And today is the first day of first grade! "My stomach is still hurting," Chloe reported this morning. She's been anxious. Excited, but anxious. We went to orientation yesterday, since it was a new school--yeah, so we moved across the country, from our house into an apartment without sufficient parking but with a pool--and she was excited by the nice playground and the fact that the cafeteria is a separate building from the gym, and confused by the fact that gym is called PE here, and excited and anxious by turns about the fact that she's riding the bus this year. She likes the idea, but she wants us to come along. On the positive side, as we told her, all the kids from the apartment building who go to this school will be at the stop, so she'll be able to meet lots of kids at once this way.
"I wish I went to the same school as Chloe," Maia says. She's in preschool, but it doesn't start until next week. Gymnastics (for her) and jazz (for Chloe) also start next week. I've always loved September because it felt like the start of the year, and it's certainly starting a lot of things for us.
Eric's found a game...store, rather than group, and I've at least identified a knitting group to try. We're not settling into our new lives as well as we could since we don't like the place. We want to move, but we can't afford a house until approximately February and it doesn't make sense to move to another rental. I'm battling discontent. Also a tendency to not get started on things I want, like getting the house in order and getting to a good schedule for some goals I want to pursue, because I don't feel truly settled. But I'm trying to reconcile myself to what we have for now, and act as if we're settled and happy. The girls don't seem to be acting; other than occasionally wishing for a yard, they've seemed happy with our new arrangements, and I'm sure that getting them into school and classes will make that even better. Maybe I should go take a dance class.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
I wanna hold your hand
Chloe often takes my hand when we're on a walk or out at a store. It's very sweet, her small-but-growing hand in mine, and the fact that she still likes to be in physical contact with me.
Except that sometimes she clings too long, and I wonder if it's because the sidewalk only admits two across and Maia is behind or ahead of us. Maia likes to hold my hand, too, but not as much. She's more independent. But she's more comfortable when she does snuggle. Chloe likes to wriggle and gesture, to stick her foot in my ribs (labor and delivery were supposed to put an end to that!) and demand to be tickled, to throw her limbs everywhere. She's affectionate, but her affection hurts sometimes.
I feel bad about not wanting her close all the time. She's five years old, almost six, and I imagine that before long she's not going to want to hold hands with her mom anymore. I love to hold her hand, and to snuggle with her at bedtime. But she doesn't want to be still the way a baby does; she's big and wild and intent on her own agenda, her own interests, and they involve flailing against me, literally as well as figuratively. And it makes me uncomfortable. And that makes me anxious. Am I too uptight about little things? Am I wrong in sacrificing my comfort to maintaining that connection? Am I wrong in even worrying about my own comfort?
"When people say you have to cherish your children when they're small," I said to Eric today, "are they right, or are they assholes?" I don't enjoy all the small moments with my girls the way society says I should. I do enjoy a lot of them, but I'm also honestly bored or frustrated or immunized some of the time. Maia draws me pictures every day. They're sweet and I'm proud, but I have dozens of them. Current society tells me I should be treasuring each one, valuing each moment. But I don't think that's reasonable. Society is an asshole. I think.
It would be nice to know. But there's no good way. So I keep holding Chloe's hand while we run along the sidewalk to catch Maia, and I keep pushing her off my lap when she's keeping me from getting up to do something, and I hang up some of Maia's pictures and I throw some of them away. I want to ask my mom if she ever learned to be content with her own compromises as a mother, but I'm afraid I know the answer.
Except that sometimes she clings too long, and I wonder if it's because the sidewalk only admits two across and Maia is behind or ahead of us. Maia likes to hold my hand, too, but not as much. She's more independent. But she's more comfortable when she does snuggle. Chloe likes to wriggle and gesture, to stick her foot in my ribs (labor and delivery were supposed to put an end to that!) and demand to be tickled, to throw her limbs everywhere. She's affectionate, but her affection hurts sometimes.
I feel bad about not wanting her close all the time. She's five years old, almost six, and I imagine that before long she's not going to want to hold hands with her mom anymore. I love to hold her hand, and to snuggle with her at bedtime. But she doesn't want to be still the way a baby does; she's big and wild and intent on her own agenda, her own interests, and they involve flailing against me, literally as well as figuratively. And it makes me uncomfortable. And that makes me anxious. Am I too uptight about little things? Am I wrong in sacrificing my comfort to maintaining that connection? Am I wrong in even worrying about my own comfort?
"When people say you have to cherish your children when they're small," I said to Eric today, "are they right, or are they assholes?" I don't enjoy all the small moments with my girls the way society says I should. I do enjoy a lot of them, but I'm also honestly bored or frustrated or immunized some of the time. Maia draws me pictures every day. They're sweet and I'm proud, but I have dozens of them. Current society tells me I should be treasuring each one, valuing each moment. But I don't think that's reasonable. Society is an asshole. I think.
It would be nice to know. But there's no good way. So I keep holding Chloe's hand while we run along the sidewalk to catch Maia, and I keep pushing her off my lap when she's keeping me from getting up to do something, and I hang up some of Maia's pictures and I throw some of them away. I want to ask my mom if she ever learned to be content with her own compromises as a mother, but I'm afraid I know the answer.
Monday, January 30, 2012
She is here for me by needing me to be here for her
I looked at the new USDA zone maps yesterday while sorting out my seeds so I could figure out what I needed to get for what we wanted to plant this year. ("Tatatoes," said Chloë, meaning tomatoes. "How about peppers?" I asked. "And carrots? And peas?" "Yes," she said. "And tatatoes.") I'd known that we moved up a zone, from 5 to 6, but seeing it on the map somehow drove it home. Hello global warming. Hello inexorable slide into destruction as the Earth turns into a flaming coal and my children are left to gasp their ways to a dessicated death on the once-fertile plains that will no longer support them!
Which is ridiculous, of course. But somehow the idea got into my brain, and not long after when we were getting ready to go out shopping I found myself near tears. Eric asked what was wrong. While I helped Chloe on with her boots I answered, "I'm headachy, and sorry I got you sick, and worried about the baby,* and OHMIGOD THESE ARE THE END DAYS AND OUR CHILDREN ARE DOOMED."
I clutched my head, knowing I was being ridiculous; and Chloë crouched down and said, "Why are you sad? I am here. We are here for you."
