Mix Bakeshop
12oz Soy Mocha
Double-Chocolate Cookie
Almond Pineapple Sage Macaroon
(don't judge... it's a heavy-flow day...)
I wrote a while ago about my fun times with fibromyalgia, which was mainly an overview of advice for people dealing with it (or people who are supporting someone dealing with it). But there are some important updates and amendments and some tantalizing questions to share...
First, most of the advice still stands, though I would like to go back and tweak some of it, add a few asterisks, and such. I would also recommend reading the handful of comments, because they include something I forgot to mention in the body of the article. I mentioned there that I have wacky internal temperature regulation and I speculated that that might have something to do with the underlying cause of the condition, especially since my first signs of illness - a random and mysterious breakout of hives - appeared following a day of prolonged exposure to intense heat (I was at an uncovered bus stop for almost an hour in about 105 degree heat).
It turns out, I was totally right.
Last summer, there were a handful of stories about researchers claiming to have found the cause of fibromyalgia pain. It goes something like this...
People with fibromyalgia were found to have an exceptionally high number of nerves surrounding the blood vessels in the skin on their palms. These blood vessels are responsible for opening or closing to allow more or less blood flow to the extremities. This is how we regulate our internal temperature when we are exposed to different external temps. Fibromyalgiers, however, seem to have a dysfunction in this process, which doesn't just cause us discomfort, it seems to impede the whole circulatory process for our blood flow throughout our body. These means deeper muscles may not be getting the blood they need to purge that lactic acid that then builds and causes so much pain at any given place throughout the body.
Hurray! It's not in all in our heads! Everybody was very pleased with themselves, as if the whole matter was solved. But I had way more questions...
First, how does just having more nerves make them dysfunctional? What is the stress link, since that seems to be a necessary trigger for the condition? Are we born with all these nerves, or does our body grow them for some reason?
Reflecting on my own life, and talking with other family members, I believe I was born with the preconditions for the disease, but it still took a trigger to kick it off. My mother, for instance, has the same wonky temperature traits that I always have. Like me, she's freezing in cold weather and can't seem to get warm, until she finally heats up, but is, by then, overheated and now can't cool down. Likewise, in hot weather. There are hot days when I'm shivering and have to put on a sweater - and then I'm burning up and have to lay motionless in the air conditioning until I'm okay again. But, while my mom and I share these and other quirks, my mother does not have fibromyalgia.
So, with this new info in mind, I want to amend my recommendation on exercise: Don't just do 5 minutes a day to start and then increase to longer duration walks or other low-impact workouts. Instead, do five minute sessions of movement - stretches, walking, whatever - every hour or so throughout the day. Or something along those lines. The issue is keeping the circulation going throughout your body throughout the day. Keep it gentle and rest until you are fully cooled down again. I have come to accept that lying on the floor is not being lazy. I can literally feel the inflammation of my muscles go down if I lie down long enough.
Circulation and inflammation - these are your battles. I mentioned aiming for an anti-inflammatory diet and encouraged anti-inflammatory supplements (like vitamins E and C, or turmeric, which has also had encouraging results in some recent studies, but I recommend looking into that more because my experience with different brands has been very mixed), but I didn't really appreciate my level of inflammation until I had a blood test to measure it. We were measuring my CRP levels (I believe) and they were more than 4 times higher than the usual range.
Oh, I said.
I decided to put more emphasis on the anti-inflammatory pieces of my supplement regimen. I also recently watched the documentary "Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead" which followed one man's (then more people's) efforts to heal his body through an extended juice fast. That kind of fruit and vegetable centered diet has strong anti-inflammatory effect. When he started, was suffering from the same chronic urticaria (hives) that I suffered from when my fibromyalgia symptoms kicked off. It took several years for me to figure out how to get rid of those, but the (semi-)cure was essentially along the same lines - healing that inflamed, deteriorated gut.
I was able to identify that my allergic reaction was definitely triggered by ingesting dairy. So, while cutting lactose out of my diet, I started taking acidophilus supplements as well to re-seed my gut. A condition that had needed to be managed with 40mg a day of Zyrtec for almost 4 years essentially vanished. I still needed to take some dairy pills if I wanted to eat some ice cream, but I wouldn't be covered in hives afterward. What I have since discovered, though, is that my continued stress continues to re-injure my gut and my intolerance will continue to flare up. I also know now that it's not just the lactose but the protein in dairy as well that inflames my body.
