If you're familiar with Dooce, you've heard her say that because she's crazy she doesn't hear and see things the way other people do. That someone can say something as innocuous as "Hi" and in her head, she hears something else...like, "I hate you." Yeah, I'm like that.
And I'm like that all the time, every day. And while I can carry on a perfectly normal conversation with you, and you will think I'm fine, but I hear something that for me, interprets to "I hate you, Laura, and also, you smell bad." I know, I know, that it's me and not you. I know that you think we're having a normal conversation and you have no idea that I'm dissecting every nuance of whatever it was that was said. I'm going over and over it in my head, hearing all the ways I am just not good enough to even be sitting this close to you, let alone presuming to talk to you.
So because I'm crazy, parenting has all sorts of room to reassure myself that I am, in fact, the stupidest person who has ever lived and shouldn't even be allowed to have spiders build their webs in my corners, let alone be in charge of raising a whole other person. For the most part, I manage to keep my crazy from impacting the midget too much. Because I know I'm crazy, while I will obsess over whether the midget will end up in a gutter somewhere, saying "If only I had a decent mother..." I also, am pretty good at keeping those fears to myself. Because, if I'm not careful, the midget will end up reassuring me (ME!). Which is not okay and is just going to lead into a whole other round of self-recrimination, that will lead to a downward spiral which will end with me sitting in a gutter...or throwing the midget into the gutter myself to prove to myself that I am, in fact, a horrible parent.
One of the most interesting (Did I say interesting? I meant mind-blowingly idiotic.) aspects of the crazy as it relates to parenting is that if I see someone on the television doing something stupid, I immediately wonder about how his or her parents feel about it. It's why, to this day, I can't watch Jackass or any of the stupid spin-offs spawned by it. Every time I see them doing those stupid, disgusting things, my inner mom thinks, "Please, please, for the love of all that is good in the world, let me be dead if the midget decides to ever do that and televise it."
It also leads to me telling the midget not to do things. A girl get bullied online in a Lifetime movie? Clearly this calls for an hour long discussion about what to do if she's bullied online, and what will happen if I ever find out that she's been bullying someone. And Teen Mom? Please. There isn't enough Xanax in all the world to allow me to sit through that one.
Needless to say, the midget is used to being instructed not to blow up buildings or dismember people or wear dirty underwear, just depending on what we're watching. However, I apparently offended her intelligence tonight. We were watching a show about BASE jumping, as I turned to her to say "Please, don't ever go BASE jumping." She got that look that all parents of adolescent girls know and hate so well and said "Really? Really, Mom? You're going to tell me not to go BASE jumping? Really? How stupid do you think I am?"
I couldn't decide whether to smack her or laugh....kinda like most moments with a 12 year old, really.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Monday, June 18, 2012
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Too Safe?
When it comes to your child's safety, can you be too safe? I've pondered this idea for awhile now, especially since so much has changed since the midget was little, so just the last 7-12 years, basically. When the midget was little, babies were supposed to sleep on their sides to prevent SIDS, but now they're on their backs again. Back-facing car seat until 20 pounds, and front-facing after that. The midget was in a front facing car seat at about four or five months, whereas now that's not legal or safe until a year of age. So, apparently the midget was unsafe for about 8 months. Horrible parent, aren't I?
And then, when she was 4, and well over the legal 40 pound limit, I stopped struggling with the car seat in the back of our tiny Hyundai. And now, the law says she wasn't safe until she was 4' 9" and 80 pounds. I was reminded of all this thanks to a fantastic rant by my beloved Archaeogoddess on the difficulties of car seats. And, because I'd just finished reading this I thought it was an interesting question, can our kids be too safe?
When I was growing up, we didn't have seat belts half the time, let alone car seats. Our moms put us on our tummies to sleep. Stranger danger was a newish concept, and the dangers of pedophiles were talked about only in cheesy after school specials, and yet, most of us grew up more or less okay.
When my oldest niece was born, I remember thinking that her mother was going to suffocate her because she was obsessed with safety. I held the child once in her baby days because I couldn't handle all the instructions--"Don't kiss the baby! We're too concerned about germs!" "Hold her like this, not like that!"--and on and on. I remember thinking, "Ya know, I've had one of these, and she's still alive and sound...that's her over there, remember?"
Not coincidentally, my oldest niece was plagued with colds and bronchitis that led to so many ear infections that she had tubes put in at the age of two. Her growth was also delayed due to her many illnesses. You see, when you don't expose a baby to germs, their immune systems don't get the strength they need that comes with the experience of fighting off small infections. Said niece, though I love her dearly, is also the most spoiled and willful of all the children, and that's saying something. She is a victim (for lack of a better term) of helicopter parenting.
Helicopter parenting, so common today, is my deepest fear for the children of the midget's generation. They are protected from everything, even the dangers of accepting their own failures...there are no longer winners and losers in games or competitions for the sake of saving the feelings of these precious little darlings, and I get it, I do. I know I hated it when the midget was sad because she didn't win at a game, or another kid didn't like her, but that's life. You aren't going to always be the winner, and not everyone is always going to like you, and that's easier to handle it when you learn how to deal with it an early age. It's very difficult to reach the age of 18 or 21 or whenever Mommy finally cuts the apron strings, if you don't know how to deal with all of those things. If you've always been protected, you don't learn how to protect yourself.
