Self-Induced Post-Partum For Dummies

Post-Partum is a dreadful phrase. It strikes fear in the heart of every expectant mother and father who learns of its unpleasant possibilities. Post-partum depression, for the few who are unaware, is a general feeling of depression with symptoms such as overwhelming tiredness, withdrawal from family and friends, constant crying, and feelings of guilt or inadequacy, just to name a few. This is the middle child to the friendly and socially acceptable baby blues and the horrifying and stigma-ridden post-partum psychosis. It is tough enough to give birth and the fact that one of the three is bound to follow is a real kick in the head to a woman when she’s already down. However, it’s nearly devastating to learn you brought the condition on by your own irresponsible behavior. This was my story.

Baby number one left me with the watered down version of post-partum called the baby blues. It was weird and left me awe-struck, but it was manageable. The BBs left me with uncontrollably, yes. I can recall preparing a beautiful dinner for two of our friends one evening. As I stirred the gorgonzola sauce I began weeping uncontrollably. My female friend looked on with sympathy. Even though she has yet to enter the adventure of motherhood she could sympathize with hormonal changes. I mean we are all a little irrational when we get our periods. The male friend was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact and looked frightened and nervous. I could see it all clearly. He was thinking, “Dear Lord, is this the shit I am going to have to put up with in the future?” Meanwhile the dialogue in her head sounded a bit like, “There is no friggin way I am having sex tonight! Did I take my birth-control?” Yes, crazy even affects our friends. Phobias were my new best friend. I had the desire to keep my baby all to myself avoiding all others germs and strange, negative energy. There were night sweats that found me waking at 2 am in a puddle of perspiration simply adding to the dampness by crying tears, of “I cannot believe how much I la-la-love this little being.” There was the unimaginable fatigue which can only be associated with a newborn’s presence in your life. It was all normal the dr. would assure me, painfully normal.

Baby number two was a different story entirely. Of course the first eight weeks were a blur of sweating, nursing, crying (me and the baby), fatigue and doubt but then something else happened. I decided eight weeks after delivering baby number two that I was tired of being fat, and I was going to change it immediately. This kind of irrational thinking is only possible when something traumatic like childbirth has just occurred. Any right minded person would realize that the body I inhabited was fine as it was and would return to normal within a reasonable time frame. However, I wasn’t interested in logical time frames. I wanted to be Heidi Klum. I wanted to prance around in my underwear on a cat-walk eight weeks after giving birth. Well not really but I did want to be viewed by my husband as one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. I wanted wind in my hair and body glitter. Well not really but I did want to look like my pre-pregnancy self while sipping pina coladas in Antigua. I was not well. I needed help. Instead I devised a plan.

“Let’s start by working out,” I said to myself. It’s seemed innocent enough. I’d join a class that started at 5:30 in the morning. Who cares that it’s a 20 minute drive, and I’ve been up all night? I wanted a tight rear end. The class fulfilled my expectations. The rear grew tighter and higher. After completing six weeks of boot-camp with my girlfriends I wanted more. I joined another boot-camp for the ridiculously fit and criminally insane. This class started at 6am. Because it was closer than the previous class, I found myself sleeping in an extra 15 minute. I was living the dream. The instructor really prided himself on being one of the hardest trainers on the planet. I’ve trained with a few people. He will forever be the most difficult class I’ve ever taken. I’m not really that fit to begin with folks. I am truthfully more of a seasonal exerciser. After a few months of “hitting it hard” I like to take it light and maybe all the way off for a month or so. This class practically killed me physically and emotionally. With ligament issues in my wrists due to my pregnancy I found planks, crawls and military pushups virtually impossible. My trainer had very little patience with me and spent the entire hour shrieking my name followed by the words slacker, lazy, go, complainer, or weak. After the first month, I realized that I was paying someone for the privilege of permanently damaging my wrists and emotionally abusing me. If he had been my lover, I would have had him arrested.

I’m pretty certain there is a reason the word DIE resides in the word DIET. I gravely dislike dieting. It’s completely unnatural for me. I prefer to eat healthily. Cutting obscene amounts of calories feels very similar to ripping off my own arm and beating myself about the head with it. I reviewed a couple of plans, which included the Flat Belly Diet, Atkins, the South Beach Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, etc. Then a friend suggested that I look into a perfectly legal and insanely expensive injectable. She would give them to me for free she informed. "People pay thousands of dollars for this treatment!" she encouraged. It’s simple really. You just shoot yourself in a fatty part of the body every morning and then restrict your food intake to 500 calories a day. I heard the sound of screeching tires in my head. 500 calories, how is that possible? 500 calories? Wasn’t that what I usually called breakfast? Shooting myself in a fatty part of my body I could handle. I had plenty of fatty body options. I anticipated playing connect the dots at the end and imagined buying myself a prize should it have ended up being an intriguing pattern.

