The Only Cure for the Mean Reds

So it has been a while...
I'd like to say that I've been madly revising my manuscript, or working on something new, or even just being a good literary citizen and helping other writers...but no. I have not.

I had a party this past weekend and it was loads of fun. Two separate circles of friends met and interacted for the first time, and all was good. But it was exhausting. I'm an introvert by nature, so although I love people, they exhaust me. I came out of the weekend feeling deflated, like a party balloon someone let all the air out of. And then I encountered one of my many mood swings, and came down with what Holly Golightly dubbed the mean reds.

 "Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of."

And that's how I felt all of Sunday...and Monday...and Tuesday...and then some time around 8:30 last night I plopped myself down on the couch and started reading The Dog Year.
Full disclosure: I know the author. She is a kind and funny lady, and a very talented writer. Her humor is what drew me to the book. I thought to myself, She's funny, her book will cheer me up. And despite the fact that it's about a woman who loses her husband and unborn child in a single accident, and then in the wreckage of her life, attempts to fill the void by stealing things she doesn't need, it has done just that. I am loving every moment of it. The humor and candidness with which Garvin explores her protagonist's world is just perfect.
I plan on doing a more in-depth review of it and posting it here in a week. I still have a few more chapters to go, and the only thing keeping me from plowing though it in one go is the five month old currently kicking me in the shins.
When Holly Golightly comes down with a case of the mean reds, she finds herself at Tiffany's, eating her breakfast, sipping her coffee, and imagining a world in which all things are new and shiny and carelessly elegant. When I come down with the mean reds, I find a book. I imagine a world, not unlike our own, but filled with different people, different problems. I tell myself a story, or I find someone else to. A world with books can't be all that bad.

Milestones & Self Worth

This is something I swore I'd never do: use my baby's milestones as a measure of my own self-worth.
It's ridiculous, and I see parents do it all the time. "Little Johnny is already sleeping through the night!" often comes across as "I'm better at this whole parenting thing than you are." It's a hard line to toe, but it's an important one to keep in mind. I have to keep myself in check all the time.

This becomes extra difficult when, as parents, we internalize our children's failures as well as their successes. If munchkin stops sleeping well, I think about what I did to mess it up. If she develops slowly in one area, how am I failing her in that area? Those can make the successes all that much more important.

Don't brag

It's important to share happy milestones, but I have to make sure that we are sharing them with purpose. I catch myself talking about Munchkin's stellar sleeping or impressive tummy time without anyone else bringing those subjects up. For parents with kids that are struggling in those areas, it can be a painful reminder, so I try to keep conversations focused. I spend time to listen, and if and when I offer advice to a parent who seems stressed out, I try to not say, "You should do this," but rather, "This is what worked for us, but every kid is different." 

Keep it in perspective

Every kid is different, and every parent is different. Some children develop really fast at earlier stages, others at later stages. Everyone reaches milestones at different rates. The important thing is that kids are moving in the right direction. Sometimes, saying things like, "Munchkin is so easy now, I'm sure she'll be a handful in her toddler years," can diffuse the conversation from "look at how awesome my kid is," to, "let me share something exciting, and talk about my concerns for the future."  

Be Honest

Parenting is never easy. Sometimes, it's easier than other times, but it's always on a spectrum ranging from "the most difficult thing ever" to "Tough, but rewarding." I try to not let the happy moments dominate my conversation, just as, speaking about my career or hobbies or interests, I wouldn't let the negative moments dominate. I try to strike a balance between the positive and negative. Friends respond better, and it's a healthier way to evaluate my day. 

I have to remember that munchkin's failures and successes aren't all on me. As strange as it is, this little 5-month old is becoming her own person, with her own personality. It's my job to guide her, director, focus her, but she's the one behind that baby-sized wheel. 

Baptism By Vomit

Motherhood is not always a pretty state. Yesterday, munchkin spit up while I was holding her, and it went right into my mouth. Half-digested curds of my breast milk tasted much like I thought they would.

I am a first-time mother. I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time. I feel disgusting about 80% of my day, and I'm struggling with some mild post-partum depression. Right now, I'm watching Munchkin sleep on the baby monitor and feeling very happy at the state of things. At 11am this morning, I was crying at her crying at me.

