What's the Word for. . .

being happy for someone that their life is going well but wishing, just a bit, that they were falling apart because then you'd have some company?

See, I'm still doing well. Really well! And I'm so relieved. I was talking with my psychiatrist and we both agreed that at this point I seem to be out of the woods mental health wise. And while she cautioned me against overdoing it and stressing myself out we both breathed a sigh of relief. Postpartum depression can strike any time during the first year so I'll be seeing my psychiatrist every so often to keep an eye on things, but I'm, well, happy.

It probably helps that the Little Cannoli is a much more even-tempered baby than my other ones. She already sleeps better than her older brother. She smiles and coos when she sees me. She's only two months old and already I feel like she's been part of the family forever. These swelling, happy feelings inside me must be what other new moms feel all the time!

But, to be honest, this happiness makes me a little jealous and a little sad about what I've missed with my other babies. How wonderful it could have been.

That little bit of jealousy and that little bit of sadness are familiar. See, after my second baby when I really started talking about my PPD experiences a few of my other mommy friends would say, "Yeah, it was like that for me too. I was so depressed." Relief would flood through my mind and I would feel like I wasn't alone. Like maybe I wasn't as screwed up as I thought I was. Like all of this struggle had a purpose. Like maybe there was hope for me.

But then none of them ever had more than one PPD episode. I was (am) the only one to have gone through it over and over again. I was (am) the only one whose life is constantly affected by a mood disorder. They all got over it and moved on. I never did.

Hope evaporated. Purpose was lost. And with those two things went perspective. I gave up on thinking I was ever going to be in a place where I could roll with the punches. I accepted that I was a little tweaky and tried to find ways to make the tweaky-ness work for me.

But now I feel like I'm approaching the elusive non-tweaky state of normal. So naturally (hah!) I'm relieved and a little suspicious. There's a part of me that is always looking for warning signs that I'm on another downturn. There's part of me that thinks I must be in some sort of magic state of denial. And there's a huge part of me that feels like I've betrayed my former self. I see women around me all the time who I think might be suffering from this and I want them to know they aren't alone. I want them to know that PPD is hard but it doesn't have to destroy you. I want to be there with them and support them on their journey.

But I know that when you are really down having someone tell you that you'll get over it someday isn't all that helpful. I know that hearing another woman crow about how good it feels to not be hurting doesn't do much good. What does help is having someone sit with you and accept you even when all the protective layers are ripped away. Having someone inhabit that emotionally elemental existence with you--even just for a little while--does more to clear the head and heal the heart than any amount of platitudes and well wishes ever will.

And I'm worried that my current happiness makes it so I can't sit with another woman and share her experience. That was a kind of loss I never expected. Normal is nice--convenient, really--but I never want to forget that don't have to be normal to be a good mom. Just being where you are and take care of yourself and your babies is good enough. Just because some of people are finding normal doesn't mean you've been left behind. Depressed and okay can coexist. Depressed and happy do work together.

Post Partum Depression: 1 Month Out

Baby Number 4, who we lovingly refer to as our Little Cannoli, is now more than 1 month old. I am surprised and a little bit glad that the time has gone by so quickly. Usually my first month with a baby is a descent into chaos and I feel like I spend the next year or eighteen months trying to put my universe back together. To have it go by quickly means that I haven't been lost in the time suck that is depression. (Whee!)I think this is due to several exceptional things.

* I'm still taking my Paxil. It was hard to remember to at first. I've been out of the habit and so I was taking it at weird times and missing days--which is a set up for disaster. But then I got an awesome tip: Put your meds by your toothbrush! You almost always remember to brush your teeth and if your meds are in the same cabinet you'll always see them and be reminded to take them.

* I've got a whole lot more knowledge. During the first few weeks, before the meds had kicked in, I had a few suicidal thoughts (no plans, just lots of negative thinking like I didn't deserve to live and my family would be better off without me because there is no way I would ever be able to be a good mom to this baby) but they were fleeting and usually disappeared if I took a nap. I know about the link between sleep deprivation and PPD so I could take action rather than get stuck in an unproductive mental/emotional thought cycle. I also had a fair amount of intrusive thoughts. Mostly violent ones, like every time I walked up or down the stairs I would see my baby flying down them and splitting her head open or breaking her neck. They were scary but I knew what they were (hormonal misfires in my brain) and could move on instead being consumed by them. I still have some of the intrusive thoughts--I've acquired a whole new repertoire surrounding actual glass glasses--so I'm not sure if I should up my meds or not. I'll ask my psych when I see her.

