Glibbertysmidgeon

“I can’t sit with my super big poop.”

“Holy Moly, that IS a super big poop, baby”

“Can you eat it?”

I haven’t had a haircut since April- unless you count the bang trim I gave myself in my aunt’s bathroom in Oregon last month. To say it was a hack job would be an understatement; I used nosehair trimmers. This is only one example of how desperate I’ve become.

Since moving to Seattle I feel like I have been in a steep decline- devolving into that poor, ignorant, grilled-cheese-flipping housedress-wearing mother of my nightmares. My fear of becoming this woman was the reason I very nearly skipped parenthood altogether. Partly, it’s this staying-at-home business. Spending all my time in the company of a 2-year-old means I hear too much Dora the Explorer, and very little NPR. It means I don’t have time for shoe shopping or haircuts, and many of my conversations involve monster boogers or stinkadoo poopies. Part of the problem is the move itself. The house we’ve rented is much larger than our Brooklyn apartment, but much dirtier, and there are lots of things falling off, molding, or infested with spiders. Almost four months in the house, we’re pretty much unpacked, but there is still a pile of set-up work to be done- getting the nursery ready for the new addition, wiring the computer, sorting the files the movers dumped. My life feels far from civilized.

Oh, and there’s that whole pregnancy thing. There’s nothing like wearing hand-me-down maternity clothes and floundering around like a paraplegic harp seal to make a woman feel unattractive.

On Friday I dropped my iPhone into Scarlett’s kiddie pool. Such a dull and predictable end to this, the last vestige of my New York cool.

Drifting off to sleep last night, it occurred to me that we could move back to New York if we wanted to. Kris has more than one former coworker eager to hire him, and I think I could have my old job back if I left soon. I even think we could hire our beloved nanny back with a little advance notice. These thoughts comforted me, but I realized almost as soon as I thought them that I wouldn’t really want to do that.

It’s easy to forget how desperate those last months in New York were. Although we love the city, and were surrounded by friends, we were lonely. We were exhausted, and we felt lost. We both longed for the comfort of our families. As new parents, many of the pleasures of the city were out of our reach. Try pushing a stroller down the crowded sidewalks of SoHo, or getting up at 7:00 with your rowdy toddler after staying out until 3:00 eating at Veselka after a movie or a night of dancing. Nothing turns a would-be hipster into a pumpkin quicker than parenthood.

Though we both miss so much about life in New York, we were missing most of it while we still lived there.

I had thought that moving back to the family would give us unlimited babysitting and freedom of movement I was missing in New York. I should have realized that nothing comes for free- we must give free babysitting in order to recieve. I’ve become so large and slow that the babysitting is near impossible. That works out fine, though, because they don’t let pregnant women on the water slides, and I can’t sit through a movie without a potty break, so I don’t really know what I’d do with free time anyway. Maybe I’d catch up on the news or read a book…

In the end, we were boring lonely parents in New York, and we’re boring parents- maybe a little less lonely- here in Seattle.

I am trying to accept that there’s no way around the difficulties of parenthood. Wherever we go, these kids will be there, ruining our lives. All we can do is muddle through, and dream of sending them off to school, to sleep over with friends, and eventually to college.

Either that, or put them into baskets and leave them on some poor sucker’s doorstep.

Last night I dreamed I was tired.

We were at the beach, everyone was scuba diving, shopping, and beachcombing, and I couldn’t get myself up out of my hotel bed to look for my sandals.

6 month pregnant, I’m still trying to unpack this house whenever Scarlett is asleep.
When I wake each morning my head feels rooted to the pillow.

At least in the dream I was tired someplace scenic.

I feel like an old couch. Lumpy, threadbare, and sprung.

In the beginning, it seemed natural to be a bit of a mess. My body was wonked out by pregnancy and chidbirth, I hadn’t put two hours of sleep together since leaving the hospital, and I was home alone all day with this tiny, beautiful person who cried all the time, and couldn’t tell me what she needed.

I remember how I stressed about the dog. She needs a walk, but it’s 15 degrees out! I didn’t want to take the baby out in the cold, but I didn’t have anyone to help me.

I kept thinking, “Tomorrow is the day I’ll cook something for dinner.” and “When the weekend comes, I’ll clean this house”.

When we were on our Christmas trip, I was sure I’d started getting the hang of this parenting thing. I’d finally gotten Scarlett to start napping and I was feeling so much more relaxed. This didn’t take into account the fact that my only responsibility the entire 5 weeks was taking care of baby. Once we got home, the house was still there, looking like somebody had turned it upside-down and shaken it like a snow globe.

I began to feel panicky. I cried easily. I worried constantly about the baby, and felt like a failure on every level. A bad mom, a bad housekeeper, a horrible pet owner, a rotten real estate investor, a needy wife.

