Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
Drowning in a puddle
I'll never forget the feelings I experienced after my son was born. It was this overwhelming mixture of love and awe and pride. I couldn't believe that in my arms (after he got through a scary, difficult transition) was this incredible little life that I had brought into the world. And yes, I know my husband had a hand in things, but I carried him for nine months and I gave birth to him and I could go into everything that those two things entail, but we all know it's just not the same. I didn't sleep a wink that first night after he was born, totally wired from what I'd been through that day and now instantly hypersensitive to every sound the little bundle of snorts made.
The first couple weeks at home weren't much different. I was completely sleep deprived, making it through those early days on sheer bliss alone. But as the days progressed and the pure need of a newborn began to take its toll that euphoria started to fade, and something much sinister started creeping in in its place. I started a gradual downward spiral that became less and less something I had any control over. By the time my son was two months old I knew it was time to get some help, that this was more than just the baby blues, that it wasn't something I could just snap myself out of. I think that was the day my husband came home from work to find me rocking the baby with, as he put it, a thousand yard stare on my face.
I had slipped into a whopping case of postpartum depression and anxiety. I'd find myself swinging between the two with brief passes through, for lack of a better term, my normal self. The depression was centered around my inability to let go of my old life. I mourned my freedom. I grieved for it. I could no longer go for a run whenever I wanted. I couldn't nest on the couch all Sunday afternoon with the cats and a book. I couldn't even go out to get the mail. I had this little being who needed me all the time. He needed to be fed every two hours, his diapers changed regularly, and though he was always a pretty good sleeper at night he would only nap in my arms. I had sworn up and down I wouldn't be one of those mothers who never put her baby down, but he wouldn't have it any other way. All newborns are are reflex and need. And that need is a 24 hour job. And the days were so long. He was born in January and all winter long I was cooped up in a small condo. I longed for spring so we could at least get outside. But inside, I could feel my identity slipping away. I was a mom now. I kept telling myself my life was about him now. I needed to let go of who I had become over the 38 years before he was born. But it was so hard. When things started to get really bad my husband told me that he missed the person he'd married and he wanted her back. But I knew she didn't exist anymore. She was gone forever. I was a mom now. I kept telling myself that I needed to snap out of my funk. And I tried. I truly did. But it didn't work and there were times when all I wanted to do was curl up under the covers and shut the world away.
And then there was the anxiety. I just could not understand how I was supposed to do it all. Take care of the baby, keep the condo clean, get dinner on the table, go back to work, eventually start running again. Everything else. I knew there were moms out there who did it all the time, but it all seemed so insurmountable to me. I would obsess over smaller things, like getting him out of the Rock n Play and into his crib, getting him on a good schedule, and his torticollis, which I blamed myself for even though our pediatrician said it wasn't my fault. I stressed about breastfeeding, which was rarely easy or relaxing for either me or the baby. To be completely honest, I hated it. When I finally chose to call it quits (after agonizing over the decision) I then stressed about the amount of fluoride in our water. It was always something and I envisioned a lifetime full of somethings stacked up one after the other in my future. The anxiety was eating me alive.
The depression and anxiety were exacerbated by a whole host of things. Crazy hormones, sleep deprivation. There were times I had a really difficult time not resenting my husband. He got to leave every day and go to work. He got to run. It always seemed that when he was home and had the baby I was either washing dishes or cooking dinner or doing laundry whereas if I had the baby he was on the internet or reading or watching TV. His life had hardly changed at all, or so it seemed to me at the time. He was always willing to help with the baby and never questioned anything I asked him to do, even getting up in the middle of the night. But I always had to ask and that started to get to me. He's lucky I didn't take his head off the day he was playing with the baby after getting home from work and made the comment, "This parenting stuff isn't so tough." I would get jealous of my sister (whose youngest is 14) if she mentioned she slept in one morning. I envied my mom for being able to go to a movie with friends.
I began to think I had made a huge mistake, that I had ruined my life. And of course that added intense feelings of guilt and hypocrisy to the pile weighing me down. After all, we'd tried for over a year and a half to get pregnant. We'd been told our chances weren't good. I'd cried over negative pregnancy tests, hysterically balled my eyes out when my sister-in-law got pregnant pretty much on their first try (or so I heard). I deactivated my Facebook account in order to avoid pregnancy announcements. And now here I was, with this beautiful miracle baby that I was having a hard time not regretting having.