That did make me start to cry. I got a hug from her and we finished our preparations and went to the car. Chloë fell asleep during the drive. We suspected she hadn't actually napped, so we discussed how to handle things so as not to wake her. When we arrived at the mall, Eric went inside to get a few things while I sat in the car, playing with Maia and watching Chloë sleep. Maia enjoyed exploring the front of the car and being swung around (a little) and pushing the various buttons and levers. I held her so she wouldn't fall, and looked back at Chloë every once in a while, making sure the blanket hadn't moved and watching her eyes move beneath her eyelids. And I didn't worry about the future.
*Maia has taken teething very hard. She started with a couple of days of fever, though that's gone now, and is generally clingier than usual. While she does have happy periods and is nursing well, her appetite has plummeted and we can't get through a meal, whether she's eating anything or not, without her bursting out crying and reaching for me as if despair has suddenly seized her too. Fundamentally she's fine, but she's not very happy.
Which is ridiculous, of course. But somehow the idea got into my brain, and not long after when we were getting ready to go out shopping I found myself near tears. Eric asked what was wrong. While I helped Chloe on with her boots I answered, "I'm headachy, and sorry I got you sick, and worried about the baby,* and OHMIGOD THESE ARE THE END DAYS AND OUR CHILDREN ARE DOOMED."
I clutched my head, knowing I was being ridiculous; and Chloë crouched down and said, "Why are you sad? I am here. We are here for you."
That did make me start to cry. I got a hug from her and we finished our preparations and went to the car. Chloë fell asleep during the drive. We suspected she hadn't actually napped, so we discussed how to handle things so as not to wake her. When we arrived at the mall, Eric went inside to get a few things while I sat in the car, playing with Maia and watching Chloë sleep. Maia enjoyed exploring the front of the car and being swung around (a little) and pushing the various buttons and levers. I held her so she wouldn't fall, and looked back at Chloë every once in a while, making sure the blanket hadn't moved and watching her eyes move beneath her eyelids. And I didn't worry about the future.
*Maia has taken teething very hard. She started with a couple of days of fever, though that's gone now, and is generally clingier than usual. While she does have happy periods and is nursing well, her appetite has plummeted and we can't get through a meal, whether she's eating anything or not, without her bursting out crying and reaching for me as if despair has suddenly seized her too. Fundamentally she's fine, but she's not very happy.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Surrender
So Maia has not liked being deprived of the R.I.N.D.S. while I’m at work. Last week, she took one bottle late Wednesday, and then none on Thursday and Friday, and we worried. Each night when I came home I nursed her, and I think she figured "Hey, if I wait long enough, Mom will come back." We tried different bottles, different locations--and when I say "we" I mean "Eric," because we figured my trying to offer the bottle would only make matters worse. We discussed offering formula. Saturday, we tried nursing half and then offering the bottle. Nothing worked. We decided that we must have a serious standoff, no R.I.N.D.S. allowed until she had successfully taken more than one bottle, no matter what, until she cracked. Or we did.
So early Sunday morning, Chloë and I went to the park and played on the slides and the swings while Eric stayed home with Maia and offered a bottle every half hour. Chloë and I came home for napping and lunch and pumping, me avoiding the room Maia was in whenever possible. We went out again to shop at various places, which included having a snack in the car on a ninety-degree day (yes, I kept the AC on) since I didn't think we'd be welcome in the store with fingers sticky with grapes and trailing goldfish crackers.
And Maia accepted a bottle, perhaps sensing that we were serious. (It probably also helps that people other than Eric had tried and failed to get her to take a bottle, so he knew it wasn't his technique causing the problem and was more confident.) Then she took another one. We nursed for the night, and Monday and yesterday she's taken her bottles quite competently. I think she may not be taking as much as she ought--two and a half or three ounces at a time--but she's eating, and that's what matters. The siege is over.
So early Sunday morning, Chloë and I went to the park and played on the slides and the swings while Eric stayed home with Maia and offered a bottle every half hour. Chloë and I came home for napping and lunch and pumping, me avoiding the room Maia was in whenever possible. We went out again to shop at various places, which included having a snack in the car on a ninety-degree day (yes, I kept the AC on) since I didn't think we'd be welcome in the store with fingers sticky with grapes and trailing goldfish crackers.
And Maia accepted a bottle, perhaps sensing that we were serious. (It probably also helps that people other than Eric had tried and failed to get her to take a bottle, so he knew it wasn't his technique causing the problem and was more confident.) Then she took another one. We nursed for the night, and Monday and yesterday she's taken her bottles quite competently. I think she may not be taking as much as she ought--two and a half or three ounces at a time--but she's eating, and that's what matters. The siege is over.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Last days
Chloë's been waking up early and often this week. She often cries, possibly in her sleep, around midnight or one, and then wakes me up with screaming around four. Then she comes into our room at around six-thirty, which is hour before her usual wake-up time, saying "Chloë wake!" I pull her up in bed with me and have her snuggle down in the hopes she'll go back to sleep and I can have my usual extra hour. She snuggles, but she doesn't sleep. Instead, she says, "Mama wake? Dada sleep. Chloë wake. Mama wake? Mama up! Chloë up! Go down? Mama glasses. Baby crib [referring to the bassinet]. Baby sleep? Dada sleep? Mama sleepy? Go down!" until I have to get out of bed before I throw her out. I don't know what's causing it (the early waking, I mean; I know what's causing the chattering). Does she know these are her last days to have Mama and Dada all to herself?
I am now more pregnant than I've ever been, at least if we assume my LMP due date is accurate. (Since I was still breastfeeding at the time and my cycle was still getting back to normal, I'm more inclined to trust the ultrasound's, which is five days later.) Yesterday evening I kept thinking "This time last pregnancy, I was in the hospital." Then I started having crampy contractions and began to panic, because I've still got a few things I really want to get done before I have to drop my life in order to have the new baby. Luckily they must have been Braxton-Hicks...or else the pure force of my ire when I told Eric I felt funny and he began making faces at me convinced my body to hold off a while.