The emotional fall-out would be severe and swift. I found myself crying every single day. Sometimes I would lock myself in a room while the baby slept and the toddler zoned out in front of the T.V. “I just need 5 minutes to completely lose my shit in private,” I would tell myself. Then before I knew it 5 minutes was inadequate. I needed 10 minutes. Then I needed 15. My lowest memory was having the baby wailing to notify me of his hunger. I attempted to walk to his bassinet when the toddler latched firmly onto my leg. “No, no, no baby! I need MY Mommy!” He exclaimed. I completely lost all functions. “Baby needs to eat! I’m so sorry honey. Mommy will be with you in a minute,” I cried. I lay in bed feeding the baby sobbing while my first born lie down at my knees weeping as well. I had ruined everyone’s life. I thought. I was selfish to want more than one child. I was a self-centered monster. I could see my boys in their future therapist’s office now. I had damaged them and they weren’t even 3 years old. How was I going to pay for college and therapy? Days later I would find myself once again locked in the spare room of my house crying frantically to my best friend, “I need to put them both in daycare. They would be better off with strangers. I’m a terrible Mother. I cry all day. They are going to think I’m bi-polar Maybe I am bi-polar! I’m failing at this job. I’m failing at the most important job in the world. Help me! Please help me!” She would assure me that I wasn’t failing. She would gently remind me that what I was doing to my body through diet, and exercise were very unhealthy and suggest that I ask my husband for help. Because I love her and trust her, I could see the importance of her words and by the grace of God, I heeded them.

The call to my husband seemed like a blur. I was bawling and I can only barely recall the things I said aloud to him. Whatever the message I delivered, he received it clearly. “I’m on my way home now, “he said. “You are going to be fine. I love you,” he concluded. At that very moment, a million pounds were lifted off my shoulders. I believed him. I believed that I was going to be ok, but I also knew it was going to take time. When my husband arrived at our home, he had already formulated a strategy to get me help. We would call my son’s homeopathic doctor and make an appointment as soon as possible. After about three minutes of conversation the doctor suggested that I come in right away, as in right freakin now! The drive to his office was long but provided a great deal of time to fully explain what had been going on to my husband. He was trying his best to be strong but the alarm was visible and growing with each of my complaints. When we arrived at the physician’s office, we did a round of tests, which included blood pressure, hemoglobin, oxygen level, and live cell study. All the test's results included disheartening news. He spent the next 30 minutes confirming all of my worst fears. Not only was I suffering from Post-Partum but a continuance of my current behavior would send me right into a condition called Chronic Fatigue. I was damaging my body and badly no less. Just when I thought I could feel no more shame. I found I was wrong. The prescription was lengthy. I’d have many enzymes, vitamins and other natural remedies to digest over the next few months. He also advised me that sleep and eating a healthy diet were not optional but mandatory. Finally, someone was giving me permission to do a few of my favorite things. I was filled with momentary bliss.

The next few months my husband and I dedicated to getting me back to my “normal” self. Whatever that means, right? I napped religiously while the boys were sleeping. I ate foods that were good for my body. I ate a lot of those foods. I worked out but I changed my pre-dawn workout to a mid-day one and slept in until 6:30 in the morning every day. I spoke openly and frequently with my friends about the difficulty of this job we call Motherhood. For me, sharing released me from the embarrassment. I admitted when I didn’t feel well or was otherwise exhausted. I stopped trying to make everything appear perfect and left a little mess here and there. If I needed to wear my PJs all day leaving my hair uncombed I did so. More importantly I did so without judgment of myself. I didn’t need to feel guilty or inadequate. After a few months and a lot of self-love, I realized that I was once again normal, painfully normal.

Fat and Friendless

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a single girl with a gaggle of gorgeous girlfriends. With many social events to attend this lady was never at a loss for a friend to accompany her. She had a companion for every hour even those that most found to be watching from the inside of their eyelids. The giggles were endless and the gossip flowed freely. From anyone’s standards this group would be the envy of lonely girls everywhere. Then one day her friendships and the idea of friendship itself changed.