I am not saying put your kid alone in room with glass shards to keep them from leaving and fill their bottle with codeine cough syrup rather than springing for a babysitter. (That's what duct tape is for). Nor should you ignore the common sense stuff...vaccinate, use seat belts and car seats, and for the love of god, don't put their names on their backpacks and sweatshirts to make it that much easier for strangers to gain their trust. But, at the same time...let them get kisses from aunties, even if they catch a cold, let them skin their knees and feel the sorrows of coming in last. This world is not always safe and soft and protecting, and we aren't always going to be there to catch them, so they need to learn how to protect themselves.
Because, after all...in the end you are not raising a child. You are raising a person who will one day be a responsible adult, one that must stand on her own two feet, without the training wheels, without the bubble wrap, and without Mommy's sheltering embrace.
And then, when she was 4, and well over the legal 40 pound limit, I stopped struggling with the car seat in the back of our tiny Hyundai. And now, the law says she wasn't safe until she was 4' 9" and 80 pounds. I was reminded of all this thanks to a fantastic rant by my beloved Archaeogoddess on the difficulties of car seats. And, because I'd just finished reading this I thought it was an interesting question, can our kids be too safe?
When I was growing up, we didn't have seat belts half the time, let alone car seats. Our moms put us on our tummies to sleep. Stranger danger was a newish concept, and the dangers of pedophiles were talked about only in cheesy after school specials, and yet, most of us grew up more or less okay.
When my oldest niece was born, I remember thinking that her mother was going to suffocate her because she was obsessed with safety. I held the child once in her baby days because I couldn't handle all the instructions--"Don't kiss the baby! We're too concerned about germs!" "Hold her like this, not like that!"--and on and on. I remember thinking, "Ya know, I've had one of these, and she's still alive and sound...that's her over there, remember?"
Not coincidentally, my oldest niece was plagued with colds and bronchitis that led to so many ear infections that she had tubes put in at the age of two. Her growth was also delayed due to her many illnesses. You see, when you don't expose a baby to germs, their immune systems don't get the strength they need that comes with the experience of fighting off small infections. Said niece, though I love her dearly, is also the most spoiled and willful of all the children, and that's saying something. She is a victim (for lack of a better term) of helicopter parenting.
Helicopter parenting, so common today, is my deepest fear for the children of the midget's generation. They are protected from everything, even the dangers of accepting their own failures...there are no longer winners and losers in games or competitions for the sake of saving the feelings of these precious little darlings, and I get it, I do. I know I hated it when the midget was sad because she didn't win at a game, or another kid didn't like her, but that's life. You aren't going to always be the winner, and not everyone is always going to like you, and that's easier to handle it when you learn how to deal with it an early age. It's very difficult to reach the age of 18 or 21 or whenever Mommy finally cuts the apron strings, if you don't know how to deal with all of those things. If you've always been protected, you don't learn how to protect yourself.
I am not saying put your kid alone in room with glass shards to keep them from leaving and fill their bottle with codeine cough syrup rather than springing for a babysitter. (That's what duct tape is for). Nor should you ignore the common sense stuff...vaccinate, use seat belts and car seats, and for the love of god, don't put their names on their backpacks and sweatshirts to make it that much easier for strangers to gain their trust. But, at the same time...let them get kisses from aunties, even if they catch a cold, let them skin their knees and feel the sorrows of coming in last. This world is not always safe and soft and protecting, and we aren't always going to be there to catch them, so they need to learn how to protect themselves.
Because, after all...in the end you are not raising a child. You are raising a person who will one day be a responsible adult, one that must stand on her own two feet, without the training wheels, without the bubble wrap, and without Mommy's sheltering embrace.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Where the hell have I been?
I know my regular readers are down to checking once a week or so to see if I've written (well, those who don't have a blogroll which tells them when I've done so), but since you are regular readers, then this doesn't surprise you. I'm a flaky bastard on a good day, and since good days haven't been too numerous around here, lately, mostly what I've done is deal with the midget's insulin pump start and look at pictures of cute puppies on my computer.
Anyway...to bring you (all five or six of you) up to speed, the midget is on an insulin pump now, and I love that thing more than...well, there are no words to tell you howm\ much I love that damn thing. It looks like a pager (you remember pagers, right?) and it's attached to my kid, or else I'd dry hump the damn thing I love it so much. It has made such a difference in the way we handle her diabetes, and it's only been on her body for two weeks, and I'm not yet as savvy about its software as I will be at some point. First and foremost, I only poke a needle in to the midget's skin once every three days (well, less if a site fails or we have some other issue, but usually three days). I don't give her long acting insulin any more, which is fantastic because the long acting insulin burns. We are also able to tell, at any given moment, just how much insulin is active in her system...and since we know how much one unit of insulin brings her blood sugar down, we've avoided numerous low blood sugars. It's brilliant!
