With Love, Worry

We were sitting in the pediatrician's office after my daughter's one-year well baby check.  She was in her diaper sitting in her daddy's lap, playing with a magazine, completely oblivious to what was about to happen.  I sat across from them, biting my lip and tapping my feet as the familiar pool of anxiety started to bubble in my stomach.

She has no idea, I thought to myself, looking at my beautiful daughter with her big, innocent grin.  She has no idea that the worst has yet to come.  

A light tapping on the door preceded the entrance of the resident who was going to give our daughter her vaccinations, followed closely by a flamboyant and talkative nurse who was there to guide him through it.  We agreed to let the young man give our daughter the injections as part of his training, though we shouldn't have.  The nurses who normally give the vaccinations get it over with within seconds:  Stab, stab, stab done.  The young man in the clean white coat took his time, and it seemed that just when the shock of one needle wore off and her crying wavered for even a second, another needle poked through her tender skin and the whole painful, scary process was repeated.  

Seeing the tears streaming down her cheeks as she sniffled and choked on her own misery was too much to bear, and I broke down with her.  We looked into each other's eyes, a baby in pain and her empathetic mother.  I held her close, apologizing and covering her in kisses, wet tears salty on my lips.  She eventually regained her composure but it took me a little more time.    

Then I wondered to myself, How can I go through this kind of stuff all over again? as I rubbed my belly, bulging with a son ready to be born within the next three weeks.  We packed ourselves up and took our daughter, now giggling and waving at strangers, to the lab to have her blood drawn as the bitter cherry on top of a horrible day.  How?

The Love, and the Worry, Grow On

We're curled up in bed together, happy to bid good-night to a long day.  The fan blowing gently, my fingers tapping on the keys, the occasional car driving by are the only sounds that permeate the silence as we lay here, Evie's back pressed against my stomach, both of my children sleeping motionless.  I know that these nights of perfect peace are soon coming to a close as my son's entrance into this world draws nearer, and I want to breathe in every second that I can, as if I could store them in my lungs so that with every frustrated sigh that will soon come with sleeplessness, I can release these memories and know that peace will be restored with time.

I never doubt that I am blessed; I never doubt that these people created brand-new in the dark stillness of my womb have been gifted to me for a reason.  With each child that I carry, I learn that love isn't a commodity of which we have only a set amount to mete out into the world, that it isn't decimated by each additional object of affection.  It is a living thing, like a tree that continuously grows and bears more fruit to feed those who hunger.  I never doubt that I will have enough love to nurture my children.

Still, I get scared.  If love is a tree, its bitter cousin, worry, is a locust.  One hungry insect can't take down something mighty and strong, but it can feast and grow and reproduce and flourish right alongside its food source.  I'm learning this, too, that worry is a parasite that grows in the shadow of love.  We worry the most for those we love.

Pain Like None Other

When Evelyn is scared, when she's hurting, when she's confused, it is a pain like none I have ever experienced in my life.  It isn't my personal pain, shallow and fleeting, not a pain that I understand and can calm on my own.  It is a pain that eats through my heart, a primal emotion that doesn't thrive in a place that my reason can access - I can't think my way through it, I can't remove the sting.  I am powerless against it, and in its face I crumble.

I know that I'll be weaponless in the battle with my son's fear, too.  I know that I'll feel his misery and helpless watch him suffer through eyes clouded with tears like I did with Evie today; that somewhere inside, I'll be crushed.  I'll never know from where parents hemorrhage, and I'll never know where to apply the pressure to stop it, but I think if you don't bleed with your children, figuratively if not literally, then you live with a barren plot where otherwise empathy would grow.  

I don't know if I'm completely ready to face this.  I don't know what the future holds:  If I'll suffer through postpartum depression again despite my preemptive attack with medication; if my son will keep me up all night as he cries with colick; if my daughter will feel anything negative as my attention is diverted to care for her brother; if, if, if.

All I know is that I have a love whose roots run deep and wide, and though there may be some holes chewed into the leaves of that tree, it will feed us for a long time.  