It's important to appreciate how much a damaged gut affects our health. I think I mentioned that last time, but given what I've been reading about nerves and the effects of different chemistry on them, I think it may be a crucial piece of the puzzle. And in a roundabout way that brings me to an interesting condition I read about separate from my fibromyalgia reading that seems to be described exactly by the extra nerves around the blood vessels thing they just discovered with fibromyalgia. Following me still? Walk with me a little bit more...
So, Raynaud's disease seems to be present in people who don't have FM, but the symptoms are also found in many fibromyalgiers. Some symptoms include - oh look! - blood vessels in the hands collapsing in cold weather or under intense emotional stress, or even numbness in the extremities, for instance... The truly interesting thing I found while I was reading this was the mention of Calcium Channel Blockers among the treatments for the more serious versions of this disease. Hmm, I thought... How do those work?
I will spare you the explanation of how those work. Because it's long. And technical. And I'm tired. The part of the explanation of CCBs as drugs (mainly used to reduce blood-pressure) was the mention that magnesium was a natural antagonist to the calcium ions in the blood, and could, therefore, intensify the effects. Why is that interesting? I mentioned that, although I tested for normal levels of magnesium in my blood, I benefited hugely from taking magnesium supplements.
I take a lot of magnesium. A lot. It is the most essential of all my pills. Without it, I will quickly be incapacitated by the pain. (I was reminded of this when I got sick a little while ago and couldn't keep any of my pills down - it didn't take a full 24 hours til I was in major suffering). I understood it to be a muscle relaxer, but from what I was reading, it appears to work by keeping those blood vessels open. Those pesky, malfunctioning blood vessels. The magnesium is helping, at least to a certain extent, to keep things circulating.
Now, before you go out and chuck your calcium pills (which are shoved down every woman's throat in this country), be aware that I still take a calcium supplement. I just take a much smaller amount. Small doses are hard to find - I had to go with a gummy variety because the serving size was 2 gummies for a 500mg dose, so I can take just one if I need less. And how much I need varies a lot - even by season, it seems. I have gotten to know myself well enough to tease out the lack-of-calcium pain over the other varieties of pain I experience.
So what does this all mean? I'm still not entirely sure, but my suspicion is that it comes down to whatever chemistry is being produced by our stress-damaged guts. For example, from what I was reading, we don't produce more nerves in our body, but we can repair ones that we had. There also seems to be a difference in the kind of nerves - longer ones versus many-branching ones - that can be regrown, by changing the molecules available to tell the nerves to regrow...
Or something. Clearly, I am making due without all my available neurons.
All I can say is what I've said before - I believe it is both genetic and environmental. My mother and I both seem to have more nerves (I believe in more than just the hand, though that is what those studies focused on) than we should (we've both been told we have odd or extra nerves by our dentists). My mother also mentioned that she was told after a surgery that she had blood vessels in places she wasn't supposed to. Related? Quite possibly, I believe. But the bottom line remains that it took more than just a predisposition to manifest the disease. Perhaps, since my stresses started early in life and persisted, I was more likely to experience it while she was not. Perhaps, it was the body's attempts to heal that inadvertently triggered the wrong kind of regrowth of stress-damaged nerves...
I really don't know. I'm just speculating. However long it takes us to understand all the mechanics, I believe that managing it remains essentially the same - healing the damage of stress.
It will be a long, long process to fully heal, but I think it is entirely possible.
Good golly, it's late. No edits. Night!
Monday, September 22, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Epiphanies are overrated and invaluable
Rogue Valley Roasting Co.
12oz Decaf Americano
Epiphanies are a favorite plot device. They are either the climax or the precursor to the climax of the action in a story. In the story, once the protagonist has had that moment of perfect clarity - oh, material wealth isn't as important as personal relationships... or, boy I can't keep behaving this way because it undermines my happiness - all is suddenly perfect. That's the fiction: that just knowing your behavior is a problem somehow suddenly enables you to change your behavior.
