My weekly Kaiser Permanente prenatal newsletter reported in it's week 39 issue that most women give birth between 37 and 42 weeks of pregnancy. There's a brilliant example of the precision of medical science for you. It lists the dangers to the baby of going past 42 weeks, low amniotic fluid, the risk of meconium (baby's first poop) getting into the fluid and affect the baby's lungs, etc., etc. Why is this important to me? Right now I'm at 39 weeks and a few days. My due date's officially on Monday. Which is funny, because I don't actually hit 40 weeks until Wednesday; they moved my date up a few days based on how I was measuring at about 8 weeks. Everyone's been assuring me I'll go into labor early or at the very least, on time. But I have a sinking feeling that won't happen, even though this is my second pregnancy. Julia was born almost a week late, and this was after a number of "natural" interventions meant to encourage labor: "sweeping the membranes," which sounds so gentle and is really quite horrible, as it involves the doctor putting her finger into my cervix and separating the uterine wall from the amniotic sac. It was very painful for me, and the last time, they tried this twice. Then there's castor oil. I'm not sure what the medical uses ever were for this nasty stuff, as what it does for the expecting woman is give her violent diarrhea, which again, is supposed to stimulate labor. In my case, it started light contractions that stopped after about eight hours in. I thought my labor had stalled at that point, but my midwife told me I wasn't actually in labor at all. My acupuncturist came to the apartment at that point to hit all the labor points. Not sure if any of this did any good at all, except to make me (more) uncomfortable and frustrated. Ultimately, my water broke at 11:30 the following evening, which sent me rocketing through a four hour labor that was as close to hell as I hope I ever get. All this, so I wouldn't have to go into the hospital for an induction, which my OB threatened would have to happen if I hit 41 weeks. I think her exact words were, "We're not going to let you hit 41 weeks." This echoes another passage from my newsletter. Regardless of how the baby's faring (they make you go in for these tests beginning at 40 weeks to check on him), doctors will recommend an induction between weeks 41 and 42. Regardless.
Induction means pitocin. Pitocin, a synthetic form of oxytocin is pumped into you. The contractions are much worse on pitocin (not sure how that could be possible) making my goal of having a drug-free birth even more difficult to achieve. But an epidural, its other risks notwithstanding, can also have the effect of slowing down labor. And they'll only let you labor for so long. You see where my mind goes.
My friends who've had C-sections didn't choose to; they consented, of course, but the doctor made the call. But I think it goes without saying that I don't always trust doctors to act in my best interest. Even when they think they are, they're trained to think in terms of pathology, what's wrong with someone. Often it seems that rather than let a natural process unfold, they'd rather go the shortest route to the end result to avoid possible complications. So what does that mean for me, at 39 weeks and 2 days? That if I don't go into labor on my own in the next four days, I start down a path that I don't want to go down. I'll go in for my last prenatal appointment and they'll sweep my membranes. I'll make subsequent appointments for non-stress tests and the like. If I go a few more days, I'll have to make a choice about the other natural interventions. I'll get more uncomfortable; I'll get more stressed. At 41 weeks they'll schedule my induction. So I'll get ready to fight, either my doctor for more time or my own body as it's taken over by pitocin-induced contractions. Again, you see where my mind goes.
It's not my intention, however soap-boxy this may all sound, to judge anyone else's childbirth experience. Healthy babies are born to happy mothers in many ways, and while I have a sense of what's right for me, I don't assume that it's right for everyone. There are plenty of people, and in the Bay Area of all places, that think that my having a home birth with Julia was crazy. I've met a good handful of people that think having a child without an epidural is crazy, especially when you've already had a natural childbirth that was as traumatic pain-wise as mine was. But there's no other experience in life that's more personal than this, I think, no other experience where I've felt more compelled to listen to my inner voices rather than outside opinions, no other time when I've felt more confident that I know what's right for me, more than other women, more than even (gasp) a doctor.
I'm steeling myself against the possibilities which are all quite daunting from where I sit. And I'm steeling myself against them while trying to enjoy these last few uninterrupted days with my first born, trying to get another mouthful of breakfast in her before we go to the park, reading books to her about new baby brothers and sisters. As always, I think worrying and overthinking is going to give me something I don't have under these circumstances. Control.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
the other me
I had a dream a few months ago. At first, it was your typical anxiety dream, but then it took an interesting and unprecedented turn:
I'm standing in front of a large group of teenagers in an auditorium. I have the sense that I'm the new kid in school, that people don't know or don't like me. I'm making some kind of an announcement, and while at first I can't hear myself speak for all the jeers and boos, at some point, I win the crowd over, and they begin to applaud and cheer. Next scene, I'm being approached after school by a pretty girl I've already picked out in the crowd; she's inviting me to some kind of an event, like an art opening. The scene changes and we're there. The room has a reddish glow and people are lounging in velvet armchairs and couches. Smoke fills the air and at first, everything's blurry in the haze. I have a growing awareness of myself and the people around me. I have a sense I belong there even though it's an unfamiliar place. It dawns on me slowly as we're walking through the space that I'm not in my everyday body. I'm young, maybe late teens, and I'm thin and spare, taller, stronger. My clothes are form-fitting, but not tight, the cut androgynous. I run my hand up my neck and notice my hair, which is straight and cut very short, with a fall of hair over one eye. Cut to the next scene, and I'm in the cab of an old pick up, my pick up, apparently, the same girl next to me. We're parked, slouched in our seats, smoking cigarettes. As I exhale and see the smoke rise and disperse before my eyes, I feel something that in life I never feel, a sense of relaxation, ease, that I'm in complete and utter control. I am perfectly confident that whatever I want to happen next, will happen. That by virtue of who I am, what I am, everything will come easy for me. It was the most beautiful feeling I've had for a long time, and lasted long after the details of the dream began to fade away.
