How I Started Taking Zoloft and Saved Myself

You don’t have to read these, but they do provide background, in case you’re interested:
Part 1: Where I'm Honest-written from in the middle of my last depression
Part 2: The Nothing

8 Months Pregnant and Feeling It

Almost a year ago I was pregnant, had been through some personal upheavals, and was on the edge of major depression.

 After the depression that ate the year after my second son was born, I made everyone I know promise to get me help if I ever sank that low again. I made a plan with my midwife that included starting medication at the 36th week of pregnancy. I also made a vow to be honest with myself about how I was doing. In my case, I know that while my depression can strengthen under stressful circumstances,  it's primarily a hormonal shift due to pregnancy. And I knew, sitting on the couch, with giant tears rolling down my cheeks, that I was beginning the descent into depression.

What were the symptoms? A whole lot of crying, sleeplessness (more than usual,) anxiety, and a profound inability to deal with my life. Things that shouldn’t be a big deal were increasingly insurmountable issues. I couldn’t handle even basic tasks--like making it to the post office. The idea of filing taxes had me as flummoxed as coming up with a formula for cold fusion. And it didn’t have to be that way. So before anybody else had to, I called my midwife and told her that we needed to move the plan up. I asked her for the lowest dose possible, because I am extremely sensitive to medication. She gave me a prescription for 25 mgs of Zoloft and told me I could break them in half if I needed. My friends giggled at the dose, but, hey, different doses for different folkses.

I learned quickly that I had to take my half a pill at night, or I’d be too sleepy to function during the day. I also figured out that I needed to dial down even further and take half a pill every other day. It was just enough to rescue my emotional free fall, but not so much that I was catatonic. Within a couple weeks I was again able to handle my life. I was functional again. There were side effects (primarily the drowsiness) that I needed to manage, but the Zoloft worked. The anxiety, the anger, the hopelessness eased; it was almost miraculous.

After Lulu was born I increased to the full daily dosage. The precipitous hormonal shift after you have a baby is almost unbearable. Most women suffer through a few weeks of those “Baby Blues,” but if it doesn’t get measurably better, you need to get that sister, wife, daughter, friend some professional help. Back during The Nothing, I couldn’t admit to myself that something was wrong, even though those closest to me knew I was in a bad, bad place.

This time, it was completely different. I could be present for my baby and my family. I could keep working, I could deal with my life (as much as you can with a newborn.) It was radically different and radically better than my last baby. When Lulu was 5 months I began to slowly taper the medicine. I reduced to half a pill every day, giving myself the permission to take a full dose if I began to feel myself slipping. I checked in with friends, they checked in with me. I was honest about missing doses and when the taper was too strong, I corrected. I don't have to use anti-depressants forever; I can use them when I need to because they are a tool to help you live your life without the disruption of depression.

Baby Lulu is now 8-months-old. She’s the sweetest light of my life. Bouncy, crawling, nursing, silly, independent, trying-to-walk baby. Chubby cheeks, pouty mouth, smile that brightens everything. And I can be there for her, and for my sons, husband, friends, and work.

I am here for my life.

Pep Talks

Tonight I stood up, shook out my limbs from their crunched angles, and said, "I need a pep talk!"
"OK," Said my Other Half, "About what?"

That was half the problem, the "About what" part of the request. A general pep talk? Do they make those? Some sort of plug-n-play Coach Taylor pep talk that unspecifically puts the wind underneath your wings? Go team? Take state? Yay college? How are your meds?

"I feel like I'm hanging on by the tips of my fingers," I said, putting my hands into the air in front of me and bending my knuckles in a fair, if unconscious, imitation of the Hang In There Kitty. "Everything: the house, the work, the baby, the parenting, the business, the paperwork, the end of year flexible spending account."
"The worst is behind you."
"Yes."
"You've totally got this."
"Yes."
"The baby is almost six months and you'll never have to do the hardest part again."
"And all this is worth it?"
"Of course! I couldn't do what I do without you."
"I keep telling Tiffany that this is the hardest it will ever be."
"Exactly."
"I wish I could sleep for a couple months."
"Well, let's not take it that far. No hibernating, please."

And then I immediately felt ungrateful. It's a silly spiral: when you start feeling overwhelmed until you see the trials of your friends, and then remember how taken care of you are, what amazing people surround you, and how wonderful life is (because you're in the world.)  It's like I'm being coddled and beaten at the same time. Two different kinds of eggs! To which I am allergic, even in similes!

The truth is that most of us are just hanging on by the tips of our fingers, knuckles bent under the pressure of keeping your entire self upright and functional. We're all being taken care of by the mercy of each other. Because you are strong in a way that I am not, and I am strong in a way that you need.

Here's your pep talk: You can do this. We all can. Here's an umbrella for the vale of tears; pass it on when you hit the sunshine. You can eat your feelings, read about it until your eyes fall out, make a doctor's appointment, ignore it, pray about it, rage about it, but you can do it.