Epiphanies are insights. They are moments of illumination along the path you are on, not the destination you are trying to reach. Sometimes they show you where you've been, sometimes where you're going. Sometimes they show you who you really are, sometimes they show you who someone else really is. And you can then say to yourself that you no longer want to walk that path. Or you can come to realize that you are on the right path, after all. But knowledge isn't action. You must still walk the path, whichever path you choose.
Behaviors are the most difficult adversaries we will ever face. To change the way we act, or even the pattern of our thinking - that is incredibly difficult to do. For some people, a single epiphany is enough to reroute their life and to sustain them as they walk along their new path. But for most of us, if we expect the epiphany to fix everything, then we are almost certain to return to our old ways and the old state of things.
So, don't dismiss the epiphany - they are often true (but not always) and can give you invaluable light in the darkness. But don't rely on them to tell all the truth and carry you along to your destination. Some epiphanies are just a campfire by the side of the road (sometimes, a campfire surrounded by bandits!). But some are like the moon. Keep your skies clear, and they may shine on the road to guide you home.
12oz Decaf Americano
Epiphanies are a favorite plot device. They are either the climax or the precursor to the climax of the action in a story. In the story, once the protagonist has had that moment of perfect clarity - oh, material wealth isn't as important as personal relationships... or, boy I can't keep behaving this way because it undermines my happiness - all is suddenly perfect. That's the fiction: that just knowing your behavior is a problem somehow suddenly enables you to change your behavior.
Epiphanies are insights. They are moments of illumination along the path you are on, not the destination you are trying to reach. Sometimes they show you where you've been, sometimes where you're going. Sometimes they show you who you really are, sometimes they show you who someone else really is. And you can then say to yourself that you no longer want to walk that path. Or you can come to realize that you are on the right path, after all. But knowledge isn't action. You must still walk the path, whichever path you choose.
Behaviors are the most difficult adversaries we will ever face. To change the way we act, or even the pattern of our thinking - that is incredibly difficult to do. For some people, a single epiphany is enough to reroute their life and to sustain them as they walk along their new path. But for most of us, if we expect the epiphany to fix everything, then we are almost certain to return to our old ways and the old state of things.
So, don't dismiss the epiphany - they are often true (but not always) and can give you invaluable light in the darkness. But don't rely on them to tell all the truth and carry you along to your destination. Some epiphanies are just a campfire by the side of the road (sometimes, a campfire surrounded by bandits!). But some are like the moon. Keep your skies clear, and they may shine on the road to guide you home.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Florence Thompson couldn't live in a house.
Mix Bakeshop
12oz Soy Mocha
Sesame Brown Sugar Cookie
I got the Barenaked Ladies song "If I had a million dollars" stuck in my head, yesterday. I thought it was appropriate since I was catching up on my receipts and figuring out just how financially screwed we are. It is a testament to my addiction that I am back in the coffeehouse today. (Also a testament to how impossible it is to write at home with the boys). Now, if I had a million dollars...
I wouldn't be freaking out over the cost of my mocha habit. I would never again cry over the cost of peanut butter (yes, I have cried over peanut butter). It would be organic everything. Every account would be back in the black. We'd set up college accounts for the boys, of course. I would fix up my little car, pass it on to one of my sibbies - probably my oldest, or youngest, brother - and then I'd splurge on a new car... with four doors.... Luxury...
And then we'd probably pay off the rent and the utilities for six months, maybe a year, and then we'd do nothing. No big shopping sprees, no indulgences... beyond coffee and internet... I would need a little time just to get used to being okay. I have been so strained for so long, I wouldn't know how to deal with security. I would be afraid of possibility... and hope.
Hope is a painful and dangerous thing for someone like me. I didn't realize how much so until one time in a Denny's lobby almost ten years ago. I was on my way out, putting my change away, when I spotted one of those claw machines with all the stuffed animals inside. The prizes were smaller when I was a kid, but I used to win a lot. My brothers and I would walk down to the old Redlands mall with a handful of quarters between us. They'd stretch their game time playing Galaga and Gauntlet and Rampage. I'd play skeeball and the claw machine, and I'd always come home with a prize, sometimes several.
