Tag

parenting

A list

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Things I didn’t know when Maya was a newborn that I knew with Maggie (in no particular order or importance):

  • I can survive even when I’m exhausted. I am superwoman.
  • There are other ways to soothe first before nursing every time she fusses at night
  • If she cries for a minute, she’s okay
  • Other people can hold her or do things for her and she’ll be okay
  • Swaddle as long as possible
  • Find other mothers to talk to who are In It also
  • Sound machine is a necessity from day one
  • It’s okay (and good) to not nurse on a perfect every 3 hour schedule
  • I am not neglecting her if I don’t talk to her every second of every day
  • If blowouts happen it could be a diaper sizing issue
  • Managing my postpartum (and regular) anxiety is crucial and worth it
  • I am a great mother
  • It’s okay to not love every minute of every day. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my daughter.
  • Every single mother has some level of a hard time even if they don’t talk about

What do you know now, that you wish you knew then?

Slow, sweet summer.

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I hate slowing down. I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be as busy as possible. I always had a pit in my stomach on Fridays, knowing I had two full weekend days that were going to be slower and more relaxed, without work/school/schedules to keep me busy and occupied. For 9 summers I finished the school year, had one week off, worked full time all summer, and one week before school started again. Everyone told me I was crazy. I loved it. Those interim weeks were the hardest ones of the whole year.

Clearly there’s a lot to unpack there. Namely, a realization about which I am doing some soul-searching: maybe my love for being busy isn’t just a personality trait, but was a long-standing avoidance technique. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about difficult things, feel difficult emotions, etc.

Two summers ago was the first one I wasn’t working, but I had a newborn and I was a mess, and everything was a mess, and the days just passed somehow. Last summer was HARD. Maya was at a tough age. 14 months wasn’t young enough to just do anything (though she was never that type of baby) but not old enough to do a lot of things. She woke most days at 5:15 for the day, and despite my best efforts, napped once for 45 minutes. The days were long, I was so bored and so lonely, I cried a lot, and I was elated to go back to work at the end of August (let’s not even get into the guilt I felt about that).

This summer, I was fully prepared that it might be difficult again. But it has been nothing short of GLORIOUS. Maya is at the most wonderful age. We’ve slowed down and I’m enjoying it so much. She sleeps until a reasonable hour, we chat over a long breakfast, we have conversations and jokes, we cook together and run errands together and go places together, and it’s FUN. (Note: don’t get me wrong, you know I’m not the type to sugarcoat. There are moments I’m exhausted and feel like I’m going to lose my mind, but I’m talking overall here). She is an active little girl and we usually do something in the morning or afternoon, but during the opposite half of the day we often just end up outside, because that’s where she wants to be, running around our driveway, watering the flowers, going for a walk around the block, splashing in the water table, finding bugs.

“Yook at that, Mama!!!!!” she says all day long, pointing at things and telling me what she notices.

It is so different from when she was younger. She will now play alone for stretches of time, she actually takes naps (most days!), she doesn’t scream if I’m not holding her, meal times are long and leisurely, and I begin each day excited rather than filled with a sense of dread (being honest here. If you’re a new mom and feel that way – I freaking get it. All babies are cute but not all babies are easy. More on this another day).

And for the first time ever, when I looked at my calendar and realized that in 2.5 short weeks I’ll be back at work, I felt so sad. Time is rushing by and I just want it to slow down. And I was shocked. I have NEVER felt that way. I usually count down until the days the craziness starts again. But man has this summer been wonderful.

I think I’ll always default to loving being busy, because that’s how I’m wired, and plus, who doesn’t like to avoid other life stressors and difficult emotions? But I have learned that I CAN slow down, I CAN love it, and this time with my daughter has been more special than I ever imagined.

Postpartum anxiety

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Okay, it’s time that postpartum anxiety is talked about. In fact, it’s way overdue, but better late than never.

First of all, it isn’t even really a thing. Which is absurd. There’s no test for it, no evaluations for it. We kind of have to be aware of it and self-diagnose it to then even know to reach out for support.

Postpartum psychosis is fairly easy to diagnose – yes, I’m having thoughts of hurting my baby and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind: that’s not normal.

