If it could be said that I had a rough period during my first pregnancy, it was the first trimester. I was so queasy that the only thing I could eat for three months was cheese and crackers. (Christmas fell during this time, and I was crushed to not be able to take part in the festive gorging.) I also got sick -- twice -- in that magical window during which you're not even allowed to take a Tylenol without physician approval. What's worse is I could only complain to people in my inner circle; I could not complain to the world at large, because the world at large did not yet know I was pregnant. I never realized how much comfort we derive from bitching about our little problems, but it really does help. (Or maybe I'm just not one to suffer in silence.)
Oh, I won't say I didn't have rough times after the first trimester. But other than my third trimester coinciding with a particularly brutal summer, it wasn't that bad. I didn't really understand why everyone kept talking to me like I was in agony. I was hot, and in a fair amount of discomfort in the final two weeks, but otherwise I felt fine. Great, in fact. For someone lugging around another human being in her abdomen, bloody fantastic.
Now it's all starting to make sense.
Some of my current suffering is my own fault. I was in far better physical shape last time around. I underestimated the importance of tight abs and strong thighs on the third-trimester belly. My entire pelvis aches every second of every day. Nothing alleviates the pain. It's like Musak.
I'm also bigger than I was last time, because I thought it might increase my odds of a successful pregnancy if I weren't underweight when I got pregnant. And I do think it helped me get and stay pregnant, so I do not regret the decision. But being 10 lbs bigger when I got pregnant has led to me being 10 lbs bigger throughout my pregnancy, pretty much. Which means I am currently the biggest I have ever been, and just keep getting bigger. My body is in shock. As is my brain; I keep running into things with my belly, because I just can't wrap my mind around how big I really am. I'm dangerously close to requiring assistance with putting on shoes.
I'm also tired. So very tired. Not as tired as I will be when the baby is born, true. But still friggin' exhausted. Because I don't sleep. All day long, I could pretty much fall asleep standing up. I can't stay that way, because I'm having crazy pregnant-lady nightmares, but I have no trouble getting to sleep. At night, though...that's another story.
I was up until 1:30-2:00 last night. Not because I wasn't tired. No, I itched. Despite the fact that I'd coated my entire body in lotion after my shower, I itched. Like I had bedbugs or something. Because I was too moisturized. Areas like the tops of my thighs, which apparently are less dry than my shins, would stick together and itch. Finally, I got up and put on yoga pants. Which just shifted the itching from my thighs to my belly, where the dreaded maternity panel sits. I could feel every hair on my abdomen. They all itched.
I folded the panel down. Which compressed my lower belly, making the baby squirm. It hurts when he does that, because quarters are cramped. The pain triggered contractions, which made my lower back join my pelvis in throbbing.
It also made me have to pee. About 5 times in 20 minutes. When I returned to bed the last time, my daughter rolled over in her sleep and put her feet on my thighs. Which made them itch all over again.
I rolled over. The baby rolled over. My daughter put her feet in my lower back. And the cycle began anew.
And then there's the heartburn. I ate dinner -- bland mac-n-cheese and peas -- at 2:30 in the afternoon. I ate nothing after that, and drank nothing but water and peppermint tea. Eight Tums could not put out the fire. I have to sleep sitting nearly bolt upright these days.
When I finally got to sleep, I had crazy dreams all night long. I dealt with them, because I was too tired to wake up. After what felt like 5 minutes, my alarm went off.
I'd have hit snooze, but I had to pee.
I've stopped itching, at least.
Seven more weeks of this. Yowza.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
The best-laid plans
I am a plan junkie. I've had a plan as far back as I can remember. (Which, considering I have fragments of memory reaching as far back as my first birthday, is a ridiculously long time). For many of the intervening years, I've been unable to sleep if I didn't have the next 5 or so years of my life mapped out. Pathetic, but true.
However, there is something to be said for not having a plan -- for just jumping in. That's how I finally managed to quit smoking, after a couple of decades and dozens of well-plotted attempts. I ran out of cigarettes one day and just didn't buy any more. Didn't talk about it much, either -- obviously my family noticed right away, but I didn't make any grand announcements or anything. (In fact, there are people who may not yet know I quit. I don't get out much these days.)
Being who I am, doing anything without a plan is...well, freakin' scary. I don't go to the store without a plan -- what time and day I'll go, which route I'll take, what I'm buying, what I'm putting off until later. In my current gestational state, I also plan which clothes to wear (comfy shoes, pants with back pockets for my phone that I can keep up with a minimum of fuss even after squatting down to get stuff off the bottom shelves, a shirt that covers my belly, possibly a light jacket if my list contains much from the refrigerated/frozen section). Ms. Spontaneity I am not.
But I am also a firm believer in recognizing when my efforts are failing and trying a new approach, and there are some things in life for which a plan just doesn't work. Like quitting smoking. I'd tried the plan approach before. I wrote out a list of reasons to quit -- all valid, meaningful reasons to me. I replaced my cigarettes with this or that nicotine replacement method. I had an arsenal of distraction techniques and a support system at the ready. I announced to the world that I was quitting. And suddenly, my life became all about smoking. Everyone asked me about it, every day. Every night, I dreamed about it. How could I miss it if it didn't go away?