We Don't Have a Problem

Warning:  I have more testosterone in my body than I've ever had before, and it makes me angrier than usual.  Which is a tough accomplishment, given my propensity toward anger.  If you have no sense of humor, if you can't detect sarcasm, and if you take yourself way too seriously and are guilty of having said anything to me that you might find in this blog, you may want to skip this one.

I feel sorry for the next person who tries to give me unsolicited parenting advice.

I've been doing this for a year now, and through most of that year, I've been pregnant on top of it.  I'm getting a pretty good idea of what works for my family and what doesn't.  I'm beginning to resent the random implications that I can't possibly know what's good for us simply because it doesn't fit the blueprint of someone else's life.

Most of the judgment I receive falls into the sleep category.  Because we co-sleep, some people automatically see it as a "problem."  It might surprise them to know that we, in fact, don't have a problem, despite everyone trying to convince me we do.

"She needs a space of her own."  She has one.  She doesn't like it.  Most kids don't actually like sleeping alone; just because they learned to shut up and deal with their discomfort alone in the dark doesn't mean that they enjoy it.  Why do you think they call the cry-it-out method "sleep training"?  If sleeping alone was something that came naturally to children, you wouldn't have to "train" them to do it.

"Don't you want space to yourself?"  Nope, not really.  I don't move at all in my sleep, so I don't need a lot of room, and since I'm unconscious, I'm completely unaware of "all that space to myself" that I'm not using, and not missing, anyway.  I gave birth to my daughter; she's more important to me than my "self" anyway.  I don't consider her as taking up valuable real estate on my bed.

"What about when your son is born?"  We have a co-sleeper that attaches to the bed and he'll sleep in that just like his sister did til she was big enough to sit up on her own.  From that point on, he'll be treated the same as his sister:  He'll be given opportunities to sleep in his crib, and if it doesn't work, we'll make room for him.  If there's anyone who knows how to deal with sudden changes and come up with solutions on the fly, it's a Gemini woman.  We're adaptable - where other people apparently see these huge brick walls blocking their way, we see an opportunity to practice our ladder-building skills.  Set them up around me, and I will tear them down every time.

"What about your husband?"  Well, let's see.  He has a queen-size bed to himself on which he can sprawl, watch TV til all hours of the night while staying up late to work on some computer program, and he gets sleep without being interrupted by a crying baby who hates being in her crib.  I'm not going into detail about anything else.  Trust me, he's fine with it.

"You're going to be sorry you didn't get her into a crib sooner."  What is there to be sorry for?  That what we do works for us?  That we both sleep soundly through the night?  That I didn't put my needs before hers, that I didn't let her cry herself to sleep in a dark lonely room in what essentially amounts to a wooden cage?  I'm supposed to be sorry that you're uncomfortable with our nighttime routine?  Nope, not going to happen.

That's just the tip of the iceberg.

What gets me is that people act like we have some kind of problem.  Sleep experts would say that we have the opposite of a problem:  My daughter gets a full night's sleep completely uninterrupted (except on those gassier nights where she has to wake me up before she farts herself back to sleep) - 11.5 hours of healthy sleep cycling that leads to better physical, intellectual and emotional development during the day, as well as a healthier appetite and a more even temperament.  That's the only important part:  The quality of sleep.  Not how you get there.

If your kid falls asleep at midnight and gets up at noon, and you're both sleeping on the couch, you don't have a problem.  If your kid falls asleep in his crib at 7:00 p.m. and doesn't get up until 6:30 a.m., you don't have a problem.  If my kid falls asleep in bed with me and we both get a full night's sleep (except me, but that's my own fault for staying up way too late sometimes), we don't have a problem.

The other thing I'm incredibly sick of hearing is about how close my children will be in age.  Here's every single thing anyone has ever said to me on the subject summed up in one sentence:

That's awesome they'll be so close, but that's going to be so hard!

Yeah, it is pretty awesome that they'll be so close in age.  Thanks for finally saying something positive to me about it.  That makes you a bigger person than the socially-awkward pediatrician with the open schedule that my daughter has to see when her normal doctor is too booked up.

