep if anyone else is. special talent that i envy a bit right now.
5 weeks in, and this is the first time i am completely alone - no one to care for - and awake after almost 5 hours sleep straight through. this baby, J, is not the same as his older sister was.
he is still fussy from a gassy body, poor little guy. crying or screaming one minute and as soon as the pain or discomfort passes, smiling a glorious little smile. at me, at someone else, at that red thing over there, at the corner of the room. he is beautiful.
but, after 5 hours straight sleep my body has decided to be awake, it seems. so much rest and now quiet to think whatever thoughts i didn’t have time for all day. a long day of what must have been a growth spurt because little J was hungry every 2 hours. at the least. he seemed hungry as soon as he finished feeding, ready to go again. but with the tummy troubles we keep him to minimum of breastfeeding every 2 hours. so he was walked and rocked. he was bounced in arms and hammock and bouncy chair. he got some tea (fennel, caraway, anise all aimed a alleviating his woes). the babysitter came early and i got some sleep - a vital 1.5 hours without one ear listening for his cries.
so with 5 hours at a pop, my body seems to think it is morning.
5 weeks, going on 6. almost 40 days. i think it is no coincidence that colic is said to peak at 6 weeks and mothers in more traditional cultures rest for 40 days. 6 x 7 = 42 days. that’s about right. if the gassiness and fussiness peaks around 40 days, that is the right amount of time to give the new mother so much support. a gassy baby does not lay in one place for long without crying. he needs to be held, swayed, tended to, comforted. he doesn’t care about the dishes or the growing piles of milk-stained poop-stained shirts of his or his mama’s. he cares about getting that fart out. he cares about that one elusive burp. as he should.
but it leaves little time or energy for much else.
40 days. with a new baby. not the same as last time. still intense, but not life destroying, the arrival of this new life. so many things are different this time (and others enough the same to let me re-visit the first one with fresh eyes). he doesn’t need to be rocked within an inch of his life to fall (and stay) asleep at night, or for naps many days. he sleeps more - and soon knew when night was enough that i wasn’t faltering for sleep. feeding every two then three hours for at least 2 cycles. i could stay sane and start to trust that things weren’t going to fall apart like they did the first time.
this whole month has been a series of “better than last time”s, that have made one more thread of fear and tension (nestled deep in my muscle memory) fall away. i’d been holding my breath, in a sense, for 4 years. i cried when he was born, because it was finally over, the labor but also the worry that he might not make it. that we weren’t meant to have a second child and he could be taken away somehow at the last minute. but i’ve also almost cried every time we reach another milestone that was horrible with baby A and isn’t with baby J.
and i realize now how much a part of the cycle of horrible we were, too. sure, she was sensitive and colicky, she was too alert for her age and really hard to get to stay sleeping. but we were also a problem, too quick to try finding some new solution, too nervous. i started taking an herbal anti-depressant at the first sign of irritation this time and it is working. i set my goals much more humbly - to physically breast feed for one week and feed him breast milk for one month. we had more help this time, from family. we had more help hired in, as well. we are working to stay calmer and most importantly to not succumb to terror as soon as something slips, not to wind up panicked that our first experiences will repeat.
while baby A’s body and system might have played a role in how hard her first year was, i think we now realize that we have to take credit for at least 30% of that. as does the context around us - the people, the help, the weather (spring instead of a long snowy winter), the neighborhood (where we can see people and life and go shopping in 5 minutes and feel connected to the world again). that is the last 30%.
so here we are, at roughly 40 days. we’ve made it and it will continue to get better. it will still be hard some days, many days, but we’ve made it. i made it. even so far as to sit here and write a blog entry. welcome back, me. now, me, go back to sleep!
they’re all asleep - my husband, my child and my baby. and, of course, the dog. the dog is always asleep if anyone else is. special talent that i envy a bit right now.
5 weeks in, and this is the first time i am completely alone - no one to care for - and awake after almost 5 hours sleep straight through. this baby, J, is not the same as his older sister was.
he is still fussy from a gassy body, poor little guy. crying or screaming one minute and as soon as the pain or discomfort passes, smiling a glorious little smile. at me, at someone else, at that red thing over there, at the corner of the room. he is beautiful.
but, after 5 hours straight sleep my body has decided to be awake, it seems. so much rest and now quiet to think whatever thoughts i didn’t have time for all day. a long day of what must have been a growth spurt because little J was hungry every 2 hours. at the least. he seemed hungry as soon as he finished feeding, ready to go again. but with the tummy troubles we keep him to minimum of breastfeeding every 2 hours. so he was walked and rocked. he was bounced in arms and hammock and bouncy chair. he got some tea (fennel, caraway, anise all aimed a alleviating his woes). the babysitter came early and i got some sleep - a vital 1.5 hours without one ear listening for his cries.
so with 5 hours at a pop, my body seems to think it is morning.