What worked was just jumping in. I had nicotine gum on hand already, from my last quit attempt. So when my partner announced one day, out of the blue, that he was quitting, I called his bluff. Smoked my last cigarette, didn't buy more. He later tried to bum one off me, but of course I had none to give. We were stuck.
But I muddled through. It took me more than the allotted 12 weeks to kick the gum, but I did it within 6 months. I can't say I never had another cigarette after that day; I did. It was awful. Tasted like dish soap, for some reason. So even though I still occasional miss smoking (mentally, not physically; the physical part is really absurdly easy to kick), I work around those moments as they come. I don't call attention to them or make a big deal of them. I can't even tell you how long it's been since I quit, as I noted neither the day nor the year. A while. The point is, I don't smoke now, and I never will again. I couldn't ever say that before, but I can now.
So. Plans are not the end-all, be-all. Sometimes, plans are just crutches. Knowing that won't stop me from clinging to them, but perhaps my experience with unplanned success will help me loosen up. Just a little.
However, there is something to be said for not having a plan -- for just jumping in. That's how I finally managed to quit smoking, after a couple of decades and dozens of well-plotted attempts. I ran out of cigarettes one day and just didn't buy any more. Didn't talk about it much, either -- obviously my family noticed right away, but I didn't make any grand announcements or anything. (In fact, there are people who may not yet know I quit. I don't get out much these days.)
Being who I am, doing anything without a plan is...well, freakin' scary. I don't go to the store without a plan -- what time and day I'll go, which route I'll take, what I'm buying, what I'm putting off until later. In my current gestational state, I also plan which clothes to wear (comfy shoes, pants with back pockets for my phone that I can keep up with a minimum of fuss even after squatting down to get stuff off the bottom shelves, a shirt that covers my belly, possibly a light jacket if my list contains much from the refrigerated/frozen section). Ms. Spontaneity I am not.
But I am also a firm believer in recognizing when my efforts are failing and trying a new approach, and there are some things in life for which a plan just doesn't work. Like quitting smoking. I'd tried the plan approach before. I wrote out a list of reasons to quit -- all valid, meaningful reasons to me. I replaced my cigarettes with this or that nicotine replacement method. I had an arsenal of distraction techniques and a support system at the ready. I announced to the world that I was quitting. And suddenly, my life became all about smoking. Everyone asked me about it, every day. Every night, I dreamed about it. How could I miss it if it didn't go away?
What worked was just jumping in. I had nicotine gum on hand already, from my last quit attempt. So when my partner announced one day, out of the blue, that he was quitting, I called his bluff. Smoked my last cigarette, didn't buy more. He later tried to bum one off me, but of course I had none to give. We were stuck.
But I muddled through. It took me more than the allotted 12 weeks to kick the gum, but I did it within 6 months. I can't say I never had another cigarette after that day; I did. It was awful. Tasted like dish soap, for some reason. So even though I still occasional miss smoking (mentally, not physically; the physical part is really absurdly easy to kick), I work around those moments as they come. I don't call attention to them or make a big deal of them. I can't even tell you how long it's been since I quit, as I noted neither the day nor the year. A while. The point is, I don't smoke now, and I never will again. I couldn't ever say that before, but I can now.
So. Plans are not the end-all, be-all. Sometimes, plans are just crutches. Knowing that won't stop me from clinging to them, but perhaps my experience with unplanned success will help me loosen up. Just a little.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Random thought
My belly button, after disappearing for a matter of weeks, is slowly reversing polarity due to the increasing size of the passenger in my abdomen. Am I really supposed to care who won the Oscars or the Emmys or the Yummys or whatever the heck awards show my various social media feeds are yammering on about this morning? 'Cause I just don't have it in me today.
Sorry for the brief post. Four hours of sleep. Spent $80 and several hours yesterday learning that my daughter's lingering sinus infection was caused by her shoving a battery up her nose. Two weeks ago. Yet another reason why I am failing to give a crap about whose ugly dress was uglier.
Sorry for the brief post. Four hours of sleep. Spent $80 and several hours yesterday learning that my daughter's lingering sinus infection was caused by her shoving a battery up her nose. Two weeks ago. Yet another reason why I am failing to give a crap about whose ugly dress was uglier.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Stuff
If it can be said that I have a new year's resolution, it's that I'm going to deal with all this stuff.
Several years ago, after a breakup, I undertook what I now think of as The Great Purging. It started, oddly enough, with the absence of stuff. When he left, he left all of these little holes. Holes in the bookcases where his books had been. Holes in the closet, the CD rack, the DVD collection. Day after day, these holes mocked me. They were the physical embodiment of how I felt: Incomplete. Discarded.
One day, I decided to at least fill the holes in the shelves. Filling the holes in myself would take more time, but it was really kind of pathetic to come home and stare at half a household. So I went about unstuffing, spreading, rearranging my stuff to fill the extra space.