* I've had a whole lot of support.
I've had offers from both sides of the family to help out with the kids (even though they all live hundreds of miles away!). We got lots of meal from the ladies at Church. And close friends were sensitively checking in on my mental state--friends who had been there--which meant a lot to me. I'm actually still with my mom and dad and it is great. Being with them for the last couple weeks has alleviated so much stress from my mind. I've gotten more sleep and I've been able to conquer caring for all four kids in small bites. I just feel like I've had adequate time to acclimate to the whole situation and actually bond with my baby instead of feeling overwhelmed and destroyed. I keep telling my mom that this time has been such an indescribable gift.

Actually, this whole experience feels like a gift. I'm surprised how sad I am that this is my last little baby. I'll never have another four week old to nuzzle and smell and cuddle. And I always thought that when that time came I'd be glad because it would mean freedom was on the horizon. But I don't feel free. It feels like a loss.

I think some of my feelings of loss are me mourning my previous post partum experiences. Sometimes as I'm nursing or rocking the Little Cannoli part of my mind will go back to when Number 1 or Number 2 were babies and I'll relive those experiences. Part of me will be feeling the frustration of trying to get Number 1 to latch on, or more like the echoes of that frustration, and the other part of me will be so grateful that the Little Cannoli nurses so nicely and then I'll remember (or possibly rewrite) a moment when Number 1 was nursing well. And then the frustration melts a little and the memory loses some of its sting. I'm sure there's some sort of name for that process, but for me letting go of some of that is, well, a gift.

It's also a gift to see my older three, who I struggled with so intensely, being kind and soft and patient with the newest sibling. It reminds me that even if things were rocky when they were born their lives have been filled with love and that things are going to work out.

I'm not projecting into the future. After we get home from my mom's things could fall apart or they could be fabulous. Odds are life will be a mix of stress and fun and disasters and peace. But I'm not trying to figure those out. I'm just here, loving my baby and enjoying my kids. Because they are all gifts--gifts that I am just now starting to see clearly.

The Final Countdown!

Hi folks!

Sorry I've been negligent blogger. But, well, a lot has been going on.

The big news: 2 weeks ago we moved. Hooray! Even though our new house is only a few miles away from our old house, it was still a crazy amount of work. Even with the 15 people who helped out from our ward, it was still a huge job. Two weeks into the new place we are figuring out where to put things, but the kids seem to have acclimated now so that's good.

(Tangentially related anecdote: Yesterday my four-year-old and my two-year-old got into a fight about whether or not we could still rightfully call our new house "new". The two-year-old is stubborn and illogical and would probably call it our "new" house forever. The four-year-old is also stubborn but is beginning to grasp a few logical concepts. She figured that since we've been in the house for "like a hundred days" no one was allowed to call it the "new" house any more. Cause "one hundred days is a super long time." The argument was never settled but it seems to indicate that they are all figuring things out in their own way.)

I think I'm feeling more settled too. For the most part, my stress level has gone way down since moving day and the contractions have slowed. The doctor wanted me on bed rest until 37 weeks and I've done my best to only tackle small projects around the house.

The other big news: I'm 37 weeks pregnant! Full term!! Hooray!

Technically I can be done with the bed rest now, but I don't actually want this baby to come quite yet. Taking care of a newborn is waaaay harder than being pregnant and I would like to get a bit more unpacking taken care of before Number Four makes her debut. Besides, we don't even know what we want to name her yet. Doesn't that mean she should wait just a little longer? However, we did find the baby clothes and blankets the other day so that's good.

One more item to catch up on:

*The psychological tweezing. Ever since I posted about this back in January I've been meaning to follow up but at a loss as to how. The most I can say about it now is that it was a harrowing process and left me exhausted. Once we put our house back on the market and things started picking up with the sale of our home and finding a new house the psychological tweezing eased. I had more than enough other stuff to occupy my brain and emotions. (Just as a side note, everyone should have to go house hunting with a pregnant woman. You've never seen emotional ups and downs like the ones I pulled. It made me a very discriminating buyer. *Wink, wink*) Since things have started to settled some of the memories/flashbacks and emotions have started to crop up again, but I've mostly been ignoring it. I don't feel ready to go back to that yet. And, as several of you readers suggested, I would probably benefit from some therapeutic help with the next round. EFT, you know the crazy tapping and muttering that isn't actually crazy, would probably be beneficial and I think that might be a good route to take next. I just don't know when I'll be ready to pursue it.

