How to tell if you have more than one child...

The first child throws a tantrum at 19 months -- you pull out all of the parenting tips from the parenting handbooks -- "Sweetheart, I understand you're angry.  Can you use your words to tell Mommy what is wrong?  Mommy loves you even if you are making naughty choices right now" -- and so on.

Second child throws a tantrum at 19 months -- you roll your eyes and ignore him until he either stops or falls asleep.

Third child throws a tantrum at 19 months -- you take a picture because it's "cute."

Happy New Year From Our House to Yours

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

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. 

Santa Claus

Children Versus Savages

~

Most people have been complimentary about me changing my blog around a bit. Some not so much. But that's okay -- I don't really like most of those people anyway.

But my sister asked me -- what is the difference between a child and a savage?

So here it is for all of you who are wondering:

Children start at about age 7. Babies stop being babies at about 18 months. So what do you call a person who is between 18 months to about 7 years of age?

According to my pediatrician, it would be toddler, preschooler, kindergartner.

To much to remember, in my opinion. I mean, do I have to make a scrapbook for each new stage of life?

"Savage" is a much easier definition.

And when I told my sister I was raising savages, she shot back with, "At least it's interesting."

Interesting is certainly the word for it.

"A Mother's Prayer for Her Child" by Tina Fey

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short – a Tiger Flower Blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long, and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”

-Tina Fey

(Pick up Tina Fey’s book Bossypants for more. It's awesome.)

Just My Luck

~

Sometimes I think that if I didn't have bad luck, I would have no luck at all.

Today I got hit with two pieces of bad financial news. Bad news that made me sink to the floor, huddled in the fetal position, sobbing my eyes out because I am terrified and don't know how my family and I will cope. We're talking the type of bad news that I can't plan for, so I don't know what the next step is.

Thankfully, no one is hurt or dying, but the pieces of bad news I got are going to make life difficult for my family and me. The first bit of bad news will make life difficult long term. The second bit of bad news will make life difficult for us short term.

And since bad things happen in threes, I'm not driving anywhere tonight. Better not risk it.

So there I was, crying on the floor of the kitchen, trying to remember my meditation breathing so I didn't have a panic attack while trying to chant the phrase that is supposed to help me calm myself ("God knows my beginning, middle, and end, and I don't"), but it was coming out so quickly that it was "God knows.... God knows... God knows...." when my daughter walked into the kitchen and found me. Now, those of you with kids know that this is your worst nightmare... You never want your kids to see you like that for fear that it might scare them.

My daughter wasn't scared. She was curious. And without missing a beat, she asked "Why you crying, Momma? Don't cry. Use your words. The sun is out. The sun will make everything okay."

Oh, I should probably mention that she was playing dress up in my closet and looked like this:


Yup -- her old winter pajama top, her new ballerina tutu that I put away so she could grow into it, and my snakeskin high heels. Awesome look.

My tears dried up and I started laughing. Not-manic-I-think-I'm-going-crazy-laughter, but genuine, soul healing, everything-is-going-to-be-okay-laughter.

God does know my beginning, middle, and end... and He has given me two awesome little monkeys to take care of to remind me of that when I forget.

Sometimes I forget just how lucky I am.

Mother's Day

You know what the problem with Mother's Day is?

You have to have kids to get to celebrate it.

Kidding! I love my kids. I'm kidding, I'm kidding!

See, my day started at 6:30 am when my daughter snuck into our room and ran around to my side of the bed. My husband mumbled a half hearted "Come here" groan, and then he said "isyrmamsda" which I think meant "It's your Momma's day." Of course, my daughter ignored her and proceeded to smack me in the face and announce "I gotta go PEEPEE!"

So I stumbled out of bed into the bathroom with her, while making a snide comment about how this was supposed to be my day. Once I got my daughter situated, and was stretching myself awake, my husband stumbled in and said he got it. I considered playing the martyr card, but then common sense kicked in and I went back to bed.

For a blissful hour.

My daughter was so proud of the card that she made me that she came running into the room an hour later to shove it in my face. I made the appropriate "oohing" and "aahing" sounds, which apparently told my boy that Momma was awake and needed to have her bladder jumped on.

Still, I received some beautiful pearl earrings and the best gift of all - my husband took the kids to the Santa Ana Zoo, so I had the house to myself for two hours.

HEAVEN!!

It was when my husband brought the kids back that the problems started.

