Monday, July 9, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Weaning
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Weaning: Time Magazine was working hard to increase readership by choosing a supermodel nursing her enormous three year old son in a somewhat pervers...
The Weaning
Time Magazine was working hard to increase readership by choosing a supermodel nursing her enormous three year old son in a somewhat perverse photo meant to provoke and entice as its cover photo months ago. The photo serves as an entree into an article on attachment parenting. I would hope that all parents are in many ways attached to their children, working hard at forming bonds, considering the needs and development of the children in most decision-making. But I know what really gets people's goat. And that is the breastfeeding of big kids. I was not turned off by the photo for the same reason that many others were. I didn't think nursing a three year old was such a big deal but I did think it was a private, even secret act. You see, I had been harboring such a secret. I was still nursing my three year old.
Had I been chosen as TIME's cover model, I think the outrage/interest/press would have been much different. Firstly, I am a 40-something, black woman, hardly a subject to get everyone's hair standing on end. Images of brown people nursing their babies have been prevalent in National Geographic, and other anthropological stories for years, and have clearly been deemed not as enticing, intriguing, or seductive as a twenty-something, leggy blond with a big boy hanging from her breast. Secondly, I have a little girl, so the sexualizing of this act would be completely negated. And there wouldn't be, as there has never been, a moment where my dear Virginie would be standing on a stool reaching up for my open breast. She nursed at night as a way to fall asleep, to feel comforted and secure. She did not nurse in the day time and certainly not in public.
For years living in Barbados, I would talk to people in different mommy groups about weaning the peanut. So much so that one woman would always ask upon seeing me if "she was off yet." I don't know why I offered it up, why I continued to engage in the dialogue as I cannot say with any conviction that I was actually trying that hard to get her off. I talked to her doctor about putting aloe, which grew in abundance in our garden, on my nipples as a deterrent. Apparently it is non-toxic but the taste is bitter and offensive which would leave my baby feeling disgusted by my breasts and force her to stop nursing. Vinegar and soy sauce were also recommended. I didn't want Virginie to find me disgusting and therefore turn from a true, tangible representation of nurturing.
I was offered "scientific" data by my landlord in Barbados that breastmilk actually wasn't so great for babies after all, with all the toxins and airborne particles and chemicals I'd breathed in and then passed on to the wee one. I'd heard that her teeth would be misshapen if she ever fell asleep still nursing and that I would never get a good night's sleep until she stopped. (This last one might be true as I cannot recall having a good night's sleep since 2005, before the first person arrived!)
Perhaps I was too sensitive to the feeling of neglect and the need for children to feel nurtured, cared for or maybe I just really felt she would move on when she was ready, but I just didn't push it. It was private, personal, and unless I mentioned it or someone spent the night, no one would ever have known. I cannot say that it did not drive my husband insane, feeling like his boob time was being taken over by a toddler or fearing that somehow this attachment would make her, well, too attached. But anyone who has met Virginie will attest to the fact that she pretty much runs her own and everyone else's show for that matter. There was some concern that we couldn't ever go anywhere or be away for too long as she would only fall asleep with me, but we really hadn't gotten there yet. To the leaving them with other people place, I mean.
There were plenty of people, mostly, well, only mothers, who discovered our little secret and wished me well, congratulated me, cheered me on for my choice. I was often told that "I wish I could still nurse. I wish I'd had the stamina. It's so good for them." And I felt good. The shame and embarrassment subsiding and the pride of taking good care, being seen as a good mother for my "sacrifice" flushing my cheeks.
I wasn't making a political choice, did not push my methods on anyone else, never lectured about how good the breast is for kids, or quoted statistics about the good health of kids who were nursed longer than one year. I couldn't know if these statements were true and actually didn't care. I know that Virginie was not ready to stop. I was too tired to sit up with her for the days required to break her. (I did actually try for one two-night period to just deny her and offer juice or water. After the five hour stand off on the second night I figured she could nurse the tatas to my knees, I just could not spend another night like that.)
We would reach milestones--eighteen months, two years, two and a half years--and I would say, I am going to stop nursing this child. She is fully conversant for goodness sake! She will eat a slice of pizza and then ask for boo boo's. At her daycare center, the teachers convinced Virginie to give up the paci by telling her that she was now a big girl and no longer needed it. I am grateful for their help, truly, but I'd hoped to let the paci placate her as I moved her off the boobs. Once the paci was gone, it was just a question of willpower, and though I consider myself pretty strong, a warrior-mama even, I am no match for this thing.
And then came the antibiotics. I needed to take them for an infection and nursed Virginie one night without even thinking. She called me in the middle of the night and asked me "not to see her" which is a euphemism for "I am pooing, please give me some privacy." It was 2 AM. By 2:50, she had gone and been changed four more times. I could not figure out what the heck was up with this child as she'd eaten as she did every day, had not complained of a stomachache or any pain or discomfort, but was here with diarrhea in the middle of the night. I gave her some Pedialyte which, believe me, is nearly impossible to administer as it is miserably disgusting to drink, and some Cheerios and tucked her back into bed. She finally went to sleep without another episode. In the morning, my stomach felt as hers had all night and I remembered my reaction to antibiotics. Ahhhh. The upset stomach, pain, cramping, diarrhea. Then the light went off.
Virginie, like most of us, hates having diarrhea and like most little ones, too much "going" gives a little rash which made her feel worse. When she asked why she had to feel this way I told her that I feared it was Mommy's medicine making her feel badly. She asked, "How am I getting Mommy's medicine?" to which I replied, "From Mommy's boo boo's." And then I knew. We were going to stop here. I felt a real sadness for her and for myself. We were close. I had this one comfort to offer her that no one else could offer. She could fall asleep, have her fears allayed when she was with Mommy. Then I wondered, is she healthier because I have been nursing her? Am I throwing her out into germ-infested territory without her armor? My heart broke. But I knew that she would have to stop one day and this seemed like the perfect time.
