The Crying Game

So I'm a little introspective this week. It happens.

I have been thinking a lot about different parts of my life and today I thought about the time when I gave birth to F. It didn't start out such a great relationship between me and her. The beginning was very rocky.

Being pregnant was the best thing ever. I never thought I'd enjoy it as much as I did. I was big and bulbous and I gained 60 ever lovin' pounds from eating McDonald's breakfasts every day and french fries every night. It was heaven. It was an excuse to not exercise and eat whatever I wanted. I was getting fat for a reason and I was growing a human friggin' being inside of me. The only thing I missed was my coffee and my wine. But it was a short tenure in the grand scheme of things so I put up with it.

I loved feeling her kick inside of me and hiccup and rattle around like a wild woman. It was pure joy. I never felt anything like that in my life and I loved it.

By the end of my pregnancy, I was ready. So I thought. I was all set for the new baby. I mean how difficult could she be? All she'll do is crap and eat and sleep a lot. Right? Wrong. But that's for another post.

At 39 weeks, I had high blood pressure so the doctor decided to induce me a few days early because he didn't want to risk pre-eclampsia or any other complication. I went into the hospital on a Saturday morning and I should have known that having a baby 5 days before Christmas didn't leave you with an abundance of hospital staff.

All in all the birth was amazing. I was induced at around noon and had her after one single push at 2:20 pm. I had plenty of Stadol and epidural to keep me cozy and happy and I really can't complain. After all, her head was already out when the doctor came in to check and see "how far I was"! He couldn't believe how far long I actually was. The nurse was at lunch and he had to have her paged. No one was ready for how fast she was born.

How fucking ever. I wasn't ready for what my body would look like a few hours post-partum. Why doesn't anyone tell you that you can't move very well after squeezing out a cantaloupe from a hole the size of a kiwi. Why on earth did no one tell me I'd have a fucking penis after I gave birth????? That's right. I had a penis. Dude. I'm not kidding. It was a penis. A penis. A large penis. Hanging. And hitting my legs as I struggled to walk to the bathroom. Walk to the bathroom to give the fucking nurse my obligatory ounce of urine. That's right. You want the truth. You can't handle the truth.

I had a penis.

I wish I had a camera. No. Not for the penis. But for my husband's face when he saw it for the first time. His mouth agape, asking the nurse if it was supposed to look that horrific. She thought we were overreacting. Then she looked at it. Her mouth agape, she called for the doctor. He assured me I was EXTREMELY swollen. (No shit sherlock). Agony can not even describe how it felt.

I'll never forget that month of recovery. Agony. I tell you. Sheer Horror.

I know all there is to know about the crying game, post partum.

So I get this e-mail this week

I am a member of Parent Center online. It is a very helpful resource for first time and experienced parents. I love getting updates on Fa's milestones and goals for her age group. This e-mail gave me douche-chills though...

No sillies, not the nap part...I can deal with 'quiet time' in her room, just as long as I get a break too...

Did you catch paragraph three??? Here, I'll paste it here for you so you can really get a good look:
"Being interested in the differences between girls and boys is a normal part of growing up. Try not to react with shock or horror if you find your child in the midst of an anatomy check with another child. Just let both children know that penises and vaginas are kept private and steer them toward another activity. They'll probably be relieved, since they may already have some sense that the game they were playing is taboo."

What the? It starts this early?! For Christ's sake. I can't deal with that. Now, I know if you've read this post...you know I am all for being honest and real when it comes to 'life lessons'. But three? Holy Canoli people. I don't think I'm quite ready for honesty that early...I need a drink.
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Also, she still refuses to pee or poop on the potty. I am trying all sorts of negotiation tools. Cookies, m&m's, Littlest Pet Shop Pets, Rubber Gloves...(Yes, rubber gloves the kid likes to pretend to be a doctor, ugh...see above) Nothing. Jeez this kid has a stiff constitution. She will be the girl who walks down the aisle in a Depends.

Turkeys, Ornaments and Memories...Oh, my!

This is a long one...Come back when you have time unless you are in the mood for a good vent.


Jesus. The holidays are upon me. Here we go again. It seems I can't get away from dealing with this shit. There is a point throughout every year when it all just has to get dealt with. From the 'Hat Trick' to the Holidays. I'm never away from it.

Thanksgiving is my Dad's favorite holiday. He loves turkey and he lurrves that crazy cranberry-can shape-globule. You know the one, he practically begs for it every year. I love spending time with him and Thanksgiving is no different. It's just that with Fa, now everyone wants to get a hold of her for the holidays and there is just not enough time in the day. I miss him during the holidays when I am not with him. And I am not the 'social butterfly' that you may all think I seem to be...hee hee. I like it quiet. At all times. Even the holidays. I have reasons.