5 weeks, going on 6. almost 40 days. i think it is no coincidence that colic is said to peak at 6 weeks and mothers in more traditional cultures rest for 40 days. 6 x 7 = 42 days. that’s about right. if the gassiness and fussiness peaks around 40 days, that is the right amount of time to give the new mother so much support. a gassy baby does not lay in one place for long without crying. he needs to be held, swayed, tended to, comforted. he doesn’t care about the dishes or the growing piles of milk-stained poop-stained shirts of his or his mama’s. he cares about getting that fart out. he cares about that one elusive burp. as he should.
but it leaves little time or energy for much else.
40 days. with a new baby. not the same as last time. still intense, but not life destroying, the arrival of this new life. so many things are different this time (and others enough the same to let me re-visit the first one with fresh eyes). he doesn’t need to be rocked within an inch of his life to fall (and stay) asleep at night, or for naps many days. he sleeps more - and soon knew when night was enough that i wasn’t faltering for sleep. feeding every two then three hours for at least 2 cycles. i could stay sane and start to trust that things weren’t going to fall apart like they did the first time.
this whole month has been a series of “better than last time”s, that have made one more thread of fear and tension (nestled deep in my muscle memory) fall away. i’d been holding my breath, in a sense, for 4 years. i cried when he was born, because it was finally over, the labor but also the worry that he might not make it. that we weren’t meant to have a second child and he could be taken away somehow at the last minute. but i’ve also almost cried every time we reach another milestone that was horrible with baby A and isn’t with baby J.
and i realize now how much a part of the cycle of horrible we were, too. sure, she was sensitive and colicky, she was too alert for her age and really hard to get to stay sleeping. but we were also a problem, too quick to try finding some new solution, too nervous. i started taking an herbal anti-depressant at the first sign of irritation this time and it is working. i set my goals much more humbly - to physically breast feed for one week and feed him breast milk for one month. we had more help this time, from family. we had more help hired in, as well. we are working to stay calmer and most importantly to not succumb to terror as soon as something slips, not to wind up panicked that our first experiences will repeat.
while baby A’s body and system might have played a role in how hard her first year was, i think we now realize that we have to take credit for at least 30% of that. as does the context around us - the people, the help, the weather (spring instead of a long snowy winter), the neighborhood (where we can see people and life and go shopping in 5 minutes and feel connected to the world again). that is the last 30%.
so here we are, at roughly 40 days. we’ve made it and it will continue to get better. it will still be hard some days, many days, but we’ve made it. i made it. even so far as to sit here and write a blog entry. welcome back, me. now, me, go back to sleep!
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
See you in 40 days...
Well, more like 20 now.
I've had my second child. Details will come later. For now, I'm resting, and just laying low - I'm not physically up to a lot of activity, and he's another sensitive kid with a sensitive tummy which means sleep is at a premium in our house. We're good, though, and have support.
And I'm resting as much as I can, instead of trying to get up and at-em like I feel like I should. Partially inspired by the Wikipedia entry for postnatal period, and other posts like this one:
http://birthwithoutfearblog.com/2012/10/21/mothering-the-mother-40-days-of-rest/
I especially like the author's ideas of housecleaning coupons and gift certificates for restaurants that deliver.
I've had my second child. Details will come later. For now, I'm resting, and just laying low - I'm not physically up to a lot of activity, and he's another sensitive kid with a sensitive tummy which means sleep is at a premium in our house. We're good, though, and have support.
And I'm resting as much as I can, instead of trying to get up and at-em like I feel like I should. Partially inspired by the Wikipedia entry for postnatal period, and other posts like this one:
http://birthwithoutfearblog.com/2012/10/21/mothering-the-mother-40-days-of-rest/
I especially like the author's ideas of housecleaning coupons and gift certificates for restaurants that deliver.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Every kid is different
Or so I'd been told. They're not going to be the same. This one might be really mellow and sleep really well. I didn't listen to the first part of the message because the last part of the message was too much to risk hoping for. This kid could sleep as poorly as A did. And be as colicky.