The first nights were tough. The poor soul just didn't know where to go, what to do to fall asleep. We would snuggle, Lily, Virginie, and I, huddled together in their bed. I would pet Virginie's cheek and she would hold my hair. With my free hand, I would reach behind me and hug Lily. Lily would tell Virginie, "You are a big girl. You don't need boo boo's." And we would not break the chain until they had fallen asleep.
It has been nine days. Early this morning, Virginie asked for boo boo's as she groggily rolled over. (Yes, I was in the bed with them, having gotten up and out, up and out about three times, I finally decided to just stay put.) I told her, "No, girl baby, you are a big girl. Would you like your water?" She took that, drank mightily and snuggled into my arms where she slept until Lily kissed us both awake.
The weaning is complete. She won't go back and my body is reclaiming itself. My breasts are tight and sore as the milk dries up. When I am able I put cold compresses on them to give some relief. I feel like Virginie has suddenly embraced going to the potty with gusto and has been empowered to be her own big girl. I don't really know though. It's my job to lead her through these moments and to keep her close until she can stand on her own and then stay nearby to steady her. She might not take my milk, but everything else I have to give is hers. I have two big girls now and Mommy's sense of self is returning as well.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Had I been chosen as TIME's cover model, I think the outrage/interest/press would have been much different. Firstly, I am a 40-something, black woman, hardly a subject to get everyone's hair standing on end. Images of brown people nursing their babies have been prevalent in National Geographic, and other anthropological stories for years, and have clearly been deemed not as enticing, intriguing, or seductive as a twenty-something, leggy blond with a big boy hanging from her breast. Secondly, I have a little girl, so the sexualizing of this act would be completely negated. And there wouldn't be, as there has never been, a moment where my dear Virginie would be standing on a stool reaching up for my open breast. She nursed at night as a way to fall asleep, to feel comforted and secure. She did not nurse in the day time and certainly not in public.
For years living in Barbados, I would talk to people in different mommy groups about weaning the peanut. So much so that one woman would always ask upon seeing me if "she was off yet." I don't know why I offered it up, why I continued to engage in the dialogue as I cannot say with any conviction that I was actually trying that hard to get her off. I talked to her doctor about putting aloe, which grew in abundance in our garden, on my nipples as a deterrent. Apparently it is non-toxic but the taste is bitter and offensive which would leave my baby feeling disgusted by my breasts and force her to stop nursing. Vinegar and soy sauce were also recommended. I didn't want Virginie to find me disgusting and therefore turn from a true, tangible representation of nurturing.
I was offered "scientific" data by my landlord in Barbados that breastmilk actually wasn't so great for babies after all, with all the toxins and airborne particles and chemicals I'd breathed in and then passed on to the wee one. I'd heard that her teeth would be misshapen if she ever fell asleep still nursing and that I would never get a good night's sleep until she stopped. (This last one might be true as I cannot recall having a good night's sleep since 2005, before the first person arrived!)
Perhaps I was too sensitive to the feeling of neglect and the need for children to feel nurtured, cared for or maybe I just really felt she would move on when she was ready, but I just didn't push it. It was private, personal, and unless I mentioned it or someone spent the night, no one would ever have known. I cannot say that it did not drive my husband insane, feeling like his boob time was being taken over by a toddler or fearing that somehow this attachment would make her, well, too attached. But anyone who has met Virginie will attest to the fact that she pretty much runs her own and everyone else's show for that matter. There was some concern that we couldn't ever go anywhere or be away for too long as she would only fall asleep with me, but we really hadn't gotten there yet. To the leaving them with other people place, I mean.
There were plenty of people, mostly, well, only mothers, who discovered our little secret and wished me well, congratulated me, cheered me on for my choice. I was often told that "I wish I could still nurse. I wish I'd had the stamina. It's so good for them." And I felt good. The shame and embarrassment subsiding and the pride of taking good care, being seen as a good mother for my "sacrifice" flushing my cheeks.
I wasn't making a political choice, did not push my methods on anyone else, never lectured about how good the breast is for kids, or quoted statistics about the good health of kids who were nursed longer than one year. I couldn't know if these statements were true and actually didn't care. I know that Virginie was not ready to stop. I was too tired to sit up with her for the days required to break her. (I did actually try for one two-night period to just deny her and offer juice or water. After the five hour stand off on the second night I figured she could nurse the tatas to my knees, I just could not spend another night like that.)
We would reach milestones--eighteen months, two years, two and a half years--and I would say, I am going to stop nursing this child. She is fully conversant for goodness sake! She will eat a slice of pizza and then ask for boo boo's. At her daycare center, the teachers convinced Virginie to give up the paci by telling her that she was now a big girl and no longer needed it. I am grateful for their help, truly, but I'd hoped to let the paci placate her as I moved her off the boobs. Once the paci was gone, it was just a question of willpower, and though I consider myself pretty strong, a warrior-mama even, I am no match for this thing.
And then came the antibiotics. I needed to take them for an infection and nursed Virginie one night without even thinking. She called me in the middle of the night and asked me "not to see her" which is a euphemism for "I am pooing, please give me some privacy." It was 2 AM. By 2:50, she had gone and been changed four more times. I could not figure out what the heck was up with this child as she'd eaten as she did every day, had not complained of a stomachache or any pain or discomfort, but was here with diarrhea in the middle of the night. I gave her some Pedialyte which, believe me, is nearly impossible to administer as it is miserably disgusting to drink, and some Cheerios and tucked her back into bed. She finally went to sleep without another episode. In the morning, my stomach felt as hers had all night and I remembered my reaction to antibiotics. Ahhhh. The upset stomach, pain, cramping, diarrhea. Then the light went off.