The diabetes care isn't the reason I haven't been blogging, well, not the main reason. If the midget didn't have diabetes that requires my attention, I might have used the little energy I had for blogging, but then, I might not have. When I feel like crap, I only do what I have to do and these days, the only thing that falls under that heading is taking care of the midget. As parents everywhere will tell you, parenting is a full time job...you don't get to take time off even when your body is screaming for you to do so. So, the midget got taken care of, but very little else got done. It's been a pretty bad summer, which means all my lovely plans of spending nearly every day at the pool were vanquished. We had a few pool days,and even one water park (I prayed for death the next day) but, summer's over and I can safely say we didn't spend even a quarter of it at the pool. Or the lake. And the one day we did make it to the lake, I felt to crappy to even try to swim.
I've been fighting a very nasty chest pain off and on since March. The CT scan done before I got my gall bladder removed showed fluid around my heart, which was goodish, since I'd had several EKGs and knew I wasn't having a heart attack. But, obviously, fluid around the heart is bad. It's not terrible, but definitely not good...and my regular doctor, who while not anyone's vote for sweetheart of the year, is good enough, at least, to know when he doesn't know something. So, off the cardiologist I went. The cardiologist ordered another ECG (different from an EKG) and said that in his opinion, the inflammation, and resulting fluid, he saw were text book examples of Lupus. He also said that at this time, there is no need for surgery (Yay!) but that he wants me to go back to the rheumatologist and get started on treatment, which, since I'm already on high doses of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatories)which are clearly having no effect on the inflammation, will be steroids. I've taken short courses of steroids in the past, and while I hate them, they are preferable to any long term, lasting damage to my heart.
I so meant to write a longer, more entertaining post, but I've run out of energy, and if I don't just put this up now, it'll go into the huge pile of drafts I've already got and it will never be done. So, pretend I said something funny...
Anyway...to bring you (all five or six of you) up to speed, the midget is on an insulin pump now, and I love that thing more than...well, there are no words to tell you howm\ much I love that damn thing. It looks like a pager (you remember pagers, right?) and it's attached to my kid, or else I'd dry hump the damn thing I love it so much. It has made such a difference in the way we handle her diabetes, and it's only been on her body for two weeks, and I'm not yet as savvy about its software as I will be at some point. First and foremost, I only poke a needle in to the midget's skin once every three days (well, less if a site fails or we have some other issue, but usually three days). I don't give her long acting insulin any more, which is fantastic because the long acting insulin burns. We are also able to tell, at any given moment, just how much insulin is active in her system...and since we know how much one unit of insulin brings her blood sugar down, we've avoided numerous low blood sugars. It's brilliant!
The diabetes care isn't the reason I haven't been blogging, well, not the main reason. If the midget didn't have diabetes that requires my attention, I might have used the little energy I had for blogging, but then, I might not have. When I feel like crap, I only do what I have to do and these days, the only thing that falls under that heading is taking care of the midget. As parents everywhere will tell you, parenting is a full time job...you don't get to take time off even when your body is screaming for you to do so. So, the midget got taken care of, but very little else got done. It's been a pretty bad summer, which means all my lovely plans of spending nearly every day at the pool were vanquished. We had a few pool days,and even one water park (I prayed for death the next day) but, summer's over and I can safely say we didn't spend even a quarter of it at the pool. Or the lake. And the one day we did make it to the lake, I felt to crappy to even try to swim.
I've been fighting a very nasty chest pain off and on since March. The CT scan done before I got my gall bladder removed showed fluid around my heart, which was goodish, since I'd had several EKGs and knew I wasn't having a heart attack. But, obviously, fluid around the heart is bad. It's not terrible, but definitely not good...and my regular doctor, who while not anyone's vote for sweetheart of the year, is good enough, at least, to know when he doesn't know something. So, off the cardiologist I went. The cardiologist ordered another ECG (different from an EKG) and said that in his opinion, the inflammation, and resulting fluid, he saw were text book examples of Lupus. He also said that at this time, there is no need for surgery (Yay!) but that he wants me to go back to the rheumatologist and get started on treatment, which, since I'm already on high doses of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatories)which are clearly having no effect on the inflammation, will be steroids. I've taken short courses of steroids in the past, and while I hate them, they are preferable to any long term, lasting damage to my heart.
I so meant to write a longer, more entertaining post, but I've run out of energy, and if I don't just put this up now, it'll go into the huge pile of drafts I've already got and it will never be done. So, pretend I said something funny...
Saturday, July 02, 2011
I'm Not Even Breastfeeding....
...and yet I feel compelled to jump into the fray. Because it's a big deal, apparently, this whole breastfeeding/formula fracas.
That's right...I haven't posted anything in over a month, and rather than write about something relevant to my life...you know, like about how I have pericardial effusion (fancy-schmancy term for fluid around the heart), and am now waiting to see a cardiologist. Instead, I'm going to write about this breastfeeding stuff.
When I was breastfeeding, the internet was still in it's fairly early days, and hardly anyone had blogs or got all their medical information online. Now everyone has a blog, and half of us diagnose ourselves via WebMD before we even make our doctor's appointments.
I was 22 when I had the midget. Young enough that I wasn't really prepared to be a mom, but old enough that no one saw me and went "Oh Em Gee, babies having babies!" Or whatever judgmental thing people say about teen moms. I was pretty big into the natural stuff, natural childbirth, breastfeeding. I figured I would have a baby the old fashioned way and feed her the old fashioned way.
