Pregnancy Depression

I don't get morning sickness. I don't have to carry a trash can around all day to purge. Those crazy baby hormones don't mess with me too much, with the exception of an aversion to meat cooking. People think that's all there is to pregnancy: the physical stuff. The weight gain, the fatigue, the throwing up. But for me, pregnancy comes with a huge helping of depression. And to tell you the truth, I'd rather puke all day.

My depression is sneaky. I don't realize I'm depressed. It starts as fatigue. Then I'm irritable. Then I can't think of anything in the world to do that's fun. The house gets out of control and I sit and stare at the mess and think, my kids deserve better than this. I start dry-drowning on my own thoughts. I think, why am I such a terrible mother? I think, why can't I get my shit together? I think, pregnant women have given birth in fields and I can't even clean up a fucking living room. I think, I will never be happy again. I think, my husband would have been so much happier if he married someone else. I think, he and so-and-so would have ended up together. I bet she's really tidy. I think all day. As I'm driving my daughter home to get the kids off the bus, I think, I am ruining their lives. I think, I have no interest in playing with them. I think, they'd be better off with a new Mom.

It turns in mental lashing. I can't imagine ever having he energy to tackle the day. I forget I was ever productive. Even as I type this, I struggle to remember who I was before I was incubating this person.

If cameras were following me around, you wouldn't know I was depressed. I still laugh hysterically with my husband. I still find joy in my children. It's not them, it's me. I hate myself. I hate everything there is about me. You wouldn't know it, but I think it. All day, every day. I think it without even realizing I think it.

I start projects I can't finish and I spend two days staring at the half empty boxes, thinking what a failure I am. I am overwhelmed at how out of control I feel in my life and blame myself entirely. I am so mean and unforgiving even I wouldn't be my own friend. I am lost. I am guilty.

Last night my husband crawled in beside me and reminded me gently that I'm depressed. He reminded me that I'm good and worthy and he's watched this twice already, so he can assure me that after the baby, I will be happy again. He assures me that he wouldn't have wanted to end up with anyone else but me. He assures me that I am not failing the kids. He assures me they are happy. He has learned a gentle way of handling me that doesn't stink of condescension.

My depression talks back to me but fortunately I have always been able to see around it as soon as I become aware of it. That doesn't mean I'm no longer depressed but that instead of simply allowing the thoughts, I'm arguing back with them. I'm still lost, I'm still over-whelmed but I try and allow myself the forgiveness to accept it and know that what is happening to me is out of my control. I have to remind myself that I am still me, just a version of myself warped by hormones.

I think of my baby and the rush that over comes me the minute she enters the world. After a post-partum nap, I've woken up twice, refreshed and renewed and myself again. It settles quietly over me and sits densely upon me for a good long while, but lifts quickly. I hope this is the case this time.
 

This Will Come Back to Me When I Need It the Most.

"Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well." -Henry Scott Holland 1847-1918 Canon of St. Paul's Cathedra

10 Ways To Fail by Standing Still

1.      I am a person who is generally complacent and content. I am uncomfortable with dis-content.

2.Recently, I've felt very depressed. It wasn't until the great and wise Ama said, “I don’t think that’s a bad thing because it’s making you question…” that I realized that depression (for me) is an ugly, little gift. I am motivated by happiness and that is generally my only motivating factor.

3. I know in my being a minuscule amount of effort would thwart me where I needed to be. I am scared of success. Success comes with judgment and success comes with shaking up everything I know my life to be. See #1. There is always a lot of struggle with success. Great artists generally have to deal with a lot of demons and I just don’t wanna….

4. I know what I want to be. I want to be a writer.

5. I am a writer. I just don’t know how to be one. Except that I am. Even when I haven’t written in months. It nags at me every day. Write. Write. Write.

6. But I don’t know what to do with it when I’m done. Because I know when I’m done, it will fall into place. After writing, comes editing. And I don’t like to slow down enough to focus on my mistakes. After writing comes success. After writing comes the unknown. See #1.