It felt good. He'd had a lot of stuff. Especially for someone who had spent the past several years living in a dorm room. Really, just an unbelievable amount of stuff. What he moved into my apartment wasn't even all of it -- the rest was in storage back in his hometown. This was just the stuff he couldn't live without. I had to get rid of a bunch of my stuff to make room for his. At the time, I kind of resented it; what made his stuff better than mine? But he talked me into it, and I told myself he was right, that I didn't use the stuff and wouldn't miss it.
As I spread my now-reduced stuff across shelves and drawers, I realized he was right. I didn't miss that stuff. And it was really kind of cool to have all this extra space for my remaining stuff. I could organize it -- I mean truly, fussily, "only things belonging to the category of XYZ will go in this drawer" OCD levels of organization. I sorted my underwear by color.
This took up a fair amount of my empty hours. And in those hours, I knew peace once more. I had a purpose. But eventually I finished. I looked around my now-organized stuff and thought "Now what?"
And realized that, while it was nice, it could be better. Cleaner. Simpler. More photogenic.
So it began.
In the effort to streamline my possessions, to perfect my organization, I called into question the usefulness of every object I owned. Nothing was safe. I got rid of my shower mat, which I enjoyed standing on but hated washing; every few weeks the washer would chew it up, necessitating the purchase of a new mat. So I tossed it. And realized I didn't even miss it. In fact, not having one was nicer; it simplified cleaning the tub, which brought me more joy than standing on a foam cushion while I washed my hair.
Inspired, I tried showering without putting down the bathroom rug first. Turns out that does serve a purpose; upon exiting the shower, I nearly did the splits. The rug returned to its rightful place.
My clothes. I had two closets full of clothes, but wore the same 5-7 outfits week in and week out. So I went through my wardrobe with a ruthless eye; everything that didn't make me feel gorgeous went into a bag for Goodwill. Socks, underwear, and bras were streamlined to neutral colors only; I tossed the worn and donated the merely colorful. Shoes were subjected to the same scrutiny. When I was finished, I could fit my entire wardrobe, summer and winter, into one closet. With space to spare. It was lovely; for the first time, I could easily locate every article of clothing I owned. Hangers slid freely, and clothing hung straight -- no wrinkles. For the first time in my life, I was the kind of woman whose bra and underwear matched every single day. It was oddly transformative.
My books. My books were sacred. I had four 5-shelf bookcases and two 3-shelf bookcases crammed to the gills with books -- many shelves were not merely double stacked, but quadruple stacked. (I read, okay?) I never, ever got rid of a book. But to be fair, I do reread books -- quite frequently, in fact. Still...did I reread all of them? Did I even like all of them? I reviewed my collection critically, and began bagging up the books I didn't enjoy. Then the ones I'd enjoyed once, but would never reread. The college textbooks I'd not touched in ten years. The duplicate Norton anthologies (my ex-husband was also an English major, and for some reason I'd ended up with his Nortons). The books I'd outgrown. When I was finished weeding, I was able to get rid of one of the 5-shelf bookcases; the rest held but a single row of books apiece.
I spent an emotional weekend going through the detritus of my teenage years. For reasons I can't explain, I'd held on to every greeting card, every note, every photo I'd ever taken or been given. I didn't recognize the names or faces on most of them. Out they went. Along with mementos like the ponytail one boyfriend cut off before joining the Army reserves. (A boyfriend I had dumped -- not the other way around. Yeah. I kept his hair. Why? Got me.) And what seemed like every cigarette lighter I'd ever had in high school. I filled two trash bags with the stuff I threw out. The lawn and garden kind.
Months passed, and finally I had my space just as I wanted it. In that time, I'd not only healed, I'd moved on. Met the man I'd end up committing to for the long haul. We fell in love, moved in together, had a baby, upgraded to a bigger place. (Not as quickly as I just made it sound. We're nearing the 10-year mark here.) And slowly but steadily started accumulating more stuff.
We've been in this house for three and a half years. When we moved in, we barely had enough stuff to fill the space; the apartment we left behind was about half the size of this house. But somehow, broke as we are, we've managed to fill it to overflowing. And since upgrading to a bigger place isn't an option right now, it's time to purge again.
Some of it will come easily, in time. Once our son outgrows the baby things, they will be sold or donated; we don't plan on having another child after this. My wardrobe, which now covers a range of sizes, situations, and pregnancy statuses, can be overhauled once I regain my prepregnancy figure. In a few years, we will be rid of the army of plasticware that has taken over our cabinets and can buy new grown-up dishes once again. And so on.
But for now, I'm drowning in stuff. Again. And am eager to rectify the situation, to whatever degree I can.
Several years ago, after a breakup, I undertook what I now think of as The Great Purging. It started, oddly enough, with the absence of stuff. When he left, he left all of these little holes. Holes in the bookcases where his books had been. Holes in the closet, the CD rack, the DVD collection. Day after day, these holes mocked me. They were the physical embodiment of how I felt: Incomplete. Discarded.