Virginie, like most of us, hates having diarrhea and like most little ones, too much "going" gives a little rash which made her feel worse. When she asked why she had to feel this way I told her that I feared it was Mommy's medicine making her feel badly. She asked, "How am I getting Mommy's medicine?" to which I replied, "From Mommy's boo boo's." And then I knew. We were going to stop here. I felt a real sadness for her and for myself. We were close. I had this one comfort to offer her that no one else could offer. She could fall asleep, have her fears allayed when she was with Mommy. Then I wondered, is she healthier because I have been nursing her? Am I throwing her out into germ-infested territory without her armor? My heart broke. But I knew that she would have to stop one day and this seemed like the perfect time.
The first nights were tough. The poor soul just didn't know where to go, what to do to fall asleep. We would snuggle, Lily, Virginie, and I, huddled together in their bed. I would pet Virginie's cheek and she would hold my hair. With my free hand, I would reach behind me and hug Lily. Lily would tell Virginie, "You are a big girl. You don't need boo boo's." And we would not break the chain until they had fallen asleep.
It has been nine days. Early this morning, Virginie asked for boo boo's as she groggily rolled over. (Yes, I was in the bed with them, having gotten up and out, up and out about three times, I finally decided to just stay put.) I told her, "No, girl baby, you are a big girl. Would you like your water?" She took that, drank mightily and snuggled into my arms where she slept until Lily kissed us both awake.
The weaning is complete. She won't go back and my body is reclaiming itself. My breasts are tight and sore as the milk dries up. When I am able I put cold compresses on them to give some relief. I feel like Virginie has suddenly embraced going to the potty with gusto and has been empowered to be her own big girl. I don't really know though. It's my job to lead her through these moments and to keep her close until she can stand on her own and then stay nearby to steady her. She might not take my milk, but everything else I have to give is hers. I have two big girls now and Mommy's sense of self is returning as well.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Shock of the Newt
For months now, Lily has been asking, demanding, insisting that a guinea pig make its debut as a family member on her birthday. We have been hemming and hawing, making alternate suggestions, serving up "I don't know's" and "are you sure's" like an all you can eat buffet. I can't speak for my husband, but I know that I really could not imagine that a huge hamster with sharp teeth that poops in the cage and just runs back and forth and eats salad, was going to live anywhere in my house. How would that go down? I know how this works. Mommy is left cleaning out the cage while hoping that with the gate open the poor thing does not make a break for it.
Lily's kindergarten teacher offered the solution. A letter sent home in the folder asking if anyone would so kindly take the three classroom newts and one crab off her hands for summer. I, at first, pretended I didn't see the note, hoping that dear Lily would not include in her grating love of all animals with--what is that?-- a small salamander or lizard or something? But she got the gene and was at my heels before I could even turn on them begging for the chance to take one of the newts. "Oh Mommy, you have to see them. They are so cute. You will love them." Cool, right? I sent an email request to her teacher but did warn Lily that probably all the other kids in class would want to host the little thing and that we just might not have been quick enough with our request. Oh woe is me. My levels of efficiency betray me every time. Though I thought I'd waited a good amount of time since the letter's delivery, it seems that all the other parents were much savvier than I. Our request came first. I was even offered all the newts should no one else come forward. Huh?
When I was a little older than Lily, probably 8 or 9, I stood in a pet shop window bawling over a chihuahua puppy who was as in love with me as I was with him, at least his soft, wet brown eyes and sweet face kept telling me. I begged and pleaded for this dog, offered all other gifts given to me in exchange for what I knew would be my lifelong friend. My dad wasn't having it. Probably didn't even see my tears or hear my pleading. I waited for my puppy's tiny, fuzzy face that Christmas morning and did not see him. Just a microscope, a chemistry set, and some clothes and things that WERE NOT HIM. I wanted to give my child, to the best of my ability, what she longed for. Especially as I knew it couldn't be that difficult (could it?) to take care of a lizardy thing in a box.
When the exchange was made on the playground, Lily's teacher handed me a scared little thing in some murky water with a bit of white sand at the bottom. "What do I feed it?" I asked. "What does he like?" Her response was something along the lines of "I've never fed him. He seems to like eating some worms or things in there." Oh, ok. "And what about the water? Do I need to clean this tank or put some other things in it?" She replied that she'd never cleaned the water and that I should look it up on Google. Cool.
Well anyone who knows me knows that my MO involves intense research followed by an immediate need to rectify any wrongs. It was all wrong. It was no surprise that one of these things had died before ever getting to anyone's home. The water needs to be changed almost every four days! There is a food, similar to fish food that has to be served at least every other day! The thing was climbing the walls because the dirty water was burning his poor skin like acid! The hubby generously agreed to race out to PetSmart and get all the right stuff--plastic shrubs, rocks, new sand, and food for our new pet, dubbed Newty by the ladies. When the girls awoke, they found Newty relaxing in a newt's paradise or so it seemed.
Our dear newt, renamed Baby Dragon after the classmate with the otherlive specimen chose to call his "Little Dragon," did not much care for swimming and preferred reclining on a big rock or resting in the plastic trees. Didier and I check on him every day and while Lily does seem to care for him, she also continues to ask if, for her birthday, she will rise and shine to the beady eyes and soft, rolling body of a guinea pig.
I don't know. Maybe. I'm not prepared to host a menagerie in my home but I love the looks on the girls' faces when they see these little things do interesting things. It gives them a respect for life, a curiosity, and except for cage cleaning (thank you, husband for all your efforts), I am up to the challenge. It's the new style. And it ain't a dog.