When I first found out I was pregnant, I was so excited. Some of my friends had babies, and I had baby sat when I was a teenager. This would just be the next big thing in my life. I had no idea just how hard it would be.

Newborns are supposed to sleep away 90% of their day. Munchkin barely slept as soon as we took her home from the hospital. I still remember that first 48-hour period before we were discharged. She was quiet, calm, adorable. I kept just staring at her. She was perfect. I loved her. I felt good.

"How babies are in the hospital is a good indicator of how their mood will be once you leave," a nurse told me. She was wrong. So, so wrong.

Munchkin has had colic. I have had mood swings. My husband has had extra projects at work and extended hours. Things were chaos (and still are). As I got a handle on my moods, and got the swing of soothing munchkin, life has gotten sweeter. In the past few weeks I keep repeating the same thing over and over again. "I had no idea it would be like this." I didn't. I mean, I knew, logically, what it would be like. But I didn't really know, emotionally, physically, mentally.

There are no amount of classes you can take, books you can read, research you can do, to adequately prepare for this. I don't think it even matters if it's your first of fourth kid. Every child is different, even from the first days after birth. Every baby has different needs, a different personality. I knew when Munchkin tore her own hair out after her first real bath (real story) that she was going to be a dramatic and intense little girl. That wasn't in any baby books. I didn't see that sort of behavior in any documentaries. I wasn't prepared, but I handled it. I scooped her up in my arms when her little fingers wouldn't release their grasp. I held her and sang until her hand relaxed. I kissed her little chubby cheeks until she blinked and calmed. I coped with her screaming, her fussiness, her intensity.

I think that's what motherhood is about. I watch her, I learn, and I react. Motherhood (and parenthood in general) is a learn-as-you-go phenomena. It's baptism by vomit.

A Thesis & a Baby

This has been a pretty busy year for me so far. I had a baby in January, my husband and I are buying a house, and I just turned in my final copy of my thesis for my MFA. Since I've accomplished so much in just these past four months, I'm inclined to give myself a nice little pat on the back. Instead, I'm spending my evenings trying to figure out what's next (while packing, bedding down the munchkin, and trying to keep some order in the house).

I could continue on with school. I have, in fact, put in an application to Drexel University for an MS in Library Sciences. I'm very keen on continuing my education, both from a practical viewpoint (this degree could easily qualify me for a whole slew of other jobs, as well as defer my student loan payments and put me on a track for a pretty neat career), and from a philosophical viewpoint (I love learning new things). That being said, I'm not sure it's a good idea right now. Motherhood has sort of warped my world-view, and not necessarily in a bad way. I'm thinking about munchkin now, too, and how I want to spend time with her. School might inhibit my ability to focus on all of the milestones ahead, and before I make a commitment to another degree, I want to make sure it's the right thing for me (and for us).

I'm also trying my hand at adjuncting. I've put out a few applications, and I know I'd really love to teach again. I haven't taught on a professional level yet, just a few seminars and workshops, but I'd love a regular gig where I get to engage others on the topics of literature and language.

And of course, there's trying to get published. My novel is still a ways away from being shopable for agents. I'm waiting for the final word from my readers that I've passed, but I know I'll get some great feedback that I'll likely want to incorporate into another draft. Heck, I may even want to shelf it for a few months and give myself some distance. I'm at the point now where every time I read it I feel like I'm going blind. I have started submitting to smaller publications and more online venues as well. I just got the word that an essay I penned will be published on Scary Mommy later this month. I'm writing shorter pieces, essays and fiction, and I'm hoping to get my stuff out there.

I still have a ton going on, but with school winding down, and this new chapter of my life beginning, I can't help but feel a little scared by my lack of commitments. It's been a while since I didn't have a looming deadline, and I'm not sure if I can get used to the feeling.

House Hunters for the Rest of Us

My husband and I are finally looking to purchase a house, and as most others in our situation, we've been binge watching house hunters. I have to say, that it is the most annoying show in the world to watch, especially when you're house hunting on a very limited budget. The requests that people make are mostly ridiculous.

We were watching on episode in particular the other night, where a married couple absolutely needed a house that someone famous had lived in. This was a need. Do you want to know what my needs are for a house? A roof that won't leak, enough room for my munchkin to have her own bedroom, ceilings high enough that my 6-foot-tall husband and my 5-foot-nine self won't hit our heads on them, and a place that is safe enough to have a baby. And we're having a difficult time even finding something that meets those requirements in our price range. This is why I propose a realistic version of House Hunters. Maybe we can call it House Hunters: No Bullshit. What do you think?