When I first became a parent, other parts of me were sidelined, subverted. I think it happens to everyone. Just like, when you settle down with a partner, the single individual is swallowed to a certain extent by the "relationship" individual, the parent self overtakes to a certain extent the childless self. And in mostly good ways, I think. Parenthood taught me to be more selfless, taught me to put things in perspective, taught me to find happiness in meeting someone else's needs, taught me the depth and force of love. I was forced to drop bad habits, lose a lot of vanity, rearrange my priorities. But an essential part of myself was also starved for a time, and it's been a struggle trying to balance that part with the part that's been forever changed, that's gearing up to change again.
It's worth noting that I had this dream at a moment when, between the demands of my pregnancy and toddler, I felt riddled with anxiety, compromised both physically and mentally. Gratifying, really, that I could give myself a subconscious vacation from all of it, be young, fierce, stylish, fit, rebellious, open.
I rarely have lucid dreams, those dreams in which you can be who you want and control the action. So that, in and of itself, is noteworthy, too. But the dream was revelatory to me for reasons beyond this. The person I was in this dream, I know her very well, but I've never been her, in dreams or real life. I've been attracted to her, looked for and recognized parts of her in other people, in characters in books and movies, and I've written about her in countless stories throughout my life. She's a reoccurring theme, you might say. What this dream brought to light for me was that she's not what I always thought she was: something outside of me, some fantasy, some ideal, but rather, she's a part of me, some potential I can reach. And if that's the case, then at this moment, she's the most repressed she's ever been. Right now, she's my opposite in almost every way. Finding some way to reach her, integrate her with my mom self, my partner self, may just be the key to everything.
But how? The physical changes are obviously beyond me now, if they weren't always, and kind of beside the point: I'm never going to be 19 again. I'm probably not going to ever cut my hair that short or start smoking again. My piercings will stay closed. When I get my body back, if I ever do, I'll never have that body type, and I'll probably revert back to the nondescript jeans and a v-neck t-shirt look I've sported for a good ten plus years now. But her look and her attitude symbolize a kind of freedom for me that I don't have now, that maybe I've fallen short of ever really having, despite my attempts every ten years or so. The kind of freedom I mean is freedom from self-doubt, freedom from pressures to conform, to please. Freedom from fear of loss, of failure. But that kind of freedom requires power. The power to be your authentic self, and be that self even in the face of disapproval, discrimination, rejection.
In my efforts to find connection to other moms in a new town, I've found myself trying to send the message, Hey, accept me, I'm just like you. Which just isn't true. I mean, I'm not the counter-culture queen, not by a long shot, but there are aspects of me that set me apart from a lot of folks I've met here. And I've pretended, and in a few cases, even tried to care about things I have no interest in (particular TV shows, cooking projects, warehouse shopping, to name a few). So what to do? With a few new friends I've tried the "coming out" routine, not the obvious coming out, as that happens as soon as I mention Karissa, but coming out as a lover of obscure things, outsider art, underground music, challenging reads, foreign films, complex questions. But, as I observed in an earlier post, the extent to which I can really convey things about myself is sorely limited when my attention is divided as is the extent to which many of my acquaintances care, when what they'd prefer to do is dissect the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County.
I've already begun reassembling myself by reconnecting more intentionally with my pre-parenthood friends. With them I share a common language, taste and experience, enough that I don't have to fight to be seen. In just the few weeks that I've sought out kindred spirits and cut ties with ill-fitting "frienemies," I've been so much happier. And as I've noted before, being back on a college campus this fall will give me ample opportunity to connect with more like-minded individuals, so it's something I continue to look forward to. But it's far from enough, and in fact, may not be the answer at all. Surrounding myself with trusted friends is not unlike building a barricade between myself and a world I find strange and unwelcoming at times. I have to take some kind of action, set things in motion. To put it in the simplest terms, I have to be myself, my whole self, which means I have to feed and nurture all the parts of me. At this point, I don't know how to do this. But at least, I realize something has to be done.
We all carry around "otherness." Our children see it eventually and watch us very closely to see what we do with it. Do we hide it, and simply show others what we think they want to see? I want my daughter and my son to learn early on that you can't please everyone, and moreover, you shouldn't want to. I want them to be whole people, integrated, expressed. I can't stop their pendulums from swinging wildly at different points in their lives, but I can hope they return to the center.
Since I dreamed this dream, I can see her very clearly, the other me, I can see everything she represents, see her staring at me, from the shadows, James Dean pose, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, and I get the message finally. She's daring me to be her, in some small way, everyday. She's daring me to be fully free.
I'm standing in front of a large group of teenagers in an auditorium. I have the sense that I'm the new kid in school, that people don't know or don't like me. I'm making some kind of an announcement, and while at first I can't hear myself speak for all the jeers and boos, at some point, I win the crowd over, and they begin to applaud and cheer. Next scene, I'm being approached after school by a pretty girl I've already picked out in the crowd; she's inviting me to some kind of an event, like an art opening. The scene changes and we're there. The room has a reddish glow and people are lounging in velvet armchairs and couches. Smoke fills the air and at first, everything's blurry in the haze. I have a growing awareness of myself and the people around me. I have a sense I belong there even though it's an unfamiliar place. It dawns on me slowly as we're walking through the space that I'm not in my everyday body. I'm young, maybe late teens, and I'm thin and spare, taller, stronger. My clothes are form-fitting, but not tight, the cut androgynous. I run my hand up my neck and notice my hair, which is straight and cut very short, with a fall of hair over one eye. Cut to the next scene, and I'm in the cab of an old pick up, my pick up, apparently, the same girl next to me. We're parked, slouched in our seats, smoking cigarettes. As I exhale and see the smoke rise and disperse before my eyes, I feel something that in life I never feel, a sense of relaxation, ease, that I'm in complete and utter control. I am perfectly confident that whatever I want to happen next, will happen. That by virtue of who I am, what I am, everything will come easy for me. It was the most beautiful feeling I've had for a long time, and lasted long after the details of the dream began to fade away.