One more thing to catch up on: Being pregnant with a history of depression.

I really thought that I would spend a lot of time during this pregnancy blogging about being pregnant and depressed. Perinatal depression is real and frustrating and it's a subject that could certainly use more writing and thinking done about it. I had planned on contributing my own two cents to the whole thing, but it just didn't work out that way.

The weird part is that I haven't been as depressed this time. It's been an emotional time for me (duh!) but the emotions haven't been paralyzing like they have in the past. They've been intense and painful but they haven't gotten stuck. I've met with my psychiatrist and my therapist periodically and they both agree that I'm NOT depressed. I'm just dealing with some very, very real emotional stuff.

This really is a blessing, this whole not depressed thing. I kind of don't know what to make of it. When I was pregnant with Baby Number Three, Mr. J, I had such a hard time with anger and with feelings of defeat. But not this time.

I think things might be different this time in part because of the psychological tweezing and in part because of the increased support from family and friends. I've finally let my family in on a little of what's been going on and they have been so supportive. I can feel the powers of their prayers and how hard they are pulling for me. The same goes for friends. I've always struggled to maintain friendships but at this point in my life I have a few people I honestly believe like me and will predictably be there for me--even when I have nothing to offer them--and they will be caring and discreet and respectful about it. That is such a gift. Of course, my therapist and my psychiatrist are part of that support system too. It's always nice to have an objective, experienced individual to offer perspective when you need it.

I think another part of it is that I've quit trying to forecast the future. I used to spend a lot of time worrying about what all of this would mean down the road and trying to control long term outcomes. My therapist likes to remind me that no matter how much I think/worry/obsess about the future I actually have little control over it. I don't think I've mastered that ultimate zen ability of "living in the moment" but I do think my present has finally begun to outweigh my past and my future in importance and that has brought a great amount of relief. It's so much simpler to focus on today and the upcoming week and month rather than years ahead or behind me. I hope it's a way of thinking that I can hold on to.

Thanks for sticking this out with me and for being a part of my journey. I appreciate your comments and insights. This blog is definitely part of the support system that's been buoying me up.

Have a happy week!

I'll definitely post when I go into labor. Okay, well, I'll definitely TRY to post when I go into labor :)

Ch-ch-ch-changes! It's time to Mom Up

So. . . I'm pregnant.

I've been meaning to tell you for awhile, but I keep freaking out. I guess the miscarriage in June made me a little superstitious. I had just told a few friends and then--whammo--spotting, bleeding, sadness, etc. So every time I went to write this post I got nervous and decided to just wait. I told a few people because they asked me point blank or because I felt like I had to explain some bizarre behavior (like suddenly deciding to put my house on the market or getting too woozy and needing to hang out for an hour instead of just picking up my kid from the play date and leaving), but mostly I've just been obsessing about it when I'm on the phone with my sister. And when I can get my husband to sit still and let me whine about my morning sickness.

I'm only 9 weeks along. (Read: My chance for a miscarriage is still around 40%!) I haven't seen my doctor yet. (Read: have not actually confirmed existence of baby. Could be a blighted ovum. Or a chemical pregnancy. Or an, ahem, hysterical pregnancy--isn't that right up my alley!) I'm sick and tired. (Read: those are good signs that this is a viable pregnancy, but they don't really induce me to blog.)

I'm owning up to it now since I hear I was outted at a ward party and because well, this random telling-people-sometimes-thing isn't working for me anymore. This pregnancy has raised a lot of issues for me and I find myself wanting to blog about it but being too afraid of what that would mean. So it's time I man up, or mom up, as the case may be.

I've met with my psychiatrist and per my pregnancy plan, it was time to wean off my medicine. Since I was on the smallest dose available that meant stop taking it. As near as I can tell I haven't suffered any real physical symptoms. Everyone on the internet who takes Cymbalta and then quits complains of "brain zaps." Haven't had any of those. My sweatiness has actually decreased since I quit the medicine and I appreciate that.

As for mood symptoms, well, the jury is still out. Don't get me wrong. I've been moody. Actually, MOODY is probably more appropriate, but there's no real way of knowing if it's the pregnancy or the lack of SNRI or the horrible weather we've been having or what. I feel like my intrusive thoughts are back. . . and that's been a little bothersome. They're mostly pretty quiet, though. Surprising but quiet. Prayer--and music, any music with words--has been helping a lot with those. I've been having trouble sleeping, too. Falling asleep is the hardest thing. My brain just goes nuts when I lay down, spinning out all sorts of disaster scenarios. But I'm working on a mantra to calm it down. I'm kind of scared for what the next eight-ish months hold. Perinatal (and postpartum) depression really is a crapshoot. A lot of the time it feels like there's now way to win. Not taking my medicine is supposedly better for the tummy baby, but not if I'm crazy. But if I'm not really crazy, then being on the medicine is a pretty big gamble.

