I thought I was raising children...
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
I probably should have seen this coming
I toyed with writing this post. I wasn't sure if I could do it. If I was strong enough or brave enough to put it out there.
I have postpartum depression.
It sounds ridiculious to say it -- my pediatrician warned me that I was at risk for it at my daughter's 10 day old doctor visit. You see, I had it with my son. And all of the warning signs were there when my daughter was born -- previous diagnosis. Winter baby. Several kids. High stress factors. Weak support system (although it's not that people won't help me if I ask. It's that I'm too stubborn and prideful to ask for help -- when I open my mouth to ask "Can you help me," I say, "I'm doing just fine! I've totally got this under control." instead).
At my daughter's 8 week visit, the pediatrician seemed horrified that I had gone back to work all ready. And that I work from home. With 4 children. At Christmastime. And I was planning my son's birthday party -- at our house. And the sale of our old house had just fallen through -- again. And that two pipes burst at our new house -- within two weeks ago.
So when the nurse asked if I was under stress, I burst into tears.
My pediatrician called my OB and made an appointment for me that day. Off to the OB I went, with 3 kids under the age of 4 in tow.
My OB ran some blood tests and called and made an appointment with a therapist at St. Joseph's for me. I was ordered to go -- with my children so they could see how I interact with them -- the next day.
I went home and told my husband about it, but I also told him that I was fine. That I felt foolish. After all, I wasn't sobbing hysterically under the covers every day. I was fine.
My husband gently pointed out what I didn't want to see -- that I was over whelmed, over worked, and under rested. That I may not be sobbing hysterically every day, but that I was stressed and had mood swings. And that maybe keeping the appointment wasn't the worst thing for me.
So I went. And I told the therapist what was going on. I thought for sure that the therapist was going to laugh and send me home, to tell me that I was fine and everyone was overreacting. I had even put on make up so that I would look pulled together -- my hair was clean and styled, and I was wearing clothes with no spit up on them. My children were dressed in matching outfits and looked cute as buttons. We could have been a freakin' TV commercial.
The therapist wasn't fooled.
She asked when I last ate. And how much sleep I had gotten the night before. And when I last took 5 minutes to myself.
She didn't say anything after I responded. The room was quiet -- even my daughters weren't making any noise.
And that silence freaked me out.
I began talking, too quickly. I knew the answers I had given weren't the right ones. I knew that I had somehow failed, but I didn't know how to make it right. As excuses poured out of my mouth, I realized I was crying.
She handed me a tissue and told me that PPD isn't always failing to bond with your child or crying all the time. Sometimes it can almost be as if you bonded too fiercely with your child -- so much so that you become overly anxious and can't relax. That you are terrified about not being perfect, about your child being hurt, about being less.
And I realized she was right.
I have been so anxious lately, my back has given out from the tension I have been carrying. I can't sleep. I'm eating too much crap. I can't relax -- I'm always doing about 10 different things. I'm never quiet.
And it makes me feel less. Less of a mother. Less of a wife. Less of a person.
Understand that I am not sharing this in the hopes of friends and family feeling guilty or to start asking what they can do. That type of support makes me feel guilty and uncomfortable. I'm supposed to be the person giving the help -- I don't know why that is, but that is what makes me the most comfortable. I'm not comfortable asking for help. I'm not comfortable admitting I need it. I'm supposed to be the strong one. So I'm in a prison of my own making.
This isn't something that can be made better with a good night's sleep -- to say, "Oh, you just need to sleep" is insulting. Yes, that is part of it. But every time I lie down, 50,000 different thoughts begin rattling around my head and I don't know how to turn them off.
Nor is this something that can be made better with drugs -- although those may be necessary at some point. I'm not there yet. I don't know if I will ever need them -- I hope not. But I hope I'm strong enough that if talk therapy doesn't work, I will be able to take them.
To be better requires a lot of different things -- a willingness to get better (which I have). A partner who will help me (which I have). An ability to let things go (which I am working on). The realization that I don't have to be perfect (which I am working on). Rest (which I don't have at all). A good diet (which I am working on). Friends who understand (which I have). And a family who loves me regardless of my faults (which I have).
But it is also going to take time. After all, "Depression is never anyone's fault, and it can't be fixed with a stiff upper lip or a positive attitude."