I don't feel ready for this second baby, not quite yet. I even avoided the crackers on the dinner table on purpose. Setting aside the projects I want to finish (nothing vital to the baby--we've got carseats installed and clothes washed and the bassinet set up and, aside from one piece from the midwives that they can fax in, my paperwork in place), I've been thinking about my labor and delivery and early days with Chloë, and regretting all the things I did wrong. Luckily there was no lasting damage to her, and if my only problem is a bad attitude going into labor I'm doing fine, but I still feel I've got a bad precedent. Maybe that will only make it easier for this time around to be better. I know a lot more this time, after all. And I don't think I'll really have to let the pieces of my life scatter and pick them back up afterward, which is kind of how it's feeling on this side of things (being understaffed at work, and then having my sole true peer go on vacation for a week because it's his last chance until after I get back from leave, doesn't help).
As far as the medication during labor debate goes, I've settled on a strong, firm "I'll wait and see how I feel." If I get to the hospital and am doing okay, then fine. If I get to the hospital and am panicky and despairing, I'll get an epidural and take a nap. At least while I'm at the hospital Chloë won't wake me up early.
I am now more pregnant than I've ever been, at least if we assume my LMP due date is accurate. (Since I was still breastfeeding at the time and my cycle was still getting back to normal, I'm more inclined to trust the ultrasound's, which is five days later.) Yesterday evening I kept thinking "This time last pregnancy, I was in the hospital." Then I started having crampy contractions and began to panic, because I've still got a few things I really want to get done before I have to drop my life in order to have the new baby. Luckily they must have been Braxton-Hicks...or else the pure force of my ire when I told Eric I felt funny and he began making faces at me convinced my body to hold off a while.
I don't feel ready for this second baby, not quite yet. I even avoided the crackers on the dinner table on purpose. Setting aside the projects I want to finish (nothing vital to the baby--we've got carseats installed and clothes washed and the bassinet set up and, aside from one piece from the midwives that they can fax in, my paperwork in place), I've been thinking about my labor and delivery and early days with Chloë, and regretting all the things I did wrong. Luckily there was no lasting damage to her, and if my only problem is a bad attitude going into labor I'm doing fine, but I still feel I've got a bad precedent. Maybe that will only make it easier for this time around to be better. I know a lot more this time, after all. And I don't think I'll really have to let the pieces of my life scatter and pick them back up afterward, which is kind of how it's feeling on this side of things (being understaffed at work, and then having my sole true peer go on vacation for a week because it's his last chance until after I get back from leave, doesn't help).
As far as the medication during labor debate goes, I've settled on a strong, firm "I'll wait and see how I feel." If I get to the hospital and am doing okay, then fine. If I get to the hospital and am panicky and despairing, I'll get an epidural and take a nap. At least while I'm at the hospital Chloë won't wake me up early.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Working things through
I've been frustrated and anxious lately off and on, partly as the pregnancy hormones ebb and flow and partly as the cleanliness and functionality of the house does. (The bathroom sink drips, but I haven't been able to get it anywhere near our priority list, nor the paint the garage needs. The kitchen sink is leaking, possibly because we're having problems with plumbing in the basement. We had to have our furnace motor replaced. Box elder bugs are getting in. And so on. Whenever we manage to sell this house, we're just going to rent for the rest of our lives.) Someone once told me that her first pregnancy was all about waiting and her second was all about scrambling to get things done, and that's how I'm feeling too. With my projects behind and the house falling apart and the vacuuming happening maybe once a month with only one kid, how are we possibly going to keep this household running with two? I know people do it. They do it with three, four, five, more. I have my suspicions about what we're doing wrong, but working on the problems is taking time. And I don't have time. This baby is due in a month.
We went to our friends' two-year-old's birthday party on Saturday. Chloë had a great time playing with the balloons and the rubber duck favors and the unfamiliar toys and kids. I knitted, and commiserated with another woman due about the same time as me but more miserable--she's shorter, and I've been gifted with good pregnancy mojo; people at work keep telling me I only recently started looking pregnant, and aside from Chloë-induced backache, I haven't been having any real chronic problems, just acute ones. Eventually the noise and crowdedness got to me, and it was driving me crazy on both my account and Chloë's that we had no plans for dinner. So we left early, stopped at Panera Bread for dinner (note: their kids' grilled cheese sandwich is made with American cheese; Chloë turned up her nose at it), and went home, where Eric and Chloë went straight to bed and I sat up a little while to appreciate the quiet. I didn't do any work. Sometimes you can't.
Last night I laid in bed with Chloë, singing her a few songs ("Emmo dhong," she always requests, and "mohr Emmo," whenever I stop to draw breath. Luckily the songs from her Elmo DVD are very short. The theme song goes "La la la la, la la la la, Elmo's world/La la la la, la la la la, Elmo's world/Elmo loves his goldfish, his crayon too/That's Elmo's world!" Which is pretty sad when you think about it) and then talking about her day, which we've been doing lately to get her settled for sleep, which she persists in calling her "long nap." First we talked about Saturday's birthday party and about the walk we'd had with her cousins Addie and Rae, and how she had been allowed to ride Addie's tricycle ("A-ee. Bik. A-ee. Pee," because Addie has asked her to say "please" to ride the bike), and about the garter snake we saw on a different walk a couple of days before that ("Daw. Nake!").
And then we talked about the shopping we had done that day, and the shows we had watched and the coloring we had done, and I told her she had been a good girl, doing what we asked her and staying out of trouble, and I was glad she was a good girl and a happy girl. "Happy. Gul," she repeated. And then, "Mama. Happy?"
I wasn't quite sure whether it was a question or a comment. "Yes, mostly Mama is happy too," I told her. When I'm with her, it's not a lie. I haven't yet figured out how to fully integrate the happiness of being Chloë's mama with the happiness I had in my pre-Chloë life, which I think is part of the running-of-the-household problem, and I know that that conflict is going to get worse when the new baby comes. With luck, I'll get it together before they reach high school.
We went to our friends' two-year-old's birthday party on Saturday. Chloë had a great time playing with the balloons and the rubber duck favors and the unfamiliar toys and kids. I knitted, and commiserated with another woman due about the same time as me but more miserable--she's shorter, and I've been gifted with good pregnancy mojo; people at work keep telling me I only recently started looking pregnant, and aside from Chloë-induced backache, I haven't been having any real chronic problems, just acute ones. Eventually the noise and crowdedness got to me, and it was driving me crazy on both my account and Chloë's that we had no plans for dinner. So we left early, stopped at Panera Bread for dinner (note: their kids' grilled cheese sandwich is made with American cheese; Chloë turned up her nose at it), and went home, where Eric and Chloë went straight to bed and I sat up a little while to appreciate the quiet. I didn't do any work. Sometimes you can't.