One day, I decided to at least fill the holes in the shelves. Filling the holes in myself would take more time, but it was really kind of pathetic to come home and stare at half a household. So I went about unstuffing, spreading, rearranging my stuff to fill the extra space.
It felt good. He'd had a lot of stuff. Especially for someone who had spent the past several years living in a dorm room. Really, just an unbelievable amount of stuff. What he moved into my apartment wasn't even all of it -- the rest was in storage back in his hometown. This was just the stuff he couldn't live without. I had to get rid of a bunch of my stuff to make room for his. At the time, I kind of resented it; what made his stuff better than mine? But he talked me into it, and I told myself he was right, that I didn't use the stuff and wouldn't miss it.
As I spread my now-reduced stuff across shelves and drawers, I realized he was right. I didn't miss that stuff. And it was really kind of cool to have all this extra space for my remaining stuff. I could organize it -- I mean truly, fussily, "only things belonging to the category of XYZ will go in this drawer" OCD levels of organization. I sorted my underwear by color.
This took up a fair amount of my empty hours. And in those hours, I knew peace once more. I had a purpose. But eventually I finished. I looked around my now-organized stuff and thought "Now what?"
And realized that, while it was nice, it could be better. Cleaner. Simpler. More photogenic.
So it began.
In the effort to streamline my possessions, to perfect my organization, I called into question the usefulness of every object I owned. Nothing was safe. I got rid of my shower mat, which I enjoyed standing on but hated washing; every few weeks the washer would chew it up, necessitating the purchase of a new mat. So I tossed it. And realized I didn't even miss it. In fact, not having one was nicer; it simplified cleaning the tub, which brought me more joy than standing on a foam cushion while I washed my hair.
Inspired, I tried showering without putting down the bathroom rug first. Turns out that does serve a purpose; upon exiting the shower, I nearly did the splits. The rug returned to its rightful place.
My clothes. I had two closets full of clothes, but wore the same 5-7 outfits week in and week out. So I went through my wardrobe with a ruthless eye; everything that didn't make me feel gorgeous went into a bag for Goodwill. Socks, underwear, and bras were streamlined to neutral colors only; I tossed the worn and donated the merely colorful. Shoes were subjected to the same scrutiny. When I was finished, I could fit my entire wardrobe, summer and winter, into one closet. With space to spare. It was lovely; for the first time, I could easily locate every article of clothing I owned. Hangers slid freely, and clothing hung straight -- no wrinkles. For the first time in my life, I was the kind of woman whose bra and underwear matched every single day. It was oddly transformative.
My books. My books were sacred. I had four 5-shelf bookcases and two 3-shelf bookcases crammed to the gills with books -- many shelves were not merely double stacked, but quadruple stacked. (I read, okay?) I never, ever got rid of a book. But to be fair, I do reread books -- quite frequently, in fact. Still...did I reread all of them? Did I even like all of them? I reviewed my collection critically, and began bagging up the books I didn't enjoy. Then the ones I'd enjoyed once, but would never reread. The college textbooks I'd not touched in ten years. The duplicate Norton anthologies (my ex-husband was also an English major, and for some reason I'd ended up with his Nortons). The books I'd outgrown. When I was finished weeding, I was able to get rid of one of the 5-shelf bookcases; the rest held but a single row of books apiece.
I spent an emotional weekend going through the detritus of my teenage years. For reasons I can't explain, I'd held on to every greeting card, every note, every photo I'd ever taken or been given. I didn't recognize the names or faces on most of them. Out they went. Along with mementos like the ponytail one boyfriend cut off before joining the Army reserves. (A boyfriend I had dumped -- not the other way around. Yeah. I kept his hair. Why? Got me.) And what seemed like every cigarette lighter I'd ever had in high school. I filled two trash bags with the stuff I threw out. The lawn and garden kind.
Months passed, and finally I had my space just as I wanted it. In that time, I'd not only healed, I'd moved on. Met the man I'd end up committing to for the long haul. We fell in love, moved in together, had a baby, upgraded to a bigger place. (Not as quickly as I just made it sound. We're nearing the 10-year mark here.) And slowly but steadily started accumulating more stuff.
We've been in this house for three and a half years. When we moved in, we barely had enough stuff to fill the space; the apartment we left behind was about half the size of this house. But somehow, broke as we are, we've managed to fill it to overflowing. And since upgrading to a bigger place isn't an option right now, it's time to purge again.
Some of it will come easily, in time. Once our son outgrows the baby things, they will be sold or donated; we don't plan on having another child after this. My wardrobe, which now covers a range of sizes, situations, and pregnancy statuses, can be overhauled once I regain my prepregnancy figure. In a few years, we will be rid of the army of plasticware that has taken over our cabinets and can buy new grown-up dishes once again. And so on.
But for now, I'm drowning in stuff. Again. And am eager to rectify the situation, to whatever degree I can.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
The phases of motherhood
Just read another blog article about motherhood. (Link if you're interested. It's cute.) I could kind of relate to it, but not really. Because I no longer am a new mom of a newborn; motherhood changes after the first year. Instead, what it brought up for me is how very different life is pre-baby, post-baby, and once the new-baby smell wears off.