I went ahead with the natural childbirth, but only because I got to the hospital four hours before the midget passed through my birth canal. About 30 seconds into pushing, I turned to the midget's father and said "I don't want to do this anymore." It didn't help that during the hours leading up to the pushing stage the midget's father would look at the monitor and say, "Oh, you're having a contraction, and it's a big one!" And I was all...no shit, Asshole. Because being in labor makes you say stuff like that. And frankly, being me makes you say stuff like that.
So, there I was set to breastfeed this child. I'd read a couple of books, so I totally knew how to do it, right? Wrong. First of all, the midget had low blood sugar at birth and so she needed to be fed...and even if we had been able to manage that whole breast feeding thing, the first couple of days after the birth, a woman's body only produces colostrum, which isn't high in sugar. So, she had formula, and they brought a breast pump in for me to use. Only this was nearly 12 years ago, so it was huge, not one of these cute "comfortable" pumps. It was a monstrosity. But we got through it and by the time she left the hospital her blood sugar was fine and we were breastfeeding sort of. We got through it, especially once my milk came in and we both got the hang of it...only...
I hated breastfeeding. It was "icky." I was 22 and breasts were for fun, not for producing dairy products. But, I persevered. I figured we'd get to a point where I was having those beautiful bonding moments mentioned in every book I read. But it never happened. Every day that I breastfed the midget, I hated it. I was grumpy, and uncomfortable. I had a nasty case of the baby blues, which I still haven't really ever talked about with anyone. I've alluded to it with a few friends, but it was dark. I imagined driving away and leaving my baby with somebody, anybody, sometimes even nobody, as long as I could leave...and that was on good days. I can't bring myself to type the thoughts that went through my mind on bad days. Some day, maybe with therapy...but not now.
Needless to say, the postpartum depression didn't help the breastfeeding challenge. Which is why, when I read this little article tonight, I got furious. When the midget's doctor decided to switch her to soy formula because she was lactose intolerant and that meant no more breast milk, I was thrilled...and I felt like the worst mother in the world. What was wrong with me that I didn't love breastfeeding? Didn't I love my kid?
I just don't get articles like the one I linked to above. How does choosing to feed your child something that is perfectly healthy and formulated perfectly for infant nutrition wrong? Yes, I get it that breastfeeding imparts natural immunities and I'm sure there are women right now judging me and blaming the midget's Type 1 diabetes on her not being breastfed (despite there being no link between formula or breast milk and Type 1 diabetes...so neither is to blame for diabetes, though not breastfeeding does seem to be linked to obesity rates in older children which can lead to type 2 diabetes). But I agonized over hating breastfeeding. I hated that I hated it...that and my not infrequent wish that the squalling midget was far, far away and I was a footloose woman with lots of freedom made me insecure about my parenting for years.
Perhaps not coincidentally, the postpartum depression disappeared not long after I stopped breastfeeding. Once I had no choice but to bottle feed the midget, I could enjoy her feeding times (well, except for the smell of that god-awful soy formula...blech), and because I didn't feel like a walking dairy, I didn't resent her as much. But I couldn't admit to other people that I was glad not to have to breastfeed anymore, because I knew how they'd judge me.
Since then, my most beloved Archaeogoddess has had a child, and we've discussed breastfeeding, including the fact that I hated it. She found an article that showed that there may be a hormonal imbalance that causes some women to dislike breastfeeding. See, because in the natural order of things, breastfeeding is supposed to trigger a hormonal response that causes mother/infant bonding. I was clearly a freak because that didn't happen for me. Or so I thought. And, frankly, the Archaeogoddess is the first person I ever told about my dislike of breastfeeding that didn't automatically think "Bad Mother." Of course, the Archaeogoddess is my go-to person any time I need to talk about something that could potentially cause someone to judge me. Because she doesn't. She doesn't look at me and think "Bad Mother" because I hated breastfeeding...she thought, huh, that's different, maybe there's a reason for that...and it's one of the eight gazillion reasons I'm blessed to have her as my best friend.
Mental illness issues are difficult, but when you don't have someone like the Archaeogoddess in your corner, not judging you it's even worse. I know I'm lucky...I cannot imagine how many women read articles like the one I linked to above and think, what the fuck is wrong with me, and I should just keep my damn mouth shut about hating breastfeeding, or even the idea of it, and unlike me, they don't have a best friend who will simply say, "OK" when being presented with clear evidence that according to the La Leche League their best friend is THE. WORST. MOTHER. EVER.
I get the judging thing, I do...there are times when I see parents giving their tiny monsters everything they want and never saying no, and never disciplining and I think they are the worst parents in the world...or the parents who do just about anything that's going to have a long term impact on a child's ability to function in society, I totally judge them. But judging a parent because they give their child a perfectly healthy substitute for something I choose to feed my kid? No fucking way. And frankly, since I get people evaluating the midget's general diet all the time now (because you know, they are experts on Type 1 diabetes, and they are sure that my kid can't have that diet soda I just gave her, or that candy I just gave her), I almost think I'm more sensitive about the breastfeeding issue now than I was then.