So take a deep breath, and DO.

Oh How I Need You

The trouble with being a true extrovert is that you really need other people to keep your sanity and perspective. If I start to sink into the morass, J knows to send me out to be with people. Just as an introvert needs to be alone to recharge, I need company and conversation to ease my spirit.

I need you, in other words.

I was discussing this personality bent with Courtney; she who is, despite all evidence to the contrary, an introvert. I have a lot of friends who are introverts, and I married one to boot. I’ve grown to understand that they need to be alone, to cut me and the rest of the world off, that they crave this as much as I crave the communal. Too many days and gatherings take an emotional toll; they retreat into the salve of solitude.

The older I get the more I also need that solitude, but on my own terms and with finite boundaries. In truth, when I start to retreat too much, and I’ve recently felt the inclination, that’s when I need to reach out and be out more--or I sink deeper.

So I met Anne for breakfast and a needed connection. She leaned over a white table cloth, the remains of french toast and home fries closing our distance, smiled her sparest Anne smile and said, “The older I get the more I realize that my friends are the family that I choose.” I thought back to the day we met, during PE in junior high. The bus stop. A thousand parties. All the New Year’s Eves.
“That’s the thing,” I said, “We’ll always be friends.”
“And I apologize,” she said, “That I haven’t been around.”
“There’s no need.”
“Yes, there is, because you are the family that I choose.”

On a recent afternoon at the pool, I ran into one of my former professors (Women’s History and Civil Rights History.) We gave the kid age and gender rundown, since mothers must share those most crucial heart-based facts first. I asked her opinion about The Help. I remembered her discourse on pioneer and immigrant women. “It was a tremendous sacrifice for them, more than most realize, because women need other women. They left their homes, and yes the comforts of civilization, but more than that, they left their networks: their mothers, sisters, cousins and friends, probably to never see them again. Left their people to live often isolated frontier lives.”

I thought of that truth over the breakfast as Anne contemplated a life a thousand miles away.

People come into our lives because they are supposed to: the million coincidences, the friend of a friend, the providential entrances, the chance reunion. Introverts or extroverts, women need each other.

Just like I need you.

SKE-Dual or SHHED-jewel?

Do NOT schedule your husband’s vasectomy at the same time as your baby’s 3 week growth spurt and your Grand Uncle's funeral, because Lawsy Mcgee, it was crazy today.

I’m the opposite of a scheduling savant, it seems. I realized last week that I scheduled my first hair appointment in almost a year at the exact same time as J’s Big V. I didn’t immediately cancel because the buildings are literally half a block away from each other. And if you’re practical, like me, you’d realize that it was really a gas saving trip! Besides, I was just going to be sitting in a waiting room anyway, I might as well pop over to the salon and get all pretty, right?
J did not see it that way.

“Let me put it this way, “ he said, “If you are not there when I am done...”

No need to finish that sentence, Snips O’Hoolihan.

Snips is not allowed to lift anything, is supposed to just take it easy for 5 days by lying on the couch and watching movies (Doctor’s Orders!) I can’t help but compare with how my medical professional said at least 2 weeks of taking it easy! Only PJs! No picking up anything heavier than the baby! I mostly listened (except for that night I didn’t and moved the sectional by myself and steam cleaned the family room carpet and then had to spent the next day on bed rest because I should have listened all the way.)

Anyway. 5 days. This means my kids have two parents who are doing a lot of sitting and lying down, playing chicken with the doorbell. I hope they don’t grow up to be lazy and have no work ethic because of these 5 days and 2 weeks.

Oh, fluffernutter, I couldn’t bear raising, then loosing, lazy children on the world. I mean, all children are lazy, but they grow out of it if you make them work hard enough, I’ve found (because I was a lazy child and my parents worked me until I screamed.)

Baby Lulu is working me until I pass out. Growth spurts! So fun! She can’t be hungry again, can she? (Yes.) Why is she still awake? (Hungry.) Will I ever sleep again? (No.)

I was going to tell you more about the Adventures of Lulu and Snips, but Lulu is yelling at me again and I am powerless to resist.



Over at Today’s Mama:
Third Child, Can You Step it Up?

I'm Having This Baby in a Hospital

(anxietus habitatus)

Yes. Yes, I am. Unless I have the baby in the car on the way to the hospital, in which case I will be a widow because my husband will have passed out and crashed the car from the horror of It All.

It feels like more and more people are having their babies at home these days, or at least entertaining the possibility. Know what? I think that’s awesome!

I think you should have your baby at home if that’s what you want. From what I understand, it's as safe as a hospital (all things considered.) It's the way birth has been done since, oh, well, practically forever. Surrounded in your own controlled environment, with people you love, no machines, no beeping, no strangers poking into places heretofore reserved for the cherished few, I get it! I just don’t want it.

In talking with friends and acquaintances, it’s pretty clear that a lot of hospitals are rotten places to have a baby. I don’t know if rotten covers it, they’re horrid. If the choice was to deliver at one of those pits, I’d give a second thought to my notions.