At one point my mom told me she wished she'd taken a picture of my face after he was born, so she could remind me of the joy I had felt. And that was the worst part of it all. She didn't need to remind me, with a picture or otherwise. I remembered. I remembered it all. The joy, the awe, the pride. I remembered and it was killing me that I'd lost it. Because of course everything I was feeling was effecting how I felt about him. There were times I would look at him and see my little guy, the beautiful little boy I'd wanted so much, that I'd created out of love and hope with my husband and brought into this world and named after my father. But other times it was like a fog descended between us and all I could see was a baby. A baby who needed to be fed again. Or was wet again. Or crying again.
My mom told me I hadn't lost those feelings of love and awe, that they were still there, just buried underneath all of the sadness and fear that had spun so wildly out of my control. Indeed, I felt as if I was in completely over my head, struggling to stay afloat, barely able to come up for air.
I look back now, only four months later, and I can see that I was drowning in a puddle.
The day of the thousand yard stare I handed the baby to my husband, drove over to my parents' house a few miles away and cried my eyes out. I knew I needed help. I needed to be healthy and completely present for my little boy and my husband. Two days later my mom, husband, baby and I all trooped into my doctor's office and I laid it all out. We walked out with a prescription for an anti-depressant and the mindset that I was going to beat this. I could not have asked for a stronger support system. My mom basically shut down her life to be with me every day for two weeks, until Leo got home from work, while I tried to adjust to a medication that was completely wrong for me until I took the steps to get it changed (that hellish two weeks is a sidebar I'll share on another day). My sister and dad were there for me. Leo's parents were there to help in any way they could. And Leo? Leo was incredible. He was incredibly patient and supportive and I know that couldn't have been easy for him. After all, I was going through something he not only couldn't possibly understand in anything but the vaguest sense, but it was also scaring the crap out of him. I never told him this, and at the time I certainly didn't recognize it, but looking back I've never felt as loved by him as I did in those few weeks. He stood by me through it all. He just wanted me to get better.
And I did. I got on the right medication, which of course helped, but my recovery stemmed from so much more than chemistry. By this time the snow was melting and the days were getting nicer. We were able to get out for walks. I eventually started running again, which was huge for me. But the biggest factor in my recovery was the little one himself. The fog lifted just in time for him to start laughing. I could see his smiles for the incredible gifts they were. I was back to looking at him, seeing my little guy, and melting into a pile of goo. The love and awe and pride were back, this time joined by confidence and strength and joy, and they all continue to grow stronger every day.
I said above that when I look back, it's as if I was drowning in a puddle. Why? All that ALL I was so stressed out about? Well, guess what, I'm doing it. I'm taking care of the baby (and loving every minute of it). I'm working. I'm training. I'm cooking dinner. I'm keeping the condo clean. I'm even getting ready to move (we found a house!). Granted I might not get a run in every day, I'm only working three half days a week, I might let the bathrooms go a little longer between cleanings, and, yes, Leo and I still sometimes have cereal for dinner. But for the most part, shit gets done! Those smaller stresses? He's been sleeping in his crib since he was 11 weeks old (HERE). That schedule I agonized about getting him on he basically just fell into himself, and my once nap-resistant baby now naps like a pro. In his crib. He's in physical therapy for his torticollis and it's slowly but surely getting better.
I stopped missing the life I had before the little peanut and started living the life I have now. And before I knew it I was getting pieces of myself back, and little freedoms began to return. First it was getting a run in here and there. Now for the first time I had to schedule a day off today because I've run 8 days in a row, including a race, and I'm still trying to come back slowly. There's time now to watch a TV show or movie if Leo and I feel like it, which we rarely do, though that has more to do with wanting an early bedtime ourselves. I don't get jealous anymore when I hear of other people sleeping in. Some mornings I'm even up BEFORE the little slugabed. I'm not blowing through two books a week anymore, but I'm getting plenty of time to read before I go to bed myself. Or during the little snoozer's naps when I'm not doing other things like packing or blogging or cleaning (and I certainly didn't write this post in one sitting). I no longer see the little scamp as taking away from my life but for what he adds to it. The things that were important to me to have back in my life, I've gotten back in my life. Other things I've let go of for the time being. There might be time for those things later on, but for now I don't miss them. Now I get to fill my time with things like making the little guy laugh, bath time, playtime, soothing him when he's upset, and trying new foods (we start Stage 2 this week!). I've watched him master rolling over and sitting on his own. Crawling, walking and talking are all still to come, along with so much more. I can't wait for the first time he lunges into my arms.