(Why doesn't that smell last longer? It's one of the best parts of the newborn phase. Now my kid smells like whatever she ate last, plus the things that are sticking to the residue of whatever she ate last.)
Pre-baby, my life was pretty chill. I stayed up too late, dragged myself into work, dragged myself home, and spent hours doing things like cooking and working out and watching Netflix and reading books. I had time to be bored. My house was always clean. I ate well-rounded, nutritious meals on a regular basis. I had a closet full of nice clothes, none of which had stains. I did not lead the single life most mommy bloggers I've read describe; I'm more of a homebody, and I've never had much of what you'd call a social life. I didn't realize I had much of a life at all, to be honest, until it was gone.
Post-baby was chaotic. Post-baby is, I imagine, always chaotic, but less than two weeks after giving birth by surprise c-section, we moved an hour away to be closer (next door) to my parents. Roughly six months after giving birth, I ditched my office gig (which now came with an hour commute) to work from home part time, making up the rest with freelancing gigs while my partner tried to find a job out in the boonies (where we now live). The first year of my daughter's life is thus a blur of stress, pain, financial hardship, and indescribable joy. Also desperation, both quiet and not. The highest highs, the lowest lows...all the cliches. You learn who you really are in times like that. (I'm not always a nice person, but I get things done.)
After the first year, things settled down somewhat. Slightly lower levels of stress, pain, and financial hardship. But the joy is still there, so they seem even lower yet. With each passing year, I prove that I can indeed keep this child alive, so I relax a little more. (I don't even bat an eye when she rubs the stall door in a public restroom anymore - just wipe her hand with a wet wipe and keep going.)
Still, it's amazing the impact one little person has had on my life.
Pre-baby: I read books -- at least one a week. Sometimes two or three at once. When the urge struck, I reread old favorites.
Post-baby: I squeezed in a book here and there, but had to be very careful about the subject matter; Sarah's Key had me sobbing for 6 hours into my baby's sparse hair. I started rereading books I knew did not depict sick, injured, or dying babies to keep myself from reading anything emotionally distressing. Mostly, though, I was too tired to drag my eyes across a page. I watched a lot of reruns.
Now: I occasionally get to read a book. My kid peels book covers like some kids peel wings off flies, though, so mostly I read on my phone. Still, my reading time comes in short jags, so I read more blog articles than books. I miss books.
Pre: I kept up with current events through office scuttlebutt.
Post: I have no idea what happened in the world for the first year of my child's life.
Now: I keep up with the world through Facebook and Twitter.
Pre: Outside my social circle, I wasn't much of a talker; I could go all day without saying a word, and often did. My social media use was me ranting about work. I had a few close friends I kept up with regularly.
Post: I'd talk to whoever would listen about my baby. Including my baby, once the postpartum loneliness set it. My social media use was me posting pictures of my baby. I kept up with friends sporadically through email and text. We mostly talked about my baby.
Now: The only time I get to be silent is while I work. Aside from the internet, all of my conversations are with people to whom I am related. My social media use is almost exclusively pictures of and cute stories about my kid. I keep up with friends through Facebook, where we like, and occasionally comment on, each others' pictures.
Pre: I tried, and failed, to blog -- I just didn't have much to say.
Post: I was too sleep deprived to blog.
Now: I'm reattempting blogging so I have somewhere to put my thoughts, because I no longer have time for philosophical conversations with friends and my family is tired of being my only sounding board.
Pre: I did not own enough jeans to pack for a week's vacation. I made up the difference with dresses and cute skirts. I wore yoga pants to do yoga, and occasionally to sleep in.
Post: I lost the baby weight quickly, but was stuck in yoga pants for months thanks to post-operative pain. After returning to work, I tried to wear only things that hid spit-up well. (The stain, not the smell. Nothing hides the smell.) Skirts and dresses were out because wearing them requires shaving, and shaving while sleep-deprived is inadvisable.
Now: I wear mostly yoga pants, hoodies, and sneakers; jeans are dress clothes. My main criteria when shopping for clothes are that they hide stains (now stains usually come with food coloring, so I wear a lot of black) and be easy to run in. Wearing skirts is still out because it's too hard to keep from showing the world your underwear while wrestling a flailing toddler from the supermarket floor.
Pre: Sneakers lasted for years, because I wore mostly heels. Even shopping.
Post: Sneakers became my shoe of choice because I was too afraid to carry the baby while wearing heels; what if I tripped?
Now: I'm lucky if sneakers last a year. I'm considering a second pair just for working out, so I'll have a "nice" pair. I have trouble walking in heels. Hell, I have trouble walking in flats.
Pre: My purse was pretty much a wallet on a string. In it were my wallet, cell phone, keys, and lipstick.
Post: My purse was a backpack; when the straps on that broke (within the first year!), I switched to a weekender tote bag. In it was a disaster survival kit, with gear to deal with any problem that could possibly arise with a newborn. Plus enough formula, diapers, and changes of clothing to last several days in the wild. Yet almost every time we left the house, we encountered a situation for which I was totally unprepared. (My stuff could still fit in a clutch purse.)