However, I have a perfectly lovely hospital where my midwives have privileges. I delivered my last baby there and had a wonderful time in my private room with beautiful mountain views. No fear of a nurse giving my baby formula when I’m not looking, no undo pressure to take, or monitor, things I don’t want taken, or monitored. Lots of support for the kind of birth I want. People bring me food that I did not have to prepare or cook; it’s not terrible food and I can have food any time I like. I don’t have other people crawling all over me. I don’t have to referee any fights. I get to be alone, just me and the baby.

My house...my house. It’s a nice house, but it gives me anxiety. Does anyone else suffer from House Anxiety? It’s crippling, I tell you. No matter where you are, or specifically are not, in the housework cycle, there’s always more that can be done: another surface to fill and clear, another pile of junk, a wall that must be scrubbed. The table is perpetually sticky with a proprietary blend of jelly, peanut butter, and unidentifiable goo. The floor does a mean Cap’n Crunch impression. You always think you might want a place with four bathrooms, but as it turns out, that’s four bathrooms that have to be cleaned. Four bathrooms that men use. You may draw your own conclusions (they’ve certainly drawn their own...)

When I am at home the House Anxiety weighs on me: there is more to clean, more to organize, and more to tidy than I can ever possibly accomplish. I cannot have a baby here. I just can’t. I do not want to be in the throes of labor and look over at the un-dusted windowsill and feel House Anxiety. I want someone else to cook for me. They bring you food! Maybe even cookies! Do you know how many kinds of juices they have? That’s practically cocktail service! Jetted tubs! It’s quiet! Private room where you can refuse visitors! I do not want to have to worry about anything. If the hospital would let me stay a week, I would.

Hmm.

On further reflection, maybe, just perhaps, what I want more than a birth in a hospital and not in my home,

is a vacation.

Fighting The Nothing

One of the reasons it’s taken us so long to decide to have another baby is what happened the last time we had a baby: I fell into a black hole of nothing that ate me.

The loss of dear friends, losing the only income we had, and other profound circumstantial difficulties, exacerbated my already precarious perch. The precipitous drop in hormones that a lot of women experience after having a baby plunged me into a depression that in my life had no equal. I was a shell. I had the nothing. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t remember to do the most ordinary tasks, I forgot everything.

My friends would call on the phone and I would answer, but couldn’t even muster a “Hi.” Instead, my friends learned to say, “I know you can’t talk, but I want to talk to you, so you don’t have to say anything, just listen.” And that’s what I did. I listened because my brain couldn’t make words come out of my mouth. Some days I would cry and not know why. Other days I would sit and stare straight ahead and not know what happened. My husband would ask me to do simple things, like remember to put a dirty diaper in the garbage; I could not even accomplish that.

The only thing I did know was the fierce bond that Proximo and I had from the very beginning. He was the solitary light; my solar system; the entirety of the universe. My first born and my husband bore the brunt of my myopic preoccupation with the baby and my bungling neglect of all else; the nothing almost pulled them out of my hands.

I’m grateful that I blogged so much during that time because I honestly do not remember that year. I have a record because the only coping I could do was to write. I know that one day I woke up from the nothing. Huh, I thought, I need to do the dishes. I tried to remember when I had last done the dishes and realized that I’d been pregnant; I had a one-year-old on my knee. My relationships were a wreck and I was in shambles.

During the time of nothing I kept telling myself that it was getting better. No, I didn’t need to go to a Doctor, no I didn’t need help, no I was fine. It’s better than it was two weeks ago, I’d tell myself. But it wasn’t, because I couldn’t see how I’d lost myself. I needed help and I didn’t get it.

This time will be different.

I made my friends and family swear an oath that even if I insisted I was OK from here to Sunday, they know the truth and they will have to drive me to see a professional. I cannot risk losing another year of my life to nothing. It’s not acceptable to do that to my children and my spouse when there might be a way of preventing it.

So when I went to the midwives for my first appointment I explained that I would not be putting on a repeat performance. The midwife and I made a plan, and that plan includes a prescription for happy pills. It will be the first time I’ve ever taken the happy pills. I’ll start them about six weeks before the baby is due so that I don’t jump at the precipice. I’m somewhat nervous about taking the pills; I’m very sensitive to medication and stimulants of any kind. I don’t know how my body and my mental state will react to the seratonin. However, I will do anything it takes to fight the nothing--anything.

We Have a Rat

A really big rat.
A rat that can use a knife. Well, only sort of use a knife until he falls back to biting things. If you're waiting for me to call this 40 pound rat a rodent of unusual size, you'll be waiting a long time. Don't worry, I didn't cut up and serve this caramel to people (although I thought about it.)

In other news, since El Guille had his very first ear infection last week, it only stands to reason that baby had his very first ear infection this weekend. I was up all night for three nights in a row. It was pretty awesome, don't be jealous.