Any resentment I had for Leo faded away as we settled back into a routine. And it means the world to me that he has never thrown what I went through back in my face. He's an incredible husband and father and I'm thankful for him every day.
I knew I would one day want to write about my struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety but I didn't particularly enjoy revisiting that dark time. It's hard to think about it and not get angry at myself for letting it happen, even though I know it wasn't anything I had any control over. It's hard not to beat myself up for the time that I lost, even if it was just a matter of weeks that the little stinker will never remember anyway. I will remember. I won't ever forget that time. I wish I hadn't had to go through it. I wish I hadn't scared my husband and family like that. But, as cliche as this sounds, I'm probably a better and stronger mother now for having gone through it.
When things were bad I once asked Leo if he thought we'd made a mistake. He said absolutely not, that the little guy was the best thing we'd ever done. He was right. He is the best thing we've ever done. The best thing I've ever done. The world is an infinitely better place with him in it and I can no longer imagine my life without him. I don't want to.
I had slipped into a whopping case of postpartum depression and anxiety. I'd find myself swinging between the two with brief passes through, for lack of a better term, my normal self. The depression was centered around my inability to let go of my old life. I mourned my freedom. I grieved for it. I could no longer go for a run whenever I wanted. I couldn't nest on the couch all Sunday afternoon with the cats and a book. I couldn't even go out to get the mail. I had this little being who needed me all the time. He needed to be fed every two hours, his diapers changed regularly, and though he was always a pretty good sleeper at night he would only nap in my arms. I had sworn up and down I wouldn't be one of those mothers who never put her baby down, but he wouldn't have it any other way. All newborns are are reflex and need. And that need is a 24 hour job. And the days were so long. He was born in January and all winter long I was cooped up in a small condo. I longed for spring so we could at least get outside. But inside, I could feel my identity slipping away. I was a mom now. I kept telling myself my life was about him now. I needed to let go of who I had become over the 38 years before he was born. But it was so hard. When things started to get really bad my husband told me that he missed the person he'd married and he wanted her back. But I knew she didn't exist anymore. She was gone forever. I was a mom now. I kept telling myself that I needed to snap out of my funk. And I tried. I truly did. But it didn't work and there were times when all I wanted to do was curl up under the covers and shut the world away.
And then there was the anxiety. I just could not understand how I was supposed to do it all. Take care of the baby, keep the condo clean, get dinner on the table, go back to work, eventually start running again. Everything else. I knew there were moms out there who did it all the time, but it all seemed so insurmountable to me. I would obsess over smaller things, like getting him out of the Rock n Play and into his crib, getting him on a good schedule, and his torticollis, which I blamed myself for even though our pediatrician said it wasn't my fault. I stressed about breastfeeding, which was rarely easy or relaxing for either me or the baby. To be completely honest, I hated it. When I finally chose to call it quits (after agonizing over the decision) I then stressed about the amount of fluoride in our water. It was always something and I envisioned a lifetime full of somethings stacked up one after the other in my future. The anxiety was eating me alive.
The depression and anxiety were exacerbated by a whole host of things. Crazy hormones, sleep deprivation. There were times I had a really difficult time not resenting my husband. He got to leave every day and go to work. He got to run. It always seemed that when he was home and had the baby I was either washing dishes or cooking dinner or doing laundry whereas if I had the baby he was on the internet or reading or watching TV. His life had hardly changed at all, or so it seemed to me at the time. He was always willing to help with the baby and never questioned anything I asked him to do, even getting up in the middle of the night. But I always had to ask and that started to get to me. He's lucky I didn't take his head off the day he was playing with the baby after getting home from work and made the comment, "This parenting stuff isn't so tough." I would get jealous of my sister (whose youngest is 14) if she mentioned she slept in one morning. I envied my mom for being able to go to a movie with friends.
