Postpartum Regression

This might only be funny to parents. But since I'm a parent and I think it's funny, this is what you're getting from me today.

After Nate was born, every time I went to the doctor's office for him or for myself, I had to fill out a survey for postpartum depression. I always thought it was stupid, because I wasn't depressed. But now, looking back, I think I totally had a mild case of the post-baby blues. It's hard to differentiate exhaustion from depression... or hunger or frustration or happiness or any emotion other than exhaustion. But when I started to feel normal, I remember thinking, "Oh... this feels good. I like this better."

My friend was over last night and we were talking about what a joke these surveys are for someone who doesn't already know they're depressed or is about to go on a rampage. This is how I would mentally respond to the questions asked in the survey and this is why I didn't think I was depressed:

Do you still enjoy the things you used to enjoy?
I used to enjoy things like going to the movies with my husband and having a flat stomach and sleeping in till 9am and reading a book for hours and drinking alcohol or caffeine and taking a shower when I wanted to and skydiving and having a clean house. Do I not enjoy these things because I'm depressed? NO... I have a BABY! What new mom gets to enjoy things she used to enjoy? What new mom gets to DO things she used to enjoy? I actually never went skydiving. But I WOULD have enjoyed it and I can't now.

Do you find yourself unable to sleep at night?
This is a joke, right? Unable to sleep? HECK, YES I find myself unable to sleep! I have a newborn! Did you not consider that every single mom who takes this survey will be unable to sleep at night... due to the fact that it is a POSTPARTUM survey? What does this have to do with depression? This sounds more like a survey to ensure you have a baby in your house.

Do you find yourself feeling down for no apparent reason?
Nope. My child won't nurse, my boobs hurt, my stomach looks like a deflated, stretched out balloon and I haven't slept in weeks. No apparent reason? I have excellent reasons for feeling down. Must not be depressed if I have reasons for feeling like I do.

Do you get tired for no reason?
Dear survey writers, this is getting repetitive. Have you ever had children? I have one very small, loud and hungry reason for being tired.

Are you more irritable than you used to be?
Go flush your head in a toilet.


I guess that's a yes.

God Doesn't Babysit

Two days ago, while I wondered if the entire community could hear my painful, rhythmic breathing and if I would ever not sound like a dying rhinoceros when I run, my neighbor passed in her car and said, "Looking good, girl". I said, "I HATE RUNNING!"

This is true most of the time. I advertise the fact that I am not enjoying myself, because I am not, in fact, enjoying myself. But I've discovered that even when I don't like it, running is like a cleanse for me. I am not one for the green liquid stuff that you're supposed to drink for a week at the expense of all other food in order to purge your body of toxins, or whatever other nonsense people use as an excuse to lose weight and enjoy exploding diarrhea. If you want more toxin removal, get an additional liver implanted. Or run.

I know you all think I'm perfect. I have that effect on people - making them think I'm flawless and stuff. But sometimes I experience symptoms of being a normal person. I get depressed that I haven't seen my husband in over six months. I get bitter that the Navy is taking him away again three months after he will finally get home and I despair of ever feeling like our little family is where they should be (which is with me, rubbing my aching back and telling me how flawless I am). When I start to blame Henry for all my problems, it's probably time to go running. It works the poison out of my attitude and, in their mutual disapproval of me forcing them to waste their energy trotting through the neighborhood for the sole purpose of sweating, my brain and my emotions team up. If I'm angry, I can usually overcome it by introducing something that, at least for the duration of my run, I am angrier about: exercise. Works every time.

And you know, there's science stuff about endorphins and there's the fact that I'm so stinkin' proud of myself for being 'A Runner' that I slyly slip it into every other conversation I have with everyone I encounter.

The conversations that don't include running usually feature the fact that my husband is deployed and that's why my child is ransacking the books in Barnes and Noble. This is supposed to illicit pity, but I think they see right through me when my response to, "Can I help you, ma'am?" is, "My husband is deployed."