Last night I laid in bed with Chloë, singing her a few songs ("Emmo dhong," she always requests, and "mohr Emmo," whenever I stop to draw breath. Luckily the songs from her Elmo DVD are very short. The theme song goes "La la la la, la la la la, Elmo's world/La la la la, la la la la, Elmo's world/Elmo loves his goldfish, his crayon too/That's Elmo's world!" Which is pretty sad when you think about it) and then talking about her day, which we've been doing lately to get her settled for sleep, which she persists in calling her "long nap." First we talked about Saturday's birthday party and about the walk we'd had with her cousins Addie and Rae, and how she had been allowed to ride Addie's tricycle ("A-ee. Bik. A-ee. Pee," because Addie has asked her to say "please" to ride the bike), and about the garter snake we saw on a different walk a couple of days before that ("Daw. Nake!").
And then we talked about the shopping we had done that day, and the shows we had watched and the coloring we had done, and I told her she had been a good girl, doing what we asked her and staying out of trouble, and I was glad she was a good girl and a happy girl. "Happy. Gul," she repeated. And then, "Mama. Happy?"
I wasn't quite sure whether it was a question or a comment. "Yes, mostly Mama is happy too," I told her. When I'm with her, it's not a lie. I haven't yet figured out how to fully integrate the happiness of being Chloë's mama with the happiness I had in my pre-Chloë life, which I think is part of the running-of-the-household problem, and I know that that conflict is going to get worse when the new baby comes. With luck, I'll get it together before they reach high school.
Friday, February 4, 2011
On instincts
(Note: if I ever say "to make a long story short," I'm probably lying.)
Chloë's been waking up screaming around midnight pretty often lately. As previously mentioned, I'm finding it hard not to go to her and give her what she's asking for, even if I know she doesn't need it, because now she can ask, and the sad sound of a baby crying in the night is nothing compared to a toddler's piteous "Bottle! Bottle! Mama! Bottle!", especially to pregnancy-hormone-addled ears. She slept through the last few nights and I was so relieved, but last night I woke up around one to her screaming for juice.
We've been working on weaning her off bottles, and she now only has one for bedtime. Sometimes she doesn't even want milk when she gets up in the morning, preferring juice or not asking for anything at all. And she's not always asking for milk in the night, obviously. But we don't want to encourage her to have tooth-rotting liquids in the night, either. And we had discussed the night wakings previously and agreed that we should probably try delaying our response to see if she'll just go back to sleep.
So when I woke up, I checked the time. After a few minutes, I got up and waited in the hall for Eric (who was in the office on the other end of the hall, with Chloë's door between us) to get up to try to stop me. He did, saw me, and indicated "five minutes." So I went back to bed. Chloë continued to scream "Ju! Ju! Ju!" Then she started to slow down. The five minutes were up. There was silence. I started to cry because my baby was probably sitting in the dark with tears drenching her cheeks thinking that nobody cared enough to come to her, since I knew she could hear me get in and out of bed. Then she started up again: "Ju!" and "Bowah!" (her new word for bottle) and then, "Mama!"
I went. The five minutes were more than up and my maternal guilt was overflowing. Eric joined me as I picked Chloë up and stroked her back while she cried. Eric told her that juice was not for night time, but she could have water; did she want some? She wailed, "No," and went on crying, her little body shuddering with sobs. After a while I sang to her and Eric turned on her planetarium night light and brought her a doll and wiped her nose and cheeks with a Kleenex, and she calmed down. When she had stopped crying and had started pointing out stars, I put her back in her crib. She said, "No! Ju!" and started to cry again.
I retreated to bed for another few minutes, listening to the screaming continue to ramp up, starting to cry again myself. Finally I blew my nose, grabbed a second Kleenex, and went down to meet Eric in the computer room. "Would you put some water in her sippy and bring it to her?" I said, and he, probably afraid of the sleep-deprived weepy pregnant woman, agreed. I pressed the Kleenex in his hand--it was for wiping Chloë's face, though I'm not sure I actually communicated that to him--and went back to bed. In a few minutes I heard him go into Chloë's room, and the crying stop.
A few minutes after that Eric came in to check on me. "Thank you for waiting the five minutes before you did what came naturally," he said, which I hated him for, but he was right. I've been having a lot of mood swings this pregnancy, more than last time I think, and a lot of primal-mother-instinct behavior toward Chloë. I don't know if I'm having a worse time with the hormones this time around or if being pregnant while already a mother is just like this.
On the other hand, I'm a little conflicted on instinct in general. The first couple of months of Chloë's life I felt I had no mothering instincts whatever, but people all around me were telling me that I did and I had to trust them. (While other people were laughing at me for being stressed out when she was hungry, but never mind that.) Now, when I do have them, I'm being told to deny them. But I was pretty sure Chloë was truly thirsty last night, and I knew that she doesn't actually mean "no" half the time she says it and would probably have accepted the water if offered. That was why I eventually asked Eric to bring it to her, which I knew was against his own judgment. This is not to say that we should have given her a drink immediately, or even gone in to her at all; training is exactly about going against instinct; I know that. I'm just not sure when it's to be trusted and when it isn't. When I'm pregnant, it probably isn't, but not necessarily. So what's a hormone-riddled pregnant woman who's beginning not to be able to hold her toddler all the time to do?
Chloë's been waking up screaming around midnight pretty often lately. As previously mentioned, I'm finding it hard not to go to her and give her what she's asking for, even if I know she doesn't need it, because now she can ask, and the sad sound of a baby crying in the night is nothing compared to a toddler's piteous "Bottle! Bottle! Mama! Bottle!", especially to pregnancy-hormone-addled ears. She slept through the last few nights and I was so relieved, but last night I woke up around one to her screaming for juice.
We've been working on weaning her off bottles, and she now only has one for bedtime. Sometimes she doesn't even want milk when she gets up in the morning, preferring juice or not asking for anything at all. And she's not always asking for milk in the night, obviously. But we don't want to encourage her to have tooth-rotting liquids in the night, either. And we had discussed the night wakings previously and agreed that we should probably try delaying our response to see if she'll just go back to sleep.