I began to think I had made a huge mistake, that I had ruined my life. And of course that added intense feelings of guilt and hypocrisy to the pile weighing me down. After all, we'd tried for over a year and a half to get pregnant. We'd been told our chances weren't good. I'd cried over negative pregnancy tests, hysterically balled my eyes out when my sister-in-law got pregnant pretty much on their first try (or so I heard). I deactivated my Facebook account in order to avoid pregnancy announcements. And now here I was, with this beautiful miracle baby that I was having a hard time not regretting having.
At one point my mom told me she wished she'd taken a picture of my face after he was born, so she could remind me of the joy I had felt. And that was the worst part of it all. She didn't need to remind me, with a picture or otherwise. I remembered. I remembered it all. The joy, the awe, the pride. I remembered and it was killing me that I'd lost it. Because of course everything I was feeling was effecting how I felt about him. There were times I would look at him and see my little guy, the beautiful little boy I'd wanted so much, that I'd created out of love and hope with my husband and brought into this world and named after my father. But other times it was like a fog descended between us and all I could see was a baby. A baby who needed to be fed again. Or was wet again. Or crying again.
My mom told me I hadn't lost those feelings of love and awe, that they were still there, just buried underneath all of the sadness and fear that had spun so wildly out of my control. Indeed, I felt as if I was in completely over my head, struggling to stay afloat, barely able to come up for air.
I look back now, only four months later, and I can see that I was drowning in a puddle.
The day of the thousand yard stare I handed the baby to my husband, drove over to my parents' house a few miles away and cried my eyes out. I knew I needed help. I needed to be healthy and completely present for my little boy and my husband. Two days later my mom, husband, baby and I all trooped into my doctor's office and I laid it all out. We walked out with a prescription for an anti-depressant and the mindset that I was going to beat this. I could not have asked for a stronger support system. My mom basically shut down her life to be with me every day for two weeks, until Leo got home from work, while I tried to adjust to a medication that was completely wrong for me until I took the steps to get it changed (that hellish two weeks is a sidebar I'll share on another day). My sister and dad were there for me. Leo's parents were there to help in any way they could. And Leo? Leo was incredible. He was incredibly patient and supportive and I know that couldn't have been easy for him. After all, I was going through something he not only couldn't possibly understand in anything but the vaguest sense, but it was also scaring the crap out of him. I never told him this, and at the time I certainly didn't recognize it, but looking back I've never felt as loved by him as I did in those few weeks. He stood by me through it all. He just wanted me to get better.
And I did. I got on the right medication, which of course helped, but my recovery stemmed from so much more than chemistry. By this time the snow was melting and the days were getting nicer. We were able to get out for walks. I eventually started running again, which was huge for me. But the biggest factor in my recovery was the little one himself. The fog lifted just in time for him to start laughing. I could see his smiles for the incredible gifts they were. I was back to looking at him, seeing my little guy, and melting into a pile of goo. The love and awe and pride were back, this time joined by confidence and strength and joy, and they all continue to grow stronger every day.
I said above that when I look back, it's as if I was drowning in a puddle. Why? All that ALL I was so stressed out about? Well, guess what, I'm doing it. I'm taking care of the baby (and loving every minute of it). I'm working. I'm training. I'm cooking dinner. I'm keeping the condo clean. I'm even getting ready to move (we found a house!). Granted I might not get a run in every day, I'm only working three half days a week, I might let the bathrooms go a little longer between cleanings, and, yes, Leo and I still sometimes have cereal for dinner. But for the most part, shit gets done! Those smaller stresses? He's been sleeping in his crib since he was 11 weeks old (HERE). That schedule I agonized about getting him on he basically just fell into himself, and my once nap-resistant baby now naps like a pro. In his crib. He's in physical therapy for his torticollis and it's slowly but surely getting better.
I stopped missing the life I had before the little peanut and started living the life I have now. And before I knew it I was getting pieces of myself back, and little freedoms began to return. First it was getting a run in here and there. Now for the first time I had to schedule a day off today because I've run 8 days in a row, including a race, and I'm still trying to come back slowly. There's time now to watch a TV show or movie if Leo and I feel like it, which we rarely do, though that has more to do with wanting an early bedtime ourselves. I don't get jealous anymore when I hear of other people sleeping in. Some mornings I'm even up BEFORE the little slugabed. I'm not blowing through two books a week anymore, but I'm getting plenty of time to read before I go to bed myself. Or during the little snoozer's naps when I'm not doing other things like packing or blogging or cleaning (and I certainly didn't write this post in one sitting). I no longer see the little scamp as taking away from my life but for what he adds to it. The things that were important to me to have back in my life, I've gotten back in my life. Other things I've let go of for the time being. There might be time for those things later on, but for now I don't miss them. Now I get to fill my time with things like making the little guy laugh, bath time, playtime, soothing him when he's upset, and trying new foods (we start Stage 2 this week!). I've watched him master rolling over and sitting on his own. Crawling, walking and talking are all still to come, along with so much more. I can't wait for the first time he lunges into my arms.