So I apologize if I am not my normal happy go lucky self who is quick to lend a hand. I want her back. And to find her again, I have to focus on me.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004481/
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/postpartum-depression/DS00546
I have postpartum depression.
It sounds ridiculious to say it -- my pediatrician warned me that I was at risk for it at my daughter's 10 day old doctor visit. You see, I had it with my son. And all of the warning signs were there when my daughter was born -- previous diagnosis. Winter baby. Several kids. High stress factors. Weak support system (although it's not that people won't help me if I ask. It's that I'm too stubborn and prideful to ask for help -- when I open my mouth to ask "Can you help me," I say, "I'm doing just fine! I've totally got this under control." instead).
At my daughter's 8 week visit, the pediatrician seemed horrified that I had gone back to work all ready. And that I work from home. With 4 children. At Christmastime. And I was planning my son's birthday party -- at our house. And the sale of our old house had just fallen through -- again. And that two pipes burst at our new house -- within two weeks ago.
So when the nurse asked if I was under stress, I burst into tears.
My pediatrician called my OB and made an appointment for me that day. Off to the OB I went, with 3 kids under the age of 4 in tow.
My OB ran some blood tests and called and made an appointment with a therapist at St. Joseph's for me. I was ordered to go -- with my children so they could see how I interact with them -- the next day.
I went home and told my husband about it, but I also told him that I was fine. That I felt foolish. After all, I wasn't sobbing hysterically under the covers every day. I was fine.
My husband gently pointed out what I didn't want to see -- that I was over whelmed, over worked, and under rested. That I may not be sobbing hysterically every day, but that I was stressed and had mood swings. And that maybe keeping the appointment wasn't the worst thing for me.
So I went. And I told the therapist what was going on. I thought for sure that the therapist was going to laugh and send me home, to tell me that I was fine and everyone was overreacting. I had even put on make up so that I would look pulled together -- my hair was clean and styled, and I was wearing clothes with no spit up on them. My children were dressed in matching outfits and looked cute as buttons. We could have been a freakin' TV commercial.
The therapist wasn't fooled.
She asked when I last ate. And how much sleep I had gotten the night before. And when I last took 5 minutes to myself.
She didn't say anything after I responded. The room was quiet -- even my daughters weren't making any noise.
And that silence freaked me out.
I began talking, too quickly. I knew the answers I had given weren't the right ones. I knew that I had somehow failed, but I didn't know how to make it right. As excuses poured out of my mouth, I realized I was crying.
She handed me a tissue and told me that PPD isn't always failing to bond with your child or crying all the time. Sometimes it can almost be as if you bonded too fiercely with your child -- so much so that you become overly anxious and can't relax. That you are terrified about not being perfect, about your child being hurt, about being less.
And I realized she was right.
I have been so anxious lately, my back has given out from the tension I have been carrying. I can't sleep. I'm eating too much crap. I can't relax -- I'm always doing about 10 different things. I'm never quiet.
And it makes me feel less. Less of a mother. Less of a wife. Less of a person.
Understand that I am not sharing this in the hopes of friends and family feeling guilty or to start asking what they can do. That type of support makes me feel guilty and uncomfortable. I'm supposed to be the person giving the help -- I don't know why that is, but that is what makes me the most comfortable. I'm not comfortable asking for help. I'm not comfortable admitting I need it. I'm supposed to be the strong one. So I'm in a prison of my own making.
This isn't something that can be made better with a good night's sleep -- to say, "Oh, you just need to sleep" is insulting. Yes, that is part of it. But every time I lie down, 50,000 different thoughts begin rattling around my head and I don't know how to turn them off.
Nor is this something that can be made better with drugs -- although those may be necessary at some point. I'm not there yet. I don't know if I will ever need them -- I hope not. But I hope I'm strong enough that if talk therapy doesn't work, I will be able to take them.
To be better requires a lot of different things -- a willingness to get better (which I have). A partner who will help me (which I have). An ability to let things go (which I am working on). The realization that I don't have to be perfect (which I am working on). Rest (which I don't have at all). A good diet (which I am working on). Friends who understand (which I have). And a family who loves me regardless of my faults (which I have).
But it is also going to take time. After all, "Depression is never anyone's fault, and it can't be fixed with a stiff upper lip or a positive attitude."