Over the years, claw machines with bigger prizes started moving in next to the machines with the little prizes. The cost was double but you could get a bigger stuffed teddy bear to hug. And soon, the machines with the little prizes disappeared. And I started to notice, when I did drop my quarters in, that less and less often I'd be pulling a prize out. At first I thought it was because, since I still only had a dollar to play with, I had half the number of chances to win. And the prizes were bigger, so they'd be just that much heavier for the claw to hold on to. But it became clear that, no matter how perfect my aim, the claws no longer held fast to the prize. They were made to be more appealing and more impossible to win.
So I had stopped playing.
And at that moment in that Denny's lobby, possessed by a bout of nostalgia, as I started to lift my quarters to the slot, my hand started shaking. My breathing quickened and my chest started to get tight. It was not the excitement of playing a childhood game - it was the fear, the anticipation of certain loss.
Everything in my life has trended the way of the claw machine. The prizes were smaller, once upon a time, but I could win. And if I saved my skeeball tickets, I could cash them in for a really big prize. Now, the cost to play is double, the prizes look huge, and you're almost never going to win because the game has been rigged that way. And that's more than just an unfortunate state of affairs.
The prevalence of failing to succeed - especially, while all the lights are still flashing, telling you that you could still win if you're smart, if you're clever, if you keep practicing - it's damaging. It steals hope. It steals a sense of security. It steals the belief that things can ever change for the better.
People do not respect stress - continual, lifelong stress - and the damage it can do. I am a testament to the damage - physically and mentally. Not only do I get mini-panis at the prospect trying to win something, but I have multiple chronic conditions that are directly related to stress. I've written before about fun times with fibromyalgia, which is either triggered by stress or exacerbated by it. But did I mention I have arthritis in my neck? I'm 35! But my neck is so tight that I have pulled it out of alignment (spondylolisthesis) and am grinding it away.
When my doctor asked why my muscles were so tight, I resisted the urge to look down at my chest and say, "Well, I have a pair of guesses..." I gave him the (bigger) true answer instead - stress. Years and years of it. Unrelenting, with little prospect of things getting better. When he said he was going to submit a referral to a physical therapist, I actually laughed. I've been to this rodeo before. They don't want to pay for the fix. They'll pay for the drugs - the pain killers and the muscle relaxers. They'll pay for those for years. But no p.t., no chiropractic, no acupuncture, and certainly no massage therapy, which probably would be the most effective of all of them. In a little while, I'm going to have a consultation with a pain specialist. And unless I can unlock the Magic Medical Code of Approval, it will probably be my only covered visit, and I won't go to any more out of pocket because, of course, I can't.
Just think of how costly all of this is to all of us. When winning at this economy is impossible, we carry a stress that only compounds, until we're paying so much more than just the price to play. I don't care about the size of the prize, I'd just like to win sometimes.
I know it can be hard to understand for some people. If you've been middle-class most of your life, like my husband, hitting a hard financial stretch is not that big a deal. It's still something that will "work out in the end." Even if you were broke growing up but were able to work hard, get that degree and have a successful career, the damage can be mostly healed and left behind. If you were able to go to school 20 years ago, as opposed to 10 or even 15, you can have a drastic misunderstanding of the burden student loans. The numbers are just not what they used to be, not for education... not for a lot of things... and we are hobbling hope. And there are more and more people like me being created - sick and un-actualized, and needing so much more than even a million dollars can bring.
So... before I post another unedited ramble and rush off to another futile fix attempt with the pain specialist... just remember that, even if you don't understand how stress could be this bad, the damage is real. It's debilitating and it's huge. Just think about Florence Thompson...
Florence was the woman in the iconic picture from the Great Depression. She sat with chin in hand, surrounded by children she could barely feed, eyes faraway, and her face nothing but lines of worry. She lived through greater adversity than most of us today face, but worry is worry, and you don't have to live in the most abject poverty to understand it. You'll be happy to know that things got better for Florence and her children. But the damage had taken its toll on her. According to her children, years later when they tried to get their mother to move into a house, Florence refused. She said she need to have wheels under her. She had been down so long that stability felt more insecure.