Yes, in a perfect world, every baby would have breast milk, and mothers who have an aversion to breastfeeding could buy or get breast milk donated to them easily. But, we don't live in a perfect world, and there are plenty of mothers who have to choose between their antidepressants and breastfeeding, or other medications and breastfeeding, and they shouldn't be judged for that. It isn't as though they are depriving their child of adequate nutrition. So, shut the fuck up about it. It isn't any one's business what nutritionally sound food you are giving your child. I mean, fine, if you know someone who is filling their kid's bottle with vodka, go ahead and get involved, but even if you think formula is the last thing that would ever cross your baby's lips, it's not your fucking business what that other mother is feeding her kid, or why. Let's focus on the babies who are getting nothing to eat, or the mothers who are watering down formula because they can't afford enough formula, but let's educate them, not judge them, or even better, if you are breastfeeding and you think it's essential for all babies to get breast milk, make yourself part of the solution, find someone in your community raising an infant that's addicted to crack, or a mother who has HIV, and can't breastfeed, and donate your breast milk. And don't go around thinking that the ability to produce milk makes you a better mother than I am...any fucking mammal can produce breast milk, so doing so doesn't make you a good parent, any more than it makes an alley cat a good mother.
That's right...I haven't posted anything in over a month, and rather than write about something relevant to my life...you know, like about how I have pericardial effusion (fancy-schmancy term for fluid around the heart), and am now waiting to see a cardiologist. Instead, I'm going to write about this breastfeeding stuff.
When I was breastfeeding, the internet was still in it's fairly early days, and hardly anyone had blogs or got all their medical information online. Now everyone has a blog, and half of us diagnose ourselves via WebMD before we even make our doctor's appointments.
I was 22 when I had the midget. Young enough that I wasn't really prepared to be a mom, but old enough that no one saw me and went "Oh Em Gee, babies having babies!" Or whatever judgmental thing people say about teen moms. I was pretty big into the natural stuff, natural childbirth, breastfeeding. I figured I would have a baby the old fashioned way and feed her the old fashioned way.
I went ahead with the natural childbirth, but only because I got to the hospital four hours before the midget passed through my birth canal. About 30 seconds into pushing, I turned to the midget's father and said "I don't want to do this anymore." It didn't help that during the hours leading up to the pushing stage the midget's father would look at the monitor and say, "Oh, you're having a contraction, and it's a big one!" And I was all...no shit, Asshole. Because being in labor makes you say stuff like that. And frankly, being me makes you say stuff like that.
So, there I was set to breastfeed this child. I'd read a couple of books, so I totally knew how to do it, right? Wrong. First of all, the midget had low blood sugar at birth and so she needed to be fed...and even if we had been able to manage that whole breast feeding thing, the first couple of days after the birth, a woman's body only produces colostrum, which isn't high in sugar. So, she had formula, and they brought a breast pump in for me to use. Only this was nearly 12 years ago, so it was huge, not one of these cute "comfortable" pumps. It was a monstrosity. But we got through it and by the time she left the hospital her blood sugar was fine and we were breastfeeding sort of. We got through it, especially once my milk came in and we both got the hang of it...only...
I hated breastfeeding. It was "icky." I was 22 and breasts were for fun, not for producing dairy products. But, I persevered. I figured we'd get to a point where I was having those beautiful bonding moments mentioned in every book I read. But it never happened. Every day that I breastfed the midget, I hated it. I was grumpy, and uncomfortable. I had a nasty case of the baby blues, which I still haven't really ever talked about with anyone. I've alluded to it with a few friends, but it was dark. I imagined driving away and leaving my baby with somebody, anybody, sometimes even nobody, as long as I could leave...and that was on good days. I can't bring myself to type the thoughts that went through my mind on bad days. Some day, maybe with therapy...but not now.
Needless to say, the postpartum depression didn't help the breastfeeding challenge. Which is why, when I read this little article tonight, I got furious. When the midget's doctor decided to switch her to soy formula because she was lactose intolerant and that meant no more breast milk, I was thrilled...and I felt like the worst mother in the world. What was wrong with me that I didn't love breastfeeding? Didn't I love my kid?
I just don't get articles like the one I linked to above. How does choosing to feed your child something that is perfectly healthy and formulated perfectly for infant nutrition wrong? Yes, I get it that breastfeeding imparts natural immunities and I'm sure there are women right now judging me and blaming the midget's Type 1 diabetes on her not being breastfed (despite there being no link between formula or breast milk and Type 1 diabetes...so neither is to blame for diabetes, though not breastfeeding does seem to be linked to obesity rates in older children which can lead to type 2 diabetes). But I agonized over hating breastfeeding. I hated that I hated it...that and my not infrequent wish that the squalling midget was far, far away and I was a footloose woman with lots of freedom made me insecure about my parenting for years.
Perhaps not coincidentally, the postpartum depression disappeared not long after I stopped breastfeeding. Once I had no choice but to bottle feed the midget, I could enjoy her feeding times (well, except for the smell of that god-awful soy formula...blech), and because I didn't feel like a walking dairy, I didn't resent her as much. But I couldn't admit to other people that I was glad not to have to breastfeed anymore, because I knew how they'd judge me.