Anyway. A run is like deployment. It's not fun and you go through cycles of, "I'm doing great! What a great runner/military wife I am!" and, "This sucks. This will never be over and if someone doesn't notice that I'm doing a good job and wearing my big girl panties, I'm going to eat Trader Joe's Tahitian Vanilla Caramels for breakfastlunchanddinner."

When I'm running, as with deployment, there are times when I don't think I'm going to have the endurance to not sit down and yell at passers by that everything is their fault, and so I pray, "please make me finish!" and God basically says, "You can do it" without saying anything, but every time I pray that, I know that my whines will get me nowhere because, I am, in fact, physically capable of finishing. I'm not really as strong or confident as I pretend to be, but I'm stubborn, which looks pretty similar.

Which brings me to my point. Sometimes I pray, "Please give me the strength to finish well" and He always does, but what I really want to pray is, "Please come babysit Nathan for me, so I can take a nap and then you can teach him all kinds of educational things because you're God and you know that stuff and maybe you can teach him to say, 'I appreciate you, Mommy. You're the best.'" But He never does that. My insight for the day is this: God doesn't endow us with so much strength that exercise or deployments are no sweat. He gives us just enough to finish. And that's good, because I'm so much more grateful for the gift, having experienced the struggle.

And also, He gives Trader Joe's Tahitian Vanilla Caramels. Because He saw Nathan climb onto the dresser yesterday and He knows I need them.

The Virus of Death

I'm sick. Sick sick sick. You know how newly-discovered diseases are often named after the person they find the disease in before the person croaks? I am that person. I found a new virus. It's The Virus of Death.

A week and a half ago my throat hurt. Five days after that my dad came into town and I told him that my throat was more sore every time I woke up. We decided it was post nasal drip from allergies. The day after he left, I woke up in a lot of pain. It didn't go away and I was having trouble swallowing things. I barely slept Saturday night because of the pain, so I went to the ER on Sunday morning and got poo-pooed out with "It's not strep, so it must be viral pharyngitis". Which means that the cold virus got stuck all up in my tonsils, which were swollen and angry. As was my throat. And lymph nodes. I endured and felt stupid for going to the ER. It has gotten worse every single day since then. Yesterday it had been a week and a half and I wasn't eating or drinking much and I was taking (no joke) 1600 mg of ibuprofen a day. I went to the doctor and got poo-pooed away again. No fever. Not strep, so it must be a virus. Well DUH, I don't have a fever... I'm eating ibuprofen for breakfast, lunch and dinner! (breakfastlunchanddinner! SNL? No? Nevermind)

So today I didn't take the medicine and guess what? CHILLS! FEVER! THE PLAGUE! Oh, and the same painful throat that has been making me cry since Sunday. I did 15 hours of labor with no epidural and after 21 hours, I had a c-section. I know my pain scale. When I say my throat hurts like a llama who fell down some steep Peruvian mountainside with a Sherpa on his back, I mean it was a 7, folks. I didn't know throats could hurt so much. In fact, I've deduced that at night, little elves are crawling in through my nasal cavities to my throat and scrubbing it with sandpaper and gravel. Then they pour lemon juice on for good measure. Then I wake up and wonder if I'll ever eat again without feeling like I'm swallowing razor blades.

The Virus of Death.

So that was all background. Don't you love when people use social media to manipulate pity? I hate it when people do that.

Today I was g-chatting with Jon (yay!) and he told me not to leave the house before noon. I figured he was going to send flowers. Instead, a couple minutes to noon, my doorbell rings and TA DAA! Chinese food. Wonton soup, dumplings (!) and fried rice. From my favorite person in the universe. Who figured out how to order my sick soup of choice from a billion miles away in the middle of the ocean without a phone.

Best Husband Ever vs. Virus of Death.

The virus loses. Hands down. I am a happy woman.

Merry Christmas

I am so grateful. For my husband's architecturally perfect nose. For my son's exuberance. For the blessing of them both. I am a wealthy person with a colorful happiness, thanks to these two.