Now: I am relishing my post-potty-training freedom by once again carrying a tiny purse. In it are my wallet, cell phone, keys, lipstick, plus little toys, crayons, and toddler snacks.
Pre: I pursued hobbies to pass the time.
Post: Hobbies? I was lucky to shower twice a week.
Now: I pursue hobbies so I can occasionally talk about something that is not my kid.
Pre: I planned menus two weeks in advance, carefully read labels in the grocery store, and cooked everything from scratch. I made my own peanut butter.
Post: I ate only things you could eat one-handed. Once I even tried my daughter's formula. It was awful.
Now: I save recipes on Pinterest that I will never fix. My daughter is happier with steamed veggies and mac and cheese anyway. I eat a lot of granola bars. Store-bought ones.
Pre: I wore makeup on special occasions.
Post: I wore makeup when I left the house, because I wanted to feel like an attractive human being on occasion.
Now: I wear makeup for the sunscreen, and because it makes my daughter happy.
Pre: I went for long drives when I was upset, needed time to think, or just to try out a new CD.
Post: Commuting was my only alone time.
Now: I am not allowed to go anywhere alone. If I want to listen to music, I take a walk. At 4 a.m., while everyone else is sound asleep.
Pre: I pictured parenthood feeling like a stronger version of what I felt holding other people's babies, because that baby would be mine. I couldn't imagine ever wanting someone else to hold my baby.
Post: What I felt towards my baby involved more panic and exhaustion than I anticipated. I gladly asked other people to hold her so I could do things like pee, shower, and sleep.
Now: I would throw anyone, up to and including her father, under a bus if it meant ensuring my child's health and well-being. I hold her as often as she'll let me, dreading the day when she no longer wants me to.
I have no illusions that adding a second child to the mix won't change things; I imagine some day I will reread this post and laugh at what I thought was chaotic. Still, this is quite an impressive impact for someone who's barely over 3 feet tall.
(Why doesn't that smell last longer? It's one of the best parts of the newborn phase. Now my kid smells like whatever she ate last, plus the things that are sticking to the residue of whatever she ate last.)
Pre-baby, my life was pretty chill. I stayed up too late, dragged myself into work, dragged myself home, and spent hours doing things like cooking and working out and watching Netflix and reading books. I had time to be bored. My house was always clean. I ate well-rounded, nutritious meals on a regular basis. I had a closet full of nice clothes, none of which had stains. I did not lead the single life most mommy bloggers I've read describe; I'm more of a homebody, and I've never had much of what you'd call a social life. I didn't realize I had much of a life at all, to be honest, until it was gone.
Post-baby was chaotic. Post-baby is, I imagine, always chaotic, but less than two weeks after giving birth by surprise c-section, we moved an hour away to be closer (next door) to my parents. Roughly six months after giving birth, I ditched my office gig (which now came with an hour commute) to work from home part time, making up the rest with freelancing gigs while my partner tried to find a job out in the boonies (where we now live). The first year of my daughter's life is thus a blur of stress, pain, financial hardship, and indescribable joy. Also desperation, both quiet and not. The highest highs, the lowest lows...all the cliches. You learn who you really are in times like that. (I'm not always a nice person, but I get things done.)
After the first year, things settled down somewhat. Slightly lower levels of stress, pain, and financial hardship. But the joy is still there, so they seem even lower yet. With each passing year, I prove that I can indeed keep this child alive, so I relax a little more. (I don't even bat an eye when she rubs the stall door in a public restroom anymore - just wipe her hand with a wet wipe and keep going.)
Still, it's amazing the impact one little person has had on my life.
Pre-baby: I read books -- at least one a week. Sometimes two or three at once. When the urge struck, I reread old favorites.
Post-baby: I squeezed in a book here and there, but had to be very careful about the subject matter; Sarah's Key had me sobbing for 6 hours into my baby's sparse hair. I started rereading books I knew did not depict sick, injured, or dying babies to keep myself from reading anything emotionally distressing. Mostly, though, I was too tired to drag my eyes across a page. I watched a lot of reruns.
Now: I occasionally get to read a book. My kid peels book covers like some kids peel wings off flies, though, so mostly I read on my phone. Still, my reading time comes in short jags, so I read more blog articles than books. I miss books.
Pre: I kept up with current events through office scuttlebutt.
Post: I have no idea what happened in the world for the first year of my child's life.
Now: I keep up with the world through Facebook and Twitter.
Pre: Outside my social circle, I wasn't much of a talker; I could go all day without saying a word, and often did. My social media use was me ranting about work. I had a few close friends I kept up with regularly.
Post: I'd talk to whoever would listen about my baby. Including my baby, once the postpartum loneliness set it. My social media use was me posting pictures of my baby. I kept up with friends sporadically through email and text. We mostly talked about my baby.
Now: The only time I get to be silent is while I work. Aside from the internet, all of my conversations are with people to whom I am related. My social media use is almost exclusively pictures of and cute stories about my kid. I keep up with friends through Facebook, where we like, and occasionally comment on, each others' pictures.