(c) 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Lily's kindergarten teacher offered the solution. A letter sent home in the folder asking if anyone would so kindly take the three classroom newts and one crab off her hands for summer. I, at first, pretended I didn't see the note, hoping that dear Lily would not include in her grating love of all animals with--what is that?-- a small salamander or lizard or something? But she got the gene and was at my heels before I could even turn on them begging for the chance to take one of the newts. "Oh Mommy, you have to see them. They are so cute. You will love them." Cool, right? I sent an email request to her teacher but did warn Lily that probably all the other kids in class would want to host the little thing and that we just might not have been quick enough with our request. Oh woe is me. My levels of efficiency betray me every time. Though I thought I'd waited a good amount of time since the letter's delivery, it seems that all the other parents were much savvier than I. Our request came first. I was even offered all the newts should no one else come forward. Huh?
When I was a little older than Lily, probably 8 or 9, I stood in a pet shop window bawling over a chihuahua puppy who was as in love with me as I was with him, at least his soft, wet brown eyes and sweet face kept telling me. I begged and pleaded for this dog, offered all other gifts given to me in exchange for what I knew would be my lifelong friend. My dad wasn't having it. Probably didn't even see my tears or hear my pleading. I waited for my puppy's tiny, fuzzy face that Christmas morning and did not see him. Just a microscope, a chemistry set, and some clothes and things that WERE NOT HIM. I wanted to give my child, to the best of my ability, what she longed for. Especially as I knew it couldn't be that difficult (could it?) to take care of a lizardy thing in a box.
When the exchange was made on the playground, Lily's teacher handed me a scared little thing in some murky water with a bit of white sand at the bottom. "What do I feed it?" I asked. "What does he like?" Her response was something along the lines of "I've never fed him. He seems to like eating some worms or things in there." Oh, ok. "And what about the water? Do I need to clean this tank or put some other things in it?" She replied that she'd never cleaned the water and that I should look it up on Google. Cool.
Well anyone who knows me knows that my MO involves intense research followed by an immediate need to rectify any wrongs. It was all wrong. It was no surprise that one of these things had died before ever getting to anyone's home. The water needs to be changed almost every four days! There is a food, similar to fish food that has to be served at least every other day! The thing was climbing the walls because the dirty water was burning his poor skin like acid! The hubby generously agreed to race out to PetSmart and get all the right stuff--plastic shrubs, rocks, new sand, and food for our new pet, dubbed Newty by the ladies. When the girls awoke, they found Newty relaxing in a newt's paradise or so it seemed.
Our dear newt, renamed Baby Dragon after the classmate with the otherlive specimen chose to call his "Little Dragon," did not much care for swimming and preferred reclining on a big rock or resting in the plastic trees. Didier and I check on him every day and while Lily does seem to care for him, she also continues to ask if, for her birthday, she will rise and shine to the beady eyes and soft, rolling body of a guinea pig.
I don't know. Maybe. I'm not prepared to host a menagerie in my home but I love the looks on the girls' faces when they see these little things do interesting things. It gives them a respect for life, a curiosity, and except for cage cleaning (thank you, husband for all your efforts), I am up to the challenge. It's the new style. And it ain't a dog.
(c) 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Tight quarters
We've had guests for weeks and though there is nothing personal, I look forward to the return of my space and the spaces of the people. Lily and Virginie are this week sleeping in the bedroom with Didier and me as every occupyable space is indeed occupied. On the first, foolishly unplanned evening, I thought we might all sleep in our king-sized bed. We've surely done it many times before, but usually as a "staggering, almost six year old, after night time potty break wandering into the room" followed by "wailing three year old bolting upright alone in the bed, come and get me and let me in with you" kind of way. No, the first evening, I tucked the girls into our bed, told them that Mommy and Papa would be in shortly, and closed the door on the sleeping cherubs. When the hubby and I retired for the evening we found that those tiny people had morphed into life sized X marks that left only slits and slivers of sleeping space for the two adult sized folks. I put six pillows on the floor and fancied a mattress. When I say fancied I really mean that with no cushion or comfort whatsoever, I put my 40-something ass on the hardwood floor and tried to go to sleep. There was no success that night and my neck, back, and hip still hurt.
My friend and neighbor has since loaned us an Aero bed. I received it with delight, enthusiasm, and hope. Easy enough for a completely untech savvy person like myself to inflate, that floating paradise on the floor next to our bed looked exciting enough for the girls to declare every night Aero bed night. Yay. But that was until it was actually time to go to bed. At bedtime they were eager to jump on it to catapult themselves onto our bed (which I did not let them do, the catapulting I mean). So I let them start out in our bed and vowed silently to move them in the middle of the night. And I did, easily, then passed out in the incredibly comfortable bed in which I have slept too little.
I was thrown from the bed, actually shot to the ceiling at the shrieking three year old on the floor mattress who declared herself hungry and asked me to go make her a hot dog at 3 am. All the energy in the room woke the almost six year old who immediately climbed into our bed with her Papa. I went to the kitchen to get a bag of honey wheat pretzels, as I had no intentions of cooking a hot dog, and got onto the air mattress with the three year old with the middle night munchies. I spent another night contorted and twisted. My knee is giving out a little when I walk.
Last night I had the pleasure of both girls waking some time around 3 or 4 am and fighting over whose side it indeed was where they were snuggled in our bed, so I forced them both to get off said bed and go to the mattress. Both began to wail (awesome) so I told Lily to shut it and got down onto the mattress with her and cuddled her, laying kisses at her ear. Just as we were both drifting, Virginie slid down from the master bed onto the mattress with us. "I want to be with you, Mommy." Yay. With Lily pressed against me at the front and Virginie wedged behind me at the back, I felt as though I were sleeping in a human body cast, completely unable to take full breaths and when attempting even the slightest movement getting a mouthful of hair or a knee to the stomach. I woke at 7 am not sure I'd actually slept.