Then there’s postpartum depression – no, I have no enjoyment in anything, I feel hopeless, I’ve withdrawn from family and friends. But that is sometimes hard – because, after you’ve had a baby, of course there are times you feel hopeless. Will I ever sleep again? Will I ever stop bleeding? Will she ever stop crying? Of course you don’t enjoy anything – you don’t DO anything other than feed, change diapers, soothe. And of course you’ve withdrawn from family and friends- there’s no TIME to connect or maintain relationships. Consequently, I think too many people get told “Yep – totally normal, it’ll get easier as she gets older!” (Which IS true, but it’s only helpful if what the person is experiencing is typical and not pathological. Also, don’t get me started on the lack of postpartum care – both physical and mental, and how there is ONE screening for PPD at your ONE postpartum physical.)

And then postpartum anxiety – a whole other ball game. Postpartum anxiety gets normalized. It’s also a really fine line, because it is NORMAL to be anxious as a new parent – but there’s no method for rating/qualifying just how intense the anxiety is, and just where normal ends and pathological begins. Do you have constant worry? Of course you do. You’re a new mom. Moms worry about everything. Do you worry something bad is going to happen? Of course. You’re responsible for this tiny human.

You see?

When you have (undiagnosed) postpartum anxiety (and/or OCD – I’ll lump them together per my own experience), it goes multiple steps further.

People talk about giving birth and kind of laugh it off – “Yup, gooooood times,” they joke. Oh. So it must be normal that I can’t stop replaying my horrific labor experience in my mind, that I can’t stop thinking about all those days in pain, that my body still feels it happening, that I know I will never in my entire life not recall every awful moment of it.

“Oh yes, I definitely obsessed over how much my baby was eating!” they say. Well, I check and recheck that her bottles are filled with EXACTLY 4oz of my pumped milk – not a speck over or under. Is that normal too? She eats every 3 hours, so I tell day care that they need to feed her at 9:05 exactly, and then 12:05 exactly. Um…that’s also normal….right?

“Yep, the days can definitely be long,” they say. So is it normal that I burst into tears every Friday afternoon because I’m afraid of how we are going to get through the weekend, just us in our house? It’s better at day care, she’s happier at day care, every other baby is happy at home….something is wrong with me.

Others joke about how complicated it can be to get a baby out of the house. I agree. That’s why I never, ever take her anywhere other than to and from day care and to and from my parents’ house. It’s just too much. The world is too unsafe and it’s better to just stay in our own little bubble. Right?

Some mothers talk about making sure their babies are warm enough. Oh, good. So it must be normal to open the hourly weather forecast every five seconds and then wonder if I should put her in a long-sleeved shirt with an undershirt underneath or a long-sleeved shirt with a sweater over it. What if one way she’s too hot or one way she’s too cold? What if it ends up being 70 degrees in the day care room instead of 71? What about when she sleeps at night? What if the temperature in her room rises from 72 to 73? Will she overheat?

They talk about making sure their babies are safe in their cribs. You wonder if that means it’s “normal” to reach over to feel your newborn’s chest and make sure it’s rising and falling, multiple times every night, to the point where it interferes with your own limited sleep. You wonder about the times you wake up gasping, frantically searching the sheets, because you know you fell asleep nursing her and now she’s going to be dead in the sheets – but then you reach over and she’s actually in her bassinet, because of course you put her back, you always do. And by the time your breath slows and the sweat dries, she needs to nurse again and it starts all over.

You wonder about how you can never nap while she naps because you just know that if you aren’t awake listening to the monitor and watching her breathe, she will die, and it will be your fault. I’ll just check one more time. Just one more time. Just. one. more. time.

But every parent worries, right?

—

Look, I had a physically hard pregnancy, a unimaginably hard labor and delivery, and an even more long, awful recovery. I had panic, anxiety, and OCD prior to pregnancy – it’s no wonder I developed it all postpartum also. But the point is, it’s so often a fine line. It’s easy to question the normalcy of our thoughts and behaviors, even if we are primed for it and are expecting it. We second-guess ourselves. I was primed for it and I didn’t even realize what it was.

And not nearly enough focus is placed on the mental health of postpartum mothers. And I’m not just talking when they’re infants – this can take hold and not go away, even into toddlerhood. Trust me.

I will always be an anxious mother. It’s in my wiring. I have my moments, but overall right now, at least for now, I’m not pathologically anxious or obsessive, and I am very aware of that line. I just am who I am, and who I am translates into parenthood. I am working on caring about the things I care about, and standing firm behind my beliefs as long as they are rooted in a healthy place, which nowadays, they are (even if other parents raise their children in different ways or have different beliefs – but that’s a post for another day).