Any resentment I had for Leo faded away as we settled back into a routine. And it means the world to me that he has never thrown what I went through back in my face. He's an incredible husband and father and I'm thankful for him every day.
I knew I would one day want to write about my struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety but I didn't particularly enjoy revisiting that dark time. It's hard to think about it and not get angry at myself for letting it happen, even though I know it wasn't anything I had any control over. It's hard not to beat myself up for the time that I lost, even if it was just a matter of weeks that the little stinker will never remember anyway. I will remember. I won't ever forget that time. I wish I hadn't had to go through it. I wish I hadn't scared my husband and family like that. But, as cliche as this sounds, I'm probably a better and stronger mother now for having gone through it.
When things were bad I once asked Leo if he thought we'd made a mistake. He said absolutely not, that the little guy was the best thing we'd ever done. He was right. He is the best thing we've ever done. The best thing I've ever done. The world is an infinitely better place with him in it and I can no longer imagine my life without him. I don't want to.
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| We're terrible at selfies. |
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Race Report: Volkslaufe 5K
I wasn't going to race until the first weekend in August. Today I was just going to chill at home with the little man while my husband went up to Frankenmuth, MI for the Volkslaufe 20K. Always held on the Fourth of July, Volkslaufe is a favorite race of ours because we get to see lots of friends and they give out great beer steins as age group awards. I missed it last year because I was pregnant and the year prior to that due to injury and I was all set to miss it this year as well. But then yesterday Leo talked me into going. Honestly, it didn't take that much arm twisting. I wouldn't have wanted to take the little squirt if it was going to be one of those notoriously hot Volkslaufe days, especially since with awards not being handed out until noon it makes for a longer than average race morning. But the forecast called for beautiful weather, with temps no higher than 80 degrees. So in the spirit of getting out of the baby bubble I happily agreed to go. And I figured, what the hell, why not hop into the 5K? Since the 20K goes off at 8:10 and the 5K isn't until 10:00, both of us racing wasn't an issue.
The biggest challenge of the day for me was less about running the race and more about going to a race with a baby in tow for the first time. And I have to say that everything went just about as perfectly as could be hoped for. No screaming demon baby! No diaper blow outs! Nothing important forgotten at home (I was ridiculously over packed--we may have needed 3 outfit changes!). The only time he got a little cranky was when we were waiting to watch the start of Leo's race and he was ready for a bottle (Oh, and apparently he didn't want to go back into the stroller during my race after his dad had gotten him out. He also wasn't enthused about a return to the stroller while we were waiting for awards, but once he realized he was going in there so I could feed him his apples and cereal he was all "I can work with this."). So anyway, long, rambling, rather unnecessarily detailed story short, things went well.
As for the race, that went about as well as could be expected. No, that's selling myself a little short. It went quite well, but in a bittersweet kind of way. I ran 20:38, with mile splits at about 6:26 (oh that's gonna come back and bite my ass), 6:25 (somehow still hanging on) and 6:40 (and there it goes, but thanks to a downhill finish I didn't fall off pace nearly as much as I could have). No clue what my last .1 was and someone was saying that the course was long, not that it matters. On one hand I'm all "Sub-7:00 pace 5K for my first race in 19 months, 6 months post baby, on some really minimal training? Hot DAMN, Go me!" But on the other hand it's a pretty harsh reminder of how far I have left to go to get back to, or at least close to, the kind of fitness and speed I've enjoyed in the past. But it is a start. And it felt so good mentally to be racing again. And knowing my little cheerleader was waiting for me at the finish made it all the sweeter. The stein I got for my 2nd place age group finish is nice too, but he is the best award imaginable.
