The walking wounded

The month of April is a significant one for me. April 20 was my due date for the baby I miscarried the day before Ben's 2nd birthday in October of 2004. Though my deepest sorrow has eased after more than eight years, I still think of Gabriel, as we decided to call him or her, each year at this time.

When the pain was still fresh that autumn, it was nearly my undoing. It was the perfect storm of difficult events. I had been unhappy at work for some time. I was very much looking forward to quitting and staying home after the baby arrived. I miscarried at 13 weeks, just when I was beginning to feel that I could be free and clear of worry.

I was supposed to stand up in my cousin's wedding in Chicago the weekend I lost the baby. It was to be a grand affair and a family reunion with relatives I don't often get to see. A few days before the wedding, I had begun to bleed, and an ultrasound confirmed the miscarriage. My doctor encouraged me to miscarry naturally and recommended that I not travel, so not only could I not be a bridesmaid, I couldn't go to the wedding at all.

In the days and weeks that followed, I was sad and very angry. I sunk into a deep depression. When nearly two months passed, and my malaise hadn't lifted, I began my years-long, on-again, off-again affair with antidepressants.

Since before I even knew a name for what I was feeling, I've been an anxious person. The rigors of parenting, especially parenting babies and young children, only heightened my anxiety.

As with any mental illness, stressful situations exacerbate the problem, and my miscarriage was a doozy of one. I started out depressed, but quickly, my old foe, anxiety, took over. I would lose whole days worrying and ruminating. Irrationally, I was certain that the miscarriage spelled doom for my chances of having more children.

I bring all of this up now, because I'm in the process of going off my medication - Zoloft. Again. Over the years, I've been on and off medication a handful of times. Various situations that have arisen have pushed me toward going back on Zoloft after hiatuses of going med-free: a brush with anxiety-fueled insomnia, a bout with headaches that I became convinced were indicative of something serious (surprise - they weren't).

Zoloft is in a class of drugs called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. SSRIs aren't habit-forming, so I can't be physically hooked on them. Psychologically is another story, however. It becomes comforting to think that each morning you can take a pill that will help combat stress and anxiety.

All these years, I've swung back and forth between wanting that safety net and very much wanting to be off the meds. It's awfully complicated. I don't want to need Zoloft, and stigmas against mental illness, as well as medicating for it, persist.  Let me tell you, though, going off antidepressants can be a pretty unpleasant experience, laden with relapses in symptoms and other side effects.

This time, I've planned it. I chose to begin weaning myself off at the beginning of April, knowing that having the seasons on my side would be a good thing. The longer and nicer days of spring and summer are a natural mood lifter. I'm happy to report that it's going well. I've tapered down to nearly nothing with no side effects.

So I proceed, once again, with great hope. The truth is, I can't know if this will work. With exercise, a balanced diet, and practice of natural stress-relief techniques, I'm optimistic that this will stick long-term. Now I will take a deep, cleansing breath and continue on my journey, just another member of the army of the walking wounded.

Ch-ch-changes

When we decided a few months ago to forgo selling our house, we immediately began to make plans to transform (maybe that's too grand a word) our house into something closer to what we want in the long run. I mean, let's face it - the real estate market is not exactly dazzling, so I think we'll be here for the foreseeable future.

The first step is finally completed. We've chosen to have Paul move into Gus's room, giving Ben his own room. At 10 1/2 years old, we figured our oldest deserved to have his own space. He'll be able escape his brothers and have a place to practice music, do homework, store all his books.

Mark painstakingly painted red, white, blue and gray stripes onto Gus's walls. The effect is super-cool, and we plan to have Paul and Gus choose some new posters for their room. The side benefit of all of this, and the part that excites me most, is that we dismantled the bunk beds from Ben and Paul's room and placed them as two separate beds on opposite sides of the boys' room. I could write an entire screed about how much I hated the logistics of having the bunk bed.

