Grabapple.net

Wow, you should try this. And if I could get the audio feature to work, I could narrate it too!

Behold, my animated version of a recent post.

I read this post by a new mom, which I stumbled on while Googling midwife stuff.

This is the part that struck me;

Jonathon called my mom several times to come over and help with me. Not the baby, me. I didn’t even care. I felt like when she was there, I could go on. When I was alone, I couldn’t cope.

This panic feeling, for new moms and dads, is so, so common. We joke about it afterwards, even, but the sick feeling of falling, of doom hanging over your head, of even the simplest tasks looking impossible…I think most new parents must feel this. And every one of us want others around, to help us learn and cope, but we are mostly afraid to ask.

We are afraid because we are supposed to feel shame about wanting this help, as though we are trying to push off the responsibility of parenting on our own parents. And certainly that does happen. But is handing the baby over to the anxious couple and sending them home alone the best option? Is there some middle ground between dumping your baby on your parents and lying in bed with your heart pounding in complete terror, wishing there were someone, anyone, to help you learn how to keep this incredibly demanding fragile new life alive and healthy?

Tara had PPD, but even before she got any anti-depressants, she knew that she felt better with her own mom around. Was that part of her depression, or just a natural fear of the unknown, of overwhelming responsibility?

The nuclear family as an isolated unit is a strange way for humans to live; cut off from support, advice, and extra hands, two people are supposed to be everything to each other and sufficient to raise their own children without any help whatsoever.

This is not a slam at grandparents, by the way, or anyone else. Grandparents mostly have work of their own, or responsibiliies far away from their children, that don’t let them pitch in even as much as they’d like. And a better setup wouldn’t just be them, but a wider community of friends and extended family too. Yes, a village. I know. It’s a cliche. But oh, how I dreamed about that village when Nathan was tiny and I was desperately wishing for someone to talk to while I struggled with breastfeeding, someone I could swap babysitting with when one of us needed a nap, someone to help with dinner and housework, someone to tell me it was going to be ok. Our families did what they could, but we didn’t want to look like bad parents by asking too much (and we did ask a lot, anyway) and our support network was stretched too thin and far away to be there for us like that.

We got through, like most parents do, because it does get easier, and you do stop being terrified at some point. Because there was no alternative, and we just kept going on. And all the other parents that do the same, assume that this is the way it must be. But that just seems wrong to me. There’s going to be some suffering and fear and mistakes no matter what, as part of being a parent. But does it have to be so bad, does it have to push you so close to an edge that you’re afraid to look at directly, for fear you’ll fall over?

I think that’s a question worth asking.

Matt jetted off to his geek-gankery in New York this morning, visiting friends and preparing to go to the Genesis Old Farts Tour concert, where he will yell “ABACAB! ABACAB!” over and over until they play it or security escorts him out.

Meanwhile, Nathan and I shift for ourselves for a few days, most of which, thankfully, involve him being in daycare. Which is the only reason Matt got to go.

We went to see my mom today and Nathan played and played and PLAYED, and would NOT go down for a nap, although by the end, he was staggering around drunkenly, alternately snarly and shrieking with laughter. Ah, my son, who will sleep in Only His Bed, Dammit. Or the Car. Which he did, conking out on the drive home and staying conked out for what I hope is the rest of the night. Yes, he skipped dinner. Which is the greater sin…letting him sleep and miss a meal, or making him miss sleep and getting him up for food he probably won’t eat anyway? I don’t care, actually, because I’m tired and I’m not getting him up.

No Matt in the house also means no CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP when he moves from one room into another. He’s 6’4″ and his feet are size 13s, and he favors big clonky Man Shoes, so you always know when he’s home, especially if you live in a small pier-and-beam house with wood floors. Actually, last night, he came in late and was walking around, getting ready for his flight this morning, and the CLOMPING dear God. If I hadn’t been mostly asleep I would have leaped up and yelled “TAKE OFF YOUR CLOMPY SHOES, DAMMIT!” because, dang. It’s like sleeping next to a dryer running a full load of sneakers. Walking quietly is just not his bailiwick.