Friday, June 26, 2015
The strange power of Emma Watson
When The Circle by Dave Eggers was first released I was mildly intrigued by the hype and glowing reviews but opted not to read it for a couple of reasons. I thought A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, his Pulitzer Prize finalist debut, was staggeringly overrated. And frankly, the subject matter of The Circle totally freaks me out. What I gather from the blurb and reviews is that the book is about a young woman who lands her dream job at a google-like company where sharing on social media is a requirement and then things get all out of hand and scary. Or something like that. I happen to find social media more than a little alarming so I decided not to read The Circle because I was afraid it would scare the bejesus out of me way more than any book in the actual horror genre could. (Yes, I am well aware that I am sharing my fear of internet sharing through a blog on the internet for the entire world to see, but I figure my only readers at this point are my husband and some lady in Delaware who stumbled across this while looking for gardening sites. And for the record, I am not on twitter, instagram or snap chat--whatever that is--and I pretty much only use Facebook to post pictures of my baby. BECAUSE HE'S ADORABLE. Incidentally, Ray Bradbury totally nailed society's current obsession with social media and pacifier technology in his short story "The Murderer." In 1953. The man was a prophet! Well, maybe not about that robot grandmother thing.)
So, yes, all that. But now I have to read The Circle because I just found out that Emma Watson has been cast in the lead role. And in Emma I trust (The Bling Ring notwithstanding). After all, Emma Watson was Hermione freaking Granger. And she was in one of my four favorite movies of the past three years, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (the other three being Pitch Perfect, About Time and The Way, Way Back). She was the best thing about This Is the End. I am peeing my pants excited for her turn as Belle in the upcoming live action Beauty and the Beast, my favorite Disney movie, though I have to admit that Stitch takes favorite character honors. (My husband is excited to see Luke Evans as his hero Gaston*, but I'm not quite convinced there's no one as burly or brawny. And there may actually be bits of him that are scraggly and scrawny. I'll reserve judgment until I see the movie. That whole cast is pretty incredible, actually. Ian McKellen as Cogsworth! Emma Thompson--another amazing Emma--as Mrs. Potts!) In my eyes,Hermione Emma Watson can do no wrong. Well, not even Emma Watson could make me sit through Noah, but I'm sure she was fantastic in it. And she can rock a pixie cut in ways I can only dream about.
If The Circle is good enough for Emma Watson, then it's good enough for me. Onto the To Read list it goes. I've also been meaning to read the Queen of the Tearling books by Erika Johansen which Emma's not only supposed to star in, but produce as well. This hasn't popped up on her IMDb page yet so who knows if the movies will actually get made. Iffy reviews on amazon had slackened my Queen of the Tearling interest, but my sister just read the first one and liked it so I'll probably get around to it one of these days. And I should never have let amazon trolls make me doubt Emma Watson.
I could mention that two people, an old boss and my niece, have told me that I look like Emma Watson but that would turn this nice post from a genuine, well-balanced fan into something creepy and weird, if for no other reason than I'm way older than her (not helping my case). Besides, I don't see the resemblance. Nor do I see a resemblance between myself and Claire Danes, but I used to get that ALL THE TIME.
*
So, yes, all that. But now I have to read The Circle because I just found out that Emma Watson has been cast in the lead role. And in Emma I trust (The Bling Ring notwithstanding). After all, Emma Watson was Hermione freaking Granger. And she was in one of my four favorite movies of the past three years, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (the other three being Pitch Perfect, About Time and The Way, Way Back). She was the best thing about This Is the End. I am peeing my pants excited for her turn as Belle in the upcoming live action Beauty and the Beast, my favorite Disney movie, though I have to admit that Stitch takes favorite character honors. (My husband is excited to see Luke Evans as his hero Gaston*, but I'm not quite convinced there's no one as burly or brawny. And there may actually be bits of him that are scraggly and scrawny. I'll reserve judgment until I see the movie. That whole cast is pretty incredible, actually. Ian McKellen as Cogsworth! Emma Thompson--another amazing Emma--as Mrs. Potts!) In my eyes,
If The Circle is good enough for Emma Watson, then it's good enough for me. Onto the To Read list it goes. I've also been meaning to read the Queen of the Tearling books by Erika Johansen which Emma's not only supposed to star in, but produce as well. This hasn't popped up on her IMDb page yet so who knows if the movies will actually get made. Iffy reviews on amazon had slackened my Queen of the Tearling interest, but my sister just read the first one and liked it so I'll probably get around to it one of these days. And I should never have let amazon trolls make me doubt Emma Watson.
