Into the Wild has been sitting on top of our DVD player for weeks now, waiting to either be watched or returned to Blockbuster. We do this a lot - rent movies and end up owning them - but the good news is that we are not alone in putting off watching movies we know do not end well. Yesterday Tom and I finally had two hours of semi-quiet to sit and fold laundry and watch it, and I’ve been in a funk every since. As far as the movie goes, it was just okay. Too slow, too long, and not brilliantly acted, but it is a great story, and one I was excited by when I heard an interview with the author nearly a year ago on NPR. But the timing was off. I should has taken the movie back and got Ella a Curious George video for 6am, because this week was not the time for me to watch a movie about a 20 something year old kid leaving his family for two years, angry about his childhood, feeling the need for adventure, and then wandering into the woods and dying.
Tomorrow is my brother’s 20th birthday.
I haven’t heard from him in over a year and a half, and have not seen him in almost three years.
I’ve said before that his story is not mine to tell, but my story is. And my story is that my little brother got the short end of the stick in our family, and when I was given the option to save him or save myself, I chose me. And I think about that every day.
The last time we talked, he made it clear - if he wants us in his life, he will let us know. He asked to be left alone, but still, I google his name, I search faces on networking sites, I get anxious and angry, and then I just get sad. I type his name into the search boxes - I try his nicknames, our mother’s maiden name, possible places he could be living. I don’t need details, I don’t want to spy on him, or pry into his life. I just want to know he is okay. I just want to know he is alive.
Because even though he doesn’t want us in his life, he is still in mine. We talk about him a lot. He is included in our nighttime routine of naming family members in the hallway photos, and Ella asks to hear the story about how, when my parents brought him home from the hospital, they told me they found him under a seashell (he was born in a tiny clinic in northern California, close enough to the beach that it’s threatened by high tide). She asks where he lives, and I make up funny places, like the moon, or in a submarine. They know who he is, because I hold out hope that someday he will know who they are also.
I wonder if he talks about us, to whoever is in his life. I wonder if he ever says “My sister Ivory” instead of lumping me into “my family”. I wonder if he is happy. God, do I hope he is happy. I hope he is finding what he is looking for, and that one day I’ll get a call from him and he’ll say “He sis, you won’t believe what I saw today…” and we can go back to being friends. I hope he knows he can come here. I hope he reads this blog occasionally and sees that you can be so much more than your past dictates, and that there is so much joy in the world, even for us.
I hope he’s having a happy birthday, and that someone made him a cake.
I slept on the floor of Ella’s room last night, aware of every passing car, of all the various ticks and thumps that echo in a sleeping house. I was both embarrassed to be so frightened of shadows, and sure that my presence was the only thing keeping her here, protected.
It’s just not enough to know that “most of us make it to adulthood”, that “news wouldn’t be news if it was everyday.” It’s not enough to squash the fear that runs up and down my spine when I think that some of us don’t make it. Some of us are the statistics, some of us are missing, some of us never grow into our winter clothes.
I just want a guarantee that my girls will make it. I want it in writing.
Ella woke up five times last night, screaming “Mama sick, mama hurts!” Tonight has been quieter, but it is only 10:30, there is a whole lot of night still to go. My sweet girl - she has nightmares about Swiper the Fox on a regular basis, so I feel horrible that she was in the room when I went into full “I can’t breath” panic mode. In the midst of the ordeal, I was more upset that she was sitting alone on the Dr’s office exam table, wide eyed and scared, than I was that I was about to black out. Thank goodness we were there and not at home though.
It’s been weeks that I have been coughing, and in the last 4 or 5 days I had gotten to the point where I would cough until I was so out of breath that i would have to put down the baby out of fear of dropping her because my arms were tingling. But still, I blamed it on ‘just allergies’. Tom finally convinced me to call my doctor yesterday morning, because I had kept everyone in the house awake with my constant choking cough, but of course they could not get me in until Friday. They recommended I call the nurse hotline for my insurance, where they asked me “How impacted is your breathing, from 1-10?” and I had to honestly answer a 6 or 7. The nurse, who had been rather bored with me until then, told me to go to the ER right away, which I rolled my eyes about. Pshaw, I just can’t breathe, no biggie. Tom was shocked that I wasn’t taking it seriously, and bargained with me to go to an Urgent Care place down the road instead.
Have you been to an Urgent Care center? I don’t know that I had ever seen one until the last few years, but now there are at least three within a five minute drive from my house. There was no way I could drive, so Tom packed a diaper bag and away we all went. The one we went to was next to a restaurant, and was a clean, quiet lobby with only a few people waiting to see the doctor. I was by far the sickest person there, and I felt bad coughing and choking over in the corner, while my baby yelled and my husband tried his best to keep the toddler from licking all the magazines.