They were asleep so we transferred them to bed, and my husband asked if he could take a nap. Feeling magnanimous, I said of course. The kids are asleep. Nothing will happen.

My daughter woke up 5 minutes later.

My guilt wouldn't let me wake my husband up, so I held my daughter on the couch and gave up watching The Tudors for Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to go back to bed, I decided to take her to run errands with me. She made it through two of the four stores before she decided to take her shoes off and have me carry her everywhere.

We made it back home, so I decided to take a nap. We had an hour until our dinner reservations, and I figured that I could get a good 25 minutes in.

My kids decided to nap with me. (And I am using the word "nap" very loosely here).

Still, I reminded myself that in a few years they won't want to have anything to do with me. I decided to enjoy some snuggle time with a 25 lb two year old who decided that my head was the best place to lay down and a 35 lb one year old who thought bouncing on my stomach was hilarious.

We made it to dinner without incident. But that is when it happened.

I am not sure how, but my sweet, beautiful, well mannered children morphed into demons from the 7th circle of Hell. This must be a medical condition, I thought. Perhaps they will be written up in a medical journal. Seriously, it happened in the blink of an eye. This must be a medical miracle.

My daughter wailed until we were put in our booth. Then she was content to whimper and wipe her nose with my shirt, with occasional "I wanna go home"s thrown in. And my son was determined to let everyone at Claim Jumper know he was there: he kept trying to climb on top of the table, shouting "GAH!" at the top of his lungs at 5 second intervals. When we stuck him in the high chair, he screamed, arched his back, and threw his chips at anyone who walked by.

We got our food to go.

Home, we bathed the demon children, watched their horns retract, tucked them in, and sat back to enjoy a much needed bottle of wine and cold Claim Jumper dinners.

Right after I finished my dinner, my daughter stumbled out of her room. "I don't feel good," she told me. I scooped her up, prepared to soothe and cuddle, when she puked down my back. And in my hair. And in the hallway as I ran for the bathroom. And on my feet. The one place she didn't vomit? The bathroom. She was done by then.

I considered being upset, but my mom pointed out something very important when I was bitching to her about it. I will have the rest of my life to sleep in. I will have the rest of my life to shop alone. I will have the rest of my life to eat dinner out. I will have the rest of my life to eat hot food. I will have the rest of my life to not be vomited on.

But the moments that I had yesterday? They are fleeting. And meant to be enjoyed, and laughed at. And sure, with a 24 hour window to reflect on, it's pretty damn funny. Oh, not the vomit. But everything else it.

Next Year

~
It's official.

I'm going to be a middle mom next year. Home with my kids, but working either from home or on nights/weekends.

But I'm not 100% certain that it was my decision... somehow, the conversation my boss and I were having got away from me. I wasn't ready to tell her that I would be staying home. I had too many questions to answer before I could say with 100% certainty that I would be able to stay home. Will my family live in poverty if I stay home? What if we can't make our mortgage or buy groceries to feed our children? What if I don't make enough tutoring? What if I lose my mind, being home with my kids all the time? How are we going to pay for catholic schools for the kids if I'm not working (which is nonnegotiable)? Will my staying home hurt or help my relationship with my husband? Will we be able to afford more children? What if my husband has to take a pay cut? So many questions.... and it's killing me that I don't know the answers.

But that isn't the worst part of the conversation with my employer. While we were talking, she kept telling me how worried she was for me. Because she knows I'm a great teacher, and she is sure I'm a wonderful mother. But then, she said, that means that I must be suffering as a person.

Huh?

And why?

Why can't I balance it all? Sure, some days suck. Some days I let the house work slide. Or my errands. Or the yard work. Or my time with my dog. Or (I hate to admit it, but I'm being honest here) my time with my husband. But I NEVER EVER let my time with my children, my work with my students, or time for myself slide. So why does she think I do?

Apparently, I am stressed, overwrought, and high strung. Her words, not mine. I didn't think I was those things, so I was surprised that she thought that way. That was the recurring theme of our meeting... her concern about my health.

I had no idea I was so sick.

What to do, what to do....

~
Well, the time has come. I have to make a decision. Can't put it off anymore.

I'm meeting with my boss tomorrow to discuss my contract for next year.

I've been struggling with the idea of being a SAHM vs. Working Mommy since September. And it's been so easy to say one thing or another because that is all I was doing -- talking about it. But now I have to make a decision. A hard and fast, no going back from it decision about what I'm going to do.