Do you think if Evelyn was five, you'd be saying, "That's awesome she'll have a little brother!  This is going to be so easy!"  No, you wouldn't.  Being the parent of a young child is never easy, and I don't expect it to be.  Yes, I know it's going to be a challenge and I knew that before you told me.  I mean, I'm having a newborn all over again - it wasn't easy the first time, and it certainly won't be easy the second time.  I'm armed with knowledge that I didn't have before (acquired by actually parenting, not listening to people's crappy advice - imagine that) but I also have a small daughter to chase.  I expect a challenge, and since I love my family and my babies, I'm looking forward to it.

I appreciate and respect my friends, I really do.  But that can only go so far when the same basic courtesies aren't extended to me.  In short, don't talk to me about how co-sleeping must be some kind of horrible hassle, and don't tell me that my children are going to make my life miserable.  I'm at the end of my already-short patience with people acting like assholes.

Random Thoughts, My Favorite Kind.

Frankenblog.

I'm resurrecting my blog.  Me writing this now is the equivalent of Dr. Frankenstein exposing his monster to the lightning and shouting "Live!" in an overly-dramatic tone.  Let's hope I'm more successful with reanimation than the good doc.

Co-Sleeping.

Quite possibly the most hilarious parenting decision a person can make.

Actually, it was less of a "Decision" than it was a "Result".  Evelyn didn't want to sleep in her crib, and I didn't want to lose a week's worth of sleep trying to get her to sleep in her crib, so naturally she ended up in bed with me.  Hence, the result of my exhaustion and laziness.  

It started off cute enough - we would go to bed and lay in the dark until she fell asleep, which facilitated some of the best moments of my motherhood thus far, like the time when she turned toward me, pressed her little nose up against mine and started stroking my cheek.  (Actually, looking back on it now, that might have been some kind of plot to get me to sleep fast so she could go shopping online or something.)

Then, the farts began.

They started out quite innocent.  Sometimes, I would question whether I actually heard anything or not as a tiny toot squeaked by.  Gradually, though, they became these big productions complete with their own dance numbers that would involve intricate twists and turns.  Caution:  Audience members in the first three rows might get punched.  The show would always end with a gaseous eruption the likes of which would make a drunk frat boy blush.  Encore?  Sure, why not!

Log-rolling is one of her favorite things now.  She has limited space on the bed between the wall and my pregnant belly, so she maximizes it by rolling into a rock or a hard place and then manages to somehow continue rotating her body.  Sometimes, she ends up on her stomach with her butt in the air (Act II of the fart show, perhaps), sometimes she ends up on her back in a funny super-hero pose.  Rarely, she ends up on her side curled up to me like I remember from our nights of sleep when she was much less mobile.

This of course leads to a lot of interesting ways for me to wake up:  Suffocating in pee-smelling diaper butt is just one of the ways I've been woken up before.  Far less hilarious and much more adorable is when she's sitting next to my face, patting my arm and saying "Mama?" with a huge grin.

Some people think co-sleeping is dangerous (mostly the crib industry), some people think it's weird (because putting your baby in a box in a dark, lonely room to sleep is completely natural), and some people just plain don't get it.  Clearly, none of these people have ever woken up to a baby's forehead pressed against theirs, eyes shining with anticipation for them to wake up and provide copious amounts of morning kisses without ever having to leave the bed first.

My son has no name.

I'm 33 weeks pregnant with a little boy who mercilessly beats upon my bladder and treats my diaphragm as his own personal trampoline while I'm trying to sleep.  Tums have become their own food group to counteract the burning sting of near-constant heartburn.  I'm collecting stretch marks like they'll be auctioned off at Christie's for millions of dollars someday.  My belly button pops through my shirt like a turkey timer and braless, my breasts dangle to my knees.  I gained nearly a third of my body weight in six months, I have no center of gravity anymore, I can't sleep and I still have to chase a nearly 1-yr-old child around all day regardless of whether I'm getting light-headed from random drops in blood pressure or if I'm suffering a hot flash.  I pee every hour but I can't poop; I'm hungry but my stomach is too smashed up inside me to allow me to eat enough to satisfy myself.  My hormones are out of control and I'm starting to get extremely uncomfortable Braxton-Hicks contractions that make standing up and breathing at the same time seem like some kind of magic trick.