In the waiting room I felt my chest constrict more, and could only get one or two breaths in between the coughing fits, which lasted around half a minute. I mentioned to Tom at one point that I didn’t know if I could walk, which scared him into asking when we could see the doctor. A minute later they had me in a patient room, and I sat in a chair on one side of the room while Tom and the girls were sitting on the exam table, playing with stickers. I started coughing, and then I just could not get air into my lungs - it felt like someone had their hands wrapped around my neck, and I felt my body go into fight or flight mode (which was ridiculous since either of those choices require working lungs). I was crying, but just these squeaking sobs could come out, and I closed my eyes and felt my face going numb.
The doctor walked into the room at that moment and, looking at his clipboard, started asking me routine questions until he actually looked at me and yelled for a nurse. They propped me up and started a breathing treatment right away, but it wasn’t for another couple minutes before I stopped shaking and could look over at Ella. Tom was holding Alice in one arm and holding my hand with the other, so Ella was alone, across the room, watching two nurses and a doctor holding a mask up to my face, telling me to take deep breaths (which felt like a cruel joke). I couldn’t really talk, but I shooed Tom towards her and tried to stop crying because I knew that was the part that was upsetting her the most. The doctor mentioned needing to give me a steroid shot if I didn’t improve soon, but about half way through the first breathing treatment I was able to take a full breath, so he recommended I stay and have two more treatments (with different medications) and then follow up with an inhaler at home every two hours for 24 hours, and then every four hours after that. Ella crawled up on my lap towards the end, and gave me kisses to “Help mama feel better? Kisses help?”
Today has been a lot better - I am still coughing, but it isn’t a “punch in the chest” kind of cough, and I am am not wheezing. Alice is starting to act sick, so we took her to her pediatrician who we love, and he assured us that right now she is okay. He also listened to my lungs for me again, and told me he thinks I will live, so that is a plus. I got a 5 hour nap in this afternoon while Tom cleaned the entire house, despite the fact that he is working an insane shift lately and should have been sleeping himself.
So, that is the long drawn out story about how I need to not be such a putz and take care of myself. I am much too tired to proofread, so let’s put this in the “posted in haste” category, aye?
I don’t know what I am more excited about today - the fact that Tom got a job offer that we’ve been waiting on, or that Ella finally pooped. Financial security.. or poop. Medical benefits… or poop. Ya know, I think I am going to go with the poop. I have no idea how I will survive if either of my girls are ever really sick, because even this little drama has exhausted me. We were at the pediatricians (for the fourth time in the last few weeks) for a weight check, and not only did she finally gain back a few lbs, (she had lost 6, which is nearly a quarter of her entire weight) but right there in the exam room, she looked at me and said “Eww, I stink.” Oh my girl. I’m so glad you stink.
So, for now, the poop drama is waining. We are keeping her on the laxatives for a few weeks, and then if she goes 24 hours without a poo, we need to start dosing her with Miralax and mineral oil. If I never have to give another enema in my life, I will be a happy mama.
More posts later. i have a backlog, but couldn’t bring myself to write about anything other than poop until the issues was (at least on it’s way to being) resolved.
When I was young and in a sour mood, my mom would see me moping around and she would tell me to “Keep on keepin’ on”* which makes more sense in my head than it does when I write it out. Basically, “Just keep moving forward, things will get better.” It’s been my manta these last few months, and while I would prefer to be able to call my mom and have her tell me herself, her voice is still loud and clear in my memory. “Buck up, Sam, keep on keepin’ on.”
The depression that sank over me almost 2 months ago was smothering, and through the rough days, I lived in one hour lifetimes. If I could just get through one more hour, it would be okay. One more hour, and then I could call Tom and ask him to come home. One more hour, and I could put Ella down for an early nap (and not feel bad when she sat in her room and yelled that she wasn’t tired). One more hour. I could do an hour. A day felt like eternity, and the idea of what a month from then would look like was impossible, but I could do an hour. And during that hour, I would just keep on keeping on, one foot in front of the other, one more forced smile to keep my daughter from asking “Mama sad? Mama want kisses? Tickles?”
And slowly, it’s gotten better. Depression is not the sort of thing you go to sleep deep in the mire of, and wake up the next day suddenly able to see the sun. It’s slow going & you circle back on your own footsteps time and again, but eventually you realize that you are not sinking quite so deeply with each step. And then you use bad metaphors and realize that you can laugh at yourself, which is to say: it gets better. You just keep on keeping on.