So I apologize if I am not my normal happy go lucky self who is quick to lend a hand. I want her back. And to find her again, I have to focus on me.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004481/
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/postpartum-depression/DS00546
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
Christmas-Isms....
 | ||||
| Decorating Cookies for Santa |
 |
| He decided to hide in the fridge to wait to surprise Santa. |
 |
| Putting out "reindeer food" |
 |
| First Christmas Smiles |
 |
| Putting out cookies for Santa |
 |
| Checking to make sure the chimney is clean so Santa can get in... |
Friday, December 21, 2012
Bedtime Adventures
6:45 pm - finish bath. Put BabyGirlie down -- she's out.
7 pm -- I decide to let the older two watch Cinderella III. I then spend the next half hour gently reminding them to sit still and watch their movie.
7:30 pm -- They are still sort of, kind of, maybe watching Cinderella III. I begin threatening older two with an early bedtime if they don't sit still and watch their show.
7:45 - I yell that "they are on their last chance," and "I am at the end of my rope!" I believe I may have threatened no stories again. EVER.
7:46 - I take Boyo's toy gun away.
7:46:23 seconds - Boyo begins throwing a temper tantrum
7:46:43 seconds - Girlie asks if she is the best one of all my children because she is the "goodest girl ever."
7:47: I turn off movie and order them to bed. Whining, pleading, and begging begins.
8:01: Bladders drained, water cups on the dresser, and the older two are finally tucked into bed and ready to fall asleep. I go downstairs to feed BabyBug.
8:03: The older two creep out of their room and try to sneak into my bed. When I see them on the balcony and ask what they are doing, they tell me they had a nightmare.
I point out you have to fall asleep to have a nightmare.
Girlie tells me that they did.
I tell them that is impossible to fall asleep, have a nightmare, and wake up in two minutes.
Girlie tells me that they were able to do so because "They are awesome."
My husband takes them back to bed.
8:05: Boyo comes running out of his room, screaming, "I listened to my body!"
I hear him run into the bathroom and start to pee.
I also hear BabyBug crying because he has woken her up.
8:17: Boyo asks me to come upstairs and snuggle him because he is afraid of the skunk that will climb in through the closed, second story window.
At least they are getting creative.
8:23: The older two come downstairs, telling me that they are going to throw up.
I inform them that if they are going to throw up, they need medicine.
No, they tell me. Just water. Water will push the throw up down into their belly button, apparently.
Girlie takes a drink, says, "AHHHHHHH," and hands the cup to her brother. He does the same. They are both miraculously cured.
I tell them that they are so full of it, it is starting to smell in the kitchen.
Boyo asks me, "Full of what? Juice?" Girlie begins sniffing the air to see what it smells like.
I burst out laughing. Through my hysterical laughter and tears, I order them back to bed. I inform them that if they don't stay put, I will cancel Christmas.
I think they realize that I mean it. They don't get out of bed again.
8:31: The begin yelling for their Daddy to come give them kisses because they "love him so so much!"
BabyBug starts crying again.
I put my headphones in.
7 pm -- I decide to let the older two watch Cinderella III. I then spend the next half hour gently reminding them to sit still and watch their movie.
7:30 pm -- They are still sort of, kind of, maybe watching Cinderella III. I begin threatening older two with an early bedtime if they don't sit still and watch their show.
7:45 - I yell that "they are on their last chance," and "I am at the end of my rope!" I believe I may have threatened no stories again. EVER.
7:46 - I take Boyo's toy gun away.
7:46:23 seconds - Boyo begins throwing a temper tantrum
7:46:43 seconds - Girlie asks if she is the best one of all my children because she is the "goodest girl ever."
7:47: I turn off movie and order them to bed. Whining, pleading, and begging begins.
8:01: Bladders drained, water cups on the dresser, and the older two are finally tucked into bed and ready to fall asleep. I go downstairs to feed BabyBug.
8:03: The older two creep out of their room and try to sneak into my bed. When I see them on the balcony and ask what they are doing, they tell me they had a nightmare.
I point out you have to fall asleep to have a nightmare.
Girlie tells me that they did.
I tell them that is impossible to fall asleep, have a nightmare, and wake up in two minutes.
Girlie tells me that they were able to do so because "They are awesome."
My husband takes them back to bed.
8:05: Boyo comes running out of his room, screaming, "I listened to my body!"
I hear him run into the bathroom and start to pee.