And my husband still won't give me the final say on my son's name.

In Erie.

I'm in Erie right now visiting family.  My mom can't sleep in the same room as my dad because he snores so loudly, so she's in the other guest room across from the one the baby and I are staying in.  I can hear her doing that "I'm going to sigh just loud enough to let you know that I'm still awake and I disapprove of you being up this late despite the fact that you're nearly 28 years old and can make the decision for yourself of when to go to bed" kind of sighing, so I guess I'm done updating.  

...for now.  Live, little blog!  LIVE!

Motherhood and Tears: Part Three

This is the final part in my story of postpartum depression.  I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to finish my story, but I've been enjoying life too much to have enough time to sit and post.  Obviously, my story has a happy ending, and for this I am eternally grateful.

The First Night


That first night spent in my parents' house was horrifying.  I was finally in a safe place, one that threatened to blow me apart before it glued me back together as I started to revert into a helpless child, and in the safety of the house in which I grew up, in the company of the people who care most about me, it all fell apart.  That first night, I should have slept:  My mom was sleeping in the family room with me and the baby, and was taking care of her throughout the night.  I lay awake, tossing and turning as I could feel my nerves crashing in me like waves, anxiety gripping my throat and knocking the breath out of me only to let up enough for one big breath before it crushed me again.

I watched the starry summer sky turn from nighttime's inky infinite blackness to the velveteen indigo of dawn, watched the leaves on the maple in the backyard rattle with a gentle summer breeze.  When morning finally came spilling through the skylights, I opened my eyes and realized I had slept for at least an hour.

I remember my mom getting up when the baby cried, remembered hearing the squeaking of the rocking chair as she gently soothed her granddaughter back to sleep.  I knew Evelyn was safe wrapped in her grandmother's arms, and a potpourri of conflicting emotions emerged within me.  Feelings of guilt followed feelings of freedom like a shadow, behind comfort crept fear.  I was off the hook, it seemed, as someone else was able to step in and parent for me before I started to fail miserably.  The suggestion that I could focus on myself was the most damning of all, as what I had to focus on was hideous.

The Road to Wellness


I tearfully scheduled an appointment with my old family doctor.  When I showed up, I was clearly a wreck.  My hair was wet from the first shower I had taken in days, my eyes puffy and red above my tear-stained cheeks.  My face was hollow and sunken, as I couldn't eat or drink.  I felt I couldn't even stand on my own two feet.  Being upright made me dizzy, walking made me hyperventilate.  I had just nursed my daughter for what would be the last time, and my mind was spinning with fear as she had never taken anything from a bottle, and could I really give up this soon?  Three months of nursing was all I could offer my daughter?

It wasn't a long appointment.  I was started immediately on an SSRI I had taken previously for a panic disorder that plagued me most of my life.  The doctor and her nurse both went out to meet my Evie in the waiting room and simultaneously tell my mother how lucky I was to have her and how happy they were that I was back with family through this.

The pills took a week to work.  In the meantime, I spent most of my days curled up in my parents' bed under the fan, hyperventilating while my mom rocked the baby in the hammock, or bathed her, or did all the things I should have been doing in those days.  I went to the hospital with my then-fiance to visit his step-dad, but I ended up napping off a panic attack in the car.  When I was feeling a little better, I went shoe shopping, but had to nap off another panic attack when we got home.

Most of these days are lost to my memory, and I'm glad they are.  They were full of moments where, in all my inadequacy, I just wanted to hold my daughter but was terrified because I kept seeing myself opening my arms and just letting her go.  Other times, I would feed her and immediately want to hand her to my mom because I was afraid of myself, afraid of her.