Everything You Need to Know About Parenting

It seems like there are no shortage of parenting books out there. There are books on sleeping, feeding, burping, fussing, crying, pooping, growing and just all-around baby stuff. The amount of information available in print and online is overwhelming. I've compile what I believe to be the key facts when it comes to parenting.

• There is not a book in existence that will impart some sort of magical cure-all wisdom on you. Your baby will cry, even if she is the bestest, cutest, most happy baby in the universe, she will cry. 
• Whoever said "sleeping like a baby" deserves to be drawn and quartered. Sleeping is incredibly difficult for babies to do well. In fact, so is eating, having bowel movements, and just about everything else. Imagine someone asked you to walk a tightrope for the first time and expected you to not fall. Babies are like that, with EVERYTHING. 
• You're going to feel like shit. No matter what. No matter how much experience you have with kids, no matter how happy your baby is. You will give zero fucks about the actual facts (that your baby has survived and remains physically intact). You will have moments of sheer terror that you are ruining your perfect little munchkin for ever with whatever it is you're doing. Take a moment. Count your baby's fingers and toes. Ten of each? Success! Give yourself a pat on the back and marvel at the miracle that she is ALIVE and HEALTHY. If she isn't healthy? There are doctors, specialists, medicine, hospitals and so many more resources available to you. 
• Do NOT get involved in the mommy wars. Seriously. Everyone has their own parenting style. Everyone has their own methods that they swear by. It's fine if you do something different, just as it's fine if other people do something different. The good thing is, if you are working in what you believe to be your child's best interests, it's pretty hard to do something wrong. So, unless someone is causing physical harm to their child, keep your damn mouth shut about their parenting techniques. Everyone has their reasons for their choices. 
• Ask for help. Seriously, especially at first. With cooking, cleaning, changing diapers. You NEED to shower, it's imperative. It will make you feel like a human, so don't hesitate to ask for help so you can get a break. Our generation is one of the first generations to rear children without the 24-hour support net of extended family standing by. 
• Focus on the basics first. Don't worry about toys or play yards or any of that crap at first. Focus on the basics: food, diapers and sleep. 

I've only been a mom for two months, so take all that advice with a grain of salt. Actually, that's my last bit of advice. Take ALL advice with a grain of salt. No one's advice will work for every baby, every family, every day, etc. Follow your gut. 

How to Make a Pregnant Lady Feel Like Shit

I am thirteen weeks pregnant and finally feeling like something other than a zombie. I was showing off my “bump” at work. I felt happy and proud, like I finally was at a good place with this pregnancy, a place that I could enjoy. But as soon as that happy feeling came, it was washed away by the words of a friend when she said, “You really shouldn’t be showing until five months.”   She smiled. It was a chide, a little joke. Haha, you’re too big. I know she thought it was a light-hearted comment, something funny. But I didn’t. The truth is, I found it incredibly hurtful.

I’ve struggled with trying to have a healthy self-image since adolescence. My weight has yo-yoed since I was sixteen and I’ve been on both sides of the “healthy weight” line. Before I got pregnant, I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life. I felt disgusted with myself, defeated and ugly.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was incredibly happy, but also anxious. The nausea, vomiting and weight loss that accompanied my first two months didn’t help. I couldn’t stomach fruits or vegetables. Peanut butter and toast were my staple foods.  In fact, losing weight made me feel like I was already failing at being a mother, like I wasn’t able to do the most basic thing for my unborn baby—give it the nutrients it needs. Plus, the weight loss made me once again feel like I had no control over my own body.

My weight has stabilized. Although I haven’t gained any, I’ve stopped losing. According to my doctors, I’m healthy and according to my wardrobe, I’ve gone up two pants sizes from my pre-pregnancy size. I feel much better, but I’m still anxious about my body and my pregnancy.

While shopping for maternity clothes this past weekend, Husband worked really hard to make me feel comfortable with my changing body. He encouraged me to get outfits that accentuated my growing tummy and show off my “bump.” The trip was a success, and I left the store feeling much less overwhelmed and much more beautiful.