When I first became a parent, other parts of me were sidelined, subverted. I think it happens to everyone. Just like, when you settle down with a partner, the single individual is swallowed to a certain extent by the "relationship" individual, the parent self overtakes to a certain extent the childless self. And in mostly good ways, I think. Parenthood taught me to be more selfless, taught me to put things in perspective, taught me to find happiness in meeting someone else's needs, taught me the depth and force of love. I was forced to drop bad habits, lose a lot of vanity, rearrange my priorities. But an essential part of myself was also starved for a time, and it's been a struggle trying to balance that part with the part that's been forever changed, that's gearing up to change again.
It's worth noting that I had this dream at a moment when, between the demands of my pregnancy and toddler, I felt riddled with anxiety, compromised both physically and mentally. Gratifying, really, that I could give myself a subconscious vacation from all of it, be young, fierce, stylish, fit, rebellious, open.
I rarely have lucid dreams, those dreams in which you can be who you want and control the action. So that, in and of itself, is noteworthy, too. But the dream was revelatory to me for reasons beyond this. The person I was in this dream, I know her very well, but I've never been her, in dreams or real life. I've been attracted to her, looked for and recognized parts of her in other people, in characters in books and movies, and I've written about her in countless stories throughout my life. She's a reoccurring theme, you might say. What this dream brought to light for me was that she's not what I always thought she was: something outside of me, some fantasy, some ideal, but rather, she's a part of me, some potential I can reach. And if that's the case, then at this moment, she's the most repressed she's ever been. Right now, she's my opposite in almost every way. Finding some way to reach her, integrate her with my mom self, my partner self, may just be the key to everything.
But how? The physical changes are obviously beyond me now, if they weren't always, and kind of beside the point: I'm never going to be 19 again. I'm probably not going to ever cut my hair that short or start smoking again. My piercings will stay closed. When I get my body back, if I ever do, I'll never have that body type, and I'll probably revert back to the nondescript jeans and a v-neck t-shirt look I've sported for a good ten plus years now. But her look and her attitude symbolize a kind of freedom for me that I don't have now, that maybe I've fallen short of ever really having, despite my attempts every ten years or so. The kind of freedom I mean is freedom from self-doubt, freedom from pressures to conform, to please. Freedom from fear of loss, of failure. But that kind of freedom requires power. The power to be your authentic self, and be that self even in the face of disapproval, discrimination, rejection.
In my efforts to find connection to other moms in a new town, I've found myself trying to send the message, Hey, accept me, I'm just like you. Which just isn't true. I mean, I'm not the counter-culture queen, not by a long shot, but there are aspects of me that set me apart from a lot of folks I've met here. And I've pretended, and in a few cases, even tried to care about things I have no interest in (particular TV shows, cooking projects, warehouse shopping, to name a few). So what to do? With a few new friends I've tried the "coming out" routine, not the obvious coming out, as that happens as soon as I mention Karissa, but coming out as a lover of obscure things, outsider art, underground music, challenging reads, foreign films, complex questions. But, as I observed in an earlier post, the extent to which I can really convey things about myself is sorely limited when my attention is divided as is the extent to which many of my acquaintances care, when what they'd prefer to do is dissect the latest episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County.
I've already begun reassembling myself by reconnecting more intentionally with my pre-parenthood friends. With them I share a common language, taste and experience, enough that I don't have to fight to be seen. In just the few weeks that I've sought out kindred spirits and cut ties with ill-fitting "frienemies," I've been so much happier. And as I've noted before, being back on a college campus this fall will give me ample opportunity to connect with more like-minded individuals, so it's something I continue to look forward to. But it's far from enough, and in fact, may not be the answer at all. Surrounding myself with trusted friends is not unlike building a barricade between myself and a world I find strange and unwelcoming at times. I have to take some kind of action, set things in motion. To put it in the simplest terms, I have to be myself, my whole self, which means I have to feed and nurture all the parts of me. At this point, I don't know how to do this. But at least, I realize something has to be done.
We all carry around "otherness." Our children see it eventually and watch us very closely to see what we do with it. Do we hide it, and simply show others what we think they want to see? I want my daughter and my son to learn early on that you can't please everyone, and moreover, you shouldn't want to. I want them to be whole people, integrated, expressed. I can't stop their pendulums from swinging wildly at different points in their lives, but I can hope they return to the center.
Since I dreamed this dream, I can see her very clearly, the other me, I can see everything she represents, see her staring at me, from the shadows, James Dean pose, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, and I get the message finally. She's daring me to be her, in some small way, everyday. She's daring me to be fully free.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
the balance
For one reason or another, many of the playgroups that we've been a part of in the past year are dissolving, and I've been scrambling to cobble together a new program for Julia for the summer. Some of the reasons for the transition are connected to her age and the ages of her playmates. Some of it's the ebb and flow of my own friendships. Mostly, she's growing out of certain groups and activities, so much faster than I thought possible. And now she's "ready," or at least, almost old enough for new kinds of experiences: ballet classes, tot soccer, swim lessons, gymnastics. My head is spinning. There are so many options, and it's difficult to know where to begin.
No longer is it enough to just give her a room filled with bright plastic toys, some books and some playdough. At the same time, there's a tendency in this community to overprogram your kids, to obsess about how to best manufacture their experiences so that they'll be as well-rounded as they can be, before they've even entered kindergarten. I don't want her to burn out by age five, but I also want her to have all of the advantages I can give her.