As for that first part, though. A was 2 weeks early, and this little one is now one week late. And although it should feel like I've only been waiting one week over my due date, actually, most things have been packed, collected, settled and paid since March 10th (this kid's 2 week early date). So it feels more like 3 weeks.
This feeling of waiting, of having time to think again if we are ready, to do one more thing, but also to spend one more hour with A, playing a bit more consciously, is new to me. To us. As is the feeling of getting really big. I thought I was just not the kind of woman who gets stretchmarks (new ones from pregnancy at least - I've had them from my growth spurt in puberty), but it turns out I get them just fine. Big, dark and red, as my belly gets bigger. We're still coming to terms, they and I, but we'll get there eventually. And I have about 2 hours of up time before I need to lay down and rest so my back stays loose and feeling okay. If I'm walking, it is 1 hour or less. Making dinner feels like a triumph.
And I wake up every day around 5:30 or 6am. So I've been ready for this time shift in Europe for two weeks now. I'm the only one in the house that isn't going to suffer the hour-earlier wake ups. Although I might miss my quiet morning time.
I've realized how many meanings words like "pregnancy", "labor", and "breastfeeding" can take on, just talking to other moms these last few weeks, hearing their stories, having their advice about any phase. And in now having such a different end of my pregnancy. And I've been wanting to put that into visual information somehow, this notion of the huge variations included under the umbrella of a single term. For myself, first of all, as a reminder to not compare myself to others and their process, but also for other women, to see how different the experience can be. So in these early morning wake-ups, I've started putting together in informal survey, on SurveyMonkey.com, about these experiences, and maybe if enough women who've been pregnant answer it, I'll have some data to try to flesh out these words. To make their meanings more subtle. And something that looks nice (once I have some data, then it is time to find someone who really knows how to pull out the most striking features and visualize them well).
So, since I'm only up 30min. before the rest of the household needs to be today, I'm off to make a few tweaks.
As for that first part, though. A was 2 weeks early, and this little one is now one week late. And although it should feel like I've only been waiting one week over my due date, actually, most things have been packed, collected, settled and paid since March 10th (this kid's 2 week early date). So it feels more like 3 weeks.
This feeling of waiting, of having time to think again if we are ready, to do one more thing, but also to spend one more hour with A, playing a bit more consciously, is new to me. To us. As is the feeling of getting really big. I thought I was just not the kind of woman who gets stretchmarks (new ones from pregnancy at least - I've had them from my growth spurt in puberty), but it turns out I get them just fine. Big, dark and red, as my belly gets bigger. We're still coming to terms, they and I, but we'll get there eventually. And I have about 2 hours of up time before I need to lay down and rest so my back stays loose and feeling okay. If I'm walking, it is 1 hour or less. Making dinner feels like a triumph.
And I wake up every day around 5:30 or 6am. So I've been ready for this time shift in Europe for two weeks now. I'm the only one in the house that isn't going to suffer the hour-earlier wake ups. Although I might miss my quiet morning time.
I've realized how many meanings words like "pregnancy", "labor", and "breastfeeding" can take on, just talking to other moms these last few weeks, hearing their stories, having their advice about any phase. And in now having such a different end of my pregnancy. And I've been wanting to put that into visual information somehow, this notion of the huge variations included under the umbrella of a single term. For myself, first of all, as a reminder to not compare myself to others and their process, but also for other women, to see how different the experience can be. So in these early morning wake-ups, I've started putting together in informal survey, on SurveyMonkey.com, about these experiences, and maybe if enough women who've been pregnant answer it, I'll have some data to try to flesh out these words. To make their meanings more subtle. And something that looks nice (once I have some data, then it is time to find someone who really knows how to pull out the most striking features and visualize them well).
So, since I'm only up 30min. before the rest of the household needs to be today, I'm off to make a few tweaks.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Soon to be the last only-child in the house
We are waiting. Those of us who live here, the friends of the people who live here, the family far away. Baby A came 2 weeks before her due date, but this baby has not. So even though the due date is still not here, he feels overdue.