But I find, while he’s gone, I miss the ratatat of the computer keys down the hall, the clomping, the loud “phhhhbuk” of spitting out toothpaste, the gargling mouthwash, all his little rituals of bedtime. It’s hard to get ready for bed myself without them.

And normally, she is too hip and hyper for me to relate to very much. But she got this bit right:

…it wasn’t until Leta was about two years old that I grew into my identity as a mother, that I finally stopped feeling guilty and embraced my version of that role. I knew that I loved my child, that I would do anything for her, but that I don’t necessarily do this thing like many other women. And that’s okay. I am okay with being the mother who doesn’t get a thrill out of sitting on the floor and playing blocks for two hours. I am okay with being the mother who does not look forward to Little Gym. I’m okay with being the mother who lets her child go another day without a bath because tonight? I’m too tired tonight. I’m okay because I know that none of these things make me a bad person.

If it wasn’t for Matt, I’d be hosing Nathan off in the yard. Our tub skeeves me out*, so I have to clean it before I can bathe him in it, and I hate doing that…so he tends to skip baths. Fortunately his daddy doesn’t skeeve easily.

*How in God’s name do we produce so much hair? And why is hair so hard to clean up? Nothing grabs it! But every bit of it will float in the tub, and that just freaks me out. Which is why I never take baths. I wish Nathan would like showers more.

I had to give a brief response when joining a local ICAN chapter about who I was and why I wanted to join. I thought what I ended up with was a nice succinct guide to my birth history and radicalization. Enjoy.

My name is emjaybee, my husband’s name is Matthew, and my son Nathan is nearly 2.

Birth story: water broke at 42 weeks. “Midwives” did not let me labor naturally, insisted on pitocin (because I was 42 weeks and it was “policy”)–and I didn’t know my rights, so I went along. Needed an epidural after 6 hours of pain, no shower allowed (because of monitor) no food allowed (because of stupidity). Progress halted at 8 cm for an hour, that was considered bad enough to c/sec.

Surgery was extremely traumatic. Hospital was filthy, cruel, and treated me like dirt, and I felt lucky to get out of there alive. I suffered with depression and trauma, and frequent thoughts of suicide, for a whole year and more. Breast milk never came in, and I had to formula feed.

I had a hemorrhage 10 days postpartum that no one could explain (because it’s “impossible” for a surgeon to leave any tissue inside; apparently the blood gushing between my legs was somehow imaginary), but I must have passed the tissue and only spent one night in the hospital before I felt like I wasn’t going to die. This did not help my recovery. I was a mess, because I trusted people in a system which did not care about me or my son.

Not surprisingly, I’m radicalized, and will homebirth if I ever birth again. I also finally found the courage to admit I want to be a CPM, and am planning towards that goal.

My workplace is old-fashioned in many ways. Their love of IBM and Microsoft products. (And also Lotus Notes, which frankly, is ass). Their aging cubicles. The phones which are at least 10 years old (no customizable rings! No digital displays! Horrors!). Their Beige Modern approach to office decor.

And also, the generational/mental divide that separates those who barely dip their toes into the internet, and those who like to swim in it all day long.

Web surfing is not strictly verboten, but it is certainly not encouraged at the rate I do it. I work 20 minutes, surf 15, work 40 minutes, surf 10, work three hours to finish, then spend the last 15 minutes of my day checking email and news. I’m good at hiding my constant activity under windows, because I know the assumption is that I’m Not Working when I surf. But actually, it impacts my day about as much as listening to a news radio station, chatting with coworkers, or taking long coffee breaks (which are big at my office) does. Maybe less. And it keeps my brain alive when I’m feeling overwhelmed and bored stupid by insurance technicalities. Which is often. I do surf some pop culture stuff, but mostly it’s news sites, politics (much of it healthcare related, for that matter), general interest stuff, all of it harmless and none of it keeping me from meeting my deadlines. But that would not matter; were I more open about it, I’d get lectured and frowned at and considered lazy or frivolous.