So, how to find the balance?
When I was three, I was in a home-based day care all day long, the same day care I'd been in since I was nine months old. I don't remember much about being three, but I do remember my caregiver's house, a few of my friends, and some of the things we did there. She had a huge yard and plenty of toys, and at least six other kids for me to play with. While I didn't ever go to preschool or do any kind of enrichment activities until I was in grade school, I had a good imagination, a few consistent playmates, and the freedom to roam, which more than prepared me for school, academically, at any rate.
That said, I didn't learn a lot of basic "kid" skills until I was well into childhood and approaching adolescence, that is to say, too late. I didn't learn how to swim, skate, or ride a bike until I was eight or nine. I could never do a proper cartwheel. I never learned to dive properly, and embarrassed myself by having to jump feet first into the water at competitive swim meets at eleven years of age. I amassed quite a collection of brown and orange fifth and sixth place ribbons that summer. I still can't stand up and pedal on a bike; I can hardly move one hand off the handlebars to shift gears on a ten speed. I continue to be allergic to most organized sports and games. While I taught myself to stay upright on ice skates, I could never go backward or spin in a circle. Though I had an ear for music from very early on, I never learned to play an instrument, and picked up the guitar for the first time well into my twenties. I never went to summer camp or did camping of any kind with my family, so nature and I were estranged for most of my life.
This is not to say I had a lousy childhood; I was loved, I was fed and clothed, educated, entertained and kept safe. One thing I had was plenty of downtime after school and on weekends; time to wander around my neighborhood, play in my backyard, read, write, watch TV. Without camp, lazy summer days lasted forever, and my free time was my own to fill. I can safely say stress was foreign to me until I hit puberty. Trouble is, I think I missed something crucial having so little structure to my childhood. I had no instruments to practice, no badges to earn, no big games, no rehearsals. If I'd asked to do any of these things, I'm sure my parents would have let me, but how can you decide whether or not you'll be good at something if no one shows you the extent of your options? I became increasingly afraid to try new things, convinced myself I wasn't good at so much. By middle school, I'd gotten into performing arts and academics and away from athletics. I found friends who shared my interests, but my direction had as much to do with my natural talents as my childhood gaps.
It's always a danger to base parenting decisions on what you perceive as the gaps in your own childhood, because it's easy to create new gaps based on your own biases. It's also dangerous to pay too much attention to what other people are doing, because what's doable for one family/child isn't always doable for another. I have to wonder, too, how much of the attention I'm giving to this has to do with the fact that in a few weeks, I won't be able to give her as much of myself. I want to carve out as much time for her in advance as I possibly can. And I've always found it helpful to put too much worry and planning into something than risk not doing enough.
I think, at the end of the day, I have to fall back on my progressive ed training and ask myself, what is she interested in? She won't stop doing somersaults all over the house, so I've signed her up for a gymnastics class. She's a natural water kid and always has been; so swim lessons are a no-brainer. Beyond that, I have to trust that fresh air and sunshine and a new baby brother will keep her happy and stimulated. In a few months, she'll start preschool, and more doors will open for her.
The bottom line is, I don't want Julia to have to shy away from experiences as she gets older because she lacked exposure to certain things at a young age. I want her to have the chance to master some basic skills so that she's confident and brave enough to tackle related challenges as she grows. I don't want to go crazy and overwhelm her or take away her ability to fill her own time. I don't want windows to close on her. I know she won't be good at everything, but I just want to give her the chance.
No longer is it enough to just give her a room filled with bright plastic toys, some books and some playdough. At the same time, there's a tendency in this community to overprogram your kids, to obsess about how to best manufacture their experiences so that they'll be as well-rounded as they can be, before they've even entered kindergarten. I don't want her to burn out by age five, but I also want her to have all of the advantages I can give her.
So, how to find the balance?
When I was three, I was in a home-based day care all day long, the same day care I'd been in since I was nine months old. I don't remember much about being three, but I do remember my caregiver's house, a few of my friends, and some of the things we did there. She had a huge yard and plenty of toys, and at least six other kids for me to play with. While I didn't ever go to preschool or do any kind of enrichment activities until I was in grade school, I had a good imagination, a few consistent playmates, and the freedom to roam, which more than prepared me for school, academically, at any rate.
That said, I didn't learn a lot of basic "kid" skills until I was well into childhood and approaching adolescence, that is to say, too late. I didn't learn how to swim, skate, or ride a bike until I was eight or nine. I could never do a proper cartwheel. I never learned to dive properly, and embarrassed myself by having to jump feet first into the water at competitive swim meets at eleven years of age. I amassed quite a collection of brown and orange fifth and sixth place ribbons that summer. I still can't stand up and pedal on a bike; I can hardly move one hand off the handlebars to shift gears on a ten speed. I continue to be allergic to most organized sports and games. While I taught myself to stay upright on ice skates, I could never go backward or spin in a circle. Though I had an ear for music from very early on, I never learned to play an instrument, and picked up the guitar for the first time well into my twenties. I never went to summer camp or did camping of any kind with my family, so nature and I were estranged for most of my life.
This is not to say I had a lousy childhood; I was loved, I was fed and clothed, educated, entertained and kept safe. One thing I had was plenty of downtime after school and on weekends; time to wander around my neighborhood, play in my backyard, read, write, watch TV. Without camp, lazy summer days lasted forever, and my free time was my own to fill. I can safely say stress was foreign to me until I hit puberty. Trouble is, I think I missed something crucial having so little structure to my childhood. I had no instruments to practice, no badges to earn, no big games, no rehearsals. If I'd asked to do any of these things, I'm sure my parents would have let me, but how can you decide whether or not you'll be good at something if no one shows you the extent of your options? I became increasingly afraid to try new things, convinced myself I wasn't good at so much. By middle school, I'd gotten into performing arts and academics and away from athletics. I found friends who shared my interests, but my direction had as much to do with my natural talents as my childhood gaps.