I am a hermit and the holidays just make me shake. With all the people and touching and hugging and kissing. Ugh. And they don't even do it to me. They do it to poor Fa. Who also hates being mauled. I hate seeing her so uncomfortable in the crowded atmosphere of the holiday table. I get that 'Mamma Lion ready to pounce on anyone who makes her cry' feeling in the pit of my stomach. (And anyone getting in her grill makes her cry too). It makes me so nervous.

I have read in all the parenting mags that forcing your child into a crowded situation does not make her more comfortable. People must keep their distance and let her warm up. But no one wants to hear it. I want to cry. I know I make it worse because she feeds off of me and she knows when I tense up in these surroundings. Then, she gets just as tense. I try to breathe deeply and reassure her that its okay, but inside I am a tangled mess of sickly intestines and she knows it. Damn intuition.

Then, after turkey day. "The box" comes out. My therapist knew this box well. It took a long time to acknowledge "The Box". I didn't have a Christmas tree for years and when BD and I were living together and he finally wanted one, we only had lights and bows. I didn't want to deal with "The Box".

You see, it is filled with all of the ornaments that I had as a kid. The same ornaments that my Mother held so dear to her heart. Every year, she'd pull out "The Box" and reminisce about her past and show me her favorites and listen to Johnny Mathis on the record player while she happily put up the tree. I loved that day. I loved seeing her happy! Tree trimming day. We would watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and all those other Christmasy shows with "Rudolf" and "Charlie in the box" at the Land of Misfit Toys. Then, we'd slap Johnny Mathis on the record player and get to work. Every year, I wished that day would never end.

Well, boys and girls. That day does indeed end. And then, it leaves you with hurt and sadness and grief and you never want to see that "Box" or that day again.

Until Fa came along. I had to get "The Box" out. I dreaded it. But it was inevitable. I had to spice things up during the holidays for her. Her birthday is 5 days before Christmas so I had to get in the spirit. It sucked. I hated it. Especially the first Christmas when she was five days old. I was a mess of ppd. Damn, you couldn't even look at me or I'd cry. But then, the next year it got a little better and so on and so on. This year, I want to start new memories, but I don't have anyone to ask how to do that. All of my holiday memories are stunted. And memories of my Mother are vivid but few. How do I create a happy place for the holidays when I am not feeling so happy about the place I'm in?

These days, I can take out "The Box" without hysterics. However, that feeling in the pit of my stomach always returns. I am torn. I want Fa to enjoy the memories that we make together but why does it have to hurt me so much? Will it ever get better? Or should I say, will the pain ever get duller?

I pray Fa understands that she is my air and she is what makes me tolerate another holiday season. I do it all for her. Holidays are brighter because of her and I cherish her for that. Now, how do I create some really special memories for me and her to share? How do I create memories that will dull the sadness in my heart and bring a smile to our faces throughout the holidays and beyond? How do I teach her that memories are a great resource to go to when you are down, when my memories bring me so far down?

31 Months

Fa is 31 months today. July 20th. It seems like yesterday I brought her home from the hospital...the both of us crying and unsure of what to do next.

Now, she's just such a joy in my life and those initial, unsure moments have passed me by. I can't believe I ever felt the way I did back then. I was so sad and scared and afraid of what might happen to her that I couldn't enjoy the 'moment'. I had severe PPD. I was a mess. I thought I was the only one who ever felt that way and I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be a mommy. I wasn't good enough to be her mommy. She deserved more than I could ever give. I wrote a letter to American Baby in response to an article I read a few months ago...they never published it. But I want to put it here. So someone else can read it. Not just me.

August 5, 2005

Dear American Baby,

I just finished reading your article: (left blank) in your August 2005 issue…and I cried. Not because I remember it happening like that, or because I miss those times, but because my first three months were nothing like the article. I had Post Partum Depression and I would have given anything to have those “new mommy” issues that the author had instead of the ones I had. I want to tell you my story because I also took notes, but I really don’t need to refer to them, I will never forget how I felt when my daughter was born.

Day one:
The day my daughter was born was when I began crying. I felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest and I could not breathe. It took me nine months to get used to having that little being inside of me. I depended on feeling her kick, hiccup, and move around at all hours of the night but nobody warned me that I would not have the same amount of time to get used to the fact that she WASN’T in there anymore. A part of my being, my reason for breathing.

The night she was born, I missed her so greatly that it felt like the loss of my mother all over again. I cried the entire time I was in the hospital. To top it all off, it was around Christmastime and the hospital was short staffed and short tempered. One nurse yelled at me because I called for help to go to the bathroom even after my allotted “two times” to make sure my bladder was functioning. I told her I couldn’t do it and she yelled, “Are you going to need to hold hands every time you go? What are you going to do when you leave here? How are you going to take care of the baby?” Good question. I wanted MY mommy. She wasn’t there. I was alone. I felt it from the first second my daughter was taken from me.