7. So if I’m scared of success and am easily complacent, why not give up the dream? See # 5.  Some say the purest joy is in your child’s smile. For me, it’s a good review. It’s a drug I want more of. It’s a drug I’m scared of. The smiles of my children makes me feel happy. The feeling of a good review makes me feel alive.

8. I am all or nothing. I have never successfully found balance. Finding balance means finding success. See #3.

9. I have no discipline. Discipline means finding balance. See #8

10.This is what I've learned today. Remember and find comfort. I savor pain and unhappiness when it’s for the greater good of who I am as a whole. Because I only seem to write…when I am discontent.

   

How to Love the Wild Ones

Let me set the scene for you. I'm at Publix, picking up something for dinner. Normally I avoid grocery shopping with the kids as it is the fifth level of hell to an ADHD Mom like myself. Oliver brought a truck with him, a flat bed trailer, which he refers to as, "the truck that carries sticks". I don't normally let him bring toys but coaxing him out of the house is a feat in itself and with truck in tow, he followed suit easier than usual.
It was just a few things for dinner. Two steps into the store and Oliver is revving his internal engine. Before I can say anything, Oliver is running, revving, and eventually knee-sliding down the aisle. I try to get him to stop, I really do. Only half-hearted, I admit. Because as soon as I take his truck away, Oliver will become an unstoppable storm of questions, demands, whines. He's difficult, always has been. He's smart and older than his years. And incapable of being bored. He's a wild one. I have to admit, I kind of love it and loath it about him. I'm a little too good at being bored. We are two sides of the coin, he and I. So I let him rev, I let him knee slide. Penny isn't shrieking. She's actually being pretty quiet. I just need something for dinner.
When out with Oliver, I am met, daily, by two types of people. The first are the ones who look at me from the corner of their eyes with mild disdain. They are the ones thinking about the dirt on the ground (I'm thinking about it too--but I have come to understand in these almost 5 years what a losing battle looks like). They are the ones whispering to their older children, "If you acted that way I would have...". They are the ones who were blessed with calm children. Easy children. Children who would stop with a look, a threat, a pop on the rear. I'm convinced that I could beat Oliver with two trees worth of switches and he still wouldn't change. He's a wild one. He's unstoppable. And truth be told, I'd be judged either way. For letting him be him or for yelling at him non-stop. And it would be non-stop. He's incapable of containment, especially at the grocery store, with the wide clear aisles and slick floors (perfect for knee-sliding!). And this isn't every trip, just this trip. I'm just going to blame it on the truck.

I'm just going to blame this on the truck, too.

And then there are the people who look onto Oliver with kindly amusement. They stop what they are doing to watch him with a wistful smile, to crouch down to talk to him. They are the ones who lightly scold me as I take away his truck for the 3rd time (after he was a hairs-breath away from slamming into a woman in a motorized wheel chair). "He's just having fun," they say. They are the people who say "beep beep" as he almost collides with them mid-aisle, his eyes on the ground instead of up. They are the people who had wild ones or loved wild ones or were wild ones. And as their eyes meet mine, I see their memories and I appreciate their kindness and empathy more than words could ever say and in that one, brief wistful moment, I miss him already. I know too soon I will be the one "beep beeping" and telling the frazzled young mother with her wild and unruly one that their child is precious and hilarious and to wave at her and mouth, "It's fine!" when they cut me off on a turn. I will remember this day fondly. I will see Oliver's face in every wild one I encounter, for the rest of my life.

I'll remember fondly what it was like to not  have any personal space. Or not.