But then, today, my friend said those words.  “You really shouldn’t be showing until five months.”  All those good feeling immediately came undone.

Not only did what she say bring back my insecurities about my body, and my pregnancy, but it is also completely inaccurate. Most women begin showing between 12-20 weeks for their first pregnancy, and every pregnancy is different (even pregnancies in the same woman). Some women begin showing as early as 8 weeks. Some women don’t show until they are 7 months. The strength of a woman’s abdominal muscles, how many kids she’s had before, and the tilt of a woman’s uterus, can affect how early a woman begins to show.

As this person is both woman and a feminist, it surprised me that she thought it would be okay to say what my body should be looking like. At the moment, I was stunned into silence. A nervous laugh is all that escaped my lips, along with the line, “Well, I was pudgy to begin with…”

I shouldn't feel this way. I know I have power over how I feel, and how other people’s words impact me. But at the same time, do I really have to put up with this? Seeing headlines in the wake of the birth of the royal baby have been bad enough—speculations on how quickly Kate will lose the baby weight, or the comparisons drawn between Kim Kardashian and Kate’s bodies during pregnancy.

My body is my own. I’m already under the care of a doctor (a person who is actually qualified to make judgments on my changing body during my pregnancy). I already have to put up with the media and society fueling my insecurities and anxieties, strangers making assumptions about my pregnancy and my person based solely on my body. Do I really have to put up with this from people I know too?  

Raised Without Religion

My family has had a tumultuous relationship with religion.

Both of my parents were raised Roman Catholic. My grandfather on my dad’s side was also Catholic, but his wife had been raised Baptist. She, in fact, was the daughter of a Baptist minister. She married the son of an Italian immigrant, a Roman Catholic, with olive skin. But from what I understand of my family lore, she didn't miss the Baptist church she grew up in. When she was a teenager, she witnessed a community member proclaim to the congregation that he had been living in sin, sleeping with another woman, disgracing his wife. Nana wasn't one for public proclamations, and her sense of empathy for the wife, who now was thrust into the community spotlight, made her enraged at this sort of outburst.

My mother’s parents were both raised Catholic, but divorced when my mother was a teenager. My mother recalls going to Catholic school and being able to tell which nuns were fooling around with which priests. She remembers asking questions, big questions, about life and science, with only “God’s plan,” as an answer. Her inquisitive mind could never quite accept that.

Granted, my family’s experiences aren’t meant to be representative of society’s. I’m sure many people have had wonderful and fulfilling experiences within their own churches and their own faiths. I tell you this to explain my parent’s choice, the choice to raise me without Religion.

No crosses hung in my house.  No Sunday school, no mass, no baptism, no confirmation. When I asked about God growing up, my parents would always preface any explanation with, “Some people believe…” And that was fine. They never hindered me from exploring my own faith, from discovering what it was I might believe in.

When my friends went to summer camp at the Christian Conference Center in town, I asked to try it out. My mother frowned, but allowed it. Everything there was fun and fine until the kids started singing songs I didn't know the words to. I didn't go back.

I read a book of Bible stories that my Grandmother (on my mother’s side) had purchased me. Highlighted, made notes. It all seemed so fascinating.

I asked to go to Mass at St. Joan of Arc Cathedral and my mother obliged. I was eager. I romanticized the idea of church. I drilled into my head the protocol before attending: the holy water, the cross you made on your chest, the kneeling. But forty-five minutes in and my butt hurt on the wooden pews. I had lost what the priest was saying. I felt bored.

After that, I read The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama. I studied Buddhism (as much as any eleven-year-old can). I researched Hinduism, Sikhism, Islam, Wicca. I dabbled in them, taking the parts I understood and applying them to my middle-school life, and then to adolescence. I meditated, I prayed, I read, I talked with practitioners.  

I began to have a vague understanding of my own beliefs. I knew I believed in something, but I didn’t dare name it.

My parents raised me without religion. But even without the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, or any other religious doctrine, they still raised me with compassion. They raised me with love and tolerance. They raised me to empathize with others, to participate within a community, to add to the fabric of society. And they raised me to learn.

Because of this upbringing, I had an amazing spiritual journey that stretched from my youth to my adulthood. I asked questions, and sometimes even found answers. And now, as an adult, I feel the strength in my own beliefs because I have tested them.