Since then, my most beloved Archaeogoddess has had a child, and we've discussed breastfeeding, including the fact that I hated it. She found an article that showed that there may be a hormonal imbalance that causes some women to dislike breastfeeding. See, because in the natural order of things, breastfeeding is supposed to trigger a hormonal response that causes mother/infant bonding. I was clearly a freak because that didn't happen for me. Or so I thought. And, frankly, the Archaeogoddess is the first person I ever told about my dislike of breastfeeding that didn't automatically think "Bad Mother." Of course, the Archaeogoddess is my go-to person any time I need to talk about something that could potentially cause someone to judge me. Because she doesn't. She doesn't look at me and think "Bad Mother" because I hated breastfeeding...she thought, huh, that's different, maybe there's a reason for that...and it's one of the eight gazillion reasons I'm blessed to have her as my best friend.
Mental illness issues are difficult, but when you don't have someone like the Archaeogoddess in your corner, not judging you it's even worse. I know I'm lucky...I cannot imagine how many women read articles like the one I linked to above and think, what the fuck is wrong with me, and I should just keep my damn mouth shut about hating breastfeeding, or even the idea of it, and unlike me, they don't have a best friend who will simply say, "OK" when being presented with clear evidence that according to the La Leche League their best friend is THE. WORST. MOTHER. EVER.
I get the judging thing, I do...there are times when I see parents giving their tiny monsters everything they want and never saying no, and never disciplining and I think they are the worst parents in the world...or the parents who do just about anything that's going to have a long term impact on a child's ability to function in society, I totally judge them. But judging a parent because they give their child a perfectly healthy substitute for something I choose to feed my kid? No fucking way. And frankly, since I get people evaluating the midget's general diet all the time now (because you know, they are experts on Type 1 diabetes, and they are sure that my kid can't have that diet soda I just gave her, or that candy I just gave her), I almost think I'm more sensitive about the breastfeeding issue now than I was then.
Yes, in a perfect world, every baby would have breast milk, and mothers who have an aversion to breastfeeding could buy or get breast milk donated to them easily. But, we don't live in a perfect world, and there are plenty of mothers who have to choose between their antidepressants and breastfeeding, or other medications and breastfeeding, and they shouldn't be judged for that. It isn't as though they are depriving their child of adequate nutrition. So, shut the fuck up about it. It isn't any one's business what nutritionally sound food you are giving your child. I mean, fine, if you know someone who is filling their kid's bottle with vodka, go ahead and get involved, but even if you think formula is the last thing that would ever cross your baby's lips, it's not your fucking business what that other mother is feeding her kid, or why. Let's focus on the babies who are getting nothing to eat, or the mothers who are watering down formula because they can't afford enough formula, but let's educate them, not judge them, or even better, if you are breastfeeding and you think it's essential for all babies to get breast milk, make yourself part of the solution, find someone in your community raising an infant that's addicted to crack, or a mother who has HIV, and can't breastfeed, and donate your breast milk. And don't go around thinking that the ability to produce milk makes you a better mother than I am...any fucking mammal can produce breast milk, so doing so doesn't make you a good parent, any more than it makes an alley cat a good mother.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
I Need Help
No big secret to anyone who's read so much as a single post here, right?
But, in reality, I do need help, actual physical help. I was never the world's greatest housekeeper, but since getting sick that's gotten much worse. I used to have regular cleaning binges, and if someone was coming for a visit, I could do the twenty minute clean and have my house be halfway decent...you know, as long as no one checked my closets or looked under the couch cushions.
The sicker I've gotten, the worse the arthritis and the worse the fatigue has gotten, the more sporadic my cleaning binges have become. Most of the time my house looks like a giant picked it up and shook it. There's crap everywhere, and laundry...dear god, don't get me started on the laundry.
The midget is a good kid, but she's a kid, and unfortunately has inherited my innate messiness and laziness. She takes advantage of the fact that I'm too tired to stay on her and push her to clean up after herself. She also takes advantage of the fact that my memory is a sieve these days and if I ground her in the morning I rarely remember that by mid afternoon.
When the midget's dad shows up to pick her up he makes it clear he disapproves of my slovenly nature. Of course, he isn't sick and taking care of a kid full time 24 hours a day, and even my four days a month minus the kid have shrunk down just a few hours once a week because the exgirlfriend has finally hurt the midget to the point that she refuses to see her at all. Which presents difficulties because, after all, the exgirlfriend is still living in the midget's father's house...the one his parents own.
Yeah, my kid isn't able to go visit her dad at the house her grandparents own. Awesome.
So...my few hours without the midget are spent sleeping, or doing homework, trying to get caught up on the things that are hard to do when a child, even one as old as the midget, is around. So..my old habit of resting the entire first day she was gone, and housework or schoolwork on the second...that's out the window...you know...along with my sanity...and my hopes for ever seeing her bedroom floor.
I know I need to ask for help. Ask my cousins, my sisters...my mom. Any of them would be willing to put on gaiters and wade through my mess and help me clean it. But I CAN'T ASK FOR HELP. I don't know why. I only know that it's common amongst people who suffer from chronic illness. There are so many amorphic offers of help, but no concrete..."Let me do this." "I am willing to do this." And asking for help feel like such an imposition, to do the things I should be able to do, even if I never really liked doing it in the first place. And worse, it feels like it makes the illness more concrete, more real.