I've looked at that famous picture of her for so many years. I've seen the worry, spoken more perfectly on her face than maybe any other has. But I never noticed until recently that Florence Thompson must have been beautiful when she smiled.
As damaged as she was, I hope she could still smile.
12oz Soy Mocha
Sesame Brown Sugar Cookie
I got the Barenaked Ladies song "If I had a million dollars" stuck in my head, yesterday. I thought it was appropriate since I was catching up on my receipts and figuring out just how financially screwed we are. It is a testament to my addiction that I am back in the coffeehouse today. (Also a testament to how impossible it is to write at home with the boys). Now, if I had a million dollars...
I wouldn't be freaking out over the cost of my mocha habit. I would never again cry over the cost of peanut butter (yes, I have cried over peanut butter). It would be organic everything. Every account would be back in the black. We'd set up college accounts for the boys, of course. I would fix up my little car, pass it on to one of my sibbies - probably my oldest, or youngest, brother - and then I'd splurge on a new car... with four doors.... Luxury...
And then we'd probably pay off the rent and the utilities for six months, maybe a year, and then we'd do nothing. No big shopping sprees, no indulgences... beyond coffee and internet... I would need a little time just to get used to being okay. I have been so strained for so long, I wouldn't know how to deal with security. I would be afraid of possibility... and hope.
Hope is a painful and dangerous thing for someone like me. I didn't realize how much so until one time in a Denny's lobby almost ten years ago. I was on my way out, putting my change away, when I spotted one of those claw machines with all the stuffed animals inside. The prizes were smaller when I was a kid, but I used to win a lot. My brothers and I would walk down to the old Redlands mall with a handful of quarters between us. They'd stretch their game time playing Galaga and Gauntlet and Rampage. I'd play skeeball and the claw machine, and I'd always come home with a prize, sometimes several.
Over the years, claw machines with bigger prizes started moving in next to the machines with the little prizes. The cost was double but you could get a bigger stuffed teddy bear to hug. And soon, the machines with the little prizes disappeared. And I started to notice, when I did drop my quarters in, that less and less often I'd be pulling a prize out. At first I thought it was because, since I still only had a dollar to play with, I had half the number of chances to win. And the prizes were bigger, so they'd be just that much heavier for the claw to hold on to. But it became clear that, no matter how perfect my aim, the claws no longer held fast to the prize. They were made to be more appealing and more impossible to win.
So I had stopped playing.
And at that moment in that Denny's lobby, possessed by a bout of nostalgia, as I started to lift my quarters to the slot, my hand started shaking. My breathing quickened and my chest started to get tight. It was not the excitement of playing a childhood game - it was the fear, the anticipation of certain loss.
Everything in my life has trended the way of the claw machine. The prizes were smaller, once upon a time, but I could win. And if I saved my skeeball tickets, I could cash them in for a really big prize. Now, the cost to play is double, the prizes look huge, and you're almost never going to win because the game has been rigged that way. And that's more than just an unfortunate state of affairs.
The prevalence of failing to succeed - especially, while all the lights are still flashing, telling you that you could still win if you're smart, if you're clever, if you keep practicing - it's damaging. It steals hope. It steals a sense of security. It steals the belief that things can ever change for the better.
People do not respect stress - continual, lifelong stress - and the damage it can do. I am a testament to the damage - physically and mentally. Not only do I get mini-panis at the prospect trying to win something, but I have multiple chronic conditions that are directly related to stress. I've written before about fun times with fibromyalgia, which is either triggered by stress or exacerbated by it. But did I mention I have arthritis in my neck? I'm 35! But my neck is so tight that I have pulled it out of alignment (spondylolisthesis) and am grinding it away.
When my doctor asked why my muscles were so tight, I resisted the urge to look down at my chest and say, "Well, I have a pair of guesses..." I gave him the (bigger) true answer instead - stress. Years and years of it. Unrelenting, with little prospect of things getting better. When he said he was going to submit a referral to a physical therapist, I actually laughed. I've been to this rodeo before. They don't want to pay for the fix. They'll pay for the drugs - the pain killers and the muscle relaxers. They'll pay for those for years. But no p.t., no chiropractic, no acupuncture, and certainly no massage therapy, which probably would be the most effective of all of them. In a little while, I'm going to have a consultation with a pain specialist. And unless I can unlock the Magic Medical Code of Approval, it will probably be my only covered visit, and I won't go to any more out of pocket because, of course, I can't.