I could mention that two people, an old boss and my niece, have told me that I look like Emma Watson but that would turn this nice post from a genuine, well-balanced fan into something creepy and weird, if for no other reason than I'm way older than her (not helping my case). Besides, I don't see the resemblance. Nor do I see a resemblance between myself and Claire Danes, but I used to get that ALL THE TIME.
*
Monday, June 22, 2015
The nocturnal gymnastics of infants
When the little bedbug was 11 weeks old we moved him into his crib. I was anxious to get him out of the Fisher Price Rock 'n Play sleeper, for reasons I won't rant about go into now, but I'd read horror stories online about how difficult the transition could be. At this point he was sleeping up to 8 hours at night, and although the thought of ruining that bliss was daunting, I was determined that it was time for him to sleep in his crib, in his own room.
By this time he was already busting out of the Aden + Anais blankets we'd been swaddling him in, but his startle reflex was still so strong that I knew there was no way he'd sleep without his arms snug and secure. Enter the Miracle Blanket. It's basically a little straight jacket for babies and I figured there was no way he'd be able to Houdini out of it (ha, wait for it…). That first night of Mission Crib I fed him his last bottle, rocked him sleepy, wrapped the shit out of him, re-rocked him to sleep, laid him in his crib and prayed.
He slept seven hours! Hallelujah! ALL PRAISE THE MIRACLE BLANKET!!!
(Of course I didn't sleep at all that first (or second) night, as I was up each hour frantically checking him on the monitor.)
We settled into a new routine, nice long stretches of sleep for everyone, the little dreamer snug as a caterpillar in a cocoon in his Miracle Blanket. Until, that is, the night I woke up, looked at his monitor and he was gone! I leapt out of bed and ran to his room, totally freaked that David Bowie had stolen my baby (I certainly didn't remember saying the words). Thankfully I did not burst into the little pill's room to find a spandex-clad glam rocker, twirling his crystal sphere and telling me to forget about the baby. The only little goblin in the room was my own. He had wiggled his way to the bottom of his crib and out of view of the camera. There should be a section in baby books reserved for the first heart attack I gave mommy.
And so began the phase I like to call "How will we find the little inchworm in the morning?"
Like this?
Or my personal favorite?
That little stinker turned a perfect 180 degrees! At this point I started wishing the camera recorded so we could have a time-lapse of his nocturnal traveling. Youtube gold, people, youtube gold.
We tried other swaddle blankets.
The little squirmer started rolling over at about 4.5 months. Before his startle reflex was gone. Uh oh. Goodbye swaddling. Welcome back sleepless nights? Nope. Now he sleeps 11-12 hours a night, plus naps, in a Zipadee Zip swaddle-transition blanket and he loves it!
And now that he's more mobile, his nocturnal (and nap time) perambulations are even more interesting.
We still never know how we're going to find him post-nap, or in the morning (to say nothing of throughout the night on the monitor) but it's almost always with a great big smile.
Except that one time (two weeks ago) when that first tooth popped through. Then he woke up screaming bloody murder.
By this time he was already busting out of the Aden + Anais blankets we'd been swaddling him in, but his startle reflex was still so strong that I knew there was no way he'd sleep without his arms snug and secure. Enter the Miracle Blanket. It's basically a little straight jacket for babies and I figured there was no way he'd be able to Houdini out of it (ha, wait for it…). That first night of Mission Crib I fed him his last bottle, rocked him sleepy, wrapped the shit out of him, re-rocked him to sleep, laid him in his crib and prayed.
He slept seven hours! Hallelujah! ALL PRAISE THE MIRACLE BLANKET!!!
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| My sister says he looks like the little caterpillar from The Fox and the Hound |
We settled into a new routine, nice long stretches of sleep for everyone, the little dreamer snug as a caterpillar in a cocoon in his Miracle Blanket. Until, that is, the night I woke up, looked at his monitor and he was gone! I leapt out of bed and ran to his room, totally freaked that David Bowie had stolen my baby (I certainly didn't remember saying the words). Thankfully I did not burst into the little pill's room to find a spandex-clad glam rocker, twirling his crystal sphere and telling me to forget about the baby. The only little goblin in the room was my own. He had wiggled his way to the bottom of his crib and out of view of the camera. There should be a section in baby books reserved for the first heart attack I gave mommy.