It's always a danger to base parenting decisions on what you perceive as the gaps in your own childhood, because it's easy to create new gaps based on your own biases. It's also dangerous to pay too much attention to what other people are doing, because what's doable for one family/child isn't always doable for another. I have to wonder, too, how much of the attention I'm giving to this has to do with the fact that in a few weeks, I won't be able to give her as much of myself. I want to carve out as much time for her in advance as I possibly can. And I've always found it helpful to put too much worry and planning into something than risk not doing enough.
I think, at the end of the day, I have to fall back on my progressive ed training and ask myself, what is she interested in? She won't stop doing somersaults all over the house, so I've signed her up for a gymnastics class. She's a natural water kid and always has been; so swim lessons are a no-brainer. Beyond that, I have to trust that fresh air and sunshine and a new baby brother will keep her happy and stimulated. In a few months, she'll start preschool, and more doors will open for her.
The bottom line is, I don't want Julia to have to shy away from experiences as she gets older because she lacked exposure to certain things at a young age. I want her to have the chance to master some basic skills so that she's confident and brave enough to tackle related challenges as she grows. I don't want to go crazy and overwhelm her or take away her ability to fill her own time. I don't want windows to close on her. I know she won't be good at everything, but I just want to give her the chance.
Monday, March 28, 2011
turn, turn, turn
So this fall, my little girl starts preschool. We've chosen a co-op about ten minutes away from our house. Since she's in the process of dropping her nap, we're enrolling her in the afternoon program. Today, they hosted a "messy art day" which we thought would be a lot of fun for Julia, and also provide an opportunity for Karissa to see the school, since she'd only seen the website and was working the morning I toured. It was a great day in a lot of respects. I saw many acquaintances from the park and playgroups, and two of my friends came out with their kids. It was very crowded, and while the messy part was a bit more prevalent than the art part, it was heaven for Julia. Obviously, every day at preschool won't be a messy art day, but it was wonderful to see Julia in the space having the time of her life. The people working the event were parents at the school, and they were open, welcoming and friendly, even given the chaos and the crowds.
It makes it clear to me that as hard as it's going to be for me to let go of her, of seeing her every day, of always knowing how she is and what she's doing, she needs different space, different experiences, and different people to really grow at this point. Mostly I'm excited for her, and my excitement is rooted in my confidence in the school's program, and how much of a fit it is for Julia. She's always been fiercely independent, and really thrives in a space in which there is a variety of activities and she's free to choose between them. We've shied away from programs with imposed circle times, scheduled inside/outside time, enforced snack and meal times. Sure, when she's older there will be more constraints, but she'll be developmentally ready for them, and now she's just not. At this time in her life, she just needs to explore her world and create her own learning experiences in a safe place. And that's what the school provides.
So once we left there, we headed with another family to a favorite restaurant of Julia's. She had a great time and ate well, but by 1:30, her glazed eyes and under the table antics made it pretty clear she still needed to catch up on sleep. When we got home a bit after 2:00, she was weepy, tantrum-y, and exhausted. I laid down with her, and she fell asleep at around 2:30. Of course, once she wakes (it's now after 5:00), there's no telling when she'll sleep again; she'll probably hold out until 11, regardless of when we put her to bed. Then she'll wake up late, and refuse to nap tomorrow. And it begins again. No nap, early bedtime, nap, super-late bedtime, and on and on. There may even be a few 3:30/4 am wakings when she's gone to bed too early, has had a bad dream, or is too wet. This new no-sleep phase has changed all of our sleep cycles. Even when she sleeps through the night, I often wake up at 2:30 to eat animal cookies and watch reality TV because my mind is racing, I'm starving, and the baby's wide awake and on the move. It's hard to say when sleep will ever resume normal patterns again.
The disrupted sleep is symptomatic of this period of transition, of instability, that's affecting all of us. It's not just that physically, Julia's needing less sleep. In a month, we won't be the family we've been. We'll fill the space differently, and roles will shift. It would be easier to think that Julia's too young to grasp what's coming, and maybe consciously, that's true. But it's also true that she, like all children, is very sensitive, and she feels my mounting anxiety, Karissa's stress. And she's taking in all of the obvious signs of the change on the horizon.
She's now sleeping in the big girl bed, and the crib has moved out. All of our new books (given by a colleague of Karissa's) have to do with babies and big brothers or sisters. And she gets it, in some basic way, that something, someone is coming. When she asks about the baby, when she calls herself a big sister. She's even started telling me that she can't do this or that thing because she's pregnant and asks me to feel the baby kicking in her tummy. She's processing everything in her own, almost three year old way, and she's processing it, as we are, at all hours of the day and night.
So we have to take care of each other, and realize collectively that the changes coming, challenging as they may be, are good changes, spectacular changes. And when one of us forgets, the other two need to be there to do the reminding. I know Julia reminds me so often what a blessing change can be, when she uses a new expression, when she reaches another milestone, when she smiles or laughs at a joke she wouldn't have gotten a month ago. The sun's coming out today after weeks of rain, yet another example of how change, however frightening, can be overwhelmingly, heartrendingly positive.