One day while minding her own business, literally, the lady with many gorgeous girlfriends met a handsome prince. After the initial meeting, it was a mere week to their first date. Within the hour of that original rendezvous, the handsome prince announced his intentions to the fair lady. He desired to marry her and fill her once taut tummy with babies galore, hopefully boys he expressed. The fair lady giggled and gasped silently and ordered another round of drinks. Indeed he was a handsome prince with a laundry list of qualities the lady desired, the clearest of which was passion, but was he also bat-shit crazy? These questioned required answers but first there was to be free-flowing conversation and cocktails. Somewhere between sushi and another bar the questions seemed irrelevant. Perhaps the handsome prince was nuts but the fair lady was an almond lover. It seemed meant to be, this love affair that was developing. Three weeks after their first date the handsome prince slipped a ring on the finger of his lady. Three months later he slipped another ring on her finger on the stunning beaches of Maui. Inside the fair lady’s belly at this beach was the first of two handsome boys. All the prince’s revelations had come true. The fairytale was in full effect.

The fair lady called her gaggle of gorgeous girlfriends to announce her exhilaration and induce mutual celebration but the calls went mostly unanswered. Phones rang endlessly and when answered conversations were curt and lifeless. The tides of her female relationships were changing. She felt lonely in a capacity so deep that one can only feel when hormones are raging wildly from the growth of new life inside. Tears fell hard and fast like a raging river. Her handsome prince would look on helpless and fearful of the powerful changes in his new bride. There is little that compares to what surely feels like a betrayal of heart. How could friends, so allegedly close, disappear in the blink of an eye? How did her protective circle vanish like a dust into the wind? She’d spend many a night cuddled up with a big bowl of ice cream atop an ever growing belly wondering where it all had gone wrong. Few in that circle would remain. “Maybe just maybe it would turn out to be even better,” a friend had suggested while attempting to comfort her. When those words appeared to fall on deaf ears the friend tried again exclaiming, “I keep my circle nice and small, I don't f*ck with these clown niggas.” Finally riotous laughter would fall from the fair lady’s lips at the encouragement of Mr. 50 Cents famous words. Maybe, just maybe it would all turn out even better.
Late in the pregnancy of her first son she would begin to feel the bonds of real friendship with new and glorious girlfriends. And more importantly she would rebuild friendships with the oldest of her friends turning them into unbreakable bonds. Life would be kind and reveal to her all that was needed. No longer would she stay out drinking and dancing with these girlfriends until early in the a.m. finally face-planting into a cheeseburger. Now these friendships would be nurtured over fine wines and honest conversations. Things were indeed changing, and she was blissful to find that change was as good as they say. She would find that the only real constant in life is change. However, it turns out that when you have the right circle the players in that circle do not need to be recast. You can give each other the necessary room to change and remain stronger on any account. And everyone can truly live happily ever after.

ALLERGY TESTS ARE THE DEVIL

Brody has eczema. Because of this condition we have had many issues regarding his diet and unfortunately we have had to deal with issues of very sensitive skin. To explain just how sensitive my son’s skin truly is I will tell you that certain lotion, “BURNS, BURNS MOMMY!!” Lotion people..lotion burns his precious baby skin. So with that said he has been unable to eat ice cream with the other kids. And Mommy hasn’t worn perfume around him in 2 ½ years. It’s been unpleasant to say the least. Finally our Pedi suggested that we visit an allergist.

Dr. Nathan Tang is supposed to be the best in the biz. He is of the Asian persuasion. I have reverse prejudice with people of Asian descent. I assume that they are all geniuses. I do. It’s my thing. I’ll deal with it in therapy. So keep your opinions about it to yourself. I’m so excited to meet this man I sort of feel like I might pee. With a quick scan of his office and a brief introduction I can see he’s everything I hoped for and maybe a little more. He has more plaques of certification on his office wall than should be legally allowed. After saying hello I realize that I am going to require an interpreter to truly understand everything he says. The accent is thick people. I am delighted. We are going to figure this out. I can feel it. I can see the glimmer of hope radiating in my husband’s eyes too. We are so giddy we allow Brody to have a lollipop. What the hell, right