Just think of how costly all of this is to all of us. When winning at this economy is impossible, we carry a stress that only compounds, until we're paying so much more than just the price to play. I don't care about the size of the prize, I'd just like to win sometimes.
I know it can be hard to understand for some people. If you've been middle-class most of your life, like my husband, hitting a hard financial stretch is not that big a deal. It's still something that will "work out in the end." Even if you were broke growing up but were able to work hard, get that degree and have a successful career, the damage can be mostly healed and left behind. If you were able to go to school 20 years ago, as opposed to 10 or even 15, you can have a drastic misunderstanding of the burden student loans. The numbers are just not what they used to be, not for education... not for a lot of things... and we are hobbling hope. And there are more and more people like me being created - sick and un-actualized, and needing so much more than even a million dollars can bring.
So... before I post another unedited ramble and rush off to another futile fix attempt with the pain specialist... just remember that, even if you don't understand how stress could be this bad, the damage is real. It's debilitating and it's huge. Just think about Florence Thompson...
Florence was the woman in the iconic picture from the Great Depression. She sat with chin in hand, surrounded by children she could barely feed, eyes faraway, and her face nothing but lines of worry. She lived through greater adversity than most of us today face, but worry is worry, and you don't have to live in the most abject poverty to understand it. You'll be happy to know that things got better for Florence and her children. But the damage had taken its toll on her. According to her children, years later when they tried to get their mother to move into a house, Florence refused. She said she need to have wheels under her. She had been down so long that stability felt more insecure.
I've looked at that famous picture of her for so many years. I've seen the worry, spoken more perfectly on her face than maybe any other has. But I never noticed until recently that Florence Thompson must have been beautiful when she smiled.
As damaged as she was, I hope she could still smile.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
This is your brain on better PSAs...
Mix Bakeshop
Hibiscus Tea
Biscotti
It's a hopping downtown Saturday night, and I'm trying to think what I want to blog about... Alright, then...
Public Service Announcements, it shall be!
I remember when they introduced the "This is your brain on drugs..." PSA in earnest. I think, even then, I knew it was ripe for mockery. Oh, and the classic, "I learned it from watching you!" I've never done drugs, but I never thought either of those would be a compelling argument to convince someone to stop, or never begin, doing drugs. So what would?
How about show all the deplorable things the drug trade has caused, culminating with the flood of refugee children pouring across our southern border. And then remind that middle-class, suburban, white kid (not exclusively, of course) that that shit only happens because they are paying for it. People are dying and worse, governments have collapsed, all because Americans are willing to buy the drugs that these vicious cartels are pushing. Put that in someone's face everyday - make that the decision they have to make. Not, do they indulge in this taboo thing that they think feels great, or listen to people smacking an egg around, saying, "Drugs are bad, mmkay." But, do they participate in this system that destroys whole countries and murders even children.
Maybe throw in some numbers for some hotlines at the end for help quitting, or help with depression, or social services in your area to address whatever real crap might be driving you towards the escape of drug use. Just not something else that insults our intelligence.
It's not that I want to see more "downer" PSAs. All those starving kid commercials, and abused animal commercials - they just make me uncomfortable and depressed and angry about being poor. Here's what I would like to see...
Instead of showing little brown kids with flies scooping up nasty water with plastic buckets, start in an American city. In some busy downtown setting, set up a series of stalls like a mini artisans market. Put up a sign at the beginning that reads "Things you can buy for $20" and have real people walk through...
The first stall looks empty, until you spy the two movie ticket stubs on a little stool. In the second one is a cup-carrier full with four drinks, and maybe a dollar in a tip jar next to it. A few more stalls with single or few items, maybe half items, a single shoe... And then they reach the last stall - and it's full. A packed larder, stacks of sacks of rice... or maybe just a month's worth of bowls for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And finally a sign with the organization's name, and a reminder that there's a lot of things you can do with $20, but not all of them can end someone's hunger for a month.