I ended up doubling my dosage of the medication, and the rest is pretty much history.  It took a little while to feel confident mothering again, to hold my daughter close without fearing for her safety.  Much had changed in the time I spent at my parents' house:  Evelyn was on formula, and I had gone through the painful process of weaning cold-turkey, which hit me hard emotionally as well as physically; she didn't eat as often which gave me more time to actually do things with her; she was sleeping through the night, so I was able to sleep.

When my mom finally brought me back home, she stayed a few days.  My fiance and I went to a baseball game, but I had a panic attack.  It was the last one I would have.  A few days later, my mom left and it was back to life.  Not life as normal, because "normal" up until that point was anything but.

Babies and Postpartum Depression


There is a basic scale used to gauge how a child is dealing with her mother's depression.  There are infants who are still happy to see their mother, who still prefer her to all other caregivers, who light up when they see their mom and who get nervous when they don't.  They are the lucky ones.  There are infants who are indifferent to their mothers, as they haven't been harmed but have been emotionally neglected by their mothers as they dealt with debilitating depression.  Then there are the babies who are afraid of their own mothers, who cry in fear when they see them.

Evelyn was one of the lucky ones.

Despite all the fear and doubt and insecurity I suffered, the horrible thoughts that haunted me, I held my daughter close, and often.  I nursed her on demand.  I played with her, being able to cover up momentarily my lack of interest in anything.  When I suffered a panic attack, I would just sit in the rocking chair holding her.  She was young enough that this was interesting, thankfully.  I fought with every last fiber of my being to make sure that Evelyn never suffered because I did.

Today
Right now, my daughter is almost nine months old and we spend every hour of every day together, playing, reading, giggling, taking walks.  We co-sleep, sometimes comfortably where she falls asleep stroking my face as I run my hand through her hair, sometimes uncomfortably, like when she wakes me up by smacking an elbow in my face or farting really loudly.  She's hilarious, and I've never been happier with where my life is now.  We always wake up with smiles on our faces, start each morning with generous hugs and kisses before we go downstairs for First Breakfast.  It's almost as if nothing ever happened at all, and I like it that way.

I've never been depressed in my life, and I never understood depression.  I never understood how someone could be sad for no real reason, how a person couldn't just turn their attitude around.  But I learned the hard way that it's real and it's terrifying, and it swallows you alive.  I've gained perspective and empathy, two treasures found in an otherwise empty pit.  Nothing will ever be perfect like we plan, but there is no path unworthy of walking, because the end always justifies the means.  Somehow.

Motherhood and Tears: Part Two

"I think there's something wrong with me."

The words rolled out of my mouth like thunder in the distance, echoing in the room as they surged forward and then dissipated into the atmosphere. 

"What do you mean?" JM responded as he wrapped his arms around me as tears started streaming down my face.  So, I told him.

Earlier that night, Evelyn had woken up to nurse.  For the first time in a long time, I had actually been sleeping and my first response to this innocent cry for nourishment was to feel complete anger and frustration, followed by extreme guilt for ever allowing myself to feel that way.  I picked her up gently, stroked her beautiful soft hair, and nursed her silently in the dark.  When she fell back asleep, I gently put her back in the co-sleeper and just stared at her. 

It was when I finally laid my head back down to try to sleep again that the bad thoughts had started.  I don't want to recount them here because even now they give me such shame and guilt, even though I know I wasn't in control of them.  They were thoughts of hurting her, and they were ridiculous on all counts, but they were terrifying.  That's when I knew something was wrong.  It wasn't the panic attacks or the constant worry that got me; it wasn't the interest I was beginning to lose in life entirely and even my daughter that convinced me there was something wrong.  It was a series of thoughts that occurred late at night that I couldn't drown out even with prayer as I lay trying to sleep with my perfect baby next to me.

Instantly, I felt terror.  It grew inside me like a sapling on a time-lapsed video, jerkily stretching it's bare arms through all my muscles and organs, tickling me with its thorns and trying to uproot my very sanity.  I thought to myself, "If you can't even control your thoughts, how long will it be until you can't control your actions?"