Here’s the wierd thing about feelings: you always believe in them.
If I felt overwhelmed, I was sure it was because something was overwhelming me. I just needed to organize more, focus better, cooperate with my husband more efficiently. It didn’t occur to me to wonder if my coping skills were somehow impaired.

Kris was unwaveringly supportive. “I don’t expect you to cook, hon.” he said with a hug, “We’re just going to do whatever we need to do to get through this.” He meant the new parenthood thing. Neither of us was thinking about post partum depression.

Things started to get radically worse when two stressors collided:

1. It was time to prepare to go back to work
2. The real estate partnership I’d entered into with friends was ready to start the real work

I started thinking about getting a nanny, but the idea of leaving the baby with a stranger terrified me. What if I picked a Bad Nanny? I started thinking about quitting my job, but could not get my mind around that either. Am I really the kind of woman who can do dishes every day and not earn her own money? The crusty house seemed an accusation.

Every day, my To Do list grew, and I couldn’t tell the important things from the ones that could wait. It all seemed heavy and unweildy, and I was this tiny person, shrinking beneath the weight of all her failed responsibilities. I put off deciding about my job. I avoided reading my email.

Kris encouraged me to quit my job. “What is it that draws you back there?”

Duty? Guilt? Money?
The best way I can think to describe it is stark raving panic.
I wanted to crawl into something safe and familiar. Something not too stressful.

We hired a dog walker.
We hired a housekeeper.
I arranged to go back to work part-time.
We begged William to come visit- both to give me the cheer and support of an old friend, and to give me some decent hair.

I still felt anxious and overwhelmed. I made lists, and then forgot where I put them.

After I came home crying from a meeting with my real estate partners (for the third time), Kris and I began to talk about an exit strategy. We also began to talk about getting me some medication.

About one in 10 new mothers experience some degree of postpartum depression. These complications usually occur within just days after the delivery, and can occur even a year later. These symptoms include:

• Sluggishness
• Fatigue
• Exhaustion
• Feelings of hopelessness or depression
• Disturbances with appetite and sleep
• Confusion
• Uncontrollable crying
• Lack of interest in the baby
• Fear of harming the baby or oneself
• Mood swings – highs and lows

HealtyMinds.org

Our efforts are having an impact. I’ve been back at work for three weeks now, and the nanny hasn’t given me any reason to panic. Our lawyer is drafting the separation agreement from the real estate partnership, and that’s a huge releif.

Last week, William came. He cooked. He empathized. He took Scarlett and I for a walk in the park. He brought a breezy, relaxed feeling into our house, and he gave me hair like this:

…at least, it looked like that when he styled it.
When I style it, the curl creeps back in and the bangs fly up in the wind, bringing to mind the tall ’80s bangs I’d rather not remember.

Some days I feel like I can concentrate.
Some days, I feel like I make progress on my tasks.
Some days, I even write in my blog.

…and then the accountant calls, or the dog walker doesn’t show up, and we have a hard day.

Next week, I have an appointment with a doctor who, I hope, will give me some of this drug my mother-friends have told me about- the one that helped them start feeling like themselves in only a few short days. I just hope nobody at the office notices the baffled stares and the vacant smiles in the meantime.

If I get that medicine, I think I’ll be in good shape. I’ll have my focus and my confidence back, and all of these worries will take their rightful place in the back of my mind.

Then there will really be only one thing left. I’ll just need someone to say,

“Your hair looks just like Bridgett Fonda!”

Yeah. That will be good.

Yesterday was the first summery day of 2007, so William and I took Scarlett and Sophie to the park.

William was holding the baby while I was fiddling with the stroller. When I looked up, Scarlett was cute as a button riding on Uncle William’s shoulders.

I froze.

“Don’t ever let Kris see you doing that.” I said, though I was unable to resist a smile at how happy Scarlett looked up there.

I explained that Daddy once knew an EMT who told him too many horrible stories of children killed or maimed when they tumbled backward from their fathers’ shoulders.

“You’ll never catch me holding our children that way.” Kris told me once, as we watched a dad passing on the sidewalk, little son riding high on his shoulders.

“I’m not going to let her fall”, William said, holding her little ribcage with both hands, his elbows sticking out beside his ears.

I allowed that he was holding her fast enough, and snapped a guilty picture before he took her down.

Throughout our walk, William poked fun at my hovering.

“Is her hat in her eyes?”
“Is she sleeping?”
“Don’t let her put that toy in her mouth, it isn’t clean”
“Should we put her a jacket on her?”
“Is the baby sleeping?”
“It’s getting close to her bedtime. We’d better head for home.”

“The baby is fine” William said, “Learn to relax and enjoy your life!”

I started thinking about the Rules of Parenthood that I had designed for myself back in the days Before Scarlett (BS).