Day three:
Taking her home from the hospital was a different story. Like the author of the article, I sat in the back of the car with my daughter too. However, I was praying deep down in my soul for my husband to crash on the LIE so I wouldn’t have to live anymore. Once we were safely in the house, we stared at her for what seemed like an eternity and I hoped her parents would come and pick her up because I was done with her.

Breast feeding was a nightmare, I had no one to help me figure it out and my nipples were cracked, bleeding and literally falling off, so I had to stop. The hospital promised a lactation consultant who never showed up. I was devastated. I felt like a failure and a horrible person because all I wanted to do was see my daughter’s face from that special angle that no one else would ever see. Instead, I fed her the bottle hoping she would choke, this way it wouldn’t be my fault.

Day four:
I also figured out that at 32 years old, I was afraid of the dark. I hated being alone at night with her because that was when the thoughts and visions would be the clearest. I had thoughts of people breaking into the house and killing us all. I would see my daughter being sucked up by a chainsaw or lawnmower and I could not stop it, nor did I really want to. I never did anything to hurt her and I never would, even at my darkest, (I would rather have killed myself) but those visions were scary and made me very unsure of my sanity. I felt like I was losing my mind and my sense of reality. I wanted to die. I wanted to escape, run away and never see her again. I wasn’t good enough for her.

Week two:
The day my husband went back to work was when I realized I needed help. He was afraid to leave me alone with our daughter and most of all I didn’t want to be left alone. I was afraid she would get hurt and I couldn’t save her. I was afraid to drive in the car with her alone and I was afraid to leave the house even to go for a walk with her. What if someone kidnaps her, or me? I was afraid of her! She knew more than I ever would or could. I would look into her eyes and ask for her forgiveness because she got stuck with me as a mommy. I promised her I would find her a better mommy and one day she would understand why I left.

I started comparing my mother’s life to my own. I had my daughter the same time my mother had me. However, my mom died 17 years later and I started thinking that was my fate as well. I wondered what it was all for, if I was going to leave my daughter in 17 years like my mother did. Or sooner. Was it worth it? She really didn’t need me around at all, I thought. Just get it over with and let her live a fairly normal life without me….Mike would re-marry and she would have a person who could really take care of her… She was better off without me. That went on for a few weeks until I finally broke down. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I didn’t want anything to happen to me because without me, she would be a motherless daughter like I am now. I didn’t want to live like that anymore. I didn’t want her to ever suffer the pain of losing a mother, like I have.

Week three:
Unlike the author, I didn’t join a mommy group because I was sure I was crazy and no one has ever thought of the things I think about. They’ll surely have me arrested or put away somewhere and take my daughter away from me. Not one mommy out there could possible feel the way I do. They are not in my head and they will never understand me. Those mommies are all living in a dream. It can’t really be as easy as they make it look. What’s wrong with me?

Week six:
I called my OB/GYN and told him my story. He referred me right away to a psychiatrist. I went to see him that same day. He prescribed Wellbutrin for the depression and Klonopin for the anxiety. I resisted but knew there was no other choice. I was going to hurt myself, not my daughter and I needed to fix things. It was a slow recovery. Aside from the physical aspects of childbirth, the mind can play fantastic tricks on you. Physically, I was a wreck. My body was not healing quickly and I had issues down below that no woman should ever deal with. It was scary. I felt useless and helpless and motherless and with medication, I was finally ready to be the mother that my daughter needed me to be.

Nineteen months later:
I thank the stars above that I used what little courage there was left to make me take a step in the right direction. My daughter is a well adjusted, active toddler and I couldn’t live without her. She is the air I breathe. My husband has been my rock because without his strength, I couldn’t find my own to help myself. I realized I wasn’t totally alone. I had people to help me and I had support when I needed it. I am forever grateful for my husband to teach me about life and love and motherhood.

I hope this letter helps just one woman out there who might be feeling a little the way I did. It is normal and not everyone has sparkly and bright experiences when they take their child home for the very first time. It is unbelievably scary and no one is truly prepared for what is to come. Especially when the crying, the diapers, and the all-nighters are the easiest things to deal with, compared to the visions, thoughts, and terrible fears you can have as a new mom.

Please use this letter if it helps just one woman out there. I know I went through such horrible experiences and I’m sure they are hard to read just as they are hard to share, but it would all be in vain if I did not help someone because of it.

Sincerely,
me

***No one has ever read this before. I am not sure I want it out there. But it seems fitting to compare myself now to then. I was so lost and I felt so alone. But I got through it and I look at my gorgeous Fa now and I cry. She is the heart that beats inside of me and the air that keeps me alive. Without her, I am nothing. Without her, I will die. I truly live for her smile and to see the joy in her eyes when I enter her room first thing in the morning. As happy as she is to see me, I am overjoyed to see her. I love this little girl with all of my being and I cherish every moment with her...even the first scary moments. For without them, we wouldn't be here today. My big girl. My love. My heart.