I guess here I have to say that if you are struggling with depression, and more to the point, postpartum depression, sometimes ‘keeping on’ isn’t enough. It’s individual, and I feel like, having been down the depression road before, I knew my limits. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have kept the appointment I had with a counselor. Maybe I bet right, and I have come out of the fog without their help as fast as I would have with it, but looking back, it’s not worth the bet. If you are struggling, reach out. I am blessed with friends, both local and online, who have been down this road, and just knowing they were there at 2Am, ready to pick up the phone if I called, made it easier to get through that hour. If you come across this, and need to chat, comment. I can’t say I’ve fought the dragons and won, but I fought a good sized gila monster and see 2AM more than I see 9AM.
Because if you are where I was, you can’t realize how happy you are still capable of being. You can’t understand how one day soon you will look at your family and realize that this, this is worth keeping on.
*Edited to add because I win at Google: Oh my, it’s a song that I suddenly remember my mom singing, which makes me blink back tears. We just keep on keeping on.
Just in case you were wondering how I slept last night (and I know you are, you beautiful, considerate person you!) , the answer is: As well as you can with a tiny person strapped to your chest.
It’s been a rough couple days for little Miss Alice, and since my job title is “Chief Cuddler” I have been doing a bit of overtime.
Aside: When did the term change from “House Wife” to “Stay at Home Mom”? What does it say about the shift in the focus of a woman’s nurturing that our “job title” is no longer based off a husband, but rather our kids?
I don’t know what is going on with Alice, but I am starting to remember how trying the next couple months can be. Is it teeth? Does her belly hurt? Why won’t she eat? Is it something I ate? Why won’t she sleep? Is she sleeping too much? Did Ella give a concussion?? Wake her up! Why is she crabby? Is it her teeth?
So, that’s where I’ve been. Alice has been strapped to my chest, and screams when I dare sit down, so I’ve been trying to be productive down in my craft dungeon. I’m working on a few birthday gifts for a friends little girl, a baby gift for another friend, and then some random little things like always. But hey, I sold something on Etsy! Sure, I just set the shop up to make something for Sara (Thanks Sara!) but it’s got me thinking of actually doing something with this crack craft habit. Ignore the craptastic banner, it’s what I could come up with in the 15 minutes I had my arms free to use Tom’s computer (and thus, Photoshop. We can’t find the disk to reload it on my computer. Waaaaaaa.) It’s actually a banner I appliquéd the bear/cricket on, and will eventually finish and stitch the name into. Ella is my Bear, and Alice is my Cricket, and I am the big sap between them.
Duty calls.
Wow. So today kind of sucked. Between the massive tantrum at Costco (which ended with me sitting outside in the cold wind with Alice in the sling, and Ella throwing herself out of her wagon onto the concrete, screaming that I hurt her when I caught her to keep her from cracking her skull - loved that part) and the arguing with the husband about something that I thought was done being an issue, but apparently is not, I’ve been ready for bed since about 11am. But here it is, 6pm, and I am on my bagillionth cup of coffee, wondering why I don’t have the energy to clean my damn house.
So how about some links?
Homemade poptarts. Oh yes. I am going to hippiefy this recipe and we will have a 4th option for easy breakfast (currently: oatmeal, flax waffles, or eggs. I can hear you all at the door, begging for a breakfast invitation.)
$1 hosting from Surpass Hosting. I’m jumping on this and moving the ol’ bloggidyblogblog to my own domain soon, so that I can play with design. *twiddles thumbs until Thursday*
This + This = just say “No” to babies. Except, oh my goodness, last time I wrote in my blog that we were not having any more babies for a while I was already 3 days knocked up. Nonononono. After a day like today, that wouldn’t even be funny.
I desperately want my hair this color.
A great article about infant constipation. You’re welcome.
Worldometers. Happy birthday to the 280,987.. 280, 988, 280,989 new people today!
Preschool craft site, for when it is 9am and I’m already out of ideas.
