So as you might have guessed, I finally had the baby. Alexander Paul. Alex for short. And I sailed through the first couple of post-surgical weeks, piece of cake, wondering why people get so worked up over this c-section thing. I was mobile, I was lifting my toddler, I was off the pain meds completely. Yay, me! Aren't I great? And then, when I least expected it, when I practically couldn't stop bragging about how quickly I was recovering, about how great, how optimistic I was feeling...Wham-o! There it be.
I knew I needed help when I was no longer able to employ my internal filter. You know, the one that, when people ask, "How are you?" allows you to answer, "Fine, thanks," on even your worst day? Let's just say I was having a lot of worst days. For instance, during one of my first shifts back at Barnes & Noble, a well-intentioned co-worker gleefully asked, "So, how's that new baby of yours?"
"Crabby and LOUD," I said, with no hint of irony. You should have seen the look on her face. And I continued to answer this question honestly, sometimes with a laundry list of Alex issues: the Pavlik harness, invasive thrush, the possibility of reflux, the "not so much with the sleeping thing"...should I go on? I could, you know. For awhile.
Anyway, I decided that perhaps this is not normal. I understand the frustrations of the early days with a little one (I had those with Lucas), but it seemed to me I should care enough to keep that pesky filter switched on. And there are other things. Some of the time Alex is my precious angel. I can't get enough of his smell. He is cute and sweet and working on his first smile. And some of the time, when I'm preoccupied, when Ron is here or my parents are here or when Alex suddenly squawks awake from a previously peaceful, if brief, slumber, I'm like, "Oh right...A baby."
Of course there have been other times in my life when I've crept near the alluring edge of that Batshit precipice and looked down. Long way down, there (if you haven't been), though I've always managed to turn away in time. In my life B.C. (Before Children), I would have considered this latest low merely a tempermental artistic funk, nothing a few bloody mary's, half a pack of cigarettes, and some kind of body piercing wouldn't fix. But now that I'm in charge of two babies under two, such self-destructive behavior is a luxury I can no longer afford (see also "Britney").
So as of last Thursday I'm taking a low dose of Zoloft, which on some level feels like an admission of defeat, a white flag. I mean, shouldn't I be able to cope with all of this on my own? Last time I checked, being Super Mommy wasn't supposed to involve any kind of serotonin imbalance. But at the moment, this morning, I seem to be over the hump. I mean, overall I'm doing well (filter unemployed). It was a huge step for me to actually ask my doctor for help, since that doesn't fit in with my general DIY M.O. To me it suggests weakness, a vulnerability with which I'm not entirely comfortable. A fact which, even under the best circumstances, might threaten to send me into some kind of depression. Good thing I'm taking something for that.
25 February 2007
20 February 2007
Getting to Know Your Friends
How many times in any given year do you think you receive this email? You know the one, "Chocolate or vanilla ice cream?" "Any tattoos?" "Craziest thing you've ever done?" and so on. My sister-in-law (who, as far as I know, doesn't read this blog) forwards hers to me so often that I have made a kind of game out of memorizing her answers. Like, "Wait, wait--I know this one! You like vanilla! With chocolate sauce!"
Not that I mind, really. And out of sheer boredom (read: "denial of all the things I should be accomplishing" or "post-3 a.m.-feeding insomnia") I usually take time to cut & paste it back to her with my own reliable answers. Lately I have even been guilty of forwarding it on to a few close friends who, I hope, will read it as the desperate, hollow gesture it is intended to be. I don't expect any responses. It's more like a calling card left in their tray, corner bent (top left). In some bizarre way answering those ridiculous questions helps me to remember who I am. Or who I was. Or who I might be if I were getting enough sleep to allow me to remember my own name most days.
While I'm usually able to recall the basics ("Where were you born?" Council Bluffs, Iowa; "Favorite day of the week?" Monday), other answers are slower to surface and frequently threaten to turn into novellas.
"Any tattoos?"
Yes, one. A long-stemmed rose on the inside of my left ankle, near the bone. In memory of my friend Monica, on what would have been her 30th birthday. The suggestion of back-story without really going there.
"Craziest thing you've ever done?"
My answer to this one changes depending on how I'm feeling and what I can remember on any given day. Last time I drudged up this little gem: Made out with an Australian guy in the ladies' room of a night club in Inverness, Scotland. Granted it's not that crazy, nor is it the classiest thing I've ever done, but the complex location seems to lend it street cred. Sometimes I use, Made a bong using an empty pop can, my earring, and a Bic pen, but that's only crazy if you've never done it, and I have actually had people point out that the earring isn't really necessary, especially if your Bic has a fine tip.
See, at one point I was actually out in the world. Before marriage. Before kids. Before my 30s. Before I realized that more or less things are the same wherever you go, and hangovers are a bitch, regardless. I don't really think that anyone but me is interested in what time I started filling out this questionaire (2:47 p.m.) or whether or not I've ever broken someone's heart (I hope so). Sometimes it's just nice to remember where I came from (Glenwood, Iowa) and think about something other than the next child who will need fed (Lucas) or the next load of laundry that needs to come up from the basement (towels).
Not that I mind, really. And out of sheer boredom (read: "denial of all the things I should be accomplishing" or "post-3 a.m.-feeding insomnia") I usually take time to cut & paste it back to her with my own reliable answers. Lately I have even been guilty of forwarding it on to a few close friends who, I hope, will read it as the desperate, hollow gesture it is intended to be. I don't expect any responses. It's more like a calling card left in their tray, corner bent (top left). In some bizarre way answering those ridiculous questions helps me to remember who I am. Or who I was. Or who I might be if I were getting enough sleep to allow me to remember my own name most days.
While I'm usually able to recall the basics ("Where were you born?" Council Bluffs, Iowa; "Favorite day of the week?" Monday), other answers are slower to surface and frequently threaten to turn into novellas.
"Any tattoos?"
Yes, one. A long-stemmed rose on the inside of my left ankle, near the bone. In memory of my friend Monica, on what would have been her 30th birthday. The suggestion of back-story without really going there.
"Craziest thing you've ever done?"
My answer to this one changes depending on how I'm feeling and what I can remember on any given day. Last time I drudged up this little gem: Made out with an Australian guy in the ladies' room of a night club in Inverness, Scotland. Granted it's not that crazy, nor is it the classiest thing I've ever done, but the complex location seems to lend it street cred. Sometimes I use, Made a bong using an empty pop can, my earring, and a Bic pen, but that's only crazy if you've never done it, and I have actually had people point out that the earring isn't really necessary, especially if your Bic has a fine tip.
See, at one point I was actually out in the world. Before marriage. Before kids. Before my 30s. Before I realized that more or less things are the same wherever you go, and hangovers are a bitch, regardless. I don't really think that anyone but me is interested in what time I started filling out this questionaire (2:47 p.m.) or whether or not I've ever broken someone's heart (I hope so). Sometimes it's just nice to remember where I came from (Glenwood, Iowa) and think about something other than the next child who will need fed (Lucas) or the next load of laundry that needs to come up from the basement (towels).
14 February 2007
Happy Valentine's...oh, whatever.
Normally, I am not a bitter person.
Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.
I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.
Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.
So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.
Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.
Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.
I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.
Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.
So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.
Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.
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