In Before Scarlett times, I scoffed at those over protective parents who never let their kids get dirty.
“Kids get dirty. That’s what water is for.” I’d say with a shrug.

In Before Scarlett times, I swore I would not use electric gadgets to pacify my child. “Baby neglectors” I think I called them. I was going to fill all of these precious waking hours with love and learning.

Some of these ideals (no TV until the age of 2, no Hershey bars…) we’ve managed to live by.

Others, I guess, are just so much BS.

Post Script: On reading this post, Kris told me that the hold William is demonstrating in this picture is not, in fact, the deadly hold. The key is where you grip the child. If you hold on to your child by the feet, he’d better be wearing a helmet, because if he goes over backward, the momentum of his fall will most likely jerk him out of your hands. If, however, you hold him by his torso (as William demonstrates) or by the hands, you will have leverege to stop the backward fall before it gets going.

Last summer, I had a bit of a meltdown over the 4th of July weekend.
Literally and figuratively.

That was the first big heat wave of the summer, and we hadn’t installed the air conditioner because the bars on the windows made it impossible.
We’d intended to get out of The City for the long weekend, but the complicated campout with friends I’d been trying to plan refused to come together. The fourth dawned blue skied, sunny, and hot. When I climbed out of bed, I couldn’t escape the image of Lake Padden, floating like a mirage in my mind. A swim would feel so good. A trip down the Nooksack on an inner tube would be a dream. I imagined spending the whole day floating on Lake Samish on an air mattress. As hot as it was, I would have gladly traded my favorite shoes for a Mr. Turtle pool in the back yard.
I came home from walking Sophie with big ideas about going to the beach, visiting the water park in New Jersey, and paying a fee to swim in the pool at Chelsea Piers. When it became apparent that none of these plans was going to work I actually cried.
I’m not talking about some watery eyed whining. I’m talking about a full blown, collapse-on-the-floor-and-blubber-till-the-snot-runs emotional cataclysm. Kris was, understandably, a little confounded.
In the end, we spend the 4th of July in the cool interior of a movie theater. In the end, I vowed NEVER to be trapped in the city on a long, summer weekend again.
This year I started looking for our escape a month in advance.
One evening I got online, and started looking at campsites in the Catskills, cabins for rent near Niagara Falls, and Bed & Breakfasts in Maine. After a couple hours of research, I called Kris over to show him the cabin near Niagara Falls. After perusing my findings he said simply,
“I want to go to the beach”
So I handed him the laptop and went to wash the dishes. Half an hour later, he found me in the kitchen.
“How about a four star hotel in Puerto Rico?”
We left on an evening flight on Thursday, the 3rd, and arrived in San Juan at 1:45 a.m. A short cab ride took us to the Wyndham Hotel at Condado Plaza, where we checked in and fell into bed.
Friday we slept late, and had a lazy breakfast, in the hotel restaurant where our friendly waiter kept us topped up with coffee and chitchat, frequently bursting into song as he passed between the tables. We spent most of the day by the pool, sleeping in lounge chairs, playing in the ocean, and alternating between the hotel’s salt water lap pool, and the fresh water pool, which I have nicknamed “the Dolphin Pool”.
It was after four when we finally took our lazy selves up to the room and showered. We caught a city bus into Old San Juan and walked around the blue cobblestone streets peering into the long shuttered windows of mint and sherbet colored haciendas and taking pictures of outrageously lush tropical plants.
Kris was indulgent, following amusedly as I explored shop after shop, in search of a colorful summer purse that would complement my skirts and sandals. When I was thirsty, we found an open air market made up of four art galleries and a small restaurant jammed into an alley. The galleries displayed paintings, boxes, and colorful carved figures on shelves along the brick alley wall, and the restaurant was little more than a small kitchen and counter tucked under a canvas awning. We ordered iced coffees, but what we got were blended concoctions of espresso, coconut milk, and ice, which, under a thick head of whipped cream, tasted more like milkshakes than coffee.
“You like it?” asked our young server, “Only I make it this way.”
Like it? It was out of this world.
An hour later we wandered into Ostra Cosa in search of a snack. Ostra Cosa is a small cafe tucked into the hidden garden in the center of a Spanish-style building filled with the galleries of independent painters, potters, and clothing designers. The only souls inside the cafe were three employees and a Scottish terrier named Grimmauldi. Behind bar, a bearded man was carving the muscled bicep on a clay sculpture of a male torso. As we approached, he set aside his instruments and invited us to join him at the bar. “Hungry, thirsty, or hot?” he asked us, his arms held wide in a welcoming gesture.
“Thirsty, hot, and snackish.”
I answered, as I seated myself at the bar. After handing us two napkins soaked in ice water for mopping our brows, he mixed us two of the best pina coladas I’ve ever tasted, and began asking us what types of food we like best. Over our drinks, we talked about food, art, and the differences between New York and Puerto Rico. Then he sent his cook to make us some jumbo prawns and chorizo.