And for those out there who find themselves heavy with side-long glances, who judge and scoff and are annoyed--please remember one thing: you are not more annoyed than me. You are witnessing less than five minutes of my every day life. (And the little one is even being quiet. God help the whole store should she find herself displeased! You haven't even experienced wrath until little chicken is buckled in the seat). I am trying my best to wrangle him, I wish he would listen better, no one wants that more than me. But I can't control him, not in that way. I can't (won't) make him stop playing. It's not worth the battle. It's the grocery store, for crying out loud! It may not be appropriate but you learn quickly to do what you can to do in order to do what has to be done. Sometimes you might have to give a stranger a flat tire in order to get dinner on the table. It's the ugly truth of life, folks.
Because here's the thing here, boys and girls, the more control you think you have over your life, the more your child will burst your bubble and unravel all you thought you knew. You think you can control a child, until you get one who is uncontrollable. You think you'll keep him off the floor, until you realize yelling at him non-stop is not making anything (including him) better. You think you'll be embarrassed by the judgement until you realize that no one in the entire world knows what it's like to live with this wild creature you and your partner created and you find yourself (miraculously) freed from caring at all. Because that's the thing about loving a wild one, in a way, you become wild too. You become free. Free from what others expect of you, free from caring what other's think. You live your life the way you can, the way you need to in order to find happiness, in order to cultivate this little heathen into a productive member of society. And if that means he gets his knees a little dirty (filthy) in order not to squash his spirit (and your own)--so be it. Because if you don't, you'll miss it, all of it. You won't enjoy your children. And they won't enjoy you.
So have a little patience. Find a little joy. And know that, if you don't, the one you spawn will be ten times worse.
The Universe has a wicked sense of humor that way. And a keen way of teaching us what we desperately need to learn.

Me? I learned that the worst pictures are my favorite ones.

Bored with Birthdays

Oliver: Mommy, I'm bored with my birthday. I don't want to be four. I want to stay a little boy so you'll always think I'm cute.

So insightful, my little one. This occurred while he and I were "puzzling". The older he gets, the more I realize he and I are just alike. And just like me, he's going to be acutely aware of every passing day, every precious, fleeting moment. He realizes what it means to grow up. Maybe not really (in a way he can explain)--but he senses it and that, to me, means more than understanding. So it made me a little sad. And a little proud. And I wanted to agree with him (I don't want you to grow up either, Oliver). But I didn't. Instead, I just touched his dark hair, congratulated him on the two puzzle pieces he fit together and assured him that he will always, always, always be cute in my eyes.

A Little Moment in Target

We were standing in line at Target. Oliver was being surprisingly well-behaved but had just managed to swing a leg over the side of the cart, declaring that he wanted a toy. Penny was hungry and starting to fuss a little, so in my attempt to appease her I dangled these toy keys in front of her face, her eyes growing wide with wonder at the bouncing noise and color.
I checked out with Oliver talking, talking, talking. And then I heard him gasp and say, "Mommy, look at Penny". I had finished my transaction so I absentmindedly began to push, assuming Oliver was complaining about the fact that Penny had a toy and why can't he have a toy and etc.
I took a breathe to explain that I hadn't actually bought her a toy when I noticed Oliver standing behind Penny's car seat, in the shopping cart, looking down at her with the biggest, elated grin. "Look Mommy, Penny is holding her keys," he gasped excitedly. "She's never done that before!"
Sure enough, looking as pleased as an almost three month old can, Penny had grasped the keys and was shake, shake, shaking them. I looked at Oliver and he looked at me and we both crowed and praised and smiled. It brought tears to my eyes and my world got smaller. I looked at the cashier; surely she was interested in the miraculous undertaking of my infant or the even more mystical joy from her beaming older brother. Instead, I realized I was blocking the person behind me from paying and I pushed forward, so proud of Penelope, but even more so of Oliver.

Gesture.

The other morning, Oliver was awake and I was asleep and he was bouncing: "Wake up, wake up". I groaned and rolled over, just as I heard the familiar click of my glasses being moved on our head-board shelf. I lurched awake, afraid Oliver was playing with them. Instead, he handed them to me: "Here, Mommy, here are your glasses". And I don't know what about that single gesture has struck me so, that almost a week later it pops into my mind and I am overcome and touched and, strangely enough, consumed with the relief  I felt that day. It's a profound moment when the children you spend so much time and energy and resources loving, actually begin the growing-up process of loving you back.