Which is, simply, ridiculous. But I excel at the ridiculous, don't I? It's my forte. Because, refusing to acknowledge it's effect on my life doesn't lessen the impact, it only compounds it, because I wait until hope comes in late, comes in after the mess has completely demoralized me.
My cousin, the one who I'm always helping with a paper, or childcare or organizing or sorting laundry...she finally made me a concrete offer to help me clean my living room and kitchen. I had her for an hour and the front of my house, the largest part of my home, is now clean...I am not embarrassed to have company, not afraid the midget's father is planning another called to Children's Services, rather than offering help himself.
I need help...and I need help asking for help...
But, in reality, I do need help, actual physical help. I was never the world's greatest housekeeper, but since getting sick that's gotten much worse. I used to have regular cleaning binges, and if someone was coming for a visit, I could do the twenty minute clean and have my house be halfway decent...you know, as long as no one checked my closets or looked under the couch cushions.
The sicker I've gotten, the worse the arthritis and the worse the fatigue has gotten, the more sporadic my cleaning binges have become. Most of the time my house looks like a giant picked it up and shook it. There's crap everywhere, and laundry...dear god, don't get me started on the laundry.
The midget is a good kid, but she's a kid, and unfortunately has inherited my innate messiness and laziness. She takes advantage of the fact that I'm too tired to stay on her and push her to clean up after herself. She also takes advantage of the fact that my memory is a sieve these days and if I ground her in the morning I rarely remember that by mid afternoon.
When the midget's dad shows up to pick her up he makes it clear he disapproves of my slovenly nature. Of course, he isn't sick and taking care of a kid full time 24 hours a day, and even my four days a month minus the kid have shrunk down just a few hours once a week because the exgirlfriend has finally hurt the midget to the point that she refuses to see her at all. Which presents difficulties because, after all, the exgirlfriend is still living in the midget's father's house...the one his parents own.
Yeah, my kid isn't able to go visit her dad at the house her grandparents own. Awesome.
So...my few hours without the midget are spent sleeping, or doing homework, trying to get caught up on the things that are hard to do when a child, even one as old as the midget, is around. So..my old habit of resting the entire first day she was gone, and housework or schoolwork on the second...that's out the window...you know...along with my sanity...and my hopes for ever seeing her bedroom floor.
I know I need to ask for help. Ask my cousins, my sisters...my mom. Any of them would be willing to put on gaiters and wade through my mess and help me clean it. But I CAN'T ASK FOR HELP. I don't know why. I only know that it's common amongst people who suffer from chronic illness. There are so many amorphic offers of help, but no concrete..."Let me do this." "I am willing to do this." And asking for help feel like such an imposition, to do the things I should be able to do, even if I never really liked doing it in the first place. And worse, it feels like it makes the illness more concrete, more real.
Which is, simply, ridiculous. But I excel at the ridiculous, don't I? It's my forte. Because, refusing to acknowledge it's effect on my life doesn't lessen the impact, it only compounds it, because I wait until hope comes in late, comes in after the mess has completely demoralized me.
My cousin, the one who I'm always helping with a paper, or childcare or organizing or sorting laundry...she finally made me a concrete offer to help me clean my living room and kitchen. I had her for an hour and the front of my house, the largest part of my home, is now clean...I am not embarrassed to have company, not afraid the midget's father is planning another called to Children's Services, rather than offering help himself.
I need help...and I need help asking for help...
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Fuck off, Diabetes...
There will be no funny or witty in this post. I'm warning you now, and I'll likely take it down, but I need to get this out, need to know that someone in the universe is hearing me, and I need to do it in a place the midget can't see it. She doesn't read my blog. It's not allowed, and it's blocked on her computer. I do that so I can say nasty things about her other parents, post not so appropriate pictures of myself and have a corner of the universe that I don't have to censor myself in relation to her.
It's 1:30 in the morning, and we're having the worst diabetes week we've had since diagnosis. Insane blood glucose numbers, ever increasing insulin needs, ketone testing...and the endless blood sugar testing. My daughter is a pin cushion, and I hate myself each time I jam another needle into her skin, when she winces, but doesn't say anything, when it hurts badly enough that she says "Ow, that one hurt," it feels like razors cutting my heart to ribbons.
170 days since diagnosis. 170 days since I leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the emergency room and allowed myself the luxury of five minutes of tears. 170 days since I called the exgirlfriend and the midget's father in the middle of the night and told them to get to the hospital NOW! 170 days since I watched them strap my daughter to a gurney and load her into an ambulance. 170 days since I heard the term "PICU" and realized that's where my daughter was going. 170 days of trying to readjust to normal, and realize that nothing was ever going to be normal again.
170 means at least 700 finger pricks and 700 injections. And that's assuming that every day we only test four times and give four injections. Which never, ever happens. When she runs high, I give corrections, then check again to see if she's come down. When she runs low, I give sugar, then recheck to make sure she's gone back up. Not even six months in and she's had 1500 holes poked into her body.
I'm sitting here at 1:30 in the morning waiting for it to be 2am so that I can test her again, and then lay down and try to sleep, but I know that I will instead spend the rest of the night waking up every thirty minutes to make sure she hasn't gone low in her sleep, because she doesn't wake up when she goes low while sleeping, which could mean...I can't even bring myself to type the word, can't bring myself to use it in conjunction with my beautiful, precious daughter...but it would be bad, very bad.