So when I woke up, I checked the time. After a few minutes, I got up and waited in the hall for Eric (who was in the office on the other end of the hall, with Chloë's door between us) to get up to try to stop me. He did, saw me, and indicated "five minutes." So I went back to bed. Chloë continued to scream "Ju! Ju! Ju!" Then she started to slow down. The five minutes were up. There was silence. I started to cry because my baby was probably sitting in the dark with tears drenching her cheeks thinking that nobody cared enough to come to her, since I knew she could hear me get in and out of bed. Then she started up again: "Ju!" and "Bowah!" (her new word for bottle) and then, "Mama!"
I went. The five minutes were more than up and my maternal guilt was overflowing. Eric joined me as I picked Chloë up and stroked her back while she cried. Eric told her that juice was not for night time, but she could have water; did she want some? She wailed, "No," and went on crying, her little body shuddering with sobs. After a while I sang to her and Eric turned on her planetarium night light and brought her a doll and wiped her nose and cheeks with a Kleenex, and she calmed down. When she had stopped crying and had started pointing out stars, I put her back in her crib. She said, "No! Ju!" and started to cry again.
I retreated to bed for another few minutes, listening to the screaming continue to ramp up, starting to cry again myself. Finally I blew my nose, grabbed a second Kleenex, and went down to meet Eric in the computer room. "Would you put some water in her sippy and bring it to her?" I said, and he, probably afraid of the sleep-deprived weepy pregnant woman, agreed. I pressed the Kleenex in his hand--it was for wiping Chloë's face, though I'm not sure I actually communicated that to him--and went back to bed. In a few minutes I heard him go into Chloë's room, and the crying stop.
A few minutes after that Eric came in to check on me. "Thank you for waiting the five minutes before you did what came naturally," he said, which I hated him for, but he was right. I've been having a lot of mood swings this pregnancy, more than last time I think, and a lot of primal-mother-instinct behavior toward Chloë. I don't know if I'm having a worse time with the hormones this time around or if being pregnant while already a mother is just like this.
On the other hand, I'm a little conflicted on instinct in general. The first couple of months of Chloë's life I felt I had no mothering instincts whatever, but people all around me were telling me that I did and I had to trust them. (While other people were laughing at me for being stressed out when she was hungry, but never mind that.) Now, when I do have them, I'm being told to deny them. But I was pretty sure Chloë was truly thirsty last night, and I knew that she doesn't actually mean "no" half the time she says it and would probably have accepted the water if offered. That was why I eventually asked Eric to bring it to her, which I knew was against his own judgment. This is not to say that we should have given her a drink immediately, or even gone in to her at all; training is exactly about going against instinct; I know that. I'm just not sure when it's to be trusted and when it isn't. When I'm pregnant, it probably isn't, but not necessarily. So what's a hormone-riddled pregnant woman who's beginning not to be able to hold her toddler all the time to do?
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Loyalty
I've been feeling very ambivalent about this second pregnancy, even when you discount the why-can't-I-just-be-hooked-up-to-an-IV-rather-than-eat feelings and the tiredness and dizziness and shortness of breath and other symptoms that I will not discuss here but that Eric knows thoroughly. (I'm not a stoic person.) I thought it was mainly that it was a little earlier than we'd been expecting, and that it's disrupted our plans to try to move. Not to mention my occasional Daisy, Daisy/Everything She Wants* feelings that I'll never survive having two children.
But last night Eric and I were driving home from a party (with the honest-to-goodness singing of Christmas carols, no less--since most of the people there were trained singers or musicians or both, I sang quietly) and the baby was moving around, probably in response to the grapes and strawberries. I thought, "Hush, little baby," and immediately felt terrible, and suddenly realized why I've been feeling so ambivalent: I don't want to call this baby my baby, because I already have one. Chloë is my baby. It feels disloyal to apply that idea to anyone else, especially some stranger.
I realize, of course, that this is absurd, and now that I've identified it it's gone away somewhat. But not entirely. I'm still not excited about the idea of changing up our family just when we're settling into our roles and getting used to each other, at least as much as you can get used to a little girl who changes daily. Today at the dinner table she started to say "please" without prompting once we had identified what she wanted. She also ate maybe a cupful of lentils, after a plentiful breakfast and lunch and snack and part of an apple before dinner because she begged (read: whined) so hard when she saw them in the refrigerator. The girl likes her lentils. She spooned them up herself and then pointed the spoon at me and said "Hep" when it got too hard to do herself. She's marvelous. Why would I want another baby?
At our second baby shower all the guests made little scrapbook pages with comments and advice, and our friends Matt and Carol, who had recently had their own second child, wrote, "You will love the second one just as much." At the time I thought it was kind of funny they thought it was important to say that for the birth of the first, but now I see why, and I'm glad they did it. Right now I don't really think I could ever love another child as much as I do Chloë, but I'm willing to trust that I will, and that helps a lot.
*By Wham!, the relevant lyrics being:
I'll tell you that I'm happy if you want me to
But one step further and my back will break
If my best isn't good enough
Then how can it be good enough for two?
But last night Eric and I were driving home from a party (with the honest-to-goodness singing of Christmas carols, no less--since most of the people there were trained singers or musicians or both, I sang quietly) and the baby was moving around, probably in response to the grapes and strawberries. I thought, "Hush, little baby," and immediately felt terrible, and suddenly realized why I've been feeling so ambivalent: I don't want to call this baby my baby, because I already have one. Chloë is my baby. It feels disloyal to apply that idea to anyone else, especially some stranger.
I realize, of course, that this is absurd, and now that I've identified it it's gone away somewhat. But not entirely. I'm still not excited about the idea of changing up our family just when we're settling into our roles and getting used to each other, at least as much as you can get used to a little girl who changes daily. Today at the dinner table she started to say "please" without prompting once we had identified what she wanted. She also ate maybe a cupful of lentils, after a plentiful breakfast and lunch and snack and part of an apple before dinner because she begged (read: whined) so hard when she saw them in the refrigerator. The girl likes her lentils. She spooned them up herself and then pointed the spoon at me and said "Hep" when it got too hard to do herself. She's marvelous. Why would I want another baby?