I've been taking my prenatals and some supplemental fish oil and vitamin B because those two have helped a lot of other depressed people going off their meds. But the vitamin B turns my urine electric lemon yellow (you wanted to know that, right?) and since it's water soluble the recommended dose for depressed people is really high--which doesn't seem safe since there's a bun in the oven. The fish oil is fine going down, but every now and again it gives me fish burps, which don't help with the nausea. And the recommended dose for depressed folk is again very high--which is absolutely NOT SAFE when pregnant because of fish oil's anticoagulant properties. I need to talk with my OB about it, but I don't see her until the end of the month.

So basically I'm a slightly fatter, very moody version of myself who is going sometimes-crazy trying to get her house ready to sell--while mentally crossing my fingers for good luck this time around. I hate being on the wrong end of statistics!

Anyway, I hope you all are in just as exciting places in your lives :) Let's make a deal: I'll keep my fingers crossed for you and you keep my fingers crossed for me and then we can all relax. . . After all, it's time to mom up and do this.

When the Monkey Falls Out of the Tree: inside a psychiatrist's office

On the front of her brochure, my psychiatrist (yes, I actually got one. . . it was a complete fluke; I happened to call right after a patient canceled an appointment so the receptionist stuck me in that slot. Really. And no. The psychiatrist is not covered by my insurance. *Sigh*) was tall-ish and blond-ish and smiling. In living color, she was lanky and gray-haired and frighteningly skinny. She also had glasses that she had to frown to see through. And she had a lot of bookshelves with oversized books about pretty much everything.

I think I liked her. When I think about the $400 I dropped for the two hour intake exam, besides feeling nauseous, I thinkI really like her. Finding a new psychiatrist would tantamount to burning money at this point.

For simplicity's sake I think I'll refer to her as my Personal Female Freud, or the PFF, from here on out.

I was a little nervous going in. The kiddos had swim lessons today and that is always stressful. (Three cold, hungry children plus one mommy multiplied by a germy, slippery locker room equals a gazillion bemused/horrified on-lookers and a lifetime of embarrassment. Someone please remind me of that next summer when I'm signing up for swim lessons.) And we had to run to the library. And my visiting teachers also came today. And the sliding door of our Toyota Sienna got a massive scratch--you can see it from far away--in the rec center parking lot. I was pretty tired and stressed--and late!--by the time I reached my PFF's office.

I sat down on her cushy couch, checked the clock, and immediately began talking--rapid fire style. I quickly listed all the dates of my pregnancies and deliveries along with my medicines and dosages. When she asked for a family history I listed in all the people with mental health issues in generational order, complete with relation to me and treatments received. I began giving her examples of my symptoms (what I am like when I'm raging, what I'm like when I'm truly down, what are my panic attacks like, what types of intrusive thoughts I have and what happens when they get too loud) when she interrupted me.

I was startled. My therapist, who is more of a BFF than a PFF, rarely interrupts me, which is a major reason why I like her. I have a real need to be heard and understood and I don't always get that in my life. So when the PFF cut me off, I was little offended. But then I realized that a PFF is not a therapist. She's an MD. A doctor. A diagnoser and prescription writer. I slowed down and began giving condensed, yet honest, answers. My PFF wanted specific details and a few big picture clarifiers, but not my memoirs.

After a few more history questions, she began getting out her big books and a magnifying glass. The big books were full of such small print that she couldn't read them without one. She opened her Physician's Desk Reference, held her magnifying glass about half an arm's length away, and began reading aloud about my medication and pregnancy and lactation. Here are my notes (which, I feel obligated to point out, don't serve as a substitute for a trip to your own PFF. Seriously. Get your own!):

*Cymbalta is new. As in, only two years old. The previous generation drug, Cymbalta's mommy, was called Effexor. There isn't a ton of research on Cymbalta directly, but there are some conclusions you can draw based on research about the older drug.