I may be snarky and I may deal with life's difficulties by threatening to send my son to Cuba and take a nap until they return him with a bribe to never try that again, but I am so grateful for the rare 10 pm, when teething pains wake him up just enough to need rocking, when I get to hold his little, sleeping body long past the few minutes it takes to see him back to sleep. Because I love holding him, my sweet, monstrous little love. I love having my face on his soft head and quietly kissing him until I rally myself to put him down again.

I often curse the Navy for taking away my best friend, but this temporary absence does not diminish the depths of comfort, stability and peace my husband's love gives me. When I say I am a richer woman for having him, I mean I am fuller and continually grow in my capacity to hold the fullness that is marriage. The growing takes lots of commitment. Commitment to deny yourself the right to be angry. Commitment to make peace between two wholly different, but equally fallen persons. Commitment to not talk about sex in public. (Your voice is always louder than you think it is, Rebekah.) Commitment to a God who is the only foundation and salvation for this partnership.

"Thus far the Lord has brought us."

I am humbled by the gracious gift of my two loves. I am more humbled by the knowledge that God Almighty humiliated himself to be a man, that I might be able to comprehend Him. That He chased me down to tell me that, though I was less than undeserving, His love has caused me to be worth the salvation offered me. From utter darkness to warm sunlight. Merry Christmas. Merry day of Hope.

I am loved, so I am grateful. It is a beautiful Christmas, indeed.

Okay... Maybe You Should Have a Kid

Despite my last post, I really do think I'll keep Nathan. And if I wasn't sure, today God and Nate worked in concert to convince me that children can be useful.

In the past year, every time I go to DSW... and I know this is probably weird, but I don't care if you judge me... I always pray that I will find a pair of brown leather, closed-toed, pumps for an incredible deal. I'm super picky and super cheap. Needless to say, it's been a while.

DSW is one of Nathan's favorite stores. It has loads of shoes, all within toddler reach and there are aisles to run down, mirrors to breathe on and people sitting down, struggling to shove their feet into boots to stare at. Toddler heaven.

I hate going to DSW with Nathan. Because there are loads of shoes, all within toddler reach and there are aisles to run down, mirrors to breathe on and people sitting down, struggling to shove their feet into boots to stare at. Mommy purgatory.

But I had a coupon that expired today. So we went and I headed straight for the clearance racks, as usual, and put the child down to consider a pair of overly-priced-even-on-clearance-but-they're-Michael-Kors-so-I-love-them heels. My son immediately walked over to a box, pulled out two matching shoes, walked back over to me and chucked them at my feet. Two Nine West brown leather, closed-toed pumps. On clearance from $80 to $20. He grinned. I grinned back.

Finally something we can agree on.

With the two coupons I had, the shoes were five dollars. Total. And to add blessing to good fortune, I walked out of that store with two pairs of heels, one pair of Steve Madden socks (all my socks are developing holes) and one pair of lavender tights for twenty dollars. Total.

It doesn't surprise me that God answers my prayers, especially one as (pathetically) oft-repeated as this. And it really shouldn't surprise me that he answers prayers through my son. After all, despite my threats of selling him on ebay, Nathan is an answer to a year and a half of heart-felt prayer, himself.

It is exceedingly appropriate, however, that the answer to my prayers was chucked at me by my 15-month-old son. Literally.

That's so us.

Don't Have Kids

Jon loves being a dad. I get told all the time by spouses of pilots he's deployed with that he pretty much goes around proselytizing for parenthood. Which is really sweet. It warms my heart to see and hear how much he loves his family.

This is what Jon missed yesterday on our trip to Salt Lake City. This is the sort of thing that dampens spirits and makes people want to have their tubes tied. This is why I don't push my friends to have kids.

Traveling alone with a toddler is a very brave thing to do and I, therefore, am a brave woman. I packed very light, I had my brother purchase a car seat on his end, so I wouldn't have to check one and I bought a small umbrella stroller that I could check at the gate. I am brave and I am a savvy traveler. I am not, however, smart, because I traveled with a toddler by myself.

The first flight was fine. No real problems or anything. It was pretty much the same level of stress as taking a toddler to Costco and purchasing large items. Not fun, but not bad enough to make me avoid it. We landed, unruffled, in Phoenix, where we ate and I chased Nate all over the airport, hoping it would wear him out.