And so began the phase I like to call "How will we find the little inchworm in the morning?"
Like this?
 |
| Looks pretty satisfied with himself, doesn't he? |
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| WTF? |
We tried other swaddle blankets.
Though super cute (and that Aden + Anais one on the left is SO SOFT), these never worked as well as the Miracle Blanket because his arms are loose inside. The MB has arm flaps that loop over his arms and then under his body, keeping them lashed to his side snug and cozy, plus a looooong flap that wraps around and around the baby (yes, there's a learning curve to it). So even though he sometimes broke out of it once he woke in the morning, we kept coming back to the Miracle Blanket because that's what he slept best in. Subsequently, I did find on youtube (google "batwing swaddle") that some enterprising soul came up with the idea of using a regular receiving blanket to do the arm flaps and then using one of the velcro swaddles over that. GENIUS. Unfortunately, for us, it was too late for that because well, summer, and also someone had started rolling over.
The little squirmer started rolling over at about 4.5 months. Before his startle reflex was gone. Uh oh. Goodbye swaddling. Welcome back sleepless nights? Nope. Now he sleeps 11-12 hours a night, plus naps, in a Zipadee Zip swaddle-transition blanket and he loves it!
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| Little starfish baby |
We still never know how we're going to find him post-nap, or in the morning (to say nothing of throughout the night on the monitor) but it's almost always with a great big smile.
Except that one time (two weeks ago) when that first tooth popped through. Then he woke up screaming bloody murder.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
So apparently this is a thing
Over the course of my long, spotty, sometimes successful (no doubt requiring a special alignment of planets) running career I've had just about every running-related injury imaginable. Plantar fasciitis, tendinitis of the achilles, patellar and peroneal insertional varieties, IT band syndrome, countless calf strains, shin splints, stress fractures, micro-tears, compressed metatarsal nerves, heat exhaustion and you get the picture. Actually I shouldn't say I've had every injury because I'll probably jinx myself and get the one or two I've not had during my next run. Like a labral tear. Or a pulled hamstring. At least I don't think I've every pulled a hamstring. Maybe in high school. Not sure. Those years are starting to get a little blurry.
Three of those injuries listed above hit me back-to-back-to-back during the year and a half we were trying to get pregnant. So when I finally did pee out a double line in April 2014 I was in horrible shape. I was barely running 20 miles a week and still struggling with patellar tendinitis. At that point it seemed silly (and probably unhealthy) to try to keep running during the pregnancy. So I started walking, hoping that the long, enforced time off would heal EVERYTHING.
Lo and behold, it did! The little tyke was born in January so once the weather was nicer I started running again. And after a couple false starts (cranky knee, tweaked gluteal attachment) I'm actually running pain and ache free for the first time since January 2013. I'm still in abysmal shape and up until two days ago I hadn't run anything longer than 4 miles, but I'm getting stronger (slightly) and faster (marginally) and I'm starting (actually) to feel like a runner again. With the baby it's harder to find time and opportunity to run, though I'm getting the hang of stroller running and my husband and mom have been great about helping me fit in runs on my own. Still, it's going to be a long road back to where I want to be fitness-wise so I need all those opportunities I can get, with or without the little stink bug.
Which is why I am most unhappy to have suffered my first BABY RELATED injury. Yes, apparently this is a thing. I must have missed that chapter in my Baby 411 book. Yesterday morning, while holding the little cherub, I reached down to pick up one of his toys and felt something wrench in my mid-back. My first thought was, "Oh no, that's not good." I immediately ran for the Advil and was pleasantly surprised to not have it be much of an issue throughout the day. Until, that is, I got home from work. I only did one massage, but the necessary forward leaning appears to have been enough to really flair up whatever strained because it's mighty uncomfortable now. I probably could have run this morning, because I mostly only feel it when I bend forward, or take deep breaths. Or move. Still, the last thing I want to do is make it worse. Fingers crossed it feels better tomorrow and I'm able to start running again. With my new little coach, how could I not be anxious to get back out there?
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| Watching mommy work hard is very entertaining. |
I am looking forward to him being big enough to sit forward facing in the stroller so I can lose the extra weight of the carrier, but I'll miss seeing that face while I run.
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