*In pregnant rats and rabbits who took 7 to 15 times the human dose of Cymbalta, there were issues. Duh! You could give them 7 to 15 times the human dose of water and they'd have issues. You know, when you consider that animals are spiritual beings too, well, that's really sad that some of them are experimented on that way. I'm grateful to them. I also think I'll have to search out quite a few vermin in the next life and thank/apologize to them. (That last part was my conclusion. Not the PFF's. The Physician's Desk Reference doesn't talk about spirituality. Even though it's so big it will hang off the end of your knees when you put it in your lap and looks like it's the actually the Big Book of Everything.)

*In women who took Cymbalta while pregnant there were some correlated complications, especially for those who too them during the third trimester. The symptoms the newborns exhibited (like an increased startle reflex, difficulty regulating body temperature, and shallow/irregular breathing) were similar to those in adults who were having a serotonin overdose. No one knows if that's what is really going on with the babies, but there is something different about some of them. No long term effects were mentioned. Probably because the drug is too new to know.

Then the fun started. The PFF started running a battery of tests that I believe she called a mental status exam. She asked me common sense questions (What's today's date? Who's the President of the United States?) common knowledge questions (Who was the previous President? And the one before that? And the one before that? And the one before that--at which point I told her I hadn't been born yet, but I was willing to guess. So then she asked me, "What's the capital of Spain?") and some non-sensical questions (What does it mean when someone says, "Even monkeys can fall out of trees?"). Then she had me draw some pictures, copy some shapes and repeat back lists to her. Then came the toughest question I have ever answered: Count backwards from 100 by sevens. I started to sweat. "It won't take as long as you think," the PFF intoned. I began to calculate and fumbled and tittered and lost my place. I shook my head. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, furrowed my brow, counted on my fingers, and managed to get the answer right. Turns out the test, my PFF told me when I was done, was to test my concentration. Apparently a lot of people who have been treated for angry/anxious depression are actually ADD. My counting backwards skills proved I'm not that, but as the PFF pointed out, it sure "Looked like your performance anxiety got to you, huh?" Awesome.

As two hours wound down I was tired--it was draining to focus on my issues for that long--but good conclusions were drawn: in my case, particularly because of my perinatal depression, it's probably best to stay on an antidepressant with my next pregnancy. Cymbalta is not the best choice and it's worth trying to wean off it--slowly--and start a different drug near the end of the pregnancy (probably Prozac. Oy! I've never felt so cliche). Apparently there's some estrogen variant that is produced by the placenta that makes pregnant women feel good and we're hoping that will keep my mood adjusted for the bulk of the pregnancy. I'm supposed to call after a month on the reduced dose and we'll decide how fast to take it from there. If I get preggers before the Cymbalta is out of my system, that's okay. No need to cold turkey. It's only the third tri that appears to be a problem.

Walking out of the office, I felt good. we have a plan I can stick with. And the PFF is another supporting fixture in my life, which feels really good. After all, like I answered about the monkey falling out the tree, "Even when you're doing something that should be natural to you, that you should know how to do, you can still end up on your butt."

Oh, and the icing on the cake: one of my visiting teachers cleaned my house while I was at my appointment. The place was trashed when I left and gleaming when I came home. I cried a little. For real. The Visiting Teaching program is just one reason why I love my church.

By Way of Update (Lessons Learned from Sleepless Nights)

So, if you are readers who also happen to know me in my real life (or you happen to also be a friend on Facebook or you are a family member) then you know that my toddler is going in for surgery on Thursday. J has obstructive sleep apnea caused by enlarged tonsils and adenoids. Since he is too young to have his tonsils removed the surgeon is only pulling out his adenoids but she is hopeful that this will do the trick. J has had sleep problems since he was born and all 21 months of his life have been a test of my endurance. I feel like I have a lot riding on this surgery--you know, like my sanity--and if this doesn't get us all some sleep I'm not sure what we'll do.

Anyway, I bring this up for a couple reasons:

1) to apologize for low quality blogging of late. All the sleepless nights have caught up with me and I feel like I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth (forgive the use of a cliche. I'm tired.). The other day I told my father I was overcome by a tremendous sense of ennui but since reading this post by Patricia Karamesines I have come to realize that what I am feeling is torpor. My blog posts have really been reflecting my torpidity lately, sorry. Several readers have emailed me topics to muse on and I'm excited to get to those soon!

2) to explain the soapbox I'm about to get up on :)

*Warning* Soapbox!! *Warning*

Being awake a lot at night with a cranky baby (who is now a cranky toddler) has given me a lot of time to reflect. I've learned a lot about my patience threshold, the importance of napping (aka cognitive consolidation time), and--this is the most important one--the necessity of listening to your children.