He was, indeed worn out and for the first forty minutes of the flight, he slept like a sweet little blonde angel with rosy cheeks and striped socks. If I could stop the movie there, you all would run to your spouses and beg for babies.

But, then, he woke up.

"But, then" is like the fine print on an "As Seen on TV" special.

He woke up a little off and started to cry, which soon turned to a scream. Screaming isn't fun, but it's totally doable. THEN he started to thrash. And kick and WAIL and SCREAM ('scream' and "SCREAM" do not mean the same thing). I am not kidding when I say I have never seen a child act the way Nathan proceeded to act for the remainder of the flight. It was like trying to hold an angry, rabid wolverine. On steroids. With a thorn in it's eye.

My child thrashed and arched his back and screamed and SCREAMED and turned in thrashing circles in my lap, trying to escape something like it was burning him. I had no idea a human being could act like that. The whole plane was either concerned or penciling, "Get Sterilized" into their day planners. I had the guy next to me offering to help, people in front of and behind me offering help, THREE stewardesses at ONCE standing at our row, asking questions, offering wet paper towels, food from first class and asking on on earth they could do to help.

It really was horrible. Purgatory is here on earth. It's called parenthood and I just made up for 26 years worth of sin.

I may not be smart, but I still think I'm brave and travel savvy. And I'm awfully good at pretending to be cool and collected. I stayed calm the entire 40 minutes he had his fit and I calmly walked off the plane (he had stopped crying from pure exhaustion by then) and collected our things and picked up our luggage at baggage claim and layered my wolverine for the cold weather and waited outside for my brother and only let out a few choice words when it took me 20 minutes to install the carseat and made it back to eat dinner and go to bed by 9:30, San Diego time. But when I wrote my "this is how things went" email to Jon, I cried. Because I only pretend to be calm.

Which is all to say, whatever you may hear from my husband, do not have children. A purgatory sentence is best served off a commercial airplane.

One Billy Goat Gruff

Recently Nathan has been trying to climb onto things. His little-boy-ness is so innate. Like climbing, for instance. In the past 2 weeks, I've looked over from the stove to see Nate with a desperate grip on the other side of a kitchen chair, grunting like an over-burdened ox and trying to heave his body up. In my infinite wisdom, I let him struggle. Not for his character's sake, but rather for my sanity, because I knew that once he could climb, it was all over... again... like when he started to walk.

The other day, I heard the familiar scrape of a chair being pulled out from under the kitchen table and the ox-grunts as he tried to climb, but when silence ensued, I looked up and he was standing on the chair, grinning like a fool at his mother as if to say, "Look what I did, Sucker!"

He then, being a newly established Billy Goat, proceeded to climb on top of the kitchen table.


In my infinite wisdom, I choose to empty the table of fragile items first, instead of hauling him to the floor, because I knew he would just climb back up while I was saving my hoard of breakables, that were up there for the sole purpose of being out of his reach. I got most of them and as I was going to grab the last one - a vase wrapped in paper - my own dear godzilla, destroyer of all that is good and holy, grabbed the corner of the paper and unrolled the glass vase onto the floor, where it shattered.

It wasn't even my vase.

And it was a special order.

Sometimes I get to this point in the story and I can't decide on the next line. A sentence is never enough to express my feelings, which are usually a mix of exhaustion, extreme exasperation and a tiny bit of hidden affection. He may be a horrible rotten monster who destroyed my body and is slowly chipping away at my sanity with his Billy Goat hooves, but he's my rotten monster. And for some unknown reason, I have a hard time being mad when he grins at me so endearingly with each new dangerous accomplishment.

Which is why babies have survived to this day. If they hadn't learned to grin before they were two, the human race would be extinct. And if we were extinct, there would be no one to feed Henry.

Therefore, God was not only looking out for the future of the human race when he programmed "smile" as one of the first learned tasks, but also for large yellow labs.

So I have a vase to replace.

And such is life.