Pre: I tried, and failed, to blog -- I just didn't have much to say.
Post: I was too sleep deprived to blog.
Now: I'm reattempting blogging so I have somewhere to put my thoughts, because I no longer have time for philosophical conversations with friends and my family is tired of being my only sounding board.
Pre: I did not own enough jeans to pack for a week's vacation. I made up the difference with dresses and cute skirts. I wore yoga pants to do yoga, and occasionally to sleep in.
Post: I lost the baby weight quickly, but was stuck in yoga pants for months thanks to post-operative pain. After returning to work, I tried to wear only things that hid spit-up well. (The stain, not the smell. Nothing hides the smell.) Skirts and dresses were out because wearing them requires shaving, and shaving while sleep-deprived is inadvisable.
Now: I wear mostly yoga pants, hoodies, and sneakers; jeans are dress clothes. My main criteria when shopping for clothes are that they hide stains (now stains usually come with food coloring, so I wear a lot of black) and be easy to run in. Wearing skirts is still out because it's too hard to keep from showing the world your underwear while wrestling a flailing toddler from the supermarket floor.
Pre: Sneakers lasted for years, because I wore mostly heels. Even shopping.
Post: Sneakers became my shoe of choice because I was too afraid to carry the baby while wearing heels; what if I tripped?
Now: I'm lucky if sneakers last a year. I'm considering a second pair just for working out, so I'll have a "nice" pair. I have trouble walking in heels. Hell, I have trouble walking in flats.
Pre: My purse was pretty much a wallet on a string. In it were my wallet, cell phone, keys, and lipstick.
Post: My purse was a backpack; when the straps on that broke (within the first year!), I switched to a weekender tote bag. In it was a disaster survival kit, with gear to deal with any problem that could possibly arise with a newborn. Plus enough formula, diapers, and changes of clothing to last several days in the wild. Yet almost every time we left the house, we encountered a situation for which I was totally unprepared. (My stuff could still fit in a clutch purse.)
Now: I am relishing my post-potty-training freedom by once again carrying a tiny purse. In it are my wallet, cell phone, keys, lipstick, plus little toys, crayons, and toddler snacks.
Pre: I pursued hobbies to pass the time.
Post: Hobbies? I was lucky to shower twice a week.
Now: I pursue hobbies so I can occasionally talk about something that is not my kid.
Pre: I planned menus two weeks in advance, carefully read labels in the grocery store, and cooked everything from scratch. I made my own peanut butter.
Post: I ate only things you could eat one-handed. Once I even tried my daughter's formula. It was awful.
Now: I save recipes on Pinterest that I will never fix. My daughter is happier with steamed veggies and mac and cheese anyway. I eat a lot of granola bars. Store-bought ones.
Pre: I wore makeup on special occasions.
Post: I wore makeup when I left the house, because I wanted to feel like an attractive human being on occasion.
Now: I wear makeup for the sunscreen, and because it makes my daughter happy.
Pre: I went for long drives when I was upset, needed time to think, or just to try out a new CD.
Post: Commuting was my only alone time.
Now: I am not allowed to go anywhere alone. If I want to listen to music, I take a walk. At 4 a.m., while everyone else is sound asleep.
Pre: I pictured parenthood feeling like a stronger version of what I felt holding other people's babies, because that baby would be mine. I couldn't imagine ever wanting someone else to hold my baby.
Post: What I felt towards my baby involved more panic and exhaustion than I anticipated. I gladly asked other people to hold her so I could do things like pee, shower, and sleep.
Now: I would throw anyone, up to and including her father, under a bus if it meant ensuring my child's health and well-being. I hold her as often as she'll let me, dreading the day when she no longer wants me to.
I have no illusions that adding a second child to the mix won't change things; I imagine some day I will reread this post and laugh at what I thought was chaotic. Still, this is quite an impressive impact for someone who's barely over 3 feet tall.
Monday, December 8, 2014
The Santa thing
I just reread this great blog post on Semiproper, and it got me thinking. I was an extremely literal child who did not comprehend things like "good" lies (I'm not sure why I put that in past tense). And when I learned the truth about Santa (and the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy, because I was also a pretty smart kid and knocked them out in one sweep of logic), I felt betrayed.
My parents, the people I trusted above all others, lied to me. Repeatedly. With malice aforethought. (I was wounded, I tell you. And I made sure they knew it.) Mom was crushed. She knew some day I would discover the truth, but she'd hoped for a few more years.
For my part, though the presents did help take the sting out of it, Christmas never quite recovered. (I didn't quite mind the loss of the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy, but Santa was a blow.) And I never quite trusted what any adults said again. Not because I thought they meant to hurt me, but because deep down, I just really can't understand why anyone would ever lie to someone, ever. I see no point in it. Either tell the truth or say nothing.
Yet I've told my kid about Santa. Hell, I've told her we're in email contact. I take pictures of things she wants so I can send them to him. (I take pictures of present ideas for everyone, because I am forgetful when it comes to things like that, but she's 3 and hasn't caught on to that yet.) We're also friends of the Bunny. We haven't gotten to the Tooth Fairy yet, but I'm sure she'll stop by our house, too.