That would be a lot easier to digest.
I guess that's all for tonight folks. Please, offer up PSA ideas that might actually get you to donate, to stop smoking, to "go green," whatever... Thanks!
Hibiscus Tea
Biscotti
It's a hopping downtown Saturday night, and I'm trying to think what I want to blog about... Alright, then...
Public Service Announcements, it shall be!
I remember when they introduced the "This is your brain on drugs..." PSA in earnest. I think, even then, I knew it was ripe for mockery. Oh, and the classic, "I learned it from watching you!" I've never done drugs, but I never thought either of those would be a compelling argument to convince someone to stop, or never begin, doing drugs. So what would?
How about show all the deplorable things the drug trade has caused, culminating with the flood of refugee children pouring across our southern border. And then remind that middle-class, suburban, white kid (not exclusively, of course) that that shit only happens because they are paying for it. People are dying and worse, governments have collapsed, all because Americans are willing to buy the drugs that these vicious cartels are pushing. Put that in someone's face everyday - make that the decision they have to make. Not, do they indulge in this taboo thing that they think feels great, or listen to people smacking an egg around, saying, "Drugs are bad, mmkay." But, do they participate in this system that destroys whole countries and murders even children.
Maybe throw in some numbers for some hotlines at the end for help quitting, or help with depression, or social services in your area to address whatever real crap might be driving you towards the escape of drug use. Just not something else that insults our intelligence.
It's not that I want to see more "downer" PSAs. All those starving kid commercials, and abused animal commercials - they just make me uncomfortable and depressed and angry about being poor. Here's what I would like to see...
Instead of showing little brown kids with flies scooping up nasty water with plastic buckets, start in an American city. In some busy downtown setting, set up a series of stalls like a mini artisans market. Put up a sign at the beginning that reads "Things you can buy for $20" and have real people walk through...
The first stall looks empty, until you spy the two movie ticket stubs on a little stool. In the second one is a cup-carrier full with four drinks, and maybe a dollar in a tip jar next to it. A few more stalls with single or few items, maybe half items, a single shoe... And then they reach the last stall - and it's full. A packed larder, stacks of sacks of rice... or maybe just a month's worth of bowls for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And finally a sign with the organization's name, and a reminder that there's a lot of things you can do with $20, but not all of them can end someone's hunger for a month.
That would be a lot easier to digest.
I guess that's all for tonight folks. Please, offer up PSA ideas that might actually get you to donate, to stop smoking, to "go green," whatever... Thanks!
Monday, August 25, 2014
Other people get mani-pedis - I get mini-panis.
Starbucks
12oz Soy Mocha
Croissant
Can I do a 20 minute blog? Sure! Micro-blog! I feel like I have described all this before, but I cannot recall ever blogging about it, so here we go...
I only learned the term "mani-pedi" fairly recently, because I am not much of a girly-girly (nor a metro-sexual, for that matter). I've never had a manicure, nor a pedicure. But I do get what I have come to call "mini-panis" (though, I'm not overly fond of the spelling - looks too much like... ya know...). A mini-pani is like a junior panic attack.
It's not a full-blown panic attack, with the hyperventilating and the crying and that feeling like your chest is going to seize up like an overheated engine, unable to allow you to take in a full life-giving breath. A mini-pani is the precursor to the big thing. It's the agitated state where breath is getting tight, shallow, and I start getting manic. I start clicking link after link to distract myself from the full-on freak-out floating just to the surface. If I stop playing Tetris or Sudoku till the 2 or 3 in the morning, then I might have to look at that Thing, the Trigger that is going to set off the hysteria associated with dealing with it. Or, I guess, not dealing with it.
Like ants. God, I hate ants. For whatever reason, ants are my trauma-trigger. I don't want to diminish those dealing with severe PTSD, but all the anxiety bound up in my childhood poverty is launched forth at the sight of an ant trail. The other day, we had an explosion of ant scouts in the apartment (seemingly, related to a recent thunderstorm), and I started manically scrubbing the kitchen, well past midnight, trying to head them off. But they kept coming. In the bathroom, too. There were ants in the diaper drawer.
That was the point where the full-on panic attack broke loose.