At our second baby shower all the guests made little scrapbook pages with comments and advice, and our friends Matt and Carol, who had recently had their own second child, wrote, "You will love the second one just as much." At the time I thought it was kind of funny they thought it was important to say that for the birth of the first, but now I see why, and I'm glad they did it. Right now I don't really think I could ever love another child as much as I do Chloë, but I'm willing to trust that I will, and that helps a lot.
*By Wham!, the relevant lyrics being:
I'll tell you that I'm happy if you want me to
But one step further and my back will break
If my best isn't good enough
Then how can it be good enough for two?
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Andrew Lloyd Weber I'm not.
Baby, baby
Give me your answer, do
I'm half crazy
Being the mother of you
I'll love you all of your days
Even if they're in a haze
But how will I
Ever get by
Being the mother of two?
Give me your answer, do
I'm half crazy
Being the mother of you
I'll love you all of your days
Even if they're in a haze
But how will I
Ever get by
Being the mother of two?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
On the case
We went to Costco last night, and Chloë would have loved it if we weren't constantly deflecting her from other carts' paths, stopping her from running into the lady with the pretty shoes, picking her up when she refused to walk in the direction we wanted her to go, stopping her from taking another baby's blanket, moving her in and out of the cart as she refused to obey or pleaded to get down. Eric still doesn't like the idea of a baby leash, but it's growing on me.
I started feeling awful while we were there, so Eric took charge of her during the last part of the trip. We went home--sharing a nectarine between the three of us because we were all starving--and Eric fed her dinner, and I went and laid on the couch. I could see her, just barely, and she could see me over Eric's shoulder. She ate and drank happily while Eric helped her and talked to her, but she'd peek around him to look at me, with a "why are you over there?" look or a smile.
"I know, Mama's usually here at the table with us," Eric said, when he caught her doing it. "But Mama isn't always going to be here at dinner. Just like I'm not here sometimes at dinner." I lay there and was miserable, because I didn't feel good and I wanted my mommy, but I was the mommy, only I wasn't being it at the moment. I would have if I had to, I know, but I didn't, so Eric fed her dinner and got her cleaned up and put her in bed. I did go up to help with tooth-brushing and to say goodnight. I went to bed early and I feel better today, both physically and mentally. After all, I was there, and if she had needed me I would have done whatever was necessary. It just wasn't necessary. And mommies are allowed to have a break too, especially if daddies are on the case.
I started feeling awful while we were there, so Eric took charge of her during the last part of the trip. We went home--sharing a nectarine between the three of us because we were all starving--and Eric fed her dinner, and I went and laid on the couch. I could see her, just barely, and she could see me over Eric's shoulder. She ate and drank happily while Eric helped her and talked to her, but she'd peek around him to look at me, with a "why are you over there?" look or a smile.
"I know, Mama's usually here at the table with us," Eric said, when he caught her doing it. "But Mama isn't always going to be here at dinner. Just like I'm not here sometimes at dinner." I lay there and was miserable, because I didn't feel good and I wanted my mommy, but I was the mommy, only I wasn't being it at the moment. I would have if I had to, I know, but I didn't, so Eric fed her dinner and got her cleaned up and put her in bed. I did go up to help with tooth-brushing and to say goodnight. I went to bed early and I feel better today, both physically and mentally. After all, I was there, and if she had needed me I would have done whatever was necessary. It just wasn't necessary. And mommies are allowed to have a break too, especially if daddies are on the case.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The milky way
So I'm terribly conflicted about weaning. We decided to start the process and eliminated the when-mama-gets-home-from-work feeding. That was fine during the week, but then we hit the weekend and I nursed her nearly every time she wanted it. "But she wants me," I said pitifully to Eric when he went to fetch her sippy cup when she wanted to nurse not long after a meal. Away from her, I'm pretty keen on the weaning idea. When I'm with her, it's more complicated. There are certainly reasons to do it. We've successfully passed the one-year mark and Chloë is now drinking whole cow's milk part of the time, so we can do it without any repercussions. And she uses her teeth on and off. And it's kind of annoying to have her clawing at my chest and lifting my shirt anytime she wants a drink, especially in public. And lately she's much more fond of extreme nursing (e.g., wiggling until she's fallen off the pillow, pushing herself to her feet with her butt in the air so she looks like an inchworm, leaning over on me when I'm lying on my back) than simply lying there and drinking. And when she does lie down, she pokes and pinches my arms and sticks her feet in my face. And I'm tired of pumping.
But then it's very sweet that she relies on me for her favorite food. And it's nice to cuddle with her when she does settle down. And it makes her happy. And it's so convenient. And she doesn't always use her teeth. And the new recommendations are to nurse indefinitely if "mutually desired by mother and child" and my friends are mostly the baby-led weaning sort, which makes me feel guilty about forcing it. And I feel terrible when she wants me and I have her father take her away with a bottle (the, uh, one time we've done that). And it's helping with my weight. And I worked so hard to make nursing work and now it does and do I really want to give it up so soon? So. Conflicted.
Chloë also seems to be conflicted, but it doesn't seem to be causing her the angst mine causes me. We nursed this morning, which never takes long anymore. Or not the actual nursing part; she often takes one side, demands to hear a story or three, and then takes the other side. (She loves story time, or maybe I should say turn-the-pages time. Yesterday we were playing on her floor and she pointed to the bookcase, then patted the chair to indicate we needed to sit up there and read.) After the first side, she picked up one of the bottles from the day before and tried drinking from it. I pointed out that it was empty, but this didn't deter her from trying again, then playing with it, then offering it to me. Then she took the second side and we read some stories before going downstairs to fix my lunch and her bottles.
Obviously I shouldn't sweat this; she likes the bottles, she likes both kinds of milk, and there will be plenty of cuddle time without nursing. I guess since she's working on the walking (six tiny steps yesterday! And a full-on lunge between the couch and me, including a big step in between) and we're not worried about the talking, I have to find something to worry about.
But then it's very sweet that she relies on me for her favorite food. And it's nice to cuddle with her when she does settle down. And it makes her happy. And it's so convenient. And she doesn't always use her teeth. And the new recommendations are to nurse indefinitely if "mutually desired by mother and child" and my friends are mostly the baby-led weaning sort, which makes me feel guilty about forcing it. And I feel terrible when she wants me and I have her father take her away with a bottle (the, uh, one time we've done that). And it's helping with my weight. And I worked so hard to make nursing work and now it does and do I really want to give it up so soon? So. Conflicted.