I don't do much right now, apart from fighting feelings of uselessness. I nap. A lot. Twice a day sometimes, in between doing much diminished activities so that my back doesn't bother me. I'm extremely wary of re-herniating a disk. I'm also expecting a C-section - as he gets bigger, so does his head, but alas, the pathways that head is going to have to travel, do not. But I'd like him to come in his own time, so I'm waiting, not piling on too many of the wives's tales methods for inducing labor. I have learned that one study found that actual gestation times for human babies can vary up to 37 days. Depending on things about early pregnancy, mother's age, first child's gestation time, etc. So we're not all set to pop one out in 9 months on the dot. Few babies arrive (6%? less?) on their due date.
So, in the process of not doing what feels like much, there is a lot of time to think. And the last few days my brain has been circling something that happened two nights ago.
I'd done my usual rest/chore/rest/dog/rest/dinner routing and had bought fresh strawberries and blueberries for dessert. To go with plain yogurt and honey. I was a bit excited about this (I told you my days were slow) and thought how good they were going to taste. I still manage to cook a mostly fresh dinner each night, and the bowl of berries was standing on the table, waiting for the meal to be over. When A got home (in her usual tired mode, excited, hungry, probably overwhelmed), she wound up finally at the table and wanted in on the berry action immediately. I let her pick a blueberry and then wait for dessert.
She (and we) ate dinner. And then dessert came. As does my feelings of shame for what happened next.
I put out bowls and spoons, yogurt and honey. And A helped herself. To all but 3 strawberries. It is at this point writing that I can sense the anticipation she must have had, so looking forward to that many. And I gave her flack for taking so many.
Because I want her to learn to share? Yeah, sure, nice answer that gets me out of feeling like a jerk. Nope, while it may have been clothed in that, I was basically upset at the unfairness of losing so many potential strawberries in my own bowl. As far as I can tell, it was two only children at that point and the one with the power in this house, me, messed up. Out of anger about getting enough strawberries.
Who's ready for a second child? Oh yeah, right here. Grade-A mom material.
Of course, guilt and shame set in once she was crying about me telling her she shouldn't have taken all of the strawberries. And it has been circling, quietly in the background for a few days. I've been letting it. Not pushing it away. It comes a bit close to the incident and my barriers go up, protecting myself from saying that I wanted to have the berries. From admitting how hard it can be for me to share my food.
Sure I look forward to it a lot - I love food. Tastes and smells and textures. I really do. High-brow and low-brow.
And I'm pregnant. So, you know, full of crazy hormones that could easily excuse me.
But I'm also an only child, whose own parents always gave her the biggest piece (or all of the berries, probably). Maybe more importantly, I'm an only child that is not usually selfish with a lot of other things. I give, I lend, I share. And I've always felt proud of the fact that it can surprise people I'm an only child. That I don't seem like one.
Except in the middle of the proving ground, with my first-born and a bowl of strawberries. I was so not an adult/parent in that moment it makes me cringe. I was so caught off-guard by that deep, internal "NO!" that it makes it hard to even look at what happened. I form half-sentences of explanation in my head before my guilt and ego shut it down. Too embarrassing, I guess. Too non-mom-like.
These are the kinds of moments that bring me to yet another self-help or parenting book. These moments of regressing to some kind of child-like state, in combat with an actual child that I have power over. They are so raw, so petty, and so strong that they stand out and I can't not do something about them. I can't not try to address them.
I'm not finding much of anything funny to say to wind this up. I do know that as this baby gets closer (to coming out of there, hello? We really are all ready), A is feeling more tension perhaps, and that there is more emotion around dinner time. Did I smash the dessert bowls in protest when this happened, out of nowhere? No, I didn't. Was I also disappointed that my thoughtfulness of making an extra stop to get the berries was totally lost on her? Definitely.
Have I now let her finish all the berries that were left, cringing in guilt when she didn't want to eat some before asking M and me if we wanted them? Yup. Feeling like a schmuck. This whole revisiting of the only-child feelings have only just begun, I'm sure.
Did I then give her my secret stash of crispy M&Ms and Snicker's Ice Cream Bars to make up for it all? Not a chance.
I don't do much right now, apart from fighting feelings of uselessness. I nap. A lot. Twice a day sometimes, in between doing much diminished activities so that my back doesn't bother me. I'm extremely wary of re-herniating a disk. I'm also expecting a C-section - as he gets bigger, so does his head, but alas, the pathways that head is going to have to travel, do not. But I'd like him to come in his own time, so I'm waiting, not piling on too many of the wives's tales methods for inducing labor. I have learned that one study found that actual gestation times for human babies can vary up to 37 days. Depending on things about early pregnancy, mother's age, first child's gestation time, etc. So we're not all set to pop one out in 9 months on the dot. Few babies arrive (6%? less?) on their due date.