I had never intended to perpetuate these stories, given my experience. And it's not required, as Roo's post shows. Plus, the ruse only lasts a few years; this is the first year she's really old enough to understand what's going on, and if she's anything like me, she's got about 3 years left before the jig is up. So why did I do it?
Not because I can't have difficult conversations with my kid. I'm an atheist in the Bible Belt; we've already had the discussion of God and religion, and I imagine we'll continue having that discussion for the rest of our lives. (Especially since her grandparents are decidedly not atheist; I expect some messy talks once she gets older.) We've had talks about who can and cannot touch her in certain places. We've talked about Stranger Danger. She knows where babies really come from. I pull no punches with this child.
After a lot of thought, I've come to the conclusion that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I still believe in Santa. Not in the sense of "fat guy doling out materialistic rewards for good behavior." But in the sense that, at least sometimes, my fellow humans are capable of great magic and wonder and goodness. Especially around Christmas. And I want her to have that sense of magic and wonder and goodness from a young age.
I am not a big holiday celebrator. I don't wear red, white, and blue for July 4. I don't drink green beer on March 17. Until I had a kid, I hardly dressed up for Halloween. But even when I was single and hardly had anyone to buy for, I put up a Christmas tree. (Even the year I was living with a pagan so against Christmas that I had to sneak it in the house.) I baked for my coworkers, when I worked in an office, and my (then) husband's employees. I may not be a Christian, but I love every part of Christmas -- the music, the parties, the food, the lights, the TV specials, the presents, the cards, the charity, the extra thoughtfulness that abounds. Christmas has never been a holiday for me; it's a season which lasts from Thanksgiving until January 6. And I have the shirts and jewelry to prove it.
I may lean towards the misanthropic side of things, but around Christmas I love my fellow humans. We all get a do-over, and we choose to do good. (Or maybe I just choose to see good, but the warm-and-fuzzy is the same.) Santa is real in the sense that love is real, and we see him when we express that love for each other.
I am Santa.
And once she's old enough, my daughter will be, too.
My parents, the people I trusted above all others, lied to me. Repeatedly. With malice aforethought. (I was wounded, I tell you. And I made sure they knew it.) Mom was crushed. She knew some day I would discover the truth, but she'd hoped for a few more years.
For my part, though the presents did help take the sting out of it, Christmas never quite recovered. (I didn't quite mind the loss of the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy, but Santa was a blow.) And I never quite trusted what any adults said again. Not because I thought they meant to hurt me, but because deep down, I just really can't understand why anyone would ever lie to someone, ever. I see no point in it. Either tell the truth or say nothing.
Yet I've told my kid about Santa. Hell, I've told her we're in email contact. I take pictures of things she wants so I can send them to him. (I take pictures of present ideas for everyone, because I am forgetful when it comes to things like that, but she's 3 and hasn't caught on to that yet.) We're also friends of the Bunny. We haven't gotten to the Tooth Fairy yet, but I'm sure she'll stop by our house, too.
I had never intended to perpetuate these stories, given my experience. And it's not required, as Roo's post shows. Plus, the ruse only lasts a few years; this is the first year she's really old enough to understand what's going on, and if she's anything like me, she's got about 3 years left before the jig is up. So why did I do it?
Not because I can't have difficult conversations with my kid. I'm an atheist in the Bible Belt; we've already had the discussion of God and religion, and I imagine we'll continue having that discussion for the rest of our lives. (Especially since her grandparents are decidedly not atheist; I expect some messy talks once she gets older.) We've had talks about who can and cannot touch her in certain places. We've talked about Stranger Danger. She knows where babies really come from. I pull no punches with this child.
After a lot of thought, I've come to the conclusion that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I still believe in Santa. Not in the sense of "fat guy doling out materialistic rewards for good behavior." But in the sense that, at least sometimes, my fellow humans are capable of great magic and wonder and goodness. Especially around Christmas. And I want her to have that sense of magic and wonder and goodness from a young age.
I am not a big holiday celebrator. I don't wear red, white, and blue for July 4. I don't drink green beer on March 17. Until I had a kid, I hardly dressed up for Halloween. But even when I was single and hardly had anyone to buy for, I put up a Christmas tree. (Even the year I was living with a pagan so against Christmas that I had to sneak it in the house.) I baked for my coworkers, when I worked in an office, and my (then) husband's employees. I may not be a Christian, but I love every part of Christmas -- the music, the parties, the food, the lights, the TV specials, the presents, the cards, the charity, the extra thoughtfulness that abounds. Christmas has never been a holiday for me; it's a season which lasts from Thanksgiving until January 6. And I have the shirts and jewelry to prove it.
I may lean towards the misanthropic side of things, but around Christmas I love my fellow humans. We all get a do-over, and we choose to do good. (Or maybe I just choose to see good, but the warm-and-fuzzy is the same.) Santa is real in the sense that love is real, and we see him when we express that love for each other.
I am Santa.
And once she's old enough, my daughter will be, too.
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