Oh, the wittle fingurs.

I'm not sure how you'll lick this thing, but we'll think of something.

This picture kind of sums up Proximo to me. Even though he was upset, crying, back-archingly sick this weekend, there were brief glimpses like this, where he tried to smile at me and be his normal happy self. Gosh I love that kid. Also, he doesn't pick up caramel-that-used-to-be-marshmallow slabs behind my back and help himself.

I shook myself out of a haze and took a look around my house yesterday.

I was shocked, yet remarkably un-appalled, to find that my house is a sty (yes, Sarah, a sty.) I surveyed the clothes on the floor, the blanket piles, the random boxes and piles of correspondence. I noted the floor covered in what I think are crumbs. The coats and bags thrown on the floor near the door. This kind of thing used to make me feel at the very least guilty, and at the most spur me to action to tidy up our domicile. I observed a curious lack of guilt and a confirmed lack of action.

I was trying to remember back when my house was cleaner, and I'm surprised to conjure up memories of cleanings constantly when I was pregnant with Proximo. I asked Other Half, "Hey, wasn't it cleaner around here?" He laughed and shook his head no.
"But I remember it not being this bad." He laughed and shook his head no.
"It can't have been this bad for the past 9 months," I thought to myself.

Maybe it has. I finally feel like the fog is lifting and I'm able to see my environment. What a time to come back to life! It's winter, when I naturally hibernate, so it's beyond difficult to motivate myself to keep up with the de-junking. I need to come up with a plan to get this place back into shape, or at the very least keep the floors relatively cheerio free. I bet if I think really hard I'll be able to get this place together without sacrificing Guitar Hero time.

Doesn't it seem like we should all be snoozing during this time of year? Don't you just want to curl up with a book, or a blog, and expend minimal energy? It has to be unnatural to demand that we act just as spry and nimble as we are during June.

Can you wake me when it's June?

Not Really a Retrospective

As one of the first acts of 2008, Baby Proximo broke my mug.

My favorite mug that I got as a wedding present from my friend Camille. The mug that holds an awesome life-giving 20 ounces of Pero and my morning cup of wake-me-up cocoa, or almost a whole can of Campbell's Noodle Soup that I will refuse to admit I drink in real life. The mug that is the horrid shade of forest green I thought was my favorite color ten years ago and therefore kitted my whole newlywed house out in cream and forest green to my current disgust; well it broke.

(Dear Newlyweds,
Just buy items in white.
Thanks,
You in ten years time.)

I couldn't even hate the baby for reaching out his little pudgy fingers and throwing the mug down and against the brick wall-I mean, come on, he's only a baby, he's got at least 6 more months before I start using the belt. Am I going to do a retrospective? I already did.

Oh, you mean on the year, not on the mug.

I haven't decided yet. I usually dislike reading retrospectives on the year passing/now past; it's boring and I didn't have any wake-me-up cocoa so I am even more grumpy.

I spent New Year's with Anne, as I have done so often I might as well not even wonder what I am doing next year. There I was, sitting in between Anne's mom and Anne's sisters, playing a card game, called Curses, that we quickly concluded was much better for a.) drunk people b.) high school students, or even possibly c.) drunk high school students. We were none of the previous, so the game disbanded soon after I was required to start every sentence with "Oh please play that one on me," scratch myself every time anyone made an animal noise, and to speak like both Elmer Fudd and Scooby-Doo (two curses I had to use my considerable accent skills to combine.) I deliberately threw the game, which is unlike me.

Next, I was called to play a game called Ticket to Ride. The moment I sat down, Anne's brother-in-law mentioned in a kind, but patronizing tone, that I could not possibly win. My blood boiled, which is like me.

First, I told an off-color story involving anatomy and children's toys. Will I tell it here? No, but you may ask me the next time you see me, if you can handle the off-color. I like to think that this bit of blue storytelling unnerved the competition and I handed their collective colas to them on a plate. Do not challenge me to a game, I have been schooled by my Other Half and he is the game-master.

The clock struck midnight, we did a brief cheer and continued our game, because winning is more important then one year yielding to the next. There was talk of finding a rumored waffle party at a friend's house. We seriously considered this option, and then decided that the enriched white bleached flour rolls, which we were downing like it was 1985, were probably enough for our bloodsugars. Besides, I am on FIRE after midnight, who wants to chance the fun leaving by shifting the party location?

Anne and I hatch plans for next year. It's decided that there might be a black and white party, ala Capote, with a band (Me: in favor) and possibly a scavenger hunt (Me: opposed.)

"All out!" Anne says, "We're going all out next year. Christmas will be low-key and it's going to be pandemonium on New Years."

Maybe she didn't say pandemonium, maybe I added that in for dramatic effect.