So, in the process of not doing what feels like much, there is a lot of time to think. And the last few days my brain has been circling something that happened two nights ago.
I'd done my usual rest/chore/rest/dog/rest/dinner routing and had bought fresh strawberries and blueberries for dessert. To go with plain yogurt and honey. I was a bit excited about this (I told you my days were slow) and thought how good they were going to taste. I still manage to cook a mostly fresh dinner each night, and the bowl of berries was standing on the table, waiting for the meal to be over. When A got home (in her usual tired mode, excited, hungry, probably overwhelmed), she wound up finally at the table and wanted in on the berry action immediately. I let her pick a blueberry and then wait for dessert.
She (and we) ate dinner. And then dessert came. As does my feelings of shame for what happened next.
I put out bowls and spoons, yogurt and honey. And A helped herself. To all but 3 strawberries. It is at this point writing that I can sense the anticipation she must have had, so looking forward to that many. And I gave her flack for taking so many.
Because I want her to learn to share? Yeah, sure, nice answer that gets me out of feeling like a jerk. Nope, while it may have been clothed in that, I was basically upset at the unfairness of losing so many potential strawberries in my own bowl. As far as I can tell, it was two only children at that point and the one with the power in this house, me, messed up. Out of anger about getting enough strawberries.
Who's ready for a second child? Oh yeah, right here. Grade-A mom material.
Of course, guilt and shame set in once she was crying about me telling her she shouldn't have taken all of the strawberries. And it has been circling, quietly in the background for a few days. I've been letting it. Not pushing it away. It comes a bit close to the incident and my barriers go up, protecting myself from saying that I wanted to have the berries. From admitting how hard it can be for me to share my food.
Sure I look forward to it a lot - I love food. Tastes and smells and textures. I really do. High-brow and low-brow.
And I'm pregnant. So, you know, full of crazy hormones that could easily excuse me.
But I'm also an only child, whose own parents always gave her the biggest piece (or all of the berries, probably). Maybe more importantly, I'm an only child that is not usually selfish with a lot of other things. I give, I lend, I share. And I've always felt proud of the fact that it can surprise people I'm an only child. That I don't seem like one.
Except in the middle of the proving ground, with my first-born and a bowl of strawberries. I was so not an adult/parent in that moment it makes me cringe. I was so caught off-guard by that deep, internal "NO!" that it makes it hard to even look at what happened. I form half-sentences of explanation in my head before my guilt and ego shut it down. Too embarrassing, I guess. Too non-mom-like.
These are the kinds of moments that bring me to yet another self-help or parenting book. These moments of regressing to some kind of child-like state, in combat with an actual child that I have power over. They are so raw, so petty, and so strong that they stand out and I can't not do something about them. I can't not try to address them.
I'm not finding much of anything funny to say to wind this up. I do know that as this baby gets closer (to coming out of there, hello? We really are all ready), A is feeling more tension perhaps, and that there is more emotion around dinner time. Did I smash the dessert bowls in protest when this happened, out of nowhere? No, I didn't. Was I also disappointed that my thoughtfulness of making an extra stop to get the berries was totally lost on her? Definitely.
Have I now let her finish all the berries that were left, cringing in guilt when she didn't want to eat some before asking M and me if we wanted them? Yup. Feeling like a schmuck. This whole revisiting of the only-child feelings have only just begun, I'm sure.
Did I then give her my secret stash of crispy M&Ms and Snicker's Ice Cream Bars to make up for it all? Not a chance.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
I tried my hardest
It has been quite a while since I've cried at the thought (or discussion) of giving birth to A. It ended in a C-section, one that I'd hoped, dearly, not to have. It used to make me cry just thinking about it. And talking to someone who'd also had one that way? Yup, tears.
But I've been over that for a while now. It just hasn't gotten me that emotional.
Until yesterday afternoon. On the phone with M, from the hospital cafeteria, after a check up and discussion with doctors about my chances of giving birth the, um, usual way. Basically, some of the concern from last time was about my body, and not the baby's heart or stress level. And given that this current one is big enough now, to the doctors it looks enough like last time's situation (my pelvis hasn't changed size) to warrant telling me they'd be fine with scheduling a primary C-section now. This means just planning for one.