Thanks to my PPD and my young age, I was completely lost with my first baby. Naturally I did what any good college graduate would do and scoured the library for parenting books and read them over and over and over. When I came across confident so-called parenting experts I believed them, regardless of their credentials. This was especially true when it came to sleep.

My oldest, N, was also a terrible sleeper. She would wake up every forty-five minutes at night and cry and cry. I would have to rock her endlessly while singing every Primary song I knew. A lot of the time I cried with her. I was exhausted and miserable and she was moody and anxious. I knew that sleep was part of the issue and, at the recommendation of lots of friends, I tried to "Ferber" her when she was six months old. It was a complete disaster. I remember putting earplugs in and sitting outside the house just to drown out her screams for a few minutes. She would cry for hours and hours. The book, and my friends, were confident that the method would work and that I just needed to give it time and no matter what I shouldn't give up and hold her. After three or four days I did give up and snuggled her to sleep and we resumed our truce of rocking and singing. Now, I don't think that N had acid reflux disease (like J) or sleep apnea (like J--he's a complicated kid!) but I do think that this reaction fits her personality. Because she is naturally anxious and distrustful she needs/needed a lot of reassurance that she would be okay. When she was ten months old she started having nightmares and night terrors. She could talk a bit by then and would tell me about them. When she woke up screaming at night I just went in and snuggled her because I knew that's what she needed. Around the same time she learned to fall asleep on her own. I don't think that's a coincidence.

My second, E, was a relatively good sleeper from the start--she would only wake up two or three times a night. More of an observer than an emoter, it took a lot to get her really wailing but once she started there was no turning back (that's still the truth to this day). I started working on my book about the Holocaust shortly after she was born and I found that it made me grateful for her. Reading and studying about all the women who lost children and who were forcibly sterilized made me cherish her and when she would wake at night I would hold her and love her and she usually settled back to sleep easily. And, on the occasions where I did let her cry, she would fall asleep.

J, is a special case because of all of his conditions (have I mentioned the eczema? Oi! The eczema!), but I had learned a lot from my first two and I was grateful for him. I felt like I could trust my gut a little more. J wouldn't/couldn't lay flat and had a lot of gas. He would startle and wake up screaming. He would flail his arms and scratch his face and rub his feet on any rough surface. He sounded honestly distressed. So he and I co-slept for the first 7 months of his life. I had always said that was something I would NEVER do, but it was the only thing that worked. I would prop myself up on pillows on the couch so I was sitting up and lay him across my chest and he would sleep. We would still pace the floor at night sometimes, but he was calm and I was calm. Once we started treating the acid reflux disease and the eczema he improved a lot and was able to nap. Since the new year we've been figuring out this whole sleep apnea thing and, while I am exhausted, I am so glad that I followed my intuition. And, you know, I'm still willing to hold him and calm him through the bad times because I know that's what he needs.

So here's the gist of my soapbox (in case you couldn't find it in the midst of all my ramblings): Listen to your kids. As children of God they come with an innate wisdom in their spirits. They'll tell you what they need if you stop and try to see things from their point of view and really listen. Throw out all the "experts" or anyone else who touts a one-size-fits-all answer. Each child is unique and will need an individualized approach. Don't be afraid to give them what they need--even if you don't understand why they need it. And never hesitate to be compassionate. Compassion can get you a long way in stressful situations. I think there is a communication between parent and child, something special that comes with that holy bond, your spirit and their spirit can understand each other. As long as you try to listen.

Oh, and if you're still reading, thanks for taking the time! You made my day :)

The Importance of Revisionist History (or, why I scrapbook)

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm what self-help books refer to as a "negative first reactor". (I actually got that term from one of my favorite parenting books, Raising Your Spirited Child, by Mary Kurcinka. I loved it because it talked about how my feelings and attitudes interacted with my kids' feelings and attitudes. Lots of self-insight there!)

"So what is a negative first reactor?" you say. Here's an example: my trip to NYC with my sister Charlotte so we could be on TV. The trip was an absolute surprise and thanks to the way TV works I had no time to think about it or process the whole thing until I was alone in a hotel room staring down at the 1:00 am milieu that is Times Square. I started to shudder and backed away from the window. I frantically phoned Charlotte--our cell phones are more like walky-talkies than anything else--while I lay in the fetal position on the bed. It had all happened so fast and I just kept wondering what I had been thinking.