We've four more days living our lives in one room. The novelty has worn off even for the girls and though they love their guests, they long for their own bed, their own room, their own things. Sneaking into Mommy and Papa's bed is only fun when you get to do it on your own terms, not when forced to stay. We are all weary and stretched thin by our tight quarters, some of us a little too old, and some a little too young to be as flexible as we might be. While I rarely spend a full night in my own bed, often making a space in the girls' bed to cuddle up with those wiggly yummies, I look forward to even the idea of my own space again.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind, 2012.
My friend and neighbor has since loaned us an Aero bed. I received it with delight, enthusiasm, and hope. Easy enough for a completely untech savvy person like myself to inflate, that floating paradise on the floor next to our bed looked exciting enough for the girls to declare every night Aero bed night. Yay. But that was until it was actually time to go to bed. At bedtime they were eager to jump on it to catapult themselves onto our bed (which I did not let them do, the catapulting I mean). So I let them start out in our bed and vowed silently to move them in the middle of the night. And I did, easily, then passed out in the incredibly comfortable bed in which I have slept too little.
I was thrown from the bed, actually shot to the ceiling at the shrieking three year old on the floor mattress who declared herself hungry and asked me to go make her a hot dog at 3 am. All the energy in the room woke the almost six year old who immediately climbed into our bed with her Papa. I went to the kitchen to get a bag of honey wheat pretzels, as I had no intentions of cooking a hot dog, and got onto the air mattress with the three year old with the middle night munchies. I spent another night contorted and twisted. My knee is giving out a little when I walk.
Last night I had the pleasure of both girls waking some time around 3 or 4 am and fighting over whose side it indeed was where they were snuggled in our bed, so I forced them both to get off said bed and go to the mattress. Both began to wail (awesome) so I told Lily to shut it and got down onto the mattress with her and cuddled her, laying kisses at her ear. Just as we were both drifting, Virginie slid down from the master bed onto the mattress with us. "I want to be with you, Mommy." Yay. With Lily pressed against me at the front and Virginie wedged behind me at the back, I felt as though I were sleeping in a human body cast, completely unable to take full breaths and when attempting even the slightest movement getting a mouthful of hair or a knee to the stomach. I woke at 7 am not sure I'd actually slept.
We've four more days living our lives in one room. The novelty has worn off even for the girls and though they love their guests, they long for their own bed, their own room, their own things. Sneaking into Mommy and Papa's bed is only fun when you get to do it on your own terms, not when forced to stay. We are all weary and stretched thin by our tight quarters, some of us a little too old, and some a little too young to be as flexible as we might be. While I rarely spend a full night in my own bed, often making a space in the girls' bed to cuddle up with those wiggly yummies, I look forward to even the idea of my own space again.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind, 2012.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Deli counter guidance
After dropping the girls to their respective schools and listening to Karl and Gugl spit back all the rhymes and rhythms that Virginie was sending their way on the iPad, I arrived twenty minutes early to my yearly physical. This was my second time around, as the first visit a few months back ended with my having a miserable migraine complete with halos, auras, and vomiting. I was also going to share with my dear doctor the details of my recent hospital visit for an anxiety-induced hallucination of a heart attack and general panicked state that I am living in. I thought I should get there early.
At present, I am in incredible health, save the anxiety, which has left me relieved but also confused. So many people have reached out to me to share stories of high anxiety and panic that have ruled their lives at various stages. I have heard from the medicated, the meditated, the yoga'ed and the illicit-substanced. It all tells me the same thing. Modern life is just wrecking our fragile souls. Those with kids and those without. Those with lots of money in their coffers and those who are struggling day to day. Even when we tell ourselves that we are doing it, thriving, achieving, something can come along and just flip you on your ass. I am all about the positive thinking. I believe in it, believe it works, think it connects us all and prevents us from feeling the loneliness and alienation that getting trapped in our own dramas can produce. And yet I am still twitching inside, chomping at the bit to be released from the gate to get into that race with whom? With myself?
I stopped at the grocery store after my appointment to get some snacks for the people. We will more than likely be home alone this weekend and far into next week due to the hubby's work schedule, so I wanted them to have some special treats. I have always held that no matter what my mood or anyone else's really, there is no reason to take it out on people I encounter on the street, in the store,or at home (if I can help it). There was a young man behind the deli counter eagerly awaiting customers. I heard him bantering with his colleagues and his tone was a little geeky, awkward, but kind. I asked for some turkey but was indecisive, so he came around the counter to show me the different kinds of turkey with his little review of each. After making my selection (the not so exciting Boar's Head Roast Turkey as the girls don't love "spicy") I asked if he could have someone help me with the fish. In the hopes of changing it up for my basic food group eating ninja princesses, I wanted to make some tilapia, boring to the chef husband, but heaven to the girlies. My deli guy tells me that no one is over there but he "would gladly help me." He chose some lovely fillets and wrapped them beautifully, tossing out the paper when he didn't think he'd done a neat enough job. I thanked him and we wished each other a wonderful Memorial Day Weekend and I paid at the cashier and left.
When I unwrapped the turkey at home, I was struck by how wonderfully it was presented. Cut well, wrapped so that the slices did not disintegrate or crumble as soon as I touched them, with a piece of wax paper placed in the fold to make it easier to peel off. I know how silly this sounds but I have to tell you, given the events of the past days, I was so touched to find someone still taking joy, at least pride, in his work. This young man was kind, decent, helpful, and did his job quietly and with care. His energy brought me back to this stratosphere and I stopped, for at least five minutes, bugging out about something, who knows what. It felt good to be a part of this collective, all of us, instead of trapped in my thoughts, my fears, my terrors.