We moved Paul into his new room two nights ago. I could tell right away the boys had some mixed feelings. (Not Gus, though - he was thrilled to welcome his new roomie.) Paul, who's prone to sensitivity, shed some tears mostly, I think, because getting used to a new arrangement takes time.

As for Ben, I asked him if he was excited. After all, this arrangement is most beneficial to him. He responded with characteristic Ben enthusiasm: "Yeah, I guess." He'd never admit it, but I suspect Ben's more than a little ambivalent about all this. He's shared a room with Paul for the better part of the past five years.

Finishing up reading the last chapter of Judy Blume's Double Fudge to Paul last night, Ben came to mind. Peter, the oldest in the Hatcher family, is in seventh grade. He's got this uber-annoying little brother, Fudge. Fudge has just lost a tooth and is preparing for the tooth fairy to come. In a series of events too long to explain, Fudge's tooth has gone missing, and he found a box of Peter's baby teeth that his mom kept. Fudge wants to borrow one of Peter's teeth to put under his pillow, but Peter says no. The book closes with Peter slipping his box of teeth under his own pillow, because hey, you never know. I see a lot of Peter in Ben. He's straddling the line between little boy and older boy. Part of him wants to be grown-up, and part of him just wants to stay a little kid.

My sister-in-law, who has three girls, advised me, somewhat in jest, that I should have four kids so that each child could have a mate. Well, four kids is going to be a no-go for us. I'm happy with three. Anyway, I actually think we've been pretty lucky. Paul is such a great middle kid. He can happily play video games or sports with Ben or invite Gus into their new room to make a special clubhouse, as they did this morning. As for Ben and Gus, we'll see. At nearly six years apart, they face a substantial divide, but I think they'll grow to be buddies.

I hope this transition continues to go smoothly and that everyone will be content in their new places. Because Lord knows, the changes just keep on coming.

Hurray for honesty

 There's this unforgettable scene in the movie Kramer vs. Kramer. The mother, Meryl Streep's character, has recently walked out on the father and son. The dad, played by Dustin Hoffman, has up until now been a fairly  inattentive husband and uninvolved father.

At this point, Hoffman's Ted has been parenting his son, Billy, solo for a short time. The two get into an argument about dinner. (Sound familiar? It does to me.) Billy wants to eat ice cream but hasn't finished his meal. He scoops himself some anyway and makes to eat it.

The scene goes like this:

Ted Kramer: [while Billy brings ice cream to the table] You go right back and put that right back until you finish your dinner... I'm warning you, you take one bite out of that and you are in big trouble. Don't... Hey! Don't you dare... Don't you DARE do that. You hear me? Hold it right there! You put that ice cream in your mouth and you are in very, very, VERY big trouble. Don't you dare go anywhere beyond that... Put it down right now. I am not going to say it again. I am NOT going to say it AGAIN.

[Billy eats ice cream]

Billy Kramer: [Ted picks him up] Ow! You're hurting me!

Ted: OW! Don't you kick me!

Billy: I hate you!

Ted: You're no bargain either, pal! You are a spoiled, rotten little brat and I'll tell you right now...

Billy: I hate you!

Ted: And I hate you back, you little sh*t!

The scene is emotionally charged to be sure. What gets me most about it, though, is its searing honesty. My gosh, who has not been driven to that point with their child at some time? Maybe you're lucky and you handled it better than poor Ted did, but I think it's safe to say most have been brought to that level of frustration.

 

It should go without saying that I'm not a fan of people losing it with their kids, or, obviously, spouting obscenities at them. But Kramer vs. Kramer is one of my all-time favorites, based on the caliber of the performances alone, and watching it as a parent, I could understand the above scene like never before.