But then, I got lectured in school when I’d finished the book the class was on and would bring in my own to read instead, tucked inside it. I got lectured in the bookstore when I read at my station even though the store was devoid of customers. Because if you let me get away with it, then you have to let everyone get away with it, and then there is chaos in the streets. Or something. I’ve never been clear on what happens then, actually. Something bad, and it will all be my fault.

So I sneak around like a little kid, in every office job I have, turning in good work but hiding my secret habit of learning things. I just can’t help myself.

If you have a daughter, she is a full human being.

If you have a daughter, she is a full human being deserving of all the things a good parent should give their child; a good education, the right to grow up and make decisions for herself, the right to strive and succeed and fail, like any other full human being.

I do not care what your particular wangdoodly interpretation of a particular Holy Writ tells you, she is not a piece of meat, a piece of property, a uterus for bartering, or less human than any male person on the planet, no matter how saintly his daily life, no matter if he is Jesus himself.

If you don’t believe these things, you are not striving to be a parent. You are aspiring to be a slave owner. You are someone who believes it’s ok to stunt a woman’s mind, deprive her of rights and freedoms she deserves, and even control her sexual and reproductive decisions by pressuring her into marriage with someone you choose. You are no better than Warren Jeffs the child-bride rapist, even if you use prettier language. Even if you yourself are a woman.

If you tell your daughter she is less human, less free, than a son, or than any man, because she is a daughter, you are not a parent. You have revoked your right to be her parent, to give her advice, to be part of her life, and she will be fully justified in getting away from you at the first opportunity and never seeing you again.

Your child is not your property. She or he does not belong to you. Accept that or accept that you are not and cannot be a parent.

Nathan utterly surprised me today.

We’ve been reading Snuggle Puppy every night as part of our bedtime routine. This is harder than it sounds, as part of it is supposed to be sung, so I had to make up a tune out of my head, not one of my better skills. Still, he seems to love it.

Our routine is, I put him in the crib with his sippy cup (he’s not a lap-baby in any way) and he drinks it while I sit on the floor next to the crib and hold the book up while I sing/read it to him.

Last week, we noticed him picking up various random books and holding them up, gabbling some baby words and making kissing noises, like he was reading them to someone. We thought it was cute, but just a sort of random copying behavior.

Today, he showed us just how much he understands. Before bedtime, he picked up the Snuggle Puppy book and turned the pages, and gave me his version of it…down to the “oo’s” and kissy noises, which are part of the song you’re supposed to sing…and he made the noises on the right page! Seeing him go “Lalalala…oooo…” and then blow a kiss on cue is just amazing. He can read! Sort of! Or at least, knows the story cues and has figured out how to imitate some of them!

I know, other parents think this is routine, blah-de-blah. But what Nathan knows or doesn’t know is still so mysterious to us, since he doesn’t speak our language, and so we very seldom are sure that he’s understanding or absorbing what we say and do. Today, it feels like he really communicated with me for the first time, and it just blew me away.

I still wonder about his talking, and if therapy might be of some use, because he does get frustrated when he can’t communicate with us, and it’s clear he has a lot to say. He will probably figure out how in his own way, but if we can help him make it easier, I wouldn’t mind at all. I would love one day soon for him to correct me when I get a story wrong, or be able to tell me what comes next, to find out what he really likes or doesn’t like, or hear what he is thinking about when he stares solemnly out the window.

This stage feels a little like the weeks before he was born, when we knew so much about him yet longed to see his face, hear his voice, hold him, smell him, get to know him for real instead of in theory. Now it’s not his little face, but his little mind, that we’re eager to meet. Because that’s when the fun really starts, isn’t it?