In the strangest places, we can find the signs. We get the clues. I don't know this man, don't know what he is going through in this life, what ails him, when or why he hurts, but I know that today, he showed me himself at his best with dignity, pride, and compassion and it made me want to do it too. For just a moment, it took me out of my anxiety, away from my stress, and reconnected me with the everyday.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
At present, I am in incredible health, save the anxiety, which has left me relieved but also confused. So many people have reached out to me to share stories of high anxiety and panic that have ruled their lives at various stages. I have heard from the medicated, the meditated, the yoga'ed and the illicit-substanced. It all tells me the same thing. Modern life is just wrecking our fragile souls. Those with kids and those without. Those with lots of money in their coffers and those who are struggling day to day. Even when we tell ourselves that we are doing it, thriving, achieving, something can come along and just flip you on your ass. I am all about the positive thinking. I believe in it, believe it works, think it connects us all and prevents us from feeling the loneliness and alienation that getting trapped in our own dramas can produce. And yet I am still twitching inside, chomping at the bit to be released from the gate to get into that race with whom? With myself?
I stopped at the grocery store after my appointment to get some snacks for the people. We will more than likely be home alone this weekend and far into next week due to the hubby's work schedule, so I wanted them to have some special treats. I have always held that no matter what my mood or anyone else's really, there is no reason to take it out on people I encounter on the street, in the store,or at home (if I can help it). There was a young man behind the deli counter eagerly awaiting customers. I heard him bantering with his colleagues and his tone was a little geeky, awkward, but kind. I asked for some turkey but was indecisive, so he came around the counter to show me the different kinds of turkey with his little review of each. After making my selection (the not so exciting Boar's Head Roast Turkey as the girls don't love "spicy") I asked if he could have someone help me with the fish. In the hopes of changing it up for my basic food group eating ninja princesses, I wanted to make some tilapia, boring to the chef husband, but heaven to the girlies. My deli guy tells me that no one is over there but he "would gladly help me." He chose some lovely fillets and wrapped them beautifully, tossing out the paper when he didn't think he'd done a neat enough job. I thanked him and we wished each other a wonderful Memorial Day Weekend and I paid at the cashier and left.
When I unwrapped the turkey at home, I was struck by how wonderfully it was presented. Cut well, wrapped so that the slices did not disintegrate or crumble as soon as I touched them, with a piece of wax paper placed in the fold to make it easier to peel off. I know how silly this sounds but I have to tell you, given the events of the past days, I was so touched to find someone still taking joy, at least pride, in his work. This young man was kind, decent, helpful, and did his job quietly and with care. His energy brought me back to this stratosphere and I stopped, for at least five minutes, bugging out about something, who knows what. It felt good to be a part of this collective, all of us, instead of trapped in my thoughts, my fears, my terrors.
In the strangest places, we can find the signs. We get the clues. I don't know this man, don't know what he is going through in this life, what ails him, when or why he hurts, but I know that today, he showed me himself at his best with dignity, pride, and compassion and it made me want to do it too. For just a moment, it took me out of my anxiety, away from my stress, and reconnected me with the everyday.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Nobody Panic! Get on the floor!
I'd been pacing around the house that evening, folding laundry, running a bath for the girls, chatting on the phone, putting toys away, catching glimpses of the news, local, so mostly fires, stabbings, and kidnappings with a little bit of the weather and traffic report to keep me interested. Once I'd gotten the girls in the tub, earlier than usual because we'd been trapped inside after school because of the rain, I started to feel faint, a little light-headed, and a bit spacey. I sat on the toilet seat while the girls bathed (played) and started to tell them about 911, what to do in an emergency, where to go (downstairs), where not to (out the door and up the street). I told them that I would write telephone numbers on the fridge and that we would practice dialing them. They were confused. I was too. I really had no idea why I suddenly felt like they had to have this information RIGHT.NOW. I said that were I to faint, that would be the signal to call 911 and to wait for them to ask certain questions. We have been working on our address and other important information but Lily was most confused about fainting. "What is fainting?" she asked and when I showed her, both girls stood up in the tub and promptly begged me not to do that.
I didn't faint. I did stay down on the ground for a bit though giving them a "demo." When I stood up, the room started to spin and I felt like I would throw up. I was hot and clammy and then my chest started to hurt on the left side. It felt like a three hundred pound person was sitting on my chest and my breathing became more and more labored as I gasped for full breaths. When my hand started to tingle and my fingers went numb, I freaked. I didn't call 911 as I had instructed the girls to do. I had them get out of the tub and get on their pajamas and I called my sister. I told her I thought I was having a heart attack and that I didn't want to die in front of the girls. She tried desperately to convince me that I wasn't having a heart attack, but a panic attack. She asked if I was pacing up and down in fear that if I stopped I would drop. I answered, "Yes" but I still felt like I was going to drop to the floor. I got off the phone with her and called my friend Tiffany and asked her to come over right away. I told her I thought I should call 911 but needed someone to stay with the girls.
I smiled at the girls as they got dressed, put on the television for them, pet their faces, and tried to reassure them with my facial expressions and gestures that everything was fine. Then I called 911 and told them I feared I was having a heart attack. Tiffany arrived minutes before the EMTs and then it all broke loose. Here's how I presented. Forty-two year old, African-American female, with no history of heart disease or diabetes complaining of chest pain, numbness, and shortness of breath. I am afraid to stand up, am a bit hot but dry and they are looking for clammy. Tiffany is distracting the girls, but I can see Lily peering at me, stealing glances, trying to understand what all the commotion is about. There are three large men in uniform in our house looking at me, attaching electrodes, taking my blood pressure, touching my forehead, telling me I should go to the hospital. I go because I want to be sure. I am leery because I can only imagine the cost. Imagine that choice. Thank you, US healthcare system.