But, they are also fine with waiting to see what happens. So, I told M it seems like a 50/50 chance to me that I end up on an operating table again, just a bit sooner this time than 17 into painful back labor.
And I started getting teary eyed. And my voice had that little catch in it, that made talking without crying really slow. And I heard myself say "well, maybe if this baby isn't turned around like A was, and it still ends in a C-section..." (long pause to compose myself) "I'll know that last time I really did try my hardest." Tears.
Hmm. It seems the trying hard enough is what caught me up the most. Not the actual C-section. I know it might happen again. But saying the words "tried my hardest" is what got right to my core. What choked me up.
So now I've been wondering where that comes from. Is it just the steady diet of it throughout my life: charismatic catholics will tell you that if you can't heal a sick person you weren't praying hard enough, a parent tells you that that "B" you got in history was because you didn't work hard enough, a graduate advisor tells you to "go away and think about your question a bit more" because apparently you aren't thinking hard enough, the natural birth and breastfeeding movements tell you that if you didn't do it their way you just didn't care about your child enough, and depressed people are obviously just not looking on the bright side of life enough. Anyone who tries hard enough can be the president of the United States, or any level of successful, in America.
What a horrible interpretation to impose on people's "failure" to achieve some goal. Maybe it is even the setting of the outcome as a goal (as something you can work for and can get to as long as the work is hard, good, long enough) that is horrible.
The fact that I am expecting my second child is not due to trying harder than the friends I have who haven't gotten to this point, but really want to. I'm extremely lucky that my body took to it this time. That the baby worked. Two names come up instantly of women who are currently trying harder than I ever did to get pregnant. Sure, I did a lot, but not in any overall rankings sort of way. It was a lot for me, and then it worked, and then I stopped. Period. Luck smiled on me earlier.
I guess that is a good position to take on my birth experience, too. Other women got to the vaginal birth part earlier, and then they stopped. Period.
But I've been over that for a while now. It just hasn't gotten me that emotional.
Until yesterday afternoon. On the phone with M, from the hospital cafeteria, after a check up and discussion with doctors about my chances of giving birth the, um, usual way. Basically, some of the concern from last time was about my body, and not the baby's heart or stress level. And given that this current one is big enough now, to the doctors it looks enough like last time's situation (my pelvis hasn't changed size) to warrant telling me they'd be fine with scheduling a primary C-section now. This means just planning for one.
But, they are also fine with waiting to see what happens. So, I told M it seems like a 50/50 chance to me that I end up on an operating table again, just a bit sooner this time than 17 into painful back labor.
And I started getting teary eyed. And my voice had that little catch in it, that made talking without crying really slow. And I heard myself say "well, maybe if this baby isn't turned around like A was, and it still ends in a C-section..." (long pause to compose myself) "I'll know that last time I really did try my hardest." Tears.
Hmm. It seems the trying hard enough is what caught me up the most. Not the actual C-section. I know it might happen again. But saying the words "tried my hardest" is what got right to my core. What choked me up.
So now I've been wondering where that comes from. Is it just the steady diet of it throughout my life: charismatic catholics will tell you that if you can't heal a sick person you weren't praying hard enough, a parent tells you that that "B" you got in history was because you didn't work hard enough, a graduate advisor tells you to "go away and think about your question a bit more" because apparently you aren't thinking hard enough, the natural birth and breastfeeding movements tell you that if you didn't do it their way you just didn't care about your child enough, and depressed people are obviously just not looking on the bright side of life enough. Anyone who tries hard enough can be the president of the United States, or any level of successful, in America.
What a horrible interpretation to impose on people's "failure" to achieve some goal. Maybe it is even the setting of the outcome as a goal (as something you can work for and can get to as long as the work is hard, good, long enough) that is horrible.
The fact that I am expecting my second child is not due to trying harder than the friends I have who haven't gotten to this point, but really want to. I'm extremely lucky that my body took to it this time. That the baby worked. Two names come up instantly of women who are currently trying harder than I ever did to get pregnant. Sure, I did a lot, but not in any overall rankings sort of way. It was a lot for me, and then it worked, and then I stopped. Period. Luck smiled on me earlier.
I guess that is a good position to take on my birth experience, too. Other women got to the vaginal birth part earlier, and then they stopped. Period.
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