“I believe the restaurant should get to know the customer,” he explained, “and then feed them the food that they will like. These restaurants, they make the customer take all the risk. They give you a menu, and they serve you what you order and you have to pay for it, even if you hate it.”
The result, he claimed, is that customers tend to order food they think is ‘safe’ when they go into a new restaurant, and they don’t experience the diversity of great food that is available to them.
“In this restaurant I take the risk. I serve you the food you will like. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pay.”
Not surprisingly, the prawns and chorizo were excellent.
Our host eventually went back to his sculpture, occasionally breaking into song or pausing to give instructions to his staff in Spanish. We lingered over another set of pina coladas, and watched a wild parrot picking fruit in the tree above the restaurant. The day was only beginning to darken as we prepared to leave, and the barkeep leaned over the bar to give us one last word of advice,
“Do me a favor.” he said, “When you leave here, walk down to the beach, and watch the sunset. Do that for me.”
And so we followed a train of slender cats migrating down San Juan Avenue until we came to a gate in the city wall, and passed through to the where the sea meets the stony edge of the city. There we found a wide paved path that curved along the outside of the wall. Following the path, we discovered an entire population of aristocratic looking cats living among the breakwater stones. The cats sunbathed, frolicked, and ate from caches of cat food tucked into several niches in the rough, black stone.
The sky deepened into pale purple as we walked along the path, stopping from time to time to take a photograph or to pet a cat. We rounded a bend, and saw the blue-black shape of a pelican soaring in circles over the water’s surface. We watched him dive for food, folding his wings and aiming his arrow-like body straight into the sea. With each dive, the pelican disappeared under the water, and then emerged with a throat full of wriggling fish. Fascinated, we watched as he circled and dived, circled and dived, until we were forced to wonder,
“How much does this guy eat?”
Finally, we turned back toward the city lights.
We stopped at another little restaurant, where ordered the “Local Fritters Plate”, which turned out to be an assortment of tiny pastries, like pizza rollups, filled with local favorite foods, such as spicy beef, cheese, and sweet plantain. We asked our waitress if there would be a 4th of July celebration, and she assured us that the fireworks would begin very soon. We didn’t quite understand the directions she gave us, but we set off in the direction she pointed anyway.
We road ended at another city gate, and we found ourselves at another wall. We could see part of the city sprawled out below us, and the sea beyond that. Should we walk around to the right or to the left? We wondered, and then we thought, “What if we can see the fireworks from here?
The wall was the perfect height for leaning, so we snuggled up and waited to see what would happen. Soon the fireworks began, and a jazz band began to play in a gazebo just below us. A family joined us, and the father set his small son upon the wall, and wrapped his arms around the boy’s belly like a seatbelt. It was pleasant to hear the excited chatter of two young children as they watched the display.
After the fireworks, we held hands as we walked back to the main street of Old San Juan, trying to decide whether we should walk back to the hotel, or look for a taxi.
“Need a ride?”
The taxi driver was calling to us from his open passenger side window. On our way back to the hotel, our driver asked us where we’d been, and what we were planning to see during our stay. He insisted that we visit the underground caves and the rain forest, occasionally interrupting himself to point out a trendy restaurant or a popular club along the way.
“These are the best,” he said, “I know, because I always drop so many people there.”
Back at the hotel, Kris wanted to take another walk on the beach, so we changed our clothes and headed out. In the polished wall of the elevator car, I watched our reflection. He looked so handsome in my favorite blue button up shirt, while I.. well, the jelly stain on my cargo pants wasn’t terribly noticeable.
The balmy wind ruffled our hair as we stepped out into the night. There were some kids still playing in the pool, laughing and splashing as we threaded our way between lounge chairs to the end of the patio.
Kris led me up a crooked path through the trees until we reached a small lookout where we could watch the waves rise and crash into the rocks below us, the froth appearing silver in the light of the half moon.
I leaned against the railing, and Kris stood behind me, his arms around my waist, as I inhaled the humid, salty air and looked back on the day. We had done so many things, and yet I felt relaxed. It seemed as if we had lived three days on the beach instead of only one. Standing there, with the wind in my face, and Kris at my back, it seemed a miracle that we still had two whole days stretching long and languid ahead of us, rich with possibilities for more sun, sea, and exploring.
After a time, Kris moved away, and I turned to see where he had gone.
In the moonlight, I saw the glint of the diamond in his hand.
“Will you marry me?” he asked
And I pounced him up in a hug, saying “Yes” so fast, that I’m afraid I may not have heard all of the word “Me.”