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.

Seeking calm in the storm

I don't know what it says about me, but sometimes I feel like I can best relate to the boys when they're at their worst. Their meltdowns and tantrums bring me right back to my own moody childhood. Of course, now I'm experiencing these colorful displays of emotion in a whole new way.

On Friday afternoon, I promised I would pick up Ben and Paul from school and take all three boys to the library. Bringing my brood to the library doesn't strike fear in me the way it used to, when Gus would be liable to wander away from me, trying to open DVD cases, or worse, simply run away from me. No, my youngest has calmed considerably. He knows where his favorites are - Max and Ruby, Charlie and Lola, Batman - and he gravitates toward those. Don't get me wrong, he's no angel, but my crew is manageable these days.

This day, though, I should have been very fearful, for what ensued was disastrous. It started off fine. The boys found materials peacefully enough. It was checkout time when everything fell apart. Ever since the Menasha Library moved all checkout to the adult side, I've become devoted to using the self-checkout on the children's side. I'm simply more comfortable to keeping my kids confined to the side where noise is at least somewhat acceptable.

The self-checkout is great, and I've become pretty quick at using it, but when the boys want to "help," things take a turn for the worse. This day, Gus planted himself squarely in the center of the step stool. He's the worst possible assistant, because he is of no help and is in fact a hindrance. Paul, too, was adamant that he wanted to check out his items. He began to whine loudly and shove Gus. Gus, naturally, whined louder and pushed back.

The whole time, I was strenuously whispering-yelling and making threats. The situation did not improve, and I was worried that Gus soon would have a full-on tantrum or a fistfight would break out. It was time to extract Gus from the situation. I asked Ben if he would take over for me so I could take Gus out to the car. He was standing there obliviously, nose in one of his books, as the drama unfolded. "What?" he asked dazedly as I stood there unraveling.

Gus was kicking and fighting me as I lifted him, all of this on display for the friendly children's librarians. Gus threw his head back and hit against the pole behind him. That sent him into hysterics. Very, very loud hysterics. I walked quickly, shame-faced to the car and managed to get Gus strapped into his car seat.

I was furious. If there's one thing I don't handle well, it's when the kids embarrass me in public places. And how much worse does it get than the library, a place of quiet and decorum? (There's a slight chance that I belabored this point to Paul. When we were having our postmortem discussion about what had gone wrong, he said, tentatively, "I behaved badly in public?")

When Paul returned to the car, I meted out consequences to him and Gus - no screen time for the rest of the day. Gus didn't take it too hard, but Paul threw a fit and yelled the whole way home and into the house.

Paul's outrage went on and on until it petered out seemingly just as quickly as it arrived. He asked me in a sweet voice when we were leaving for our Chicago trip. I remember doing this to my mom when I was a kid. I had a temper, you see. I would go into a rage and then it would evaporate, and I would expect her to just catch up to me. I'm calm now. We're all good, right? Of course, my mom would still be fuming, as well she should have.

Experiencing this from the role of parent is quite a different situation. My frustration with Paul hadn't left me. I wasn't ready to make nice yet. I told him I was still angry and he needed to give me space. After a little while, I felt better, and we were able to move on. In a lot of ways, I'm the same way I was when I was a kid. I tend to get angry, though of course with better ways to manage it now, but I do get it over it fairly quickly.

Anger comes to us all. I think all I can do is give the boys techniques for better handling theirs and try to remain calm through their storms. I know from personal experience that the intense emotions of childhood do die down eventually. Until then, I guess we will be stuck in this cycle of outburst and forgiveness. Om ...

Fasting and feasting

If I had to characterize my relationship status with the Catholic Church, I'd have to go with the Facebook description, "It's complicated." The church provides me with comfort and frustration in nearly equal measure.

As I've written in the past, Catholicism is like a huge, dysfunctional family to me. I love my family, but sometimes I have a really hard time understanding and accepting it. In this case, my family is complete with the equivalent of a grandpa who makes mortifying racist remarks. Only in this case, instead we have a Pope, cardinals and bishops who make mortifying anti-gay remarks. I'm sorry, Catholic Church, there have got to be more important issues over which to throw down the gauntlet. Many, many, many more important issues.

I've shied away from writing about it, but Bishop David Ricken's election-time letter (or if you see it the way I do, his very thinly veiled attempt to intimidate Catholics into voting for Romney) bothered me no end.  The letter specifically attacks abortion, euthanasia,  embryonic stem cell research, human cloning (human cloning?), and homosexual "marriage," as Ricken described it. More than ever before, his missive really had me second-guessing whether the Catholic Church was the right place for me.

Here is an excerpt from Ricken's letter. "But what does this have to do with the election?  Some candidates and one party have even chosen some of these as their party's or their personal political platform.  To vote for someone in favor of these positions means that you could be morally 'complicit' with these choices which are intrinsically evil. This could put your own soul in jeopardy."

Wow, my soul in jeopardy. Those are some strong words. I thought threats like these belonged to another century. For the life of me, I don't see how political choices can be that black-and-white to anyone.