It makes it clear to me that as hard as it's going to be for me to let go of her, of seeing her every day, of always knowing how she is and what she's doing, she needs different space, different experiences, and different people to really grow at this point. Mostly I'm excited for her, and my excitement is rooted in my confidence in the school's program, and how much of a fit it is for Julia. She's always been fiercely independent, and really thrives in a space in which there is a variety of activities and she's free to choose between them. We've shied away from programs with imposed circle times, scheduled inside/outside time, enforced snack and meal times. Sure, when she's older there will be more constraints, but she'll be developmentally ready for them, and now she's just not. At this time in her life, she just needs to explore her world and create her own learning experiences in a safe place. And that's what the school provides.
So once we left there, we headed with another family to a favorite restaurant of Julia's. She had a great time and ate well, but by 1:30, her glazed eyes and under the table antics made it pretty clear she still needed to catch up on sleep. When we got home a bit after 2:00, she was weepy, tantrum-y, and exhausted. I laid down with her, and she fell asleep at around 2:30. Of course, once she wakes (it's now after 5:00), there's no telling when she'll sleep again; she'll probably hold out until 11, regardless of when we put her to bed. Then she'll wake up late, and refuse to nap tomorrow. And it begins again. No nap, early bedtime, nap, super-late bedtime, and on and on. There may even be a few 3:30/4 am wakings when she's gone to bed too early, has had a bad dream, or is too wet. This new no-sleep phase has changed all of our sleep cycles. Even when she sleeps through the night, I often wake up at 2:30 to eat animal cookies and watch reality TV because my mind is racing, I'm starving, and the baby's wide awake and on the move. It's hard to say when sleep will ever resume normal patterns again.
The disrupted sleep is symptomatic of this period of transition, of instability, that's affecting all of us. It's not just that physically, Julia's needing less sleep. In a month, we won't be the family we've been. We'll fill the space differently, and roles will shift. It would be easier to think that Julia's too young to grasp what's coming, and maybe consciously, that's true. But it's also true that she, like all children, is very sensitive, and she feels my mounting anxiety, Karissa's stress. And she's taking in all of the obvious signs of the change on the horizon.
She's now sleeping in the big girl bed, and the crib has moved out. All of our new books (given by a colleague of Karissa's) have to do with babies and big brothers or sisters. And she gets it, in some basic way, that something, someone is coming. When she asks about the baby, when she calls herself a big sister. She's even started telling me that she can't do this or that thing because she's pregnant and asks me to feel the baby kicking in her tummy. She's processing everything in her own, almost three year old way, and she's processing it, as we are, at all hours of the day and night.
So we have to take care of each other, and realize collectively that the changes coming, challenging as they may be, are good changes, spectacular changes. And when one of us forgets, the other two need to be there to do the reminding. I know Julia reminds me so often what a blessing change can be, when she uses a new expression, when she reaches another milestone, when she smiles or laughs at a joke she wouldn't have gotten a month ago. The sun's coming out today after weeks of rain, yet another example of how change, however frightening, can be overwhelmingly, heartrendingly positive.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
L & D and OMG
This morning Julia woke up at 3:30. Karissa and I both tried to get her to go back to sleep, first in our bed, then in her bed, then in our bed again. She had me fooled a few times with her quiet breathing and then she'd bust out with some observation, Sesame Street quotation or the question, "Is it wake-up time?" When I finally got up with her at 5:30, I was in a rotten mood. I opened the freezer to find the ready-to-bake cinnamon rolls I'd been saving for the weekend, thinking if I could just have these with my (very weak) morning coffee, the day might be saved. Not so much. The rolls were too chewy and not sweet enough. Not that it stopped me from eating four or five of them, in the hopes they would improve. And of course, they didn't. I ended up crawling back to bed at around 7:00, once Karissa was up and coherent, and slept fitfully until around 8:45.
I had to get up because we had to leave the house an hour later. We were dropping Julia off at a friend's, and going to the Labor and Delivery tour of Kaiser Oakland. The tour guide was late, but gave a spirited overview of the intake procedures at the hospital to us and the three other couples on the tour, one of whom I was fairly sure spoke very little English. She paused for questions a handful of times as we went up to triage, L & D, and the recovery rooms. Karissa and I were the only ones with any questions at all, the others just stood around in stunned silence, staring at the tour guide, staring at us, staring at Karissa in particular as she asked about parking and other important logistics. I must admit, though I participated more than most, I myself was a bit stunned. I never wanted to have a baby in the hospital; I had fully intended to have the second one at home until right after New Year's when we took a hard look at our finances and decided there was no way we could afford another home birth. A part of me was comforted by the MDs and nurses everywhere, all of the technology and equipment, even though I needed none of them last time, but most of me doesn't understand how it's all going to work.
My last labor was four hours, and I went from breaking water to active labor in 20 minutes. Labor was so sudden and so difficult, that I couldn't imagine moving two feet, much less getting into a car, parking, walking into a hospital, taking the elevator to the fourth floor, going to triage for an evaluation, moving again to a (beyond dreary and sterile) delivery room. I couldn't imagine having an IV put in or having monitors attached to my body. It would have made an already terrifying and excruciating experience so much worse. But now, that's what I'm doing, and I still can't imagine it. So I'm going to do the only thing I can do, which is to put it out of my mind for now, and pray that when the time comes, things will go smoothly. Thanks to Karissa, we have "plans for various scenarios in place." I thank God that my wife is so detail oriented. Someone has to remember all of the steps for getting into the building and getting up to the right room just in case I'm out of my mind at the time. Don't get me wrong, I understand this is what most women in this country do. This is normal. I guess I'm not, but then, that's not really news to me.
Later in the afternoon I had my first (and sadly, probably my last) prenatal massage. It was wonderfully relaxing, though I spent a little too much energy trying not to fall asleep, and the ONE place I asked her to work on, she didn't touch. What kind of "master therapist" who gives prenatal massages doesn't know where the sacroiliac joint is? She rubbed away on the small of my back, and I was too polite (and frankly, too sleepy) to say, um, could you go a little lower?
