Glibbertysmidgeon

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.