After showing the doctor the 900 supplements and vitamins our son is already taking, he suggests a skin test. I have never taken a skin allergy test and have no idea what it entails. Therefore I am foolishly enthusiastic about the process. I trot my precious two year old to the examination room with a light heart and pep in my step. The nurse arrives with a box of potential allergy suspects. She gives us a quick rundown of the procedure and assures us that it isn’t painful and will be relatively quick. It is NEITHER! The only good thing I can say about this test is that they condense the testing for children. This means that instead of single pokes they take about 10 at a time. Retraction, I am not sure if that’s good or not. The whole thing sucks! The first row causes Brody to scream as if he is being run over by a truck. His body tenses up and his face turns the color of a stop sign or a cherry tomato. It’s horrid and my eyes begin to fill with tears. He fights and screams throughout the rest of the testing. The extra nurse is holding me and telling me that it’s going to be ok while I try to soothe Brody. My husband is restraining him and trying desperately to hold himself together at the same time. When the test is finally completed both Brody and my husband are soaked from Brody’s body heat. The nurse says she is going to give him the award for the strongest toddler she has ever seen. The compliment eludes me and I just want to punch her in the face. I know she was just doing her job but it’s my primal reaction. We are forced to endure another 20 minutes of holding him so that he will not scratch his back. His crying is subsiding but hasn’t exactly disappeared. He complains that it still hurts and he is desperate to dig at it. Finally the 20 minutes pass and the doctor returns to view the results.

In the end, we found out that he is allergic to eggs, peanuts, cats, pine and oak pollen. He is also allergic to the mold that grows on the back of dead leaves. Brody is about the most outdoorsy fellow you will ever meet. He worships the ground that dead leaves rest on. This news makes me sad. The good news is that they believe he may have already outgrown his allergy to milk. I’m crossing my fingers for him and sending up prayers. We will take a blood test next week to verify everything on the skin test. I am planning a trip to Coldstone in the event that the milk allergy comes up negative. My little guy deserves it. He’s had to put up with an awful lot of poking and prodding for a two year old. Keep him in your prayers. Peace out.

Needy, Weepy, Clingy Mother of Two…Your Table Is Ready

When I visualized myself as a Mother before giving birth to my first son I saw a sort of tribal, earth mother. She was chill and open to sharing the love of her children. She was going to puree her own baby-food, use cloth diapers and let other people hold and kiss her baby while she looked on with beaming pride. What I turned into 30 mins after giving birth was a raving lunatic that wanted to run off into the woods with her baby so she could have him all to herself and no one else could touch him. I remember the first time they let me hold him I began ferociously scanning him for identifying marks. I was fearful that some jaded nurse would try and pull a switcheroo on me or worse steal off with him in the night. He had two dimples above each ear. Wooo..ok, I could pick him out in a line up. Some semblance of peace returned to my body.

Now I realize that your hormones, post delivery, are going nothing short of ape-shit but I sometimes wonder if my sanity wasn’t released from my body with the after-birth. When I returned home with my first son my house was packed with family and friends. I’m a pretty social creature. Usually this sort of scene would delight me to no end. However, after about 30 minutes of dealing with the mob scene I was crying uncontrollably. When I say uncontrollably, I mean that if you had offered me 10 million dollars to shut off the water works I would have told you to, “Suck it!” I simply could NOT stop crying. It was too much. I wanted, again, to be alone with my child. I’m embarrassed to say it now but the truth is it nearly made me break out into a rash when someone else would even hold him. Crazy, Mother of One, your cell is available.

As time wore on I became less of an emotional basket-case and more of what appeared to be a cool, calm and collected female nurturer. That was of course until the over-nights started. You know, these are when your child stays the night at the G-Rents house so that you and your husband can get to know one another in a biblical sense again and do so without whispering or covering one another’s faces with pillows. While the absence of children may have brought sexy back to our house it also revealed the following. I am the Mother who in the middle of the night stands at her child’s door way and weeps quietly. I am the Mother that while out to dinner with her husband will speak incessantly about the children. I am the Mother that will call so many times you will wish you could change your # while you are caring for her babies.

I was certain that I was getting better and that my paranoia was becoming a shrinking violet. But that was before we booked a trip to Antigua in June for 4 days. 4 days must not sound like much to the average traveler. But to me it’s 4 days of not knowing how many meals my kids have eaten, when was their last bowel movement, are they sleeping well, did they get any boo-boos today or worse did they reach any milestones without the presence of my watchful eye???? I am doing what I can to alleviate some of my fears by making a list that will surely be 10 miles long. This list will include minute to minute instructions on how to care for my children while I am away. I am sure much of it will be ignored. I mean my mother did manage to raise 3 children of her own. But nonetheless it will give me some peace of mind. I’m hopeful my dr. will be able to prescribe something to alleviate my heart-palpitations in my children’s absence. I just hope my fellow travelers don’t mind the crazy lady doing the ugly cry at take-off.

I spank my kid and I really wish you would spank yours too….