And if you are still reading, what is your plan-of-action when your toddler freaks out in a store? It’s happened to us every time I’ve taken Ella anywhere lately, and I am really dreading the next time I need something (ex: coffee, the way I am going through it) and Tom is not home to keep her. I usually just haul her under my arm, kicking and hitting (which is a feat with Alice in the sling), and take her outside until she calms down, but usually she wants to be outside, and we never get back inside to get the cart of things I left sitting in the aisle (which I feel like an ass about). So she gets her way, and I am frustrated, and uncaffeinated. She knows how to undo the buckles, so I can’t strongarm her into staying in the cart, when she is out she is constantly hitting things off the shelf/trying to open things to eat them, and when I strap her into a sling on my back, she give me bruises. I’ve even tried bribing her with rewards (stickers! donuts! a trip to Jamaica!) which is not my parenting style, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t work. I… am at a loss. Help? Tell me it’s a phase? Tell me it’s okay to leave her here with the cat? (Just for clarities sake, that was a joke.) In a perfect world, I would be able to anticipate what will set her off and avoid it (we carry snacks, we try to go after a good nap, etc) but lately it is just her wanting to be independent in places she can’t rule the roost, and when I try to put any sort of boundaries on the situation (ex: You may not open that box of valentine cookies) she just melts completely down. It’s killing me ya’ll.
In a way, this illness has been good for me. Holding Ella while she coughed and cried at 4 this morning, I realized that the physical unrest has pushed out the mental unrest, at least for now. Perhaps what I needed was a swift kick in the pants to remind me how thankful I am for my little family, or perhaps it is just that I am too tired and feverish to follow the obsessive thoughts down the road to “I fail at life”-ville. Either way, it’s a sad state of affairs when you realize that, with a dry cough, a fever and the chills, you feel better than you have in a few weeks.
Speaking of those symptoms, they don’t sound like a cold anymore, do they? Please, please don’t let it be the flu. No one is throwing up, but did you know that throwing up is not usually a symptom of the flu? I didn’t. Maybe I’m behind the curve there, but that is how we determined whether or not it was the flu when I was growing up. Then again, we also took antibiotics for colds. Blame us for MRSA (which both Tom’s stepdad and his grandfather were hospitalized with in the last year.) We also had pneumonia a lot for just having colds, but then again, we also had asthma, allergies and ear infections, so perhaps all the second hand smoke had something to do with that as well.
Thankfully Cricket is still healthy, and her squeals and smiles have helped distract us all from how crappy we feel. I forgot how brilliant the developmental stages are - right when you feel like giving up, suddenly they start smiling and you can’t get enough of them again. She is looking and acting more and more like a baby instead of a newborn, which makes me want to freeze time. I look forward to watching her grow up, to learning who she is, to all the fun we will have, but oh. Oh oh oh how sweet these days are.
Well, okay, not today. Let’s not capture today in a bottle, since it would consist of a lot of Curious George, coffee and whining. Wait.. maybe that is every day…
My high temp today? 103.2. Yuck. My brain is melting out of my ears as we speak. Ella has been spiking every time her dose of tylenol wears off, but even when she is drugged up, she is still running a temp. Tom is not feverish, but can’t stop coughing. We are a sexy lot, let me tell ya. Alice only runs a temp is she is laying on me, so she is hanging out in the swing, which thankfully she doesn’t mind too much.
I finally caught up on uploading my Project365 photos, so head over here if you are interested. All that linking is beyond me today.
Oh, okay, I’ll post today’s.
Our first self portrait family photo, featuring my 3 chins, the back of Ella’s head, and Tom’s nose hair. At least Alice(’s head, as her body disappears into the shadows) looks cute.
What, two videos in a row?! Well, this one is a two-for-one deal, because not only do you get to see Alice sucking her thumb (*melty love*) but you also get to hear Ella in the background crying because it has been a hard poop week ya’ll. Literally. Fiber gummy bears, popcorn, prune cake, prune juice, Miralax, mineral oil, a thousand baths, a million hours of sitting on the potty, and what have we got? One lousy turd, and it hurt enough that getting any more out of there is going to be a fight. Locked up like Fort Knox. A crying, wailing Fort Knox, who is also sick (like the rest of us) and running a fever, so any fluid we are getting in her is probably not getting to the poo.It’s been a real fun house, let me tell ya.
Luckily Tom is sick (wait, I’m not a jerk, keep reading) and is at home with us, otherwise I think I would have shipped myself off to Abu Dhabi already. I am paranoid that Alice is going to catch our cold (fever, cough, headache, stuffy head) but hopefully I’m pumping her full of antibodies and she comes through unscathed.
I hope I am better by Friday Saturday (thanks Angela, I have one more day to get better!), because the only Spokane showing of The Business of Bring Born is that night, and I will be pissed if I have to stay home. There will a bunch of pregnant mamas though, so if I am feeling at all sick I won’t go, but I really, really want to see it as a community, not just me at home with my Netflix. There are not many events in our little conservative town that all of us hippie-birthing mamas can rally around, so I don’t want to miss out on this one.
Alright, I am off to mix mineral oil with ice cream and try to convince Ella that pushing is good. I feel like a poop midwife, or Bobby Brown. Awesome.