2007:
Lost a job
Had a baby
Found post-partum depression
Found post-partum depression could kick my cola
Got some Fizz (tm)
Other Half found his dream job
Let El Guille grow his hair out
Got grief from the known world for my shaggy-headed boy
Loved my baby
Loved my babies
10 years with Other Half (it's better than ever)
Robert Jordan died (still trying to formulate a post)
Killed a mixer
Killed another mixer
Got to medium on Guitar Hero
Spent time with YOU

/end retrospective

Lovely Coping Mechanisms

Tiff-fay-fay and I like to watch bad movies. We love renting turkeys and seeing the awful unfold. Sometimes those movies turn out to be hilarious. Try Glitter, that movie might be one of the top ten comedies ever. Sometimes those movies turn out to be even worse than you imagined. Gigli, for example, went from bad, to good, back to bad, and ultimately crossed the line to abominable.

So it was with Swept Away. Swept Away stars Madonna, a big strike one (or plus one if you’re into laughing AT a movie.) It is directed by her husband, strike two (he’s actually not a bad director, but directing your pushy spouse can’t be easy.) It’s a remake of a movie that has a lot of political and social commentary, all of which were sliced away (naturally, it’s a MADONNA movie) from the finished redo. Swept Away also commits an unforgivable offense: a beautiful, gigantic diamond ring sinking to the bottom of the ocean. That’s one of my movie pet peeves. One of the worst, most horrible, shameful things to ever occur in a movie is to see a piece of jewelry tossed into the sea.

WHY? Why would you DO THAT?

Harming innocent jewels like that, it’s just inhumane! That is why the worst thing about Titanic (and there are many things) is that the old lady tosses the Heart of the Ocean into the ocean.

WHY? Why would she DO THAT?

I felt connected to that necklace. I think we were meant to be together in material splendor all my days. My precious. Instead, it’s hanging on some crag of rock near the ocean bed, taunting me with its glittering chain and deep blue loveliness.

Imagine my surprise when I was able to acquire my OWN Heart of the Ocean. I was working at the bookstore and Titanic was just being released on video/DVD. Accompanying every purchase of the movie was a Heart of the Ocean necklace. I snagged one of those beauties right away. I found that wearing the Heart of the Ocean made my days so much better.

In fact, the Heart of the Ocean became my defense shield during three retail Christmases. Spending the holidays in retail is, uhm, there are no words, but I will try. You know how you hate to do Christmas shopping at the last minute? Imagine having that experience 8 to 12 hours a day, 65 days in a row. It’s a picnic! No matter how crazy things got, no matter how rude customers became, I was always cheerful. I knew that as long as I was wearing the Heart of the Ocean, things would be better. “That’s ok!” I would unflaggingly tell myself after a particularly hairy interaction, “They don’t know about the Heart of the Ocean.”

So last week I decided that I needed a pick me up. What better than digging the Heart of the Ocean out of it’s place of reverence (bottom of the jewelry box) and donning it once again?

Now, no matter how many times El Guille dumps out the salt pot and runs his trains through the grains, no matter how many times Proximo eliminates so fiercely it runs in rivulets out of the containment device, I know that I’m wearing the Heart of the Ocean...

nothing can touch me.

The One Where I Tell the Truth

Thomas the Train got his revenge on us by infecting my child with strep. It’s the bad kind of strep with a horrid rash--the kind of rash that turns into Scarlet Fever. El Guille got a shot from the doc and will be fine. I just hate seeing his beautiful skin marred by an ugly bacterial invader. So Tiffany was right, Thomas the Train is a rat bastard.

I haven’t really talked much about what’s been going on with me since, well, it’s a dicey area. Last fall, right after Thanksgiving break, my company told us that they were shutting down the offices and moving everything to our HQ in Seattle on my due date. They didn’t plan for it all to happen on my due date, but that’s how it worked out. I toyed with moving up there, I even went up to interview for some positions. It just wasn’t going to work out, to tell the truth. What, was I going to pay a second mortgage payment every month for my kids to be in daycare? That’s not why I work. I don’t work just to work; I certainly don’t want to work to finance my kids' daycare. A ‘career’ is not that important.

So since last November I’ve been living with the specter of my breadwinning job going away. What was I going to do? Go out job hunting at 7.5 months? Please, hire me, by the way, I’m going to need April and May off. Other Half was going to be doing student teaching (a fulltime job for free) leaving precious little time to get another job. I wanted him to finish school, that’s the priority. Work strung me along promising me a maternity leave, then removing that possibility (they don’t pay maternity leave.) My boss tried to negotiate something for me. He succeeded, but then he left before we could get it all in writing so the deal evaporated. The place was as accommodating as a generic company would be. Even though the offices shut down, I went on unpaid leave to have the baby. They promised me that I’d be able to work from home when I came back from leave. I did that, going back to work a couple weeks ago. Well, it didn’t work out. So as of tomorrow, I don’t have a job. You know, a job, the kind of thing that pays for mortgages and groceries. I can’t complain too much, I’m just lucky they took pity on me and let me stay on insurance through the baby and leave.

You don’t even know what it’s like for me to voice even this kind of anonymous criticism. I don’t discuss work because I figure it’s private and certainly should not be logged forever online. I will say that being super pregnant and worried for months about how we were going to put food on the table and pay the hospital was hell. I cried and cried.

I cried for months.

Other Half tried to reassure me and remind how blessed we were, and are. It’s true, we are blessed, but I’m also a horriblizer who can’t help but think the worst (broke, uninsured, out on the street, starving.) When you grow up poor you worry about ending up there again, even if the likelihood of living on powdered milk and Deseret peanut butter is pretty low.

Tonight I’m writing all of this down. I am acknowledging how rough the past months have been. I’m giving myself permission to be upset about how everything went down.
I have some options on the table for work. Good, even great options. However, I think I am mourning my last job—even though that job ended emotionally months ago, I’ve been stringing along wishing that it wasn’t the case.

As you know, I went and had a baby in the middle of all of this. I think that worrying about how we were going to feed our kids just made the natural baby blues even worse. It has been so hard to shake the blues with this baby. He’s such a beautiful, easy baby. I am so lucky. That doesn’t change that I have spent the post partum weeks trying to pull myself together. Other people; family, friends, are usually how I pull myself out of this kind of funk. Holed up in the house hasn’t helped me, but I haven’t been able to leave it much either.

I find myself wondering how other moms do it. How do they handle a preschooler and a new baby, let alone other kids? Other Half has been at home with me since the semester ended and I still can’t keep it together. I feel guilty that I can barely function with a husband at home doing much of the housework for me. I feel guilty thinking of all the other moms out there that do it without help; why can’t I? What’s my damage? Then the other part of me says HOGWASH. I shouldn’t feel guilty that he has kept the house limping along, that he entertains El Guille while I squeeze in a few moments of sleep. This is the second baby where I've worked up until the day I delivered. He can do another load of dishes.

I know I’m not the only mom out there that has days where she lives for her kids’ bedtime, either. I have good days and bad ones. The days often depend on whether I slept for 4 hours or no hours. I think I'm well enough to start doing some yoga and walking again, that should help. I hope this summer is a good one; I could use a few good months.

I should go, there’s a baby who wants me to stare at him and make googly noises. I think I can pull it together enough to do that—especially since he’s finally smiling. Go babies.

This is not one of those posts. This is not a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) vs Work Out of the Home Mom thing. I think that whole debate is mostly drummed up by people who want to sell magazines and morning talk shows.

The morning I had Guille Other Half called my then boss, Gary, to tell him I wouldn’t be in that day. That voicemail became legendary.

Beeeeep “Hi Gary, this is J. I’m calling to tell you that Azucar won’t be in to work today because she had a baby. She wanted me to call you to let you know because she has this whole ‘work ethic’ thing. Whatever, I don’t get it.” Gary played that voicemail for people for the next six months. It’s kind of true…

When Other Half was putting me through school by working fulltime, I still worked three jobs. It was hard to not work (lest you think I’m supergirl, ‘work ethic’ does not extend to ‘housework ethic.’) When it was time for Other Half to finish school, after many fits and starts over the years, we decided that I would work and he would go to school and be the dad. Lots of people can work AND go to school; Other Half is not one of them.

The arrangement let both of us grow. I realized that someday it would be nice to stay at home and be a mom, an idea that I’ve struggled with since being a teenager. It gave Other Half a chance to be a fulltime dad and experience the hard work of parenting all day. I loved hearing him say things like, “Every time I clean something it’s just undone immediately!” Yes, he understands with complete empathy what it’s like being a stay at home parent. He’s a much better spouse because of the experience, and he’s a great dad. It’s been two years since he had a fulltime job. He’ll be graduating soon and is now interviewing for work.

As for me, my job used to be pretty awesome. Even though I was working fulltime, I got to bring Baby Guille with me to work for half the day. He would take his long afternoon nap under my desk while I worked. There was a little room for pumping. If there was a problem at home, I could leave. It was ideal.

In our case, as much as it was a choice, it also wasn’t. Other Half needed to finish school as quickly as possible. I made more money than him. I’ll probably always make more money than him. It wasn’t about buying jet-skis or trips to the coast; it was about being able to pay the mortgage AND tuition. I’ve never had to put my babies in day care thanks to creative school schedules and an incredible extended family.

One day I got into the elevator at work with Guille in his car seat. He was just a couple months old.
“Ooooh,” crooned a woman already on the elevator, “Who do you belong to?”
I said, “I belong to me.”
She said, “No, I mean who are you visiting?”
I said, “No one, I work here.”
She gave me the strangest look. I was a touch annoyed. You know, sometimes women with babies work, I wanted to say to her.
I didn’t want to tell her that sometimes we feel conflicted about working: it’s awful to leave the house; it’s great to leave the house. You don't get to wear aprons to work, but you do get to wear these.

We’ve come to a strange place. Even though J will be working, it won’t be enough to cover our really basic living expenses for several years. Don’t get me started on what they pay public school teachers in this state because it MAKES ME ANGRY. Let’s just say that one day we were driving down the road when we saw a sign on a fast food restaurant advertising for a night manager. J could make more money flipping burgers than teaching your child quadratic equations.

This is my last week on maternity leave, it’s hard to even type that phrase. I’m going to have to keep working for a while. Working breaks my heart into rough pieces; it makes me free and happy.

I don’t like to unnecessarily toot my horn, but I’m really good at talking on the phone. You could call me at any time and I’m likely to pick up, sound welcoming, and engage in witty repartee.

I’ve joked about it, but sometimes, I really want to charge people for phone calls. Why? Because I am the answer service. Lucky likes to call me to get directions. She also calls to ask on which aisle of ‘X’ store can you find product ‘Y’ (don’t let the x & y thing throw you algebra phobs; now that I’m married to a math teacher I have license to throw ‘stuff you can solve for’ into regular conversation.) I get emergency baking calls, recipe dialers, trivia questioners, and all sorts of other folks just dropping me a line.

Sadly, we have fallen on rough times. A curious side effect of these baby blues is fear…

Fear of the phone.

I don’t want to answer it. I don’t want to talk. I don't want to make a call. I’m no Clark, but now I know how they feel. I just can’t keep up the user experience that my callers deserve.

My verbal skills have taken a dive. That’s the first thing to go when I am tired. I can’t talk. The words are right there, like a teletype in my head, but they just don’t come out. Inside I want to say, “Will you please fix the overturned chair?” but I look at Other Half and stutter, “Uhm…you….uh…chair?” Like a MONKEY, or someone from Levan.

I’ve been crummy company at two social events this week. I tried to speak as I do normally (with some verbal acuity, trust me) and I ended up sounding conventional, maybe even boring. There were some serious lags in convo—this from a chick who was once offered a job (it was only slightly facetious) to come to dinner parties and cocktail events to spark debate and lively discourse. I’m pretty sure the invitations are going to cease, which is just as well. There’s no need to inflict another run of the mill conversationalist on the world.

Now when the phone rings I just feel a sense of dread.

I am going to have to talk to someone.

Can’t I just text you?

Drop an email?

Don't make my tongue put one word in front of another.

I Choose Wrong

Timing is critical with a new baby.

We’re on the every two hours schedule right now, sometimes less than that. Occasionally, like last night, it’s more; I got three whole hours of sleep in a row!

When you put the baby down after the last feeding the great guessing game begins. How long do you have? Long enough to do a load of laundry? To pee? Read to your preschooler? Catch up on blogs? If you just knew you had two full hours you could try to sleep. Nothing is worse than being so exhausted, dying for a whole hour of sleep, and just being too tired to even try. The thinking goes: it’s harder to wake up than to have ever gone to sleep for a pitiful amount anyway. If you THINK you have two hours, and you settle yourself down, the awakening fifteen minutes later is just brutal.

It's probably bad when you start referring to your husband by how much sleep he got, "Hey! Mr. Seven Hours! Go play with El Guille."

Tonight I had about 45 minutes until next time the gaping jaws declared their intention and made it manifest. First, I fixed the bouncer chair. Hooray for duct tape and jimmy-rigged battery cases! Next, I put through some laundry (although who is going to fold it and put it away is a matter of some debate [silent] if you consider the Mt. Everest of clean clothes in my bedroom.) Then I read and responded to emails, caught up on a few blogs, commented on some others—WAIT JUST A MINUTE. It’s 12:40am.

This was a long stretch! NO! I have wasted almost three hours that I could have spent sleeping. I played roulette and lost! Yes, I got some Me Time. Me Time at the expense of my brain; I am a zombie.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll talk about crying (me, not baby) and how to have a conversation with your spouse that goes like this:

“Logically I am fine, but emotionally I am a wreck and there isn’t anything I can do about it right now and I want you to understand that it’s not about the baby, well it is about the baby, but more than that it’s about the hormonal crash I’m enduring but this is no reflection on you and there’s not much you can do other than all the housework so don’t worry if I am a crying disaster because this is not your fault, well it kind of is, but it isn’t, so if it’s ok, sometimes I’m going to be a puddle. Sorry. Also, we're out of milk.”

Course Correction

I told a friend that I’ve been self-censoring my posts, sometimes not writing about things that I feel strongly about out of respect for my readers. She urged less self-censorship, more faucet reactions. I’m concerned with adding to the cacophony of the sphere, but it’s somewhat self-important to think that these entries do anything at all to the sphere. In that view, I might intersperse the small life-moment captures with more stringent viewpoints and editorial opinions.

I am a lactivist.