Charlotte eventually arrived and we spent the night plucking my eyebrows (which always need a good weed whacking) and planning what we were going to say on the show the next day. We woke up early and helped each other get ready. We laughed when we realized we had unintentionally bought matching pants. We giggled when our driver opened our doors for us. We gagged when we realized how much make-up they had put on us. We pulled faces at each other when we thought the cameras weren't on us (they were). After the show, we wandered around Times Square for three hours gawking at all the weirdos (you've heard of the Naked Cowboy, right?) and stopping in all the shops. We ate the famous ice cream and posed with giant toys. The only thing we didn't do was take in a Broadway show (there wasn't time), but I did tap dance on 42nd street :)

When we were saying goodbye at the airport she asked me if I was glad I had come. I couldn't answer her. My first reaction was no. I had hated New York. It was all materialistic and shallow and loud and, well, cement. I swear we didn't see a living plant anywhere. We could barely see the sky above the massive, moving billboards Yuck.




That was in April. Now, fast forward to a few weeks ago. Winkflash was having a deal so I decided to get my pics printed and try to catch up my scrapbook. As I looked through the folder that had our pics from New York I found myself smiling. Then when the pictures arrived in the mail, I found myself laughing. It was such a crazy thing to do! It was great story to tell people! It was fun! I was glad I had gone! As I scrapbooked the pictures, the happy memories grew stronger and the frustrated, scary moments faded.

I've had similar experiences with pictures of my kids. While many of my memories of the months after my first baby was born are frightening, looking at her scrapbook reminds me that not every moment was bad; I wasn't always a screw up. The process of choosing my favorite pictures, handling them, cropping them, gluing them, decorating them has become a celebratory process. It gives me the opportunity to go through my memories and examine them and, well, rewrite them. Leafing through the books with my children reminds me that our family is good family--even if we have problems. My scrapbooks give me back the feelings and experiences that my depression erases.



How do you restore your perspective? What things do you do to help you combat those nagging, ever-present negative impulses?

Dads feel it too!

I got home tonight from a temple recommend interview and pulled out my brand new U.S. News and World Report. As I flipped through the headlines I came across one that said, Postpartum Depression Strikes New Dads as Well as Moms.

Well, color me surprised!

Here's the lowdown: About 14% of new moms suffer from postpartum depression. Symptoms include, but are not limited to,(doesn't that make me sound professional!) sadness, irritability, changes in weight or sleep patterns and an inability to bond with child. Postpartum depression in women has far reaching effects beyond just the mother's happiness (which is important in and of itself). Children of depressed mothers have more health problems and learning problems, and are at a greater risk for developing a mood disorder.

This is what we knew before, what is new is how men fit the profile: Approximately 10% of new fathers will suffer from PPD (well, not exactly PPD because they weren't pregnant but depression that occurs as a result of a new baby). Their symptoms are almost identical to women except that the increased sadness and irritability lead to destructive behaviors--like drug abuse, reckless driving, and promiscuity--that depressed women don't usually engage in. Depression in fathers also effects children in major ways. Children of depressed fathers get read to less often and have slower language development. Also, the children are more likely to act out destructively.

The causes for men are not as easy to pin down as they are for women. With us chicks it's supposed to be the hormones, but with men it may be that the prospect of caring for a child puts them over the edge or they struggle with the changes in their marriage.

No matter what the cause, the good news is that PPD is highly treatable. As we all have accepted by now (you have, right?) a little therapy never hurt anyone--at least not in the long run :)

For more on this issue read here and be sure to check out this awesome website PostpartumMen.com.

What do you all think? I was dubious at first but the more I thought about it the more sense it made. Have you or anyone you know struggled with this?

All weaning! All the time!

I'm feeling blue today. I'm hoping I'll pull out of it in a little bit. My kids have only been awake for 45 minutes and I've already turned the TV on. Maybe blogging it out will help.

My baby weaned himself last week, cold turkey--which is also known as the "Ow ow ow ow OW! Method". I was really surprised. Last Wednesday he woke up from his afternoon nap and instead of snuggling up and gazing at me with dreamy eyes, he pushed and writhed and bit me. When he drew blood I gave up. I figured he wasn't hungry and I'd try again later. Well, even at his usual nighttime feedings he still refused. He'd wake up but he wouldn't nurse. After he drew blood three or four times and emphatically told me "All done!" (his only words besides Mama and Dada) I gave up. Actually, I said, "You bet you're done. As in FOREVER!" I was little peeved.