In short, I struggled mightily. Mark and I discussed our concerns with our parish priest. Through it all, though, we've stuck with our church. I guess I keep coming back to the idea that I'd like to stay and hope I can try to be a part of change in the church from within.  Ultimately, too, it's hard to leave your family.

After that very long prelude, I don't want to write about the new pope. I've seen some good and some discouraging about him, so I'll just hope and pray that he takes the church in a positive direction.

Instead, I want to write about a positive experience we had this Lent. Last week, Mark took Ben and Paul to a special Lenten program for faith formation. At the event, kids and parents were asked to complete a project: "Our Family's Lenten Promise to God." On a poster, kids and parents were asked to choose and record negative activities to fast from and positive ones to feast on for each of the remaining three weeks of Lent.

To Mark's surprise, the kids, especially Ben, really dug in and thought about it. Bright and early the next morning, Paul told me I needed to add my fasting and feasting goals to the poster, so naturally I completed my assignment posthaste. Week 1 - fast from negativity, feast on acts of kindness. Week 2 - fast from iPad (well dramatically cut back, anyway), feast on mindfulness and reflection. Week 3 - fast from judging others, feast on counting my blessings.

It's not like this has been a magic tool for creating harmony in our house, but the poster is on our fridge, and we're using it to try to keep one another on track. "Ben, are you fasting from arguing?" "Paul, remember what you said about pouting and complaining?"

I must say, this activity has been good for me. For me, Lent is a time to look closely at myself, but it's easy to grow complacent with my goals. This has gotten me more focused, and I'm checking myself on bad habits more often.

Something tells me my relationship with church will remain stuck at "it's complicated." While, I work through it all, I'm going to hold on to all the positives I can find.

A complaining sort of day

Today was one of those days that started out bad and quickly progressed to worse. It was the kind of day that makes you feels so defeated that all you want to do is crawl back into bed for the next 12 hours but instead your schedule is unusually full.

It started at 6:40 a.m., minutes after I'd sauntered out of bed. The phone rang, and I just knew it would be a parent of one of Gus's classmates asking me to emergency sub at his co-op preschool. Mark was standing there as I said, "No, no, no! I don't want to work today!"

"Just let me answer it and tell them you're not available," he said.

Really, Mark should know better. That's not how I roll. I'm a yes woman. I want to be the one people can count on. Really, I volunteered to be an emergency working parent, and I don't mind it. I'm one of the only parents whose child is a youngest child. Most have little ones, and it's nice that I have the flexibility to be able to pinch hit.

And yet. I didn't anticipate how often I'd be getting last-minute calls or how difficult it would be to change my plans with little notice. I had my day planned to the minute, and two and a half hours in Gus's class wasn't in there. Nevertheless, I answered the phone and said I'd do it.

Mere moments after I hung up the phone, Paul approached me. He wanted to know what username and password I'd entered for some app he'd downloaded the previous night. I said I didn't remember. What I really meant was that I'd have to try to enter a couple things before I came up with it. I couldn't even get that out because Paul, in true Paul fashion, went from normal person to screeching lunatic in no time flat.

Paul was hysterical, going on about how he was going to lose all his progress in the game. I told him needed to back off. I was in no mood. Ben was sitting at the table and blurted out, "Why are you yelling at everyone? You're just making everyone sad!"

Truly, I don't know what the "everyone" meant, because I'd only been short with Paul, but whatever. At that point, I lost it and stomped off, sputtering that all I do is care for them, and still I get dumped on.

Ben can choose the most inopportune times to decide he's going to stick up for his brother. What Ben said made me angry, but more than anything, it hurt. I felt attacked, and suddenly I'd hit my limit of acting as the repository for all the boys' frustrations. In the car on the way to school, I fully morphed into my mother, using the exact words she used to utter to my brothers and me. "You push and you push and you push me!"

The day didn't get much better from there. Gus was wound up at school. At one point, he got overzealous and whipped a toy over his head, inadvertently hitting another boy in the chin and leaving an abrasion. I was mortified.

After working in Gus's class, I zoomed to the grocery store for the shopping trip I had to postpone because of the volunteering. I put away all of the perishables, leaving everything else littering the countertops. I inhaled a quick lunch before going to volunteer in Paul's class, where the kids today were extraordinarily hyper and unfocused.

I'm home now, unwinding after volunteering one more time today - for an open house at Gus's school. Yes, I'm seeing my difficulties aren't as great as they seemed earlier today. First-world problems, as they say.

Parenting truly can feel like a thankless job. If my kids are like me, they won't fully appreciate us until they're adults - most likely when they have kids of their own.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I want to be calmer for my kids. I loathe being the mom who yells. I want to be a model of staying cool even when life gets frustrating.  I try so hard, I really do. Then all of a sudden a day like today blindsides me, and I act, well, human, I guess.

 

Sometimes I feel like I'm always striving to be the mom I want to be, and I'll never reach that goal. I'm holding out hope that I'm still evolving and that one day I'll be able to handle whatever life throws at me.