But up until that point, while I was still in battle-mode, I was battling, too, the shaking agitation of barely holding it together. And sometimes I do hold it together, and things calm down. I can uncurl, uncoil the beast. It takes a while. It takes a conscious effort and all those good techniques years of (intermittent) therapy and introspection have taught me. But it can be done.
So, if you are dealing with anxiety, yourself, or especially if you are helping someone who is dealing with it, understand this as the moment of divergence. Watch yourself, or your loved one, for the signs - the agitation, the change in breathing, the wide or fixed eyes. Know this as the moment to initiate whatever techniques work, whether it's disengaging or fully confronting whatever the fear is. And the fear is often something hidden well behind whatever is actually taking place at present.
Dealing with anxiety is a two-fold process. First, is trying to practice the larger picture stuff that brings down your anxiety base-line, like eating well, sleeping enough, and getting your exercise and meditation - your burn-off, and your cool-down. The second is knowing what to do in the moment. And, of course, trying to unravel or address underlying causes of the anxiety. But in the moment, don't be afraid of the feelings, themselves, when they arise. Go with it - do what needs to be done for the moment.
And most importantly, remember that the moment will end, and you will feel something else again.
Time's up!
No edits. I'm out.
12oz Soy Mocha
Croissant
Can I do a 20 minute blog? Sure! Micro-blog! I feel like I have described all this before, but I cannot recall ever blogging about it, so here we go...
I only learned the term "mani-pedi" fairly recently, because I am not much of a girly-girly (nor a metro-sexual, for that matter). I've never had a manicure, nor a pedicure. But I do get what I have come to call "mini-panis" (though, I'm not overly fond of the spelling - looks too much like... ya know...). A mini-pani is like a junior panic attack.
It's not a full-blown panic attack, with the hyperventilating and the crying and that feeling like your chest is going to seize up like an overheated engine, unable to allow you to take in a full life-giving breath. A mini-pani is the precursor to the big thing. It's the agitated state where breath is getting tight, shallow, and I start getting manic. I start clicking link after link to distract myself from the full-on freak-out floating just to the surface. If I stop playing Tetris or Sudoku till the 2 or 3 in the morning, then I might have to look at that Thing, the Trigger that is going to set off the hysteria associated with dealing with it. Or, I guess, not dealing with it.
Like ants. God, I hate ants. For whatever reason, ants are my trauma-trigger. I don't want to diminish those dealing with severe PTSD, but all the anxiety bound up in my childhood poverty is launched forth at the sight of an ant trail. The other day, we had an explosion of ant scouts in the apartment (seemingly, related to a recent thunderstorm), and I started manically scrubbing the kitchen, well past midnight, trying to head them off. But they kept coming. In the bathroom, too. There were ants in the diaper drawer.
That was the point where the full-on panic attack broke loose.
But up until that point, while I was still in battle-mode, I was battling, too, the shaking agitation of barely holding it together. And sometimes I do hold it together, and things calm down. I can uncurl, uncoil the beast. It takes a while. It takes a conscious effort and all those good techniques years of (intermittent) therapy and introspection have taught me. But it can be done.
So, if you are dealing with anxiety, yourself, or especially if you are helping someone who is dealing with it, understand this as the moment of divergence. Watch yourself, or your loved one, for the signs - the agitation, the change in breathing, the wide or fixed eyes. Know this as the moment to initiate whatever techniques work, whether it's disengaging or fully confronting whatever the fear is. And the fear is often something hidden well behind whatever is actually taking place at present.
Dealing with anxiety is a two-fold process. First, is trying to practice the larger picture stuff that brings down your anxiety base-line, like eating well, sleeping enough, and getting your exercise and meditation - your burn-off, and your cool-down. The second is knowing what to do in the moment. And, of course, trying to unravel or address underlying causes of the anxiety. But in the moment, don't be afraid of the feelings, themselves, when they arise. Go with it - do what needs to be done for the moment.
And most importantly, remember that the moment will end, and you will feel something else again.
Time's up!
No edits. I'm out.
Monday, August 18, 2014
We're all made of alphabet soup.
Home, again, Home, again.
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Remember that what you're doing is absurd
Home
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
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