Since last Wednesday I've pretty much been talking and thinking about it nonstop. (All weaning! All the time! Sorry friends!)My OB is pretty convinced that the nursing hormones have something to do with my PPD. Which is one reason I'm supposed to stay on my antidepressant for the whole first year of my baby's life. We are waiting for my milk to dry up and my menses to return so that the antidepressant can smooth out those hormonal transitions since I take them so hard. I wondered what abrupt weaning was going to do to my hormones, so I googled it. There seems to be a consensus. Even Dr. Sears says abrupt weaning can cause depressives episodes.

Most doctors/researchers seem to believe that it is the sudden drop in oxytocin levels that brings on sadness when weaning. Oxytocin, which plays a role in bonding and feelings of love (think of that glow after sex), contributes to overall wellbeing and is familiar to most people. Interestingly enough, though, there is another hormone that that has do with nursing and depression. Prolactin is the hormone that regulates milk production. It is the hormone that makes a pregnant woman's breasts grow (it enlarges her mammary glands) and it is the hormone that produces the milk after the baby is born. The thing that is surprising about prolactin is that it inhibits dopamine production--an important "happy hormone" in the brain. It would seem that pregnant and lactating women swap one kind of happy hormone for another. The other thing that struck me as I read about prolactin was that antidepressants slight raise prolactin levels in the body, ostensibly lowering levels of dopamine. Anyway, I don't have any real conclusions to draw from all this. I'm not a doctor or psychiatrist (I know you all are surprised by that admission.), but it has convinced me that what is going on in my body is complicated so it's okay to give myself a break. If the kids watch a little extra TV, well, at least it PBSkids so it's "educational", right? TV is definitely preferable to me yelling at them.

I think the other reason I'm taking this so hard, besides the pain and the mess (yesterday was the first day since Wednesday that I didn't have to change my shirt due to milk leakage), is that I'm feeling pretty rejected. I know Number 3 didn't mean it that way. He is almost a year old so this was to be expected, but I just feel like he was telling me he didn't need me anymore or that I wasn't meeting his needs well enough. I sort of feel like I failed. Now, cognitively I know that those things aren't true but it is how I feel. It's just hard to see him giving those loving looks to a sippy cup instead of me. Oh well, at least he still likes to cuddle when I put him down for sleep.

Things just change so fast these days. A lot of the time I feel like I can't keep up with it. Every time I get a handle on where my kids are and what they need, they change. Sometimes I doubt my ability to adapt. It just takes so much energy! The truth of motherhood, though, is that the work never stops. Regardless of my abilities I have to keep trying because there is no other choice. It doesn't matter how many times I fail (or succeed) new opportunities constantly present themselves. I think it was Yoda who said, "There is no try. Only do." (My hubby is fond of that one.) Or as God said, "Unto whom much is given, much is required" (D&C 82:3). Use the force, Laura!

If I Could

A friend of mine is in the RS presidency out here and had the opportunity (if you can call it that) to visit a meth addicted baby in the hospital. Having four of her own children, one just a few months old, she was shattered by the sight of a strung out, five pound, eight week old infant. He's still in the hospital because they are still trying to wean him off the drugs. His mother has lost all rights to the child. She never even saw him. I didn't see the baby either, but he has been in my heart and prayers all day. As my friend told me about him my first thought was, "I'd adopt him! I can be his mother! I can fix this!" But, really, I can't. Even if I could adopt this baby (the baby's father and his extended family are there every minute in the hospital, on rotating shifts, so he won't be alone. The baby really doesn't need me), it wouldn't fix everything. Only Jesus and His infinite love can make it right. Anyway, this is what I've been pondering and, as usually happens with my pondering, I wrote a poem.

IF I COULD (a poem for a meth-addicted baby)

If I could,
The first thing I would do is feed you.
I’d lift your thin and shaking body and hold it to my skin.
I’d let my breath wash over you and to the thrumming of my heart
I’d cradle you against my breast, nourish you with warmth
Inside and out.

Then, if I could,
I’d look into your steely eyes,
I'd run my fingers through your downy hair,
I’d caress your cheeks, your toes, your impossibly tiny hands—
I’d hold them in my own.
I’d smell you and kiss you.
I’d revel in your newness and eternity.

If I could,
I would turn back all the minutes and months that are your life
and make them mine.
I’d be your mother and take you inside me.
I’d make you, protect you, start you all new.

If I could
I would be everything to you.

But I’m not and I can’t. I’m
a witness, a spectator, a bystander—
Outside your spirit,
Outside your body,
Outside your bassinette—
Your life, sterile, unmingled, is your own.
This is your struggle and I’m on the outside
Praying Something will make a difference,
Praying Someone will find a way in.


(this poem is copyrighted by me)