We've passed a quiet afternoon since we've been home, and we're both praying we can get Julia to bed early given the epic mostly sleepless day she's had (she fell asleep for about an hour in the car). I'm not sure Karissa or I will last very long after she's out.
I have a lot to think about (or try not to think about) in the next four weeks, but my biggest hope is that the weeks will fly by, my body will have become a "master laborer" in the three plus years since I did this the last time, and I'll be able to hold my baby boy in my arms without much pain and suffering to get him there. At least I'll have mastered the sleep deprivation that goes along with new parenthood, or as I've learned, parenthood in general.
I had to get up because we had to leave the house an hour later. We were dropping Julia off at a friend's, and going to the Labor and Delivery tour of Kaiser Oakland. The tour guide was late, but gave a spirited overview of the intake procedures at the hospital to us and the three other couples on the tour, one of whom I was fairly sure spoke very little English. She paused for questions a handful of times as we went up to triage, L & D, and the recovery rooms. Karissa and I were the only ones with any questions at all, the others just stood around in stunned silence, staring at the tour guide, staring at us, staring at Karissa in particular as she asked about parking and other important logistics. I must admit, though I participated more than most, I myself was a bit stunned. I never wanted to have a baby in the hospital; I had fully intended to have the second one at home until right after New Year's when we took a hard look at our finances and decided there was no way we could afford another home birth. A part of me was comforted by the MDs and nurses everywhere, all of the technology and equipment, even though I needed none of them last time, but most of me doesn't understand how it's all going to work.
My last labor was four hours, and I went from breaking water to active labor in 20 minutes. Labor was so sudden and so difficult, that I couldn't imagine moving two feet, much less getting into a car, parking, walking into a hospital, taking the elevator to the fourth floor, going to triage for an evaluation, moving again to a (beyond dreary and sterile) delivery room. I couldn't imagine having an IV put in or having monitors attached to my body. It would have made an already terrifying and excruciating experience so much worse. But now, that's what I'm doing, and I still can't imagine it. So I'm going to do the only thing I can do, which is to put it out of my mind for now, and pray that when the time comes, things will go smoothly. Thanks to Karissa, we have "plans for various scenarios in place." I thank God that my wife is so detail oriented. Someone has to remember all of the steps for getting into the building and getting up to the right room just in case I'm out of my mind at the time. Don't get me wrong, I understand this is what most women in this country do. This is normal. I guess I'm not, but then, that's not really news to me.
Later in the afternoon I had my first (and sadly, probably my last) prenatal massage. It was wonderfully relaxing, though I spent a little too much energy trying not to fall asleep, and the ONE place I asked her to work on, she didn't touch. What kind of "master therapist" who gives prenatal massages doesn't know where the sacroiliac joint is? She rubbed away on the small of my back, and I was too polite (and frankly, too sleepy) to say, um, could you go a little lower?
We've passed a quiet afternoon since we've been home, and we're both praying we can get Julia to bed early given the epic mostly sleepless day she's had (she fell asleep for about an hour in the car). I'm not sure Karissa or I will last very long after she's out.
I have a lot to think about (or try not to think about) in the next four weeks, but my biggest hope is that the weeks will fly by, my body will have become a "master laborer" in the three plus years since I did this the last time, and I'll be able to hold my baby boy in my arms without much pain and suffering to get him there. At least I'll have mastered the sleep deprivation that goes along with new parenthood, or as I've learned, parenthood in general.
Friday, March 25, 2011
unconditional friendship
"Love is the unconditional support of imperfect human beings."
My MIL put this as her FB status this morning, and it got me thinking. Of course, I was already thinking, you might say overthinking. At some point, I'd really love to stop overthinking, but that would require a level of engagement in some project or other, and outside of the day to day, and the fact that in five weeks I'll be a mother for the second time, I have nothing going on. I've been inspired to write again after a long hiatus because of an incident that occurred the day before yesterday.
One of my first impulses was to write a story or maybe a screenplay, something like "Mean Girls" but based on a group of stay at home moms in Berkeley. Then I wanted to write an essay, something like, "SAHM: The Failed Experiment." But then I thought, I haven't blogged much since I quit my job, moved to Berkeley and decided to stay at home full time. Living began to take up a lot more time than it used to, downtime became scarce, and I had less and less time for reflection. This past Christmas I bought a new journal, but soon reflective writing gave way to grocery lists, budget spreadsheets, in short, necessary, but unfeeling things. In the meantime, my thoughts have built up to dangerous levels, and now at this crossroads, I find myself on the verge of emotional eruption.
So what happened? Well, a friend of mine (and I use that word loosely now) after several weeks of being MIA from my life (begging out of playdates, avoiding me in social circles, etc.) wrote me an email saying she was cutting off our friendship, as we are "incompatible, playdate-wise." She cited no specific instances, but said she has the impression that I feel her sons are too rowdy to hang with my daughter, and she feels that I don't like her older son. She feels I am an overprotective parent, and she feels the need to be overly controlling of her boys when spending time with us; basically, being with us isn't fun anymore, and she's done.
I defended myself in my reply the best I could, having nothing really to go on but her general feelings. One of her boys is two years older than my daughter, and he's very physical. But during our playdates, he tends to ignore my daughter and play with his older friends. Her younger son is my daughter's age, and in general, they've gotten along very well. So I really don't know what she's talking about.
Maybe I did something(s) to offend her, but I don't know what I did, so I can't explain myself. She doesn't want to give me the opportunity to defend myself, she simply doesn't want to spend time with me or my daughter anymore. To make this more confusing, she says she's enjoyed spending time with me in an "adult setting," that our friendship was real, but wasn't meant to last. This playdate incompatibility seems to be a deal-breaker for her.