On the other hand...when she runs high all night like she has all this week, I think about all that sugar in her blood, and the damage it's doing to her body, knowing that it's coating the blood vessels in her heart and her eyes and her kidneys, another layer of damage, bringing her that much closer irreparable harm. It sickens me, makes me physically ill, makes me want to scream and cry.
170 days of wishing that I could take her place for each finger stick and injection. 170 of wishing I could take away her diabetes. 170 of wishing there was a cure...
It's 1:30 in the morning, and we're having the worst diabetes week we've had since diagnosis. Insane blood glucose numbers, ever increasing insulin needs, ketone testing...and the endless blood sugar testing. My daughter is a pin cushion, and I hate myself each time I jam another needle into her skin, when she winces, but doesn't say anything, when it hurts badly enough that she says "Ow, that one hurt," it feels like razors cutting my heart to ribbons.
170 days since diagnosis. 170 days since I leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the emergency room and allowed myself the luxury of five minutes of tears. 170 days since I called the exgirlfriend and the midget's father in the middle of the night and told them to get to the hospital NOW! 170 days since I watched them strap my daughter to a gurney and load her into an ambulance. 170 days since I heard the term "PICU" and realized that's where my daughter was going. 170 days of trying to readjust to normal, and realize that nothing was ever going to be normal again.
170 means at least 700 finger pricks and 700 injections. And that's assuming that every day we only test four times and give four injections. Which never, ever happens. When she runs high, I give corrections, then check again to see if she's come down. When she runs low, I give sugar, then recheck to make sure she's gone back up. Not even six months in and she's had 1500 holes poked into her body.
I'm sitting here at 1:30 in the morning waiting for it to be 2am so that I can test her again, and then lay down and try to sleep, but I know that I will instead spend the rest of the night waking up every thirty minutes to make sure she hasn't gone low in her sleep, because she doesn't wake up when she goes low while sleeping, which could mean...I can't even bring myself to type the word, can't bring myself to use it in conjunction with my beautiful, precious daughter...but it would be bad, very bad.
On the other hand...when she runs high all night like she has all this week, I think about all that sugar in her blood, and the damage it's doing to her body, knowing that it's coating the blood vessels in her heart and her eyes and her kidneys, another layer of damage, bringing her that much closer irreparable harm. It sickens me, makes me physically ill, makes me want to scream and cry.
170 days of wishing that I could take her place for each finger stick and injection. 170 of wishing I could take away her diabetes. 170 of wishing there was a cure...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Can't Sleep...The Christians will get me...?
So, last night the midget slept with me. Her blood sugar was high and I had to give her a correction at bedtime. She's gone low at night a couple of times, which is scary because she doesn't wake up and feel the low.
Anyway, she was not falling asleep, so I put a documentary on (Love that Netflix streaming on the Wii) and she was out in five minutes flat. I left it on for background noise while I trolled the message boards for parents of children with diabetes. Not trolled in the Craigslist sense of the word. I WAS NOT looking for hookers or meth or goats...I just wanted to talk to someone else who was also not sleeping because of diabetes (Damn you, Diabetes!!). But, I got sucked into the documentary.
It was the stuff of nightmares. "Jesus Camp" is a look at the complete and utter mindwashing that goes on amongst children in Evangelical churches. These kids are crying about their sins, having convulsions as "the spirit moves them" and speaking in tongues. It made me physically ill. Small children, who should be worrying about how much money the tooth fairy is going to leave them, are crying because they "sinned." They used a bad word or had a mean thought.
Now, I'm all for religious freedom. I'm not religious myself, but if someone else wants to have faith, and chooses to live his or her life according to that faith...Hey, knock yourself out. Your faith says you need to pick up the poisonous snakes to prove that you have faith?...Umm...okay, but I'll be over here out of reach of the fangs, 'kay?
However, this goes beyond having faith and teaching children about that faith and crosses the line into child abuse. Pulling kids out of schools so you can teach them that evolution is a "belief" while creationism is "fact" is simply wrong, but you have the freedom to do it. But when you start telling kids they are bad for having mean thoughts, that they are bad for thinking about sex, that they are bad for doing doing any number of things that are natural and normal parts of child development you are warping their fragile minds. You are teaching them to hate themselves at a fundamental level. A developing boy can no sooner stop thinking about his female friend's developing body than he can stop breathing. Human beings have natural, inherent behaviors and instincts and labeling them as wrong does nothing but set a child up for the worst kind of self-loathing imaginable.
And this movement, the movement aimed at these children, was designed with a purpose. The ministers themselves admit to designing this movement with the sole intention of "reclaiming our Christian nation." These are the children who are supposed to grow up, become our nation's leaders and lead the country into the path of light. Furthermore, these ministers make it clear they want these children trained, as the children of Islamic extremists and terrorists are trained, to fight and die for their faith. Even when there is no threat to their faith besides the fact that there are people in this world that don't have the same faith. They want all Americans to be Christian and to be Christian in their way, and frankly, they don't care about the children themselves, about what the price is for these children who will be raised being told that the world is this "one way" and then venture out into that world to find out that there is no "one way."
These people are making these children into fanatic Christian zombies. When the zombie apocalypse comes it's not going to be decