The Diaper Conversion

When I was young, I would get birthday cards with cash or checks in them because adults have no idea what to give kids, ever.  That was cool though, see, thumbs up!

I had plans, people.  PLANS.  I had lists of things I wanted starting from…

Wait, what was I saying?

You know that saying about hammers?  Like, when you have one, all you see around you are nails?  Well, when you have cash money in hand, all you see are things to buy.  At least my addled child-like brain was wired that way.

Does it even matter what kinds to things to buy?  Nope.  Silver platform sneakers?  Cool.  PEZ dispensers?  One for me, one for you.  And a Jelly Roll pen, or ten.

But like everything else, things change.  Getting birthday cards and gifts is still pretty awesome, but the thought process is not as straightforward.  It takes many levels of abstraction to pull away from basic needs like taking care of baby, taking care of baby, showering, taking care of baby.  Infinitely more effort to stop converting everything.

"I could get a cup of coffee on my way into work this morning, but that's like, the same thing as 7 diapers."

"I'm kinda having a craving for some Indian food, mmm, yummy chicken tikka masala and saag paneer and garlic naan and rice.  So, for about a case of diapers, that works out to maybe 5 or 6 servings if I get an order to carry out…"

"Did you seriously JUST pee into this diaper I JUST put on you?!? <checking for level of dampness>  Eh, you're good until the next go around."

Despite the diaper currency converter, there is ONE category where this is never, ever appropriate:  services.  I will give you the stink eye if you even imply that my pedicure was not worth the almost case of diapers.  Or, my haircut (that is in that mess on my head, I promise) at 1.5 boxes, or the massage  at 2+ cases of diapers that I am going to schedule soon.

For services contributing to mom-sanity, there is no valid diaper conversion!

Birthdays are a nice thing

Thanks for the birthday wishes.

The thing about birthdays is this:  even if someone says, "Oh, it's no big deal", or "I don't really do birthdays..." don't buy into it.  Who doesn't want to feel at least a tiny bit special once a year?

Birthdays are a nice thing.  It's like saying, "I'm really glad you exist because had you not been shot out of a vagina on this day years ago, my life wouldn't be as rich as it is now."  And that's kind of weird, even though I think that pretty much sums it up.

Intake

I am lucky to find a therapist who is both a psychiatrist and a psychologist.  The scary thing about brain meds is that it is more of an art than a science.  I'm sure you've heard about drug cocktails when it comes to treating mental illnesses.  What's great is that if it's simple behavioral changes, we can try that first.

I spilled the beans.  I couldn't talk fast enough.  The words just spilled out.  Then came the tears.  She asked me if I felt relieved sharing how I felt.  I told her that I had support outside of this visit, but there's a difference because here, I was hoping on receiving some direction on how to FIX things.  I mean, that's why I'm paying some astronomical hourly rate, right?

She said that the things I'm experiencing are fairly common and recommended a weekly visit.  I was fine with that.  But, common?? Really?????

I wondered how women cope with this.  We all know that postpartum depression exists, but nobody talks about it.  Depression in this country is stigmatized along with every other mental illness.  It's taboo.  Throw that on top of the societal norm of childbirth being no big 'thang; career mobility prioritized over nesting in an area with abundant extended family for support, and of course, where those career opportunities exist in big cities, cost of living is high too often necessitating both parents to work.

That aside, at some point after while taking a break at work, I scribbled a pie chart on a sticky note depicting various roles.  Some didn't even make it onto the pie chart, but the set of options included mother, wife, friend, sister, engineer, caretaker (house/errands/chef/bills, etc.  It was clear that mother, engineer and caretaker edged out everything else, leaving tiny slivers that couldn't even be labeled, but worse yet, the category for me (or, "self") was nonexistent.  Who am I these days anyway?

It's too early to tell what's going on, so it's not like I left the office with a wheelbarrow full of Prozac.  She instructed me to get between 5 to 6 hours of sleep overnight between pumps; from end of one, to start of another.  Working on that now, but the boobs have their own schedule at the moment.

Postpartum Depression

I think postpartum depression is real,  at least for me.  I've been struggling now for a long time and while I love my son to the moon and back and care for his every physical and emotional need, I have been unable to tend to my own.  I don't know how to describe it.  It's like, I'm a mom and nothing else. Sometimes I don't even feel like a person.

I'm not sure if you would notice anything looking in.  I still *do* things; it's not like I can't get out of bed. I do.  Every day.  Multiple times a day.  I'll converse, laugh, smile, go to work, do chores, even write blog posts, but on the inside, it's something a little less than complacent.  I'm functioning like I'm supposed to (mostly?), but on the inside, I feel completely disconnected.  I don't even know what defines *me* anymore.

There are some things that have been in the back of my mind, so I finally scheduled an appointment to meet with a postpartum therapist.  First, something I read a while back along the lines of, "If you think you have postpartum depression, you probably do.  Seek help."  Second, reflecting on a questionnaire I took at the pediatrician's office.  There was a question about whether you enjoy activities less than, the same, more than you used to.  I had a hard time answering the question because I couldn't even THINK of activities.  I didn't know what I liked anymore.  I realized it was worse not to be able to answer the question.  Finally, seeing pictures of other women and their babies within that first six weeks.  They are dressed.  Their hair is combed.  They have pictures with their baby.  The moms look happy and clean and they are even OUT and about.

Why wasn't it like that for me?

The haze in my brain is so thick when I try to access memories from that postpartum period.  I can't tell if it is mommy brain, or a protective mechanism to cordon the hurt and hopelessness I felt due to circumstances at the time.

But, I loved my baby from the start.  I never thought of harming myself or my baby.  I was able to take care of my baby.  So, with that, I was OK, right?  Besides, if you look up symptoms of PPD, it's pretty much well, everything having to do with life in general.  Sooo not helpful.

It is so hard to know what is normal after giving birth.  My body hadn't been mine for a long time.  My time is no longer my own.  My brain, addled with hormones and lack of sleep.  How can anyone make any judgement call during this time?  How is a new mom supposed to take care of herself?

I'm going to dig into this a bit more.  I'm functioning at some capacity to get things done, but it's killing me.

Riddles are Funny

My sister and I are taking a walk in the neighborhood.  She is pushing the double stroller with my 18-month nephew on one side who is playing with his toes, and my 4-month old son on the other side who is passed out.

She wanted to stop at the supermarket, then the drugstore on the way back.  After the drugstore, we pass a toy store and she tells me that this is where she takes the kiddos and there's a riddle every day on the chalkboard outside.  Today's clue:  "What dog needs air conditioning?"

"Oh, wait wait wait…."  I'm stammering, trying to get my answer out but my brain won't function.  My sister is thinking aloud and talking to her son in exaggerated mommy-voice reading him the clue.

"…there's a dog breed that cannot regulate its own body temperature…he's at the football games at Georgia on a block of ice.  BULLDOG!  A bulldog needs air conditioning!"

I'm pleased with myself.

My sister looks at me over the TOP of her glasses with one eyebrow raised.  "It's a RIDDLE.  It's a TOY store for KIDS.  It's supposed to be funny."

I knit my brow.  Funny funny funny….dog, air conditioning, dog, air conditioner when hot, dog…."A hot dog."  Womp - wommmmp.

She laughs.  She has super mommy brain with two kiddos so wasn't quite there yet.

Note to self:  kids don't like trivia.

Wait, what??

Ah, adventures in parenting.

Last night, I check my email and see that something arrived in my "Promotions" folder (read: junk) from day care.  They send me so much junk about fundraiser this-that for the school despite the fact that everyone pays tuition, and so-and-so leaving, and wear-this-not-that day, just a whole bunch of stuff that we really don't care about.

This one had subject "Important Dates".  My kid is 4 months old.  I don't care when the bake sale is.  But, I open it up anyway and sure enough, it's a bunch of crap, but in between is one VALUABLE tidbit of information.

"Monday, May 25th: CLOSED for Memorial Day"

Well, yeah.  LOTS of places are closed for Memorial Day, duh.  We're lucky though because we can work that day if we want to, and we usually do.  Holidays don't matter.  I move onto the next task on my to do list then stop short with a realization.  #$&*.  Let's test the husband.

"Hon, I got an email from day care.  They are closed on Memorial Day."

No response.  Let's try that one again.

"Daycare is closed on Memorial Day."

He says, "Okay".

No, it's still not registering.

"We cannot take boo to day care on Monday.  Someone is going to have to stay home."

Then he looks up.   Ding ding ding!  Yup, our first time having to consider the parental outage scenario for a holiday.

Honestly, the schedule for day care operation is pretty awesome.  I think there's maybe 6 or 8 days when school is closed.  Possibly a couple extra days for teacher development, but all in all, better than public school's schedule.  Minus the fact that we pay a lot for day care.  Every. Single. Week.

Daycare Fail

Yesterday's traffic was AWFUL getting home, and I left work early!  My sister suggested it was due to the holiday weekend.

Holiday?

Oh, right.  If you consider Mother's Day a holiday. . .

As a new mom,  I'm not sure what my expectation is for this day.   The point of it is appreciation,  much like Valentine's Day, but why save up 364 days of it to express it on ONE arbitrarily decided Sunday?

Besides, my 3.5 month old mush-ball is way too young for this!   I suppose he shows "appreciation" by calming down in my arms, happy to be in a safe zone.  This is usually followed by emission of some bodily fluid.

Yesterday,  it was spit up.  It got on his shirt,  my shirt,  my arm and jeans.  I wiped up the glop.  Later in a daydream, I caught myself staring at that spot on my jeans now "clean" wondering if I could wear them again tomorrow. Spoiler alert!   I did. Hehehe.

I finally arrived at day care.  There were only two infants left in the room.  I felt like a terrible mother!  If you're not first, you're last?   There was a flat pink tissue paper wrapped present for me.  "From the infant room", read the card taped to it.

When we got home,  I opened it up and was touched by the sentiment.

And then,  the analysis started.  (I can't help it,  I'm sorry!!!)  The teachers did put in effort,  I don't doubt that.   The photo had a black backdrop,  and they put a knit blanket to hide the boppy.  Ethan's photo was NOT flattering at all.  I recognized his outfit.   Ugh!! It was the puffy-eye day, so nothing could be done save using a picture of him sleeping!  Then the footprints which are actually his  (again, red paint on toenails).  Then, poor grammar...yikes!

Regardless, I'm putting this away in a keepsake box because I find it amusing.

I Spy...

Every morning, I wait until I hear Ethan's warbles before I drag myself out of the cozy warm bed and trek bleary-eyed into his room.  I'm not going to lie.  I curse my life during those few seconds and probably 20 footsteps from my bedside to his.  We probably don't need a baby monitor, eh?

Then I see my little peanut.  He's happy in the morning.  He doesn't know yet what the "wrong" side of the bed is.  I open my tired eyes a little wider and make an exaggerated open mouthed smile which immediately gets him going.  Pretty cool.  Then, I unzip him from his sleep sack and pick him up.

This morning was slightly different in that his left eye was half swollen shut!!  He didn't know any better and was still acting his usual self.  I felt terrible.  I've had this type of thing happen to me in the past.  I got sunscreen in my eye because even though it was advertised as sweat proof, it wasn't.  Then, if I get eyeshadow in my eye, that's pretty bad because I'm allergic to most of them.

There wasn't anything new that was introduced, so I assumed he got Aquaphor in his eye.  I probably got some on his hands by accident; or perhaps there was some on his face that didn't get rubbed in well enough.  That's entirely possible.  Maybe I got too close to his eye?  Since he has recently discovered he has hands (to put into his mouth), he swipes his face, the sides of his head and rubs his eyes.  I thought he did it because he was tired, but I've seen him do it when he stirs in his sleep as well.

We do the usual morning routine.  After his morning bottle the swelling did subside some.

Then, at 3:45pm daycare gives us a ring.  I wasn't at my desk.  I was still in a meeting that started about an hour ago.  His teacher called to let us know that he spit up a little more than usual (but not an estimate of the volume), took a long nap (which he does maybe every other day) and that when he woke up from his nap, both eyes were swollen

Oh no!  Swollen, like, this morning?   And BOTH of them?!?  I call the pediatrician and leave a voicemail with the advice nurse.  By the time I got the message, it was almost 5pm.  I felt like a terrible parent, but Ethan was OK.  It wasn't a "Get your kid NOW, he has ebola and we don't want to contaminate the whole school" kind of call.  Grant and I just missed each other by 20 seconds according to his desk mate.  Doh!

When they got home, my baby was knocked out.  I was on the phone with the advice nurse, and when I pulled his sleepy little body out of the car seat, he woke up and looked at me.  Okay, so my baby looks a little more Asian today, sure, but NOTHING like he did this morning!!  He had a little redness too; slight abrasions from the rubbing, but wasn't actively doing it.  We monitored him.

The advice nurse recommended we head over to Patient First around the corner, so we did, and learned that they don't take infants.  We debated going to the ER, but Ethan didn't have a fever and the swelling was going down.  More monitoring.

Tonight, he is swaddled tightly and his hands are still covered with socks.  I put Aquaphor on his legs, back and belly only, so it's unlikely any of it will make it up to his face.  I hope it was just the Aquaphor and excessive rubbing of his eyes.  I think he's also having an eczema flare up.

Poor baby.  :(

2:31 AM

Did I ever mention that I am a light sleeper? That,  by the way,  is how my comic drawing started.

And in case you are wondering, no,  it's not my husband. . .or the baby.

(Not my sweet baby!  Psssh!)

Don't Grow Up!!

I did bedtime routine with Ethan last night.  This means undressing him, taking off his diaper, cleaning him up, slathering his entire body with baby Aquaphor to ward off eczema, putting On Guard essential oil on the soles of his feet, and a tiny bit of Breathe on his chest, then saline in the nose and sucking out boogers.  Oh, and then trying to put a sleeper on a now slimy, squirming, screaming baby.

It sounds like he is being murdered.  He screams so loud that there's no way he can hear you.  So, plug the hole!  This means putting the pacifier in, or better yet, the bottle.  His last bottle of the day hopefully...until he wakes up at 3am, ha!

This routine seems like it takes FOREVER, and it did the first couple times, but now it's probably a half hour from start to finish.

And then, the hungry hungry hippo baby sucks down the bottle, then eventually relaxes in my arms and the sucking slows until he's gumming the nipple and then I know he is done.  He may or may not want the pacifier at this point.  And then he starts to drift off.  It's funny because I watch him trying to fight off sleep, but eventually he surrenders to slumber and is secure in mommy's arms.

This is the sweetest moment.  And I always think, "Don't grow up!"  Because there will come a day when he outgrows this.  He is so peaceful when he is sleeping.  I examine his features.  I try to memorize them as best I can.  He has my eyes, my eyebrows and mouth.  When he was born, I saw my eyes staring back at me.  It was bizarre because obviously, I never met him, but he was so familiar.

I don't want to put him down, but I am exhausted.  I need to pump.  He needs to sleep in his crib.  I want to fall asleep with him in my arms in the glider.  (That's a terrible idea!)  I need to sleep.  And then, I carefully get up, walk over to the crib and gently set him down with as much caution as diffusing a time bomb.  Because sometimes that's what it feels like...please sleep so I don't have to do bedtime routine again to settle back in!

Turn on the baby monitor, take another look then quietly close the door.  Now, it's time to prepare for tomorrow.

But you know what?  I always sneak back in to check on him in the middle of the night.  He is the sweetest thing.  And no matter how early it is because you KNOW it is some ungodly hour, a beaming smile spreads across my face when I look at him.