I'm glad I don't suffer from any over-inflated ego, from any undeserved self-confidence that would have tried to convince me that I was strong enough to deal with this on my own and keep it buried.  It was in my weakness that I confessed to my fiance my feelings and fear that night, that made my problem our problem, that got me help.

"Are you thinking about hurting the baby?" he asked me.  Truthfully, and with tears, I answered, "Yes." 

"Would you?" That question caught me off guard.  "No," I told him with honesty and conviction.  "But I'm scared."

Seeking Help

The next day, he went to work as usual and I sat in the rocking chair as usual, waiting for him to come home, rocking the baby and trying to read her a story.  We both were worried enough, though, that he came home early.  As he watched me crying on the phone and hyperventilating as I spoke to a nurse at the pediatrician's office asking her if there was anything I could take that would be safe during breastfeeding, he offered to drive me to my parents' house back in Erie so I wouldn't have to be alone during the days, and he encouraged me to stay there with the baby until I got better.

It was upon arrival at my parents' house that things slipped even further downhill.  Being there made me more aware of the situation.  I was once again a child helpless against the big scary world searching for reassurance and safety in my mother's arms. 

That night, I sat in the living room alone while my father slept and my mom was out for a little bit.  My parents had purchased an adorable pack n' play for Evelyn to sleep in when she visits, and it was set up next to me as I sat on the couch.  I was holding her, but I didn't feel like she was actually in my arms.  I stared blankly at the television, bright cartoon characters speaking words I wasn't interested in. 

"What would happen if I just shook her!?" The thought came out of nowhere.  That's what they do; these thoughts are like rats, burrowed between the walls and beams of your mind, and they come out when things get their darkest.  I turned Evie around to face me and I had my hands around her arms.  This is insane, I thought to myself, but anxiety crept up on me and I quickly laid my baby down in the pack n' play and called my mom, asking her to come home.  I didn't want to be alone; I had trusted myself, but I felt it slipping.


"Why would anyone want to hurt their child?"

Postpartum depression doesn't care who you are.  It doesn't care that you have infinite love to offer your child, it doesn't care that you've never done anything violent in your life.  It doesn't care that you have patience to spare, an endless and well-researched knowledge of child development and the desire to encourage your child's growth with love and understanding.  It doesn't care that your favorite smell is the scent of your daughter's hair or her sweet baby breath, or that your favorite feeling in the world is her tiny hands gripping at your face while her smile is so big that keeping her lips together couldn't possibly contain it.

Postpartum depression can happen to anyone.  It happened to me. 

For years, I wanted to have a child.  It wasn't until two years ago that my fiance finally agreed that, while we wouldn't actively try, we wouldn't not try either.  While I didn't keep charts of my cycles and calculate the most auspicious days for fertilization, I also didn't do anything that would even hint of trying to keep a pregnancy from happening.  I loved Evelyn before she was even in the womb.

I cried almost every time I heard her heartbeat at my prenatal appointments; I talked to her and referred to her by name during my pregnancy.  I hardly ever used to words "me" or "I" anymore, but rather "we" and "us."  I wasn't going grocery shopping, we were.  She'd kick me, and I'd laugh at poke her back.  She'd hiccup, and I'd rub my stomach gently hoping that she could feel the pressure and be reassured that hiccups weren't so bad.  Despite throwing up all day for weeks, losing two jobs, having almost constant heartburn that would keep me up at night, low blood pressure after I ate, peeing every fifteen minutes and getting stretch marks, I never once felt any anger or regret or even remote annoyance at my pregnancy or my daughter.

After giving birth, I wanted nothing but to hold her.  To feel her weight in my arms and breathe in her newness while counting her breaths was my favorite past-time.  When the nurses came to take her from me in the hospital to do whatever checks they do, I would wait up nervously til my baby was returned, swaddled tightly and sleeping, and I'd eventually end up with her right back in my arms where she belonged. 