If the truth be told I am an utter and complete puss when it comes to discipline. The fact of the matter is that if I didn’t think my children would suffer remarkable consequences I would likely let them throw dirt in your kid’s eye and eat candy all day long. I don’t like violence or confrontation of any kind. (hard to believe?) My tough as nails attitude in an argument is really an attempt to bully you out of arguing as fast as possible and work our way back to “hugging it out.” However, since I really don’t want to visit my boys in the State Penn someday I discipline my children. Brody, my 2 year old, is in the full throws of “terrible twosies.” He likes to kick, punch, slam doors, yell and act like a regular A-HOLE a lot of the time. He has many times attempted to inflict physical harm on his 3 month old brother. I don’t know about you but any and all endeavors to have a rational conversation with my 2 year old have been marked unsuccessful. I would love it if Brody and I could sit down and have a real heart to heart about his inappropriate behavior. I’d love it even more if he would reply to my list of complaints with a heartfelt, “I’m real sorry, Mom. I’m going to do everything I can to correct that behavior and be a better boy. PS I love you and thank you for making me a better man,…in advance.” But, alas, that conversation has never come and likely will not for years. So he gets swatted on the bootay. It grabs his attention. After a swat Brody is all apologies and love for whoever he has offended. You can tell that he feels badly for the infraction. This gives me great relief. This likely means that it is in fact just the terrible twos I am dealing with and I am not raising a sociopath.
Now that I have mentioned that with great discomfort to myself I still discipline my child for his benefit. I’d like to say that I’d appreciate it if you could find it in your heart to discipline yours too..mmmm…K!! There is really nothing more grating to me than attempting to enjoy a day at the park with my little boy and finding that the park it littered with other tiny little A-HOLES who are running amuck without any attention from their parents or guardians. The park is NOT a place to go talk on your cell phone for hours or chit chat with your girlfriend over a latte while your child pokes another in the eye with a stick. Especially if the kid who’s eye is on the other end of the stick is mine.
A couple of weeks ago a child who appeared to be 5 or was otherwise a giant 3 year old pushed my 2 year old son Brody at the park. My husband, who really kind of loves confrontation, searched for a parent to the little NUTCASE of a 5 year old but no one came forward. He watched silently for a moment to see just how aggressive the child would become towards our son. The boy loomed over Brody as if challenging him to get up. My husband had seen enough. He walked over to the unattended child and told him in a threatening tone, “if you touch him again you are going to GET IT!” My husband was greatly annoyed and disturbed that he had to discipline someone else’s child. He waited to see if someone would come forward to collect the child but alas no one did. WTF WAS HIS PARENT DOING?? Why did my husband have to do his or her job??
Now let me tell you the situation in reverse. Brody and I are at the park. Brody is playing with a previously confirmed 4 year old. They are in the sandbox…I hate the sandbox. Brody begins slinging dirt. (this is why I hate the sandbox) I give Brody his verbal warning. “No throwing sand! You can dig in it and make castles or whatnot but NO throwing.” He throws it again. The final warning is served. He completely disregards my attempts to “reason” with him. He throws it again but this time it lands in the 4 year old face and undoubtedly his eyes. I grab Brody and ask, “What did Mommy say?” He replies, “NO!” I spank his butt and put him in the stroller and explain that we are leaving because he didn’t listen to Mommy. The other Mom says, “Oh, its ok. You don’t have to leave.” Um no, it’s not ok. How else will he learn?? So I thank her for being kind in her response but reassure her that I don’t tolerate that kind of behavior. She looks at me like I’m crazy. And then I realize it…she probably doesn’t spank her kids. Oh well. I hope that everything works out for her in the end. I hope that when my child’s cognitive abilities are more developed I will be able to simply “time him out” or “reason with him.” In the meantime, I am going to swat his butt when he attempts to hurt someone else or himself. Call me crazy but I do believe a swat every now and again is effective and necessary. Maybe I’ll start using that tactic on his Dad. : )

warning....

After months, perhaps years of procrastination I have decided to start my silly little blog. If not for you, the readers, spiritual enrichment and intellectual development then maybe just for my own sanity. (If you cannot hear the sarcasm in the previous statement then this blog really isn’t for you.) This blog simply will not be for everyone. It will be laced with foul language, brutal honest, TMI and hopefully humor and amusement. All negative comments will be cherished and perhaps savored like a fine wine and a great steak. They will also likely be mocked relentlessly by my girlfriends over aforementioned wine. So feel free to comment…or not.