So where does this leave me? Well, at first, I must admit I was devastated. Not because she was such a close friend, but I did care about her, and never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be on the receiving end of any unkindness from her. I felt a keen sense of loss, but I soon realized the depth and complexity of my feelings were triggered by the email, but in fact, had very little to do with it or the friendship.
My hurt was compounded by the fact that my feelings of isolation are mounting as my pregnancy comes to a close and I get ready to embark on this new chapter in my life. My postpartum period after my daughter was born was one of the loneliest times I can remember, and I'm anxious about having to go through it again. Not a great time for someone to give me a detailed account of why they don't want to be around me.
And then, there are my particular insecurities. Pretty much since I've been a mom, I have feared being judged by my "mom friends." My little girl is extraordinary in many ways, but she's also very challenging. She has almost no fear of new situations or people, even kids that are overtly unkind to her. She is extremely willful and is only beginning now to be at all concerned about her own physical safety. I try not to shadow her, but I'm often afraid for her, and I struggle between trying to keep her safe and not seem like a "helicopter" parent. The few times I've really pulled back and been less than vigilant (usually in a social settings with other moms), she's been hurt or frightened, and I've felt nearly destroyed with guilt because I've let other's opinions of me as a parent interfere with what I know my child needs. The fact is, what I think is best for my daughter may make me unpopular, and I need to be OK with that. No one knows her better than I do or loves her more, which is why I made the decision to stay home with her in the first place.
The last time I blogged in the fall of '09, I was going to the park every day on my own, sometimes having nice conversations with other moms, but mostly feeling frustrated. Not long after, I met several women through a friend. We hit it off, and I was invited to join their playgroup. This became a weekly meeting, and led to other activities. As I widened my circle of friends in Berkeley, my confidence in my new stay at home life grew. I had a routine, new friends for my daughter, a full calendar, people to talk to. None of it was perfect, and I often felt I was a part of these new groups "on approval," but I was determined to make my new friendships work.
Now it's a year and half later, and the last nine months have been especially turbulent. My more difficult, stressful and exhausting second pregnancy coincided with a ramping up of my toddler's challenging behavior. She began running away from me (often into a street or parking lot), defying me, throwing dangerous, frightening tantrums, hitting, kicking, biting, etc., etc., etc. One of these tantrums landed us in the emergency room a few days before Christmas. When/if we got out of the house each day, it was only after a protracted struggle that left me feeling frustrated and helpless. I began to avoid playdates farther from home, or that might involve crowds my wayward child might get lost in. Not being able to run or pick her up added to the potential stress of many scenarios.
At the same time, the connections I'd made in the past year began to unravel, for different reasons, which added to my feelings of stress and isolation. People moved, or their children started school, or their children's nap schedules changed, or their activities. It was around this time, I guess, that I offended my friend, and she began to disappear from my day to day too. No wonder, I think, looking back. When I'm that stressed out, I tend to forget to try to be the most pleasing version of myself. It's hard to see anything else but my own strain.
So now what? Well, thankfully, I didn't move to Berkeley bereft of friends, they were just far flung at the time, and we've made serious efforts to bridge time and space and stay connected. The night of the dreaded email, I called one of them (who's now a mom of a toddler herself and moved to Berkeley last year) in a panic. I'd been in a nasty mood during our last playdate and I was afraid, irrationally afraid, that she was nursing some grudge against me, too. She talked me down, and told me a few things I should know, but desperately needed to hear. Firstly, she had no problem with me. Secondly, she said, if she did, she would tell me and we would work it out or she would give me the benefit of the doubt and let it go. Because our friendship isn't about convenience or playdate compatibility, as so many of my newer friendships have been (although, thank God, her son and my daughter are crazy about each other), it's about something deeper and it's worth something to her in a long-term way. Perhaps no friendship is unconditional, but the best friendships can stand some wear and tear. Those that can't aren't meant to last.
There's another lesson to take from this, too. While I don't want to close myself off to new friends and experiences, there's something to be said for working on the friendships I already have. I have a deep need for adult connection, and really need to get to know people as the people they are, not just the parents they've become. Often it's not possible to do this when I'm connecting with someone around our kids, and when I try, I can't connect or parent effectively, so it's a lose/lose. The groundwork has already been done with my old friends, and so I don't need to be as "on my game." They're less likely to judge, less likely to misunderstand me, more likely to want to work through any misunderstandings.
I'm starting grad school in the fall, so I'm hoping I can get my needs met there. If I can, my time with my kids will be more about them, not about gaining ground with a new group or trying to impress anyone. I'll also be a lot happier, which can only make me a better parent in the long run. This is the completion of a cycle. Through it, I've learned a great deal about myself. And as painful as this ending has been, there are beginnings around the corner, and I can only be grateful to get yet another fresh start, as a mom and as the woman I'm still becoming.
Monday, October 12, 2009
It's Monday night and Julia's been running a high fever for going on two days. She's been okay in morning, both yesterday and today, but by lunch, she's weak and fussy. She can't seem to stay asleep for a nap, and can only get rest when she's lying on top of me. Even then, she begins squirming after twenty minutes or so, crying in this heartbreaking way. We change positions and she falls asleep again. She's also having a hard time keeping things down. She's thrown up a few times, which has been very disturbing to both of us.
I know kids get sick, but this is the sickest she's been so far. We called the doctor yesterday, and she said that it wasn't the flu, that kids get high fevers, that a stomach bug has been going around, blah, blah, blah. I know doctors and nurses see this all the time, and it's bound to be worse for me, since I haven't, and she's mine. I hate to see her stub her toe, much less vomit up her lunch. So I'm worried. She's down, and seems to be sleeping peacefully, but Karissa just took her temp again, and it's up to 103
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