I always feel better after a good 'ol shopping spree!

Hubby took Fa to his parent's house to swim in their pool and I'm all alone..in a good way. I thought I wouldn't know what to do with myself, but I figured it out, fast!

So, I went shopping. For nothing in particular. Wait, I lie. I really wanted these, so I went out to go get em! I was very happy they had my size and I didn't have to waste a trip to the shopping center. So that put me in an even better mood. I decided to look for clothes for Fa. (Because she's so deprived of everything, she really needs more summer clothes)

Then, I realized I had a gift certificate to Children's Place from Fa's birthday in December. I found some really cute summer styles on sale...A treat in itself because I NEVER find a sale item. Then, you're not gonna believe this; I had another gift certificate to Macy's from Christmas from Dad for makeup. I spent it all on Clinique and Benefit...I bought: This, and this (because I need some "plumping up") and this because I need to hide the suitcases under my eyes. I bought this in green and some of this in true Kakhi to try to make my "brown eyes green" and this because I needed it and the sales lady told me it was the best. I was so frickin' happy with all my purchases. It really put me in a great mood. See, all I really need in life is Fa and Hubby, some time to myself, a blog and some gift certificates! I don't ask for much. Really. I don't.

Score Another Hat Trick for This Girl

Well my “Hat Trick” is over for another year. Thank Christ, until next year, all fucking over again.

My Hat Trick returns like clockwork every year, without fail. I can always depend on it; like when Gretzky used to perform those amazing hat tricks regularly in a game... Yeah, well just not as graceful. Even if I think I may have forgotten it, it rears its ugly head when I least expect it. And I have nothing to do but live it out all over again. Year after year I guess, until Fa has her own “Hat Trick” of some sort.

It starts around the first week of April, when I stumble upon something to remind me that the 30^th of that month is my mom’s birthday. This year she would have been 65. The feeling begins like a sick stomach ache. It lasts for a few days and then I realize that it’s not really a stomach ache, it’s just April. I spend the rest of the month denying that it’s that time of year again and that feeling lasts until May. Mother’s Day.

I always seem to cry on Mother’s Day. I can’t help it. I just can’t enjoy it like I deserve to. I am too empty to be able to sit back and relax with my own daughter…the thoughts just keep making their way into my dizzy head. How many Mother’s Days do we have together really, before Fa is suffering the way I am now? This usually ends a few days after the actual day, once I have accepted the fact that I got through it without much incident. (Crying is the least of the many symptoms of the dreaded “Hat Trick”)

Then June sneaks up on me. I am always so happy for summer to come and the heavy coats to be put away for the season. Then before I can say “ice cream anyone?”, the 25^th rolls around. That’s the anniversary of her death. It always seems like I’m the only one who remembers because no one discusses it ever. It’s like some sort of taboo topic that if you bring up, you’ll be cursed into hell for eternity. However, if only they would acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to take. What’s so hard about saying; “You know what today is right? Damnit, I miss her so terribly.”

But I know. They haven’t forgotten, she was too amazingly wonderful to have anyone forget her. The day comes and goes and not a peep is uttered by anyone. Usually, I can depend on my Aunt to remember some hysterically funny thing that she might have said, cursed or done. That helps and I appreciate the effort to reminisce about happy times. But that’s the extent of it. The cemetery is bare. The area where she is seems cold and untouched. Every year when I go to see her, it feels like I was the last one there, from last year. Then, like a whip, June is over and my Hat Trick is too.

By this time Big D is about ready to slap me. I am so bitchy and annoyed by everything. I am very difficult to be around. I just wanna be left alone, but then I feel too lonely to carry out my own wishes. I cry at the drop of a hat and at pretty much anything Fa does. She just tears at my heartstrings on a daily basis anyway. When I start to feel like I’m losing her by every aging second, damn, I’m a mess. It so difficult to enjoy my life with her when I know the ending result won’t be a happy one for her. In the end, I’ll be gone and she’ll be left to fend for herself. That just doesn’t seem fair to me. Does it to you?

I guess I am satisfied that I made it through another year. A sigh of relief exits my entire body and soul. But shit man. I have been living this Hat Trick for 17 years now and it never gets any fucking easier! Especially since Fa came around; she has magnified the whole experience 10 fold. Every move we make as mother and daughter scratches deep into my core and I ache for my own mother, terribly. It is never easy even to get through a regular day. It just pelts away at my heart knowing that I don’t have my own mother there to ask questions, to bitch and complain to, to laugh with, to hug. There are times when I want to yell; “I want my mommy!!!” But no one hears me. Maybe my mother does, but I'll never know it for sure.

Oh damnit, It's July 2nd already! How did that happen? All I know is that it’s over. For now. See you next year.