I also hear BabyBug crying because he has woken her up.
8:17: Boyo asks me to come upstairs and snuggle him because he is afraid of the skunk that will climb in through the closed, second story window.
At least they are getting creative.
8:23: The older two come downstairs, telling me that they are going to throw up.
I inform them that if they are going to throw up, they need medicine.
No, they tell me. Just water. Water will push the throw up down into their belly button, apparently.
Girlie takes a drink, says, "AHHHHHHH," and hands the cup to her brother. He does the same. They are both miraculously cured.
I tell them that they are so full of it, it is starting to smell in the kitchen.
Boyo asks me, "Full of what? Juice?" Girlie begins sniffing the air to see what it smells like.
I burst out laughing. Through my hysterical laughter and tears, I order them back to bed. I inform them that if they don't stay put, I will cancel Christmas.
I think they realize that I mean it. They don't get out of bed again.
8:31: The begin yelling for their Daddy to come give them kisses because they "love him so so much!"
BabyBug starts crying again.
I put my headphones in.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
A Letter to My Daughter on her 14th Birthday
Welcome to the world, little one! After 10 hours of induced labor, 10 minutes of pushing, one stuck baby, two nurses pushing on my stomach, and the doctor yanking you out of me, you are finally here!
I am so happy to meet you, my love. You are snuggled into my right arm while I type one handed, your schooshie face scrunched up and your eyes squeezed shut as if to open them would be to face the fact that you are outside of me, ready to take on this big world.
Today you are 14, my angel. Your entire life is stretching before you. I have such hopes for you. I hope you are creative and brave enough to follow that creativity. I hope you realize that failure is an opportunity in disguise -- it's a chance to do better, to be better. I hope you try again and again and again... even if you never get it right. Perfection is not possible.
I hope you have adventures. Not the sneaking out of the house to see if you can adventures. But the type of adventures that help you learn who you are as a person and grow into a better human being. And I hope that you can make adventures out of an ordinary day.
I hope you can laugh at yourself and I hope you don't let other people laugh at you. I hope you stand up for yourself. I hope you are strong enough to tell your friends when they are wrong, to think outside the box, and that you can be nice to yourself.
I hope you can go with the flow in a way that I never can. I hope you can adapt when possible. I hope you can stand firm when necessary. I hope you know which battles are worth fighting and which ones are ridiculous.
I hope you are a good sister -- strong and caring, but not afraid to call your sisters and brother on their bulls@#$. I hope you love your sisters and brothers and I hope you know that you are just as loved and just as important to me as they are.
And I hope and pray that if you have trouble believing or doing anything that I hope for you, you can come to me. I will help you believe it. I will help you do it. Why? Because I love you. Because I believe you are capable of great things and ordinary things -- capable of anything you choose to do. Life is not to be lived alone -- you have a family who loves you so very, very, very much. And we are always here for you.
You only have one life, my love. And now you get to decide how to live it. I hope you make it a great one.
I hope you know that you are a wonder. You are amazing. You are fabulous. You are an individual. You are strong. I hope you know that I love you.
You can talk to me about anything.
I love you,
Mom
Friday, December 14, 2012
The Story of Jesus' Birth
My older two had chapel today where Father read them the nativity story. They recounted it for me on the way home:
Girlie: Mary and Joseph were married and going to have a baby named Jesus. They decided to go on a vacation, but the hotels were all full because of the convention.
Boyo: So they had to sleep in a barn. And it smelled like poop! Isn't that silly?
Girlie: I'M TELLING THIS STORY! So Baby Jesus came and He was God. And the angels came and told the sheep that the baby was here.
Boyo: IT'S MY TURN TO TALK! And there was a star. And the smart men came from the star.
Girlie: Like aliens.
Boyo: BE QUIET! I'M TELLING IT! Um... I don't know.
Girlie: So they brought presents...
Boyo: But Baby Jesus didn't get a train. Or a Darth Maul lightsaber.
Girlie: No, he got lotions. Like for his butt rash.
Boyo: And the angels came back to the smart men. And told them to go to tell a lie. Lying is bad, right Mommy?
Girlie: No, no, no. They HAD to lie. So Baby Jesus wouldn't get hurt. Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus went to 'Gypt. I think to build a pyramid.
Boyo: And that is why Santa Claus comes!