 

That movie popped into my head after happening upon this hilarious entry on the Huffington Post. I posted it the other day. If you didn't read it then, it's definitely worth a look. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/amber-dusick/parenting-i-quit_b_3008809.html

 

The writer, Amber Dusick, is an author who has a book and blog entitled Parenting Illustrated with Crappy Pictures. Dusick describes how she's held many jobs, and she's always taken pleasure and solace in the fact that she can quit at any time. Of course, now she's a mom, and quitting that job is out of the question, though some days she'd like to do just that. What follows are laugh-out-loud funny illustrations of what she would like to say to her sons in various situations vs. what she actually says. It all rang so true for me.

 

All of this got me thinking about honesty and how, when I come across them, I so appreciate these very real and true portrayals of the difficulties of parenthood. As Dusick writes in her post, so much of what we read about parenting is platitudes - warm and fuzzy truisms posted on Facebook or Pinterest. Those can be great, but sometimes I'm just craving something that goes deeper or shows the rawer side.

 

In the end, sure some of us do once in a while snap at our kids. Maybe we even act like Ted in Kramer or utter aloud the things Dusick sometimes fantasizes about saying to her kids. Don't forget, though, that at the end of Kramer vs. Kramer, Ted has learned a lot and turned out to be a pretty fantastic father. As for Dusick, thoughts and feelings are transient. I think (hope?) it's the big picture that matters most. As long as most of the time we parents act the part of the calm and patient adult, even if we're not exactly feeling it, we'll all be just fine.

Tween angst sets in - for son and mother alike

I sure do miss these days sometimes ...

Ben sure is showing his age these days. No, it's not the same way I'm showing mine, with ever-deepening lines between his eyebrows and on his forehead and new gray hairs that seem to sprout every month. Ben is beginning his metamorphosis into a preteen.

The process started gradually. For example, Ben's mortification was clear when last summer dropping him off at day camp, I slipped and kissed the top of his head saying goodbye to him. I noticed that he was becoming more particular about his clothes, little things like that.

Now, though, everything is changing at once. The boy who, when he was a newborn, refused to sleep anywhere but on my or Mark's chest has now forsaken all attempts to kiss and accepts and gives hugs only grudgingly.

It's not only the spurned affection that makes me more than a little sad, it's watching my oldest slowly shed the vestiges of little boyhood. This year, he refused to hand out Valentines to his classmates. (Much to my embarrassment, he still received many treats and cards from his peers. "Come on, Ben, you could've at least handed out some candy!") Clearly his focus has turned away from what's fun and toward what's socially acceptable and cool. How long before he refuses to don a costume and go trick-or-treating? This is all happening too quickly!

Ben, who is the youngest in his class, is also the smallest boy. This takes a greater and greater toll on him as he grows older. In an effort to build strength, we sometimes catch him doing crazy workouts in the basement, running back and forth lofting  hand weights into the air. If my skinny guy keeps increasing his food intake like he's been, he should be bigger in no time. He ate seven slices of bacon at breakfast on Sunday.

 
Ben's mood swings probably don't hold a candle to mine at his age, but I do see moodiness emerging. The other day, Paul did something that annoyed Ben. I was sitting right there and witnessed the whole scene. What Paul did was nothing, but Ben just lost it, yelling and storming off. I remember those emotions well. Suddenly irritation just overtakes you, and you know you're being irrational. You realize you're taking it too far, you even look a little ridiculous. And yet you feel powerless to stop it. That's where Ben was the other day.

All of this, I know, is only the beginning of his slow dance away from us. Our parental influence will continue to shrink as his peers' grows and grows. It's all as it should be, and yet it's painful.

I suppose it's just an illusion, a wish, that our kids really belong to us at all. Each of my boys is a gift, one that Mark and I have been given to nurture and grow so that one day, we will set them free in the world. Everything we do leads to that culmination. The letting go starts with tiny steps that grow ever larger: first time we leave them with a babysitter, first night away, first day of preschool, of kindergarten, and on and on.

Ben is coming to a crossroads: the end of elementary school, so this all feels so real to me at the moment. In the coming years, Mark and I will need to guide, to summon patience, to hope for the best as our boy works to become a man. And you'd better believe I'm going to hold on to all the remaining moments with all my might.