I'm a good mom, and I wanted to be a mom more than anything in this world.  I love my daughter with a passion I've never felt before in my life, the kind of raw emotion that convinces you that nothing in this entire world matters except your child and you would tear down anything that stood in your way to keeping her healthy and happy.

And still, I got postpartum depression. 

It doesn't happen only to women with preexisting character flaws; it doesn't happen only to women who didn't really want their child in the first place; it doesn't happen only to women who are messed up to begin with.  Postpartum depression doesn't care who you are; it can happen to anyone.

Trust me when I tell you that those of us who suffer or have suffered from PPD don't want to hurt our children.  These thoughts literally come out of nowhere and you can't control them, and they horrify us more than they horrify anyone else.  That's our child.

To be continued in Part 3...

Motherhood and Tears: Part One

This is the story of my brief, yet terrifying, struggle with post-partum depression, a condition that is often misunderstood by those who never suffered it.  In sharing this story, I hope to put a human face to this disorder to help people better understand what it is, and that it can happen to anyone.  I also hope that any women who are pregnant now or who just delivered their babies can learn from my experience, and if they recognize the signs in themselves, can become empowered to seek help and support as soon as they can.


After Birth

Five and a half months ago, I was laying in a hospital bed watching a screen where my contractions were monitored in jumping black lines that skidded slowly across a white grid, nervously shooting up into jagged mountains of pain only to slowly come back down every minute or two.  I laughed, noting how I would never know the contractions were happening had it not been for that monitor as I made a last-minute decision to get the epidural when the nurse convinced me I didn't do enough research and that the medication I would receive wouldn't affect my daughter, who's heart rate beat across its own white grid in a comforting red line.  Despite the rhythmic pounding of the walls of her womb-home closing in around her, she remained as calm and steady as I had. 

My mother, father, and of course fiance were all in the room to welcome Evelyn into the world.  My dad was sitting on a couch as far from the action as possible; JM was next to me holding my hand and peeking down once in a while.  My mom, however, was situated where she could get the best view, and when she started skipping in place and threw her hands up to her face, I knew that she could see the baby.  She commented several times on how happy she was that she was allowed to experience the birth of her first grandchild, and Oh! Look! I can see her black hair!

It took four fruitless hours of pushing before the doctor brought in the vacuum.  She explained to me that I could push for several more hours and still make no progress, as Evie's head was tilted to a point that made it nearly impossible for her to get through the pelvic bone.  I cried when she explained to me that if the vacuum didn't work, I'd have to have an emergency Cesarean section.  I was determined that it wouldn't come to that, and with the help of the vacuum, we delivered a healthy, gorgeous child into this world.

For two weeks, my mom stayed with JM, Evie and myself to spend as much time with her new granddaughter as possible, as well as wait on me hand and foot as I laid in bed nursing, unable to move thanks to all the stitching and subsequent swelling I endured.  The post-partum period was extremely scary for me, worse than anything I experienced during my pregnancy and birth:  I was afraid to use the bathroom, afraid to shower, afraid to walk down the stairs.  I was in so much pain, and I was light-headed. 

My emotions were on a roller coaster as well from the massive change in hormones.  One minute, I was absolutely elated to be holding my daughter in my arms; the next, I realized how exhausted I was and I'd catch a glimpse of the Japanese tsunami on the news and think of all the people who won't hold their daughters or granddaughters anymore and I would bawl.

It's normal to experience emotional highs and lows as your body regulates itself and you settle into the new role of mother.  It's one of the most life-changing experiences a person can go through, and coming to terms with an entirely new purpose in life takes a little time.  They call this period the "baby blues," and most women can expect to feel it.

I stopped crying over everything within two weeks.  I instead filled my days nursing my daughter in her rocking chair, nervously checking over her and counting diapers and calling the pediatrician's office every other day with questions as I discovered new things.  "Is her soft spot supposed to sink in this much?  I think she might have thrush.  Can I bring her in to weigh her so I know she's getting enough to eat?"  Every time she cried, I'd try to nurse her.  I was absolutely terrified that we weren't doing it right, that she was always hungry.  Feeding her, worrying about feeding her, became my life. 