Girlie: Mary and Joseph were married and going to have a baby named Jesus. They decided to go on a vacation, but the hotels were all full because of the convention.
Boyo: So they had to sleep in a barn. And it smelled like poop! Isn't that silly?
Girlie: I'M TELLING THIS STORY! So Baby Jesus came and He was God. And the angels came and told the sheep that the baby was here.
Boyo: IT'S MY TURN TO TALK! And there was a star. And the smart men came from the star.
Girlie: Like aliens.
Boyo: BE QUIET! I'M TELLING IT! Um... I don't know.
Girlie: So they brought presents...
Boyo: But Baby Jesus didn't get a train. Or a Darth Maul lightsaber.
Girlie: No, he got lotions. Like for his butt rash.
Boyo: And the angels came back to the smart men. And told them to go to tell a lie. Lying is bad, right Mommy?
Girlie: No, no, no. They HAD to lie. So Baby Jesus wouldn't get hurt. Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus went to 'Gypt. I think to build a pyramid.
Boyo: And that is why Santa Claus comes!
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Happy Fourth Birthday Boyo!
Happy Birthday to my crazy and creative,
Super sweet and super silly,
Loving and Exhausting,
Goofy and Giggly,
Four Year Old Guy!
I love you Boyo!
Friday, December 7, 2012
Well, you sure have your hands full!
I get a lot of comments and strange looks when I go out with my four kids.
It ranges from disbelief, "Are all of these yours?" (no, I stole a couple), to stupidity, "Two sets of twins?" (really?! A newborn and a 1 year old?!?), to judgmental, "Well, now 4 children is just irresponsible!" (Wow. You're a b#$%@).
But I can handle it. I mean, I get it. My parents had 4 and I grew up listening to them fend off the comments.
The one comment that is guaranteed to make me nuts though?
"You sure have your hands full!"
DUH.
And by the way, you are not original. Nor are you funny. I hear that comment at least twice when I go out with my kids. My left eye starts to twitch when I hear it. My smile has moved from forced to mildly feral when I hear it. I hallucinate about punching people when I hear it.
And I can (usually) predict exactly who is going to say it.
However, I was wrong last week. All four kids and I were Christmas shopping and were waiting in a long line. The shopping trip had stretched into naptime and I was running out of tricks in my "Mom bag" to keep my kids quiet, well behaved, and entertained.
Just then, an elderly lady walked past us. I watched her pause as her eyes widened. She turned back and I could see her counting how many kids I had. I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the standard, "I sure do," response that has to follow "You sure have your hands full!"
But she through me for a loop. She looked at me and grinned and said, "You really need one more."
I was speechless for all of 15 seconds. And then I burst out laughing.
It ranges from disbelief, "Are all of these yours?" (no, I stole a couple), to stupidity, "Two sets of twins?" (really?! A newborn and a 1 year old?!?), to judgmental, "Well, now 4 children is just irresponsible!" (Wow. You're a b#$%@).
But I can handle it. I mean, I get it. My parents had 4 and I grew up listening to them fend off the comments.
The one comment that is guaranteed to make me nuts though?
"You sure have your hands full!"
DUH.
And by the way, you are not original. Nor are you funny. I hear that comment at least twice when I go out with my kids. My left eye starts to twitch when I hear it. My smile has moved from forced to mildly feral when I hear it. I hallucinate about punching people when I hear it.
And I can (usually) predict exactly who is going to say it.
However, I was wrong last week. All four kids and I were Christmas shopping and were waiting in a long line. The shopping trip had stretched into naptime and I was running out of tricks in my "Mom bag" to keep my kids quiet, well behaved, and entertained.
Just then, an elderly lady walked past us. I watched her pause as her eyes widened. She turned back and I could see her counting how many kids I had. I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the standard, "I sure do," response that has to follow "You sure have your hands full!"
But she through me for a loop. She looked at me and grinned and said, "You really need one more."
I was speechless for all of 15 seconds. And then I burst out laughing.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
I'm Concerned....
~
Is Disneyland hiring people who don't know how to wash their hands?!?
Is Disneyland hiring people who don't know how to wash their hands?!?
 |
| Actual hand washing instructions in the bathroom at Disneyland |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Girlie's Birthday
Boyo's Birthday
BabyGirlie's Birthday
BabyBug's Birthday