After a few hours of tests, blood sampling, chest x-rays, blood pressure reviews, I realize, as does everyone else involved, that I am not having a heart attack. And I want to go home. I am tired. I am cold. I am hungry and I am just wondering how I got to this place. This place where I am living in such a heightened state of anxiety that panic and fear has overtaken my senses. I have been this way for a while yet never considered this toll. My body is kind of over me and just cannot hack this program anymore. The postpartum in Barbados. The absolute stress, terror, and isolation that came with living there. The disconnect from everyone and everything I had known. The near complete breakdown of my marriage. The realization that there are very few people in our lives, certainly in mine, who can walk with me. (Those who do, do it with aplomb and I am sincerely grateful. But I am a fool who often tries to get "blood from a stone" and suffers greatly for that.) The feeling like a freak, being overwhelmed at mommying, scared I will scar my kids as I have been. It is all too much.
Months ago I started a new behavioral therapy. It has truly changed me and I think for the better. It is called EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) which
But first I had to feel like I was having a heart attack. Because these images, these thoughts, these feelings, this pain, this hurt cannot come up and go away so easily. And as I allow myself to acknowledge them, not rationalize them, it hurts. Badly. So I thought I was dying, having a heart attack. In some ways I am. I am letting go of that scared little girl who doesn't trust anyone or anything in the world and trying to hold hands with the people who really love me and only those people. I am trying to seek out the joy and not always prepare for the pain or the letdown. I am holding other people accountable and not just blaming myself when they hurt me! I am screaming "Uncle!" when I have had too much and am not apologizing for having a lower threshold than expected especially when I have proven time and time again that my threshold is pretty damned high.
This pressure, this panic, anxiety can kill you and I still have too much to share. I am off the floor but I am limping to the door. I want to go outside without my shoes on, laugh my head off , tickle and be tickled. I can't let go of my past, but I surely don't want it to be the definition of me, just a marker on the road. And if I am to pass in front of my children, I want to be a supremely old lady who has lived an incredible life, shared with wonderful people, not taken the small things so seriously that they destroy me, and to have loved, loved, loved.
(c) Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
I didn't faint. I did stay down on the ground for a bit though giving them a "demo." When I stood up, the room started to spin and I felt like I would throw up. I was hot and clammy and then my chest started to hurt on the left side. It felt like a three hundred pound person was sitting on my chest and my breathing became more and more labored as I gasped for full breaths. When my hand started to tingle and my fingers went numb, I freaked. I didn't call 911 as I had instructed the girls to do. I had them get out of the tub and get on their pajamas and I called my sister. I told her I thought I was having a heart attack and that I didn't want to die in front of the girls. She tried desperately to convince me that I wasn't having a heart attack, but a panic attack. She asked if I was pacing up and down in fear that if I stopped I would drop. I answered, "Yes" but I still felt like I was going to drop to the floor. I got off the phone with her and called my friend Tiffany and asked her to come over right away. I told her I thought I should call 911 but needed someone to stay with the girls.
I smiled at the girls as they got dressed, put on the television for them, pet their faces, and tried to reassure them with my facial expressions and gestures that everything was fine. Then I called 911 and told them I feared I was having a heart attack. Tiffany arrived minutes before the EMTs and then it all broke loose. Here's how I presented. Forty-two year old, African-American female, with no history of heart disease or diabetes complaining of chest pain, numbness, and shortness of breath. I am afraid to stand up, am a bit hot but dry and they are looking for clammy. Tiffany is distracting the girls, but I can see Lily peering at me, stealing glances, trying to understand what all the commotion is about. There are three large men in uniform in our house looking at me, attaching electrodes, taking my blood pressure, touching my forehead, telling me I should go to the hospital. I go because I want to be sure. I am leery because I can only imagine the cost. Imagine that choice. Thank you, US healthcare system.
After a few hours of tests, blood sampling, chest x-rays, blood pressure reviews, I realize, as does everyone else involved, that I am not having a heart attack. And I want to go home. I am tired. I am cold. I am hungry and I am just wondering how I got to this place. This place where I am living in such a heightened state of anxiety that panic and fear has overtaken my senses. I have been this way for a while yet never considered this toll. My body is kind of over me and just cannot hack this program anymore. The postpartum in Barbados. The absolute stress, terror, and isolation that came with living there. The disconnect from everyone and everything I had known. The near complete breakdown of my marriage. The realization that there are very few people in our lives, certainly in mine, who can walk with me. (Those who do, do it with aplomb and I am sincerely grateful. But I am a fool who often tries to get "blood from a stone" and suffers greatly for that.) The feeling like a freak, being overwhelmed at mommying, scared I will scar my kids as I have been. It is all too much.
Months ago I started a new behavioral therapy. It has truly changed me and I think for the better. It is called EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) which
But first I had to feel like I was having a heart attack. Because these images, these thoughts, these feelings, this pain, this hurt cannot come up and go away so easily. And as I allow myself to acknowledge them, not rationalize them, it hurts. Badly. So I thought I was dying, having a heart attack. In some ways I am. I am letting go of that scared little girl who doesn't trust anyone or anything in the world and trying to hold hands with the people who really love me and only those people. I am trying to seek out the joy and not always prepare for the pain or the letdown. I am holding other people accountable and not just blaming myself when they hurt me! I am screaming "Uncle!" when I have had too much and am not apologizing for having a lower threshold than expected especially when I have proven time and time again that my threshold is pretty damned high.
This pressure, this panic, anxiety can kill you and I still have too much to share. I am off the floor but I am limping to the door. I want to go outside without my shoes on, laugh my head off , tickle and be tickled. I can't let go of my past, but I surely don't want it to be the definition of me, just a marker on the road. And if I am to pass in front of my children, I want to be a supremely old lady who has lived an incredible life, shared with wonderful people, not taken the small things so seriously that they destroy me, and to have loved, loved, loved.