But this – motherhood, postpartum experiences, labor, delivery, parenting, relationships after having a baby – it really needs to be talked about, so so much more. Better out than in, better to know than not know, better to have people to relate to than to feel alone, better to heal collectively than suffer silently.

(Seems that’s the case for everything, am I right?)

Real talk.

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Some people thrive on being nonstop at work. That’s how I am. Sure, I like having enough time to get things done, and no, I don’t like the feeling of stress – but I do, and always have, love the feeling of a ton going on, moving nonstop, being constantly challenged and stimulated. Extroverts gain energy in social situations; it’s helpful and necessary for them. I’m no extrovert, but that’s what it’s like for me at work. I thrive off of more more more. It’s like a high, quite honestly.

So the beginning of the year, in the field of education, has always been perfect for someone like me.

Until I had a baby.

Turns out, when you have a 3-month-old and the chaos of the year is beginning, you can’t give 10000%  to work. You can’t stay up late scheduling. You can’t have hour-long phone calls with colleagues trying to problem-solve things each day. You can’t answer every email immediately. You can’t stay at work until 6pm if you need to and you can’t get to work at 6am to get everything done.

Instead, you run around like crazy – crazier than ever – all day long. You desperately try to fit everything in, both job responsibilities and mommy ones. You expend every single possible ounce of energy, answering multiple emails while listening to voicemails and planning for sessions and answering colleague questions. You leave work so depleted you could collapse on the ground, because you are so exhausted, and the amount of energy output has already far surpassed what you started with.

And for a split second you think, Thank heavens the day is over; I am going to pass out on the couch. But then you remember that instead of napping, or running errands, or cooking, or cleaning, or doing more work at home, you need to be 10000% on, because now it’s time to be a mom. You panic a little, because you’re so drained you can’t see straight, and how are you supposed to stay awake until she goes to bed at 8:00, let alone be a good mother in the meantime?

You halfheartedly play and bounce and sing and soothe while trying to do dishes and pack lunches for tomorrow and put away laundry and wash her pooped-all-over clothes. You feel guilty that the kitties are meowing for attention and you literally do not have time or energy to pet them. You question if you’re being a good-enough mother, paying enough attention, giving enough love. You remember you have to eat dinner so you have a bowl of cereal. You try to answer work emails and texts from colleagues. Your husband finally comes home and all you want to do is spend time with him, but now it’s 8pm and she needs to nurse and go to bed, and by the time she’s done you contemplate not even brushing your teeth and instead just passing out. And she wakes up three times in the middle of the night because she’s the best baby ever but not the best sleeper, and then it’s 5am and time to do it all over again.

And nothing feels complete, even when you check it off your to-do list, because for every question you answer there are more and every problem solved there are more and every session planned for there are more.

So you text a friend who is like you in every way possible and you say, “I’m drowning. Tell me it gets easier.”

She says it does. You bitterly smile, and then your eyes well up, because you know she must be right but you just can’t see it.

Blind faith leap of faith drop the rope trust hope breathe.

—

And it did get better. It’s still hard. It’s hard every single day. Some days I call my mom and panic, “I’m so tired I can’t see straight – how am I supposed to get through the day?” But routines have begun to emerge, and every so often she sleeps better. And most days I enjoy half-caf coffee, and I shower at night instead of in the morning, and the little things help. And my husband is so supportive and my family is so supportive and some people Get It and those are the ones I lean on. And some days I am not fully planned for sessions but I’m a skilled SLP and fully capable of putting a great session together last minute. And that’s okay. And I’ve learned to be even more efficient in the tiny little bit of free time I get throughout the day and somehow, I get done what needs to get done. And I catch up to my life on the weekends and I learn to be okay with the laundry not getting put away until then or the dishwasher not getting emptied until then. And each day I somehow find more energy just when I thought I had none left. Somehow I do become a superwoman and do it all. And my baby is a healthy, and happy, and thriving 4-month-old and really that’s all that matters.

So, real talk:

It’s hard, it’s so hard, and I think I wish I had known how hard it would be. But it gets better. 

Anxiety explosion

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“It’s OPtimism. It means when you are optimistic.” I hear Tyler say.

“No. AUTism is different.” My ears perk up. I tune in.