Within two months, I was having panic attacks.  I didn't leave the rocking chair hardly ever, even to feed myself.  The effort would cause me to hyperventilate, so Evelyn and I sat in that chair all day and watched television.  She didn't realize anything was wrong, as she was asleep most of the time, a luxury I myself rarely got.  You can imagine how boring it was being a shut-in; soon, I lost interest in nearly everything as my life was a continual loop of tossing and turning at night, not eating, rocking my daughter and nursing her while worrying the entire time. 

One Monday night when my daughter was just barely three months old, I knew something was wrong.

Not Just the Baby Blues

My fiance and I were sleeping in separate rooms, as I had decided to keep Evie in our bedroom in a co-sleeper attached to the bed.  She woke up every two to three hours, and he needed more sleep than that to be able to function at his job.  So, he slept in the guest bedroom where he could unwind watching some TV as I caught a little sleep here and there between fits of the baby's wakefulness.

I walked in to that guest room at 4:30 a.m., feeling like a ghost.  I hovered in the doorway watching him sleep for a little while, hoping he'd wake up on his own as if by some miracle.  When he didn't, I lurched into the dark room, illuminated by a small blue light on his laptop, and placed my hand on his shoulder.  I changed my mind and walked away, but returned within minutes and sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook him awake.

"I think there's something wrong with me," I said as my eyes welled up with tears. 

To be continued...

Spiders In My House

Often times when I come across a spider in my home, I take a few minutes to watch her as she walks carefully across her web, tenuously checking each strand to see that it is placed impeccably along her web.  I lose myself in thought as the philosophical questions regarding the spider's ultimate fate arise within me. 

The Life of a Spider

A spider's nervous system is surprisingly simple for the complex tasks it allows a spider to accomplish.  We know that spiders are capable of learning cause and effect, and when something is amiss in their webs, or if something they are doing to fix a web is only contributing to the problem, they drop their present task and instead focus on a different approach to overcoming the problem. 

We can't say for certain whether or not a spider feels pain, but if they do, we can say with some certainty that they attach no emotion to it as humans do.  They simply do not have the ability, as their nervous systems are composed of two very basic ganglia, or clumps of nerve cells, and no brain capable of true thought. 

They are fascinating to watch, though.  As artists in the medium of silk, they weave fantastic webs as they work their spinners behind them, and deftly move their eight legs across those thin strands like an expert dancer.  The slightest disturbance in a web sends them into a frenzy, either fiendishly approaching the disturbance hoping for nourishment, or running away to avoid destruction.  Those who don't spin webs are equally fascinating, as they roam across our windows, talented hunters ready to pounce upon their next meal.

Most spiders wouldn't be considered menaces, as their diet consists of all the other insects that share our home like unwanted roommates.  I often find the hollowed-out exoskeleton of house centipedes in the webs in the basement, and breathe a sigh of relief knowing there's one less of them trying to crawl up my leg as I do my laundry.  Some spiders are dangerous, such as the brown recluse and the black widow, the venom of which is unapologetic and indiscriminate.  But for the most part, the spiders in our homes are harmless.

Is it right to kill a spider?

Life is here because our Creator, in all His wisdom that is often times out of our realm of understanding, has decided that the life is meant to be here.  All living beings are under this divine purview, and all the non-human creatures were put under the stewardship of mankind.  How far does this responsibility extend?  Are we then allowed to do to these creatures whatever we feel, or must there be some ethics involved?

Certainly, we must remain ethical in our treatment of the creatures around us to prevent needless suffering as well as we can.  But if a creature is incapable of higher thinking, is incapable of fear, feels only rudimentary pain, like a spider, does it truly suffer?

Is it right, then, to kill a spider?

Conclusion

I don't know if it's right or not to kill a spider, and usually by the time all these thoughts have run through my head, I'm already carrying a tissue to the trash containing what was once a spider building a web in the corner of my house, and am on to my next task.  They're creepy.

Plus, they started this war by hanging out in our beds.