(c) Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Staying up late
So now we have come to my favorite part of the night. That would be the time when, having taken anywhere from a 30 minute to 2 hour nap during the day, Virginie finds herself sitting on the couch with me while Lily sleeps. Usually this time is somewhere between 8:45 and 10:30 pm and renders it impossible for me to get a moment to myself before needing to go to sleep. Tonight, Virginie and I are up watching tv while I wait for her to nod off. She is talking my head off.
Yes, I know the rule. Don't change locations or you're dead. But we started off the night in my bed, all three of us, which is a special treat as nine times out of ten I say an emphatic no and wrangle them into their own bed with plushy animals, Barbies, water-filled sippies, tissues tucked under pillows. Lily passed out after rambling on about the unicorns and swan princesses, how much she loves her teacher, her desire for just a bunny, a hamster, a kitten, and a guinea pig and possibly a puppy as a gift for her teacher who loves them (so Lily tells me). I sat there silently, unmoving, hoping that Virginie too was about to drift off. No such luck. In the dark, nearly pitch, I hear the tiniest of voices whisper/whine "but I'm not tired. I want to go out there and stand."
And that's when I came out to the living room. To the second location. Where all bets were off. She saddled up to me on the couch with her Rapunzel Barbie, a blanket, her sippy cup with juice, taken from the fridge to replace "just the water. I don't want water, "and we snuggled together under that blanket watching the final performance night of "The Voice." I know, bonding with my child and yadda yadda yadda but it was 9 pm. I am responsible for the people from sun up to sundown and much later. I just need a few minutes, an hour, a little bit to be with myself and my thoughts and God willing be creative.
So tonight, as Virginie sat big-brown-eyed next to me flashing a level of extreme cuteness so intense even the Grumpy Old Troll would melt, I wrote and thought and thought some more about my life with these people. I love them so. I want to do better by them than was done by me. I let them stay up if they can't sleep and sit with me, snuggle, chat even when all I want is some alone time. I do still believe that I need that time, deserve it, owe it to myself but I don't have to hit them over the head with it. They are still in that "I'm the center of the universe" stage, and even though I do know some adults who have yet to move out of that stage, I know my girls will. It's my job to get them there, as it's my job to let them feel loved, respected, protected, and cared for.
In fairness to dear Virginie, she woke up at 6:45 am and was put down for a nap at school at one o'clock. She really wasn't tired tonight when bedtime rolled around. No matter the schedule I'd dreamed up, that chil' was not goin' nowhere near that bed. I had to change my program, do something other than I'd hoped until she was ready. It's a short time, this. I keep hearing that. All the mommies are out there shoutin' it. I do, I do, I do believe it. I do. But I want to create, to make things, to do. I want to be seen and heard and understood too. I love to talk to the girls about their hopes and dreams and whims and fantasies. But I want to express mine too.
I am staying up late again tonight. It's quiet and I am writing. Here. In a journal. On a manuscript. Everywhere I can get a thought out. And I am crying because this quiet time, night time, is one of my favorites and I am torn between wanting to share it with my girls, mark it on their souls as special time with Mommy or save it for myself as the same.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Yes, I know the rule. Don't change locations or you're dead. But we started off the night in my bed, all three of us, which is a special treat as nine times out of ten I say an emphatic no and wrangle them into their own bed with plushy animals, Barbies, water-filled sippies, tissues tucked under pillows. Lily passed out after rambling on about the unicorns and swan princesses, how much she loves her teacher, her desire for just a bunny, a hamster, a kitten, and a guinea pig and possibly a puppy as a gift for her teacher who loves them (so Lily tells me). I sat there silently, unmoving, hoping that Virginie too was about to drift off. No such luck. In the dark, nearly pitch, I hear the tiniest of voices whisper/whine "but I'm not tired. I want to go out there and stand."
And that's when I came out to the living room. To the second location. Where all bets were off. She saddled up to me on the couch with her Rapunzel Barbie, a blanket, her sippy cup with juice, taken from the fridge to replace "just the water. I don't want water, "and we snuggled together under that blanket watching the final performance night of "The Voice." I know, bonding with my child and yadda yadda yadda but it was 9 pm. I am responsible for the people from sun up to sundown and much later. I just need a few minutes, an hour, a little bit to be with myself and my thoughts and God willing be creative.
So tonight, as Virginie sat big-brown-eyed next to me flashing a level of extreme cuteness so intense even the Grumpy Old Troll would melt, I wrote and thought and thought some more about my life with these people. I love them so. I want to do better by them than was done by me. I let them stay up if they can't sleep and sit with me, snuggle, chat even when all I want is some alone time. I do still believe that I need that time, deserve it, owe it to myself but I don't have to hit them over the head with it. They are still in that "I'm the center of the universe" stage, and even though I do know some adults who have yet to move out of that stage, I know my girls will. It's my job to get them there, as it's my job to let them feel loved, respected, protected, and cared for.
In fairness to dear Virginie, she woke up at 6:45 am and was put down for a nap at school at one o'clock. She really wasn't tired tonight when bedtime rolled around. No matter the schedule I'd dreamed up, that chil' was not goin' nowhere near that bed. I had to change my program, do something other than I'd hoped until she was ready. It's a short time, this. I keep hearing that. All the mommies are out there shoutin' it. I do, I do, I do believe it. I do. But I want to create, to make things, to do. I want to be seen and heard and understood too. I love to talk to the girls about their hopes and dreams and whims and fantasies. But I want to express mine too.
I am staying up late again tonight. It's quiet and I am writing. Here. In a journal. On a manuscript. Everywhere I can get a thought out. And I am crying because this quiet time, night time, is one of my favorites and I am torn between wanting to share it with my girls, mark it on their souls as special time with Mommy or save it for myself as the same.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
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