I didn’t intend to be that way, I, or should I say, we, evolved into the pro-nursing camp. When Guille was born I had a goal of nursing until one year. I’d read all the literature about the extraordinary benefits of nursing and I knew that my mother had nursed all of us. Nursing was such a struggle in the beginning. A fill-in pediatrician, concerned that two day old Guille was jaundiced, recommended I supplement my nursing with an ounce of formula after each feeding. We stopped feeding him formula when the jaundice resolved. At his two week appointment he was still considerably under his birth weight. Since nursing is on demand, that ounce after each feeding (8-10 ounces a day) cut my volume significantly. I, of course, felt beyond horrible. I’d been starving my child. I sobbed and sobbed. We went to see the lactation consultants who helped us figure out a good latch. I had to pump after every feeding and supplement with a nursing aid (the tube + tape.) After a few weeks of that, my supply righted itself and we went on our way. We had other problems: nursing strikes, biting, colds and sickness. I had made a goal, however, and I was determined to stick with it. I am so glad I did. We reached one year and haven’t stopped.

As a result of all of those struggles, I began to research nursing. I was stunned with the discoveries I made.
I want to preface some things right here: there is a place for formula. Some of you reading this right now have used formula. I am not angry with formula. Adoptions, medical problems, specialized medication that preclude nursing, all are excellent examples of why we need safe baby formula. I remember Melanee, who was given heart medication that contraindicated nursing. Her heart broke because she wasn’t going to be able to nurse Maggie. Every time I see someone pulling out a bottle of formula, her example, and those of other mothers, is what reminds me to mind my own business.

However, I am angry with the formula industry. I hate that they provide every woman who delivers in a hospital a free diaper bag full of powdered, concentrated and ready to eat formula with incentives and coupons to buy. This makes it seem that hospitals and doctors actually prefer formula to the real stuff. Every pediatrician is sent loads of formula to distribute to women, even if the Doctor doesn't want it. These companies prey on the fear of women. Those corporations risk the health of babies and women to meet their bottom line.

Sounds like the most patronizing, misogynistic, and destructive mission statements on earth.

Babies who don’t breastfeed:
20% increased risk of Leukemia
60% increased risk of common and chronic ear infections
40% increased risk of Diabetes
Huge increase in upper respiratory infections which led to hospitalizations, increased risk of other types of cancer
The whopper is that 20% more likely to die in the first year.

So why isn’t this common knowledge? Well the government and certain health advocates thought you should know. So they made some commercials informing you of risks of not breastfeeding. The ads featured pregnant women riding mechanical bulls, competing in rollerball and log rolling competitions. The tag line: “You shouldn’t risk the health of baby before it is born, why start after?” followed by the statistics above.

I am filled with rage for our government. Rage is the only word I have to describe it.

The formula industry called the offices of Tommy Thompson (former Secretary of Health & Human Services) constantly until they were allowed to see him. The result? “Officials confirm to ABC News that HHS' Secretary Tommy Thompson met privately with formula industry representatives but turned down meeting requests from breast-feeding advocates.” You'll never see those ads the way they were intended to air. Why?

Because this administration is in so cozy with large business interests they’d rather see babies placed in literal mortal danger. As a result of industry pressure, Thompson had the ads revised to remove the statistics above. They focused not on the dangers of bottle feeding but on the benefits of nursing. Because, really, when you say it’s risky NOT to nurse is that it IS RISKY to formula feed. The industry can’t have that, oh no. The administration can’t have Nestle, Wyeth, etc, not contributing to the re-election campaigns, oh no. They make me sick.

It was just reported that an enzyme in babies' mouths when nursing prevents the contraction of HIV from infected moms. Your milk concentrates fat and protein content after the first year, tailoring itself to what your toddler needs. Children who nurse past the age of one score, on average, ten points higher on IQ tests than children who are nursed less. Antibodies pass through your milk make sick babies healthier and prevent illness entirely. The WHO and UNICEF have reported that one to one and a half MILLION babies die every year because they were not breastfed. Basically, every 30 seconds a baby dies from dehydration, diarrhea, vomiting, respiratory infections, or malnutrition as a result of being bottle-fed.

Let’s talk about you! 30% decrease in your risk of ovarian cancer, 50% decrease in risk of breast cancer. Uterine and endometrial cancers also decrease. The longer you nurse the more your risks drop, the results are often cumulative as well (nursing more than one child, even if for shorter than a year, cuts your risk.) If you choose not to nurse, you’re choosing to endanger not only your child’s life, but also your own.

When I see a bottle of formula I see misogyny.

I see the Dr. who told my grandmother that formula was better for her children (thankfully, she looked at him and said, “Are you calling God a liar? God didn’t make a mistake when he made me. I was built to nurse.”)
I see the nurses in the Swiss hospital arguing with my mother as she demanded that her baby not be fed artificial milk.

I see the companies that decided that when formula sales dipped they would go into the third world.
I see the women in third world countries that were told artificial milk was better, so they mixed the expensive powder half strength to make it last longer, starving their babies to death.
I see the poor water supply that they used to mix the powder, killing their children with cholera, dysentery, and e coli.

I see the triumph of marketing over women.

So, yeah, I’m a lactivist. Want to make something of it?