“Do you have autism?” A third voice. Nick.

“Yep.” says the matter-of-fact OPtimistic (and autistic) kiddo.

I miss a few exchanges while I answer a very important Lego question from another group of kids playing. When I tune back in, Kayla is half-giggling, half-babbling.

“Autism means you’re stupid! You have a dumb brain. You have a cuckoo brain.” I catch her eye and I know, this is not her core. This beautiful, smart, hilarious fourth-grader doesn’t believe this. I know she doesn’t.”

I casually join the trio. “Kayla, what were you talking about? I couldn’t hear you from over by the Legos.”

She shrieks. “Nothing! I wasn’t talking about anything! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry! Just forget it!”

I try another way. “Oh, okay. I just couldn’t hear everything. Were you talking about autism?”

Another shriek. “Yes but I didn’t mean it! I was just kidding! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!” Tears roll down her cheek.

Nick watches, fascinated. He is the one who has been asking kids for weeks if they have autism, trying to get a dialogue going. I think that maybe it’s his way of trying to understand himself. Because he is, certainly, autistic. Nick oh-so-helpfully says, “Oh, so you’re autistic and so is Tyler. That’s why you both have meltdowns.”

Kayla is quiet, and she looks at me. Tyler keeps building with his blocks. So, I answer. “Well, autistic kids can have meltdowns. But so can people who aren’t autistic. I’m not autistic and I’ve had meltdowns before.”

Kayla chimes in. “I have meltdowns sometimes! Really big ones where I can’t stop running in circles. It’s like a tantrum kind of.”

I continue. “So autism is not a bad thing at all. It just means that your brain is different. So some things might be easier for you, or harder for you.”

“Right,” says Kayla. “And you might have trouble learning or trouble making friends.”

“You might,” I reply. “But a lot of people have trouble with those things, and they’re not autistic. So if you’re autistic, does it mean you’re stupid?”

“No!”

“Nope. It doesn’t at all.”

Later, when we’re all finished playing, we go find parents. I check in with Kayla’s mom, tell her about our conversation. She’s worried. “I just don’t know what to do. She’s known about her diagnosis for over a year. And I think that often she feels good about herself, but sometimes at school….she just doesn’t. She knows she’s different, regardless of how high-functioning she is.” We talk a little bit more. Then I turn to Kayla. She’s standing, staring into space, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Kalya?” I ask softly. In a flash she is on the ground, wedging herself on the floor, with a table and chairs in front of her. She’s sobbing. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry! Everyone hates me because of what I said! I’m stupid and dumb!”

“Do you mean when you said kids with autism have cuckoo brains?” She nods.

“Ohhh. Guess what, though. Nobody was mad at you at all. Everyone knew you weren’t being serious. And I know you weren’t being serious. And I know that kids with autism are actually really smart.” she starts to nod, but another wave sets off and she lets out a shriek.

“No! My brain IS stupid! My brain is wrong! I AM dumb! I am so mad at myself for saying that!!!!!!” I kneel down, not too close, and say very softly, “What can I do to help you right now?” She says that she just needs to hide there and cry. Which makes perfect sense to me, truly. So her mom says, “Okay, Kayla. But soon let’s go home. And you will feel better. Right now you are worried about it, but when you feel better you won’t be.”

Her mom and I talk a little while longer, and eventually Kayla pushes the chair and table back and stands up. “Okay,” she says. “I am ready to go. Maybe when we get home I can cry some more in the dark.” She climbs into her mom’s lap and says, “hold me.” They rock and hug. I catch her mom’s eye, and her mom says to me, “Thank you. We’ll be okay. We’ll talk more about it when she’s calm.” Nobody knows their child better than a parent.

As I leave them, her mom is engaging Kayla in one of her favorite movement activities. Kayla is smiling, her body is relaxing, and she is calm.

My heart broke for Kayla, tonight. Because I know what it’s like. To believe something awful about yourself. And to have moments of clarity, but lose those moments when anxiety roars. To cycle back and forth, around and around, unable to let go of a thought. To not be able to trust the truth that you know in your calm moments.

But I think what we have to do is exactly what Kayla did, and does: allow ones we love and trust to help us during our storms. Be real. Let ourselves be vulnerable and cry and shriek if we need to. Know that we can cry in a dark room. Accept help from ones who won’t judge us. And listen to the truths as soon as our brains are quiet enough to believe them again.