My mind is 90% made up... but that 10% doubt is a real b$!&#.

As I stand at the crossroads, I can't help but think right now about Edward Teller's quote: "Faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: Either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly." Last time I checked, I didn't have wings. And I am worried that there is nothing solid to stand on. So the question is: do I want to be safe and unhappy or scared and happier?

I was discussing my bone wrenching, stomach churning fear with my friend about my upcoming decision, and she gave me 4 words of comfort: "God will always provide." I sure hope so.

Happy Easter

Easter Sunday was yesterday.

In a fit of insanity, I decided to host Easter.

For 20 people.

In my house.

Which is a shoebox.

Still, it went well. I was only a little frantic. I didn't sleep Saturday night because I was cooking and prepping and my son was screaming....but I was jazzed so it didn't matter. (Well, not a lot)

My daughter helped me make 20 mini bundt cakes, my husband helped me by grilling up some bacon, and my son helped me by breaking eggs into the bowl... and himself. And the floor. Which helped me mop the floor.

We set up tables outside (thank you, Lord, for no rain) and moved people smoothly through the living room to the kitchen to the patio.

My children woke up Easter morning and we talked about how Easter was when Jesus won a great victory. Then we went to see what the Easter Bunny brought -- my children think that the Easter Bunny helped Jesus win his victory and brings presents to celebrate. I don't know how much of that they get, but I'm trying to lay the foundation.

The Easter Bunny brought my munchkins clothes, toy gardening tools, bubbles, and a DVD each - the Princess and the Frog and the much loved/loathed Elmo. We had an Easter Egg Hunt where my son went and sat in his toy car and my daughter found all of the eggs but one.

My daughter wore both outfits the Easter Bunny brought her because she couldn't decide which one and my son decided he didn't want to visit with anyone and promptly fell asleep at 11, when everyone was due over at the house. He slept through the entire brunch.

By 2, everyone had left. My children were asleep. My husband and I cleaned up and collapsed on the couch.

Happy Easter Everyone!

Musical Munchkins

My children love music. Don't all toddlers love music? But since we usually only listen to music in the car, their love of music seems a bit extreme. (Although my husband and I actually do our damnedest to influence our their musical preferences. He wants them to like metal. I want them to like country. My daughter wants Mickey Mouse music. My son wants Elmo Sing Alongs. No one is winning this battle.)

My daughter loves to sing now - she sings everything that she is doing. "I'm getting up. I'm coming in. I'm eating breakfast." She sings nursery rhymes and jingles that she hears. She tries to sing along with the radio, but she is always a word behind. As for my son, he loves to dance. He bounces along to music and claps his hands. He tries to sing too, but since he doesn't really have the vocal skills for talking yet, singing seems to be a long way off. But what he is really good at is playing music - keyboard, xylophone, drum, guitar; if you put it into his hand, he'll figure out how it makes music.

And I'm happy that they like music. Studies say that it will help them with math, exercise, all sorts of stuff. I just wonder where it comes from.

I'm tone deaf. And I have no rhythm. It's rather embarrassing. Sure, I like music, but when I sing, my daughter winces and tells me "No, Momma, you no sing." And I like to dance, but I had to count the beat during my wedding dance. And when I dance with my son, he laughs and points. So where did their musical ability come from?

Oh, right.

My husband.

Does this mean they are going to like metal?

Some Days Are Harder Than Others...

Today was the first day in a week that I had to drop both my babies off at school. They had both been sick last week, and then my son developed a rash as a result of his antibiotics, so last week I took two coveted sick days (it makes me a little nauseous to realize that I only have two sick days left for the next two months of school) and kept my little ones home. My husband took one day, my sister watched them one day, and my sister in law watched them another day.

So today we tried to get back into our crazy, chaotic routine to get out the door on time (I am proud of myself -- I was only 10 minutes late out the door). I was surprised at how easy it was to get back into the flow of things - sure, I had to deal with my daughter's two temper tantrums, but on the whole, we did all right.

And then I dropped them off at school. Melt down city. My daughter huddled in the corner, sobbing "I don't wanna go to school. I want Momma! I don't wanna go to school!" while my son hung on my skirt and cried "Up! Up! Up!"

I finally got them situated and, while they weren't happy, they were at least calm. I gave them extra hugs and kisses, more cuddles and pats on the back, and then I had to walk out the door to go to a job where I am not appreciated.

And I sat in my car and cried.