Chloë also seems to be conflicted, but it doesn't seem to be causing her the angst mine causes me. We nursed this morning, which never takes long anymore. Or not the actual nursing part; she often takes one side, demands to hear a story or three, and then takes the other side. (She loves story time, or maybe I should say turn-the-pages time. Yesterday we were playing on her floor and she pointed to the bookcase, then patted the chair to indicate we needed to sit up there and read.) After the first side, she picked up one of the bottles from the day before and tried drinking from it. I pointed out that it was empty, but this didn't deter her from trying again, then playing with it, then offering it to me. Then she took the second side and we read some stories before going downstairs to fix my lunch and her bottles.
Obviously I shouldn't sweat this; she likes the bottles, she likes both kinds of milk, and there will be plenty of cuddle time without nursing. I guess since she's working on the walking (six tiny steps yesterday! And a full-on lunge between the couch and me, including a big step in between) and we're not worried about the talking, I have to find something to worry about.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Time to reorganize
I've been very anxious lately. I hadn't quite realized how anxious until Thursday night, when the relaxation exercise in class started me crying. I can blame pregnancy hormones a little, but only a little; it's my nature to be a worrier. (The instructor handed out a small questionnaire for each couple and on my side was "How good are you at relaxing?" and on Eric's side was "How good is your partner at relaxing?" The options were Excellent, Good, Fair, and Poor. We both chose Fair.) Not all of the anxiety has been about L.E.O., but a good deal of it has: how the delivery will go, how we'll figure out how to care for her, how we'll handle our finances to fit in daycare and diapers and college savings, how our lives will stretch and trim and reshape to accommodate her.
(And of course how much time we'll have left before she orders our execution, but we'll be very proud in the intervening time.)
We have sixty days left, approximately, and we're getting more serious about preparing for a baby in our lives: rearranging a bunch of the house to get the bookcases and other things out of the nursery ("You don't think we could leave this in here?" Eric said, brandishing a RenFaire sword), discussing daycare options, filling out insurance and preregistration paperwork, freaking out. Every once in a while Eric or I will grab the other's hand and say "Are we sure we really want to do this?" The other person always says yes (or "Well, it's too late now"). Maybe that's why it's good to have two of us. I was talking to Eric about my anxiety the other day, and I guess it was his turn to be the optimistic, confident one. He said, "What is there to worry about?"
I started enumerating all the potential problems I was thinking about, and--here's the strange part--he shot them all down. Normally this doesn't happen. Normally nothing budges my worrying. But whether I was too tired to disagree or too unsure of my ground to contest or too insecure to deny myself the offered comfort, I found myself thinking that maybe everything would be all right.
That didn't last terribly long, of course. But I remember the feeling, and it helps to know I had it. Maybe everything will be all right. And if it isn't, at least we're getting a nicely reorganized house out of the deal.
(And of course how much time we'll have left before she orders our execution, but we'll be very proud in the intervening time.)
We have sixty days left, approximately, and we're getting more serious about preparing for a baby in our lives: rearranging a bunch of the house to get the bookcases and other things out of the nursery ("You don't think we could leave this in here?" Eric said, brandishing a RenFaire sword), discussing daycare options, filling out insurance and preregistration paperwork, freaking out. Every once in a while Eric or I will grab the other's hand and say "Are we sure we really want to do this?" The other person always says yes (or "Well, it's too late now"). Maybe that's why it's good to have two of us. I was talking to Eric about my anxiety the other day, and I guess it was his turn to be the optimistic, confident one. He said, "What is there to worry about?"
I started enumerating all the potential problems I was thinking about, and--here's the strange part--he shot them all down. Normally this doesn't happen. Normally nothing budges my worrying. But whether I was too tired to disagree or too unsure of my ground to contest or too insecure to deny myself the offered comfort, I found myself thinking that maybe everything would be all right.
That didn't last terribly long, of course. But I remember the feeling, and it helps to know I had it. Maybe everything will be all right. And if it isn't, at least we're getting a nicely reorganized house out of the deal.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Adult 2.0 ponders the upgrade
I do not think I am ready to be a mother. Not when I can't talk to my own mother about a misunderstanding over something as simple as my plans for the visit to Seattle I'm starting in about eleven hours without crying. I'm going to blame the baby for my excessive emotionality--that's going to be one great thing about having a kid, someone to blame when Eric isn't around--but I'm vaguely worried now about how I'm going to handle being on the other end of these kinds of scenarios. On the other hand, I've found adulthood to be nothing more than a series of progressively more serious and complicated situations in which you have to make things up as you go along, and maybe parenthood won't be any different. We've been calling it Adult 3.0.
Adult 1.0 was the just-out-of-the-house stage, where things were pretty simple: you cooked and shopped for yourself, got three or four bills every month, maybe had a savings account as well as a checking account. Adult 2.0 was the stepped-up version of a shared household, homeownership, more complicated finances, long-term decisions about career aspirations and where to live. And now we face Adult 3.0: dependents for whom we have to make long-term decisions, even more complicated finances and legal issues, sacrifices and compromises and what I most sincerely hope will be some sort of compensation other than the satisfaction of being able to survive.
Adult 1.0 was the just-out-of-the-house stage, where things were pretty simple: you cooked and shopped for yourself, got three or four bills every month, maybe had a savings account as well as a checking account. Adult 2.0 was the stepped-up version of a shared household, homeownership, more complicated finances, long-term decisions about career aspirations and where to live. And now we face Adult 3.0: dependents for whom we have to make long-term decisions, even more complicated finances and legal issues, sacrifices and compromises and what I most sincerely hope will be some sort of compensation other than the satisfaction of being able to survive.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The blame game
I've been noticing I'm a lot more teary these days. I'm not any sadder; I'm just closer to tears. The "As Your Baby Grows" magazine I got as part of my first-visit goody bag says this is perfectly normal, probably partly due to hormones, but "a bigger reason" is that it's a momentous transition I'm going through here. Which certainly feels true to me. I don't know all the ways in which my life is going to change in about six months, but I know that it is, and I don't know if I'm ready. I'm definitely not sure I’m ready to be a mother. "I'm blaming you," I told Eric when I was complaining about some oddly bad nausea yesterday.
"How does that work?" he said.
"I figure your genes incompatible with mine and my body's rejecting them and that's why I feel bad."
"But half of the genes are yours."
"So they should be perfectly fine inside my body."
"So your nausea is my fault?"
"Yes! I'm practicing to be a mother! By blaming the father!"
"How does that work?" he said.
"I figure your genes incompatible with mine and my body's rejecting them and that's why I feel bad."
"But half of the genes are yours."
"So they should be perfectly fine inside my body."
"So your nausea is my fault?"
"Yes! I'm practicing to be a mother! By blaming the father!"
Friday, January 2, 2009
A little scared
Happy New Year! We had a party December 31, which went well except for only about half the people showing up who said they would, and slept very late January 1. We visited the mothers, where Eric discovered a newfound love for Rock Band, and I ended up eating dinner late because (as usual) I knew I needed to eat but didn’t want to face food again.
But eventually hunger won, and as I devoured my dinner it occurred to me how very long it's going to be before I'm back to normal (assuming all goes well). Even my appetite will be abnormal for at least another year--once I get over the combined food aversion/ravening hunger that I'm currently experiencing, I'm told to expect just plain ravening hunger for the rest of the nine months, and after that I'll be eating some extra 500 calories a day or so to compensate for breastfeeding.
Then there are the obvious bodily changes, some temporary, some permanent; and then of course there will be the whole being-a-parent thing (and, in this case, expecting to be killed early on when our offspring decides he/she must break free from the parental nest in order to complete his/her conquest of the world), which means I'll never be the same again. This is daunting. Throw in the physical discomfort, and I'm not always 100% sure this was a good idea. I mean, I am, but I'm a little scared.
(But don't think that pregnancy is all bad. This not-bleeding-for-nine-months thing is awesome.)
But eventually hunger won, and as I devoured my dinner it occurred to me how very long it's going to be before I'm back to normal (assuming all goes well). Even my appetite will be abnormal for at least another year--once I get over the combined food aversion/ravening hunger that I'm currently experiencing, I'm told to expect just plain ravening hunger for the rest of the nine months, and after that I'll be eating some extra 500 calories a day or so to compensate for breastfeeding.
Then there are the obvious bodily changes, some temporary, some permanent; and then of course there will be the whole being-a-parent thing (and, in this case, expecting to be killed early on when our offspring decides he/she must break free from the parental nest in order to complete his/her conquest of the world), which means I'll never be the same again. This is daunting. Throw in the physical discomfort, and I'm not always 100% sure this was a good idea. I mean, I am, but I'm a little scared.
(But don't think that pregnancy is all bad. This not-bleeding-for-nine-months thing is awesome.)
Sunday, December 28, 2008
You pilot always into an unknown future
L.E.O. has allowed me to handle the Christmas holidays fairly well, except for the continued lack of interest in chocolate. (Maybe this means he/she won't like chocolate as a child and I can have it all. Probably not.) Our last childless Christmas (assuming all goes well) was very nice; Mom and Dad came out to visit and we had Eric's family over as well. Eric's sister gave us a photo album for an ultrasound, which will be much nicer than the Similac one we got in the goody bag from the doctor.
I got around nine or ten hours of sleep every night, and it suited me nicely, as did the constant snacking that's normally part of the holidays anyway. The food aversions continue, particularly to brassicas. I always liked broccoli and cauliflower, but now they smell gross. I feel like I'm six years old. However, tomatoes--in the form of sauce and salsa--are okay, and so are carrots, so I'll have to get my vegetables in non-green form for the time being. (Yes, I am taking a supplement with folate. Oranges have a decent amount of folate, and I'm eating a couple of those a day. Fruit's okay; it's just the vegetables that are dicey.)
Regardless of the continuing and annoying symptoms, and my family's reassurances, I continue to be worried about possible miscarriage. Eric and I discussed this earlier and had no actual data on the risk, other than that it goes down after the first trimester, so I looked it up. It turns out to be difficult to locate actual data about miscarriages; most of the things I found were questions on Yahoo! Answers or pregnancy forums with completely nonhelpful responses. Apparently not many mothers-to-be are looking for real numbers. But I did find this article, which studied a large group of pregnant women with no symptoms of incipient miscarriage and found that 9.4% had a miscarriage before 6 weeks, 1.5% after 8 weeks, and less than 0.7% after 9 weeks. I've just entered week 10, so I'm feeling better. I won't be completely convinced until I hear the heartbeat, but I'm feeling better.
I got around nine or ten hours of sleep every night, and it suited me nicely, as did the constant snacking that's normally part of the holidays anyway. The food aversions continue, particularly to brassicas. I always liked broccoli and cauliflower, but now they smell gross. I feel like I'm six years old. However, tomatoes--in the form of sauce and salsa--are okay, and so are carrots, so I'll have to get my vegetables in non-green form for the time being. (Yes, I am taking a supplement with folate. Oranges have a decent amount of folate, and I'm eating a couple of those a day. Fruit's okay; it's just the vegetables that are dicey.)
Regardless of the continuing and annoying symptoms, and my family's reassurances, I continue to be worried about possible miscarriage. Eric and I discussed this earlier and had no actual data on the risk, other than that it goes down after the first trimester, so I looked it up. It turns out to be difficult to locate actual data about miscarriages; most of the things I found were questions on Yahoo! Answers or pregnancy forums with completely nonhelpful responses. Apparently not many mothers-to-be are looking for real numbers. But I did find this article, which studied a large group of pregnant women with no symptoms of incipient miscarriage and found that 9.4% had a miscarriage before 6 weeks, 1.5% after 8 weeks, and less than 0.7% after 9 weeks. I've just entered week 10, so I'm feeling better. I won't be completely convinced until I hear the heartbeat, but I'm feeling better.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I know, I know, make up my mind already.
Now I'm getting anxious because the nausea is going away. I'm still averse to eating most things, but the actual nausea is rare. Eric tells me that I've been having the nausea symptoms for a couple of weeks and they're supposed to go away, and I'm still having all my other symptoms, and I am not having a delayed miscarriage, stop saying that. I kind of wish I were at the phase where I could discern L.E.O.'s movements, just for some reassurance. On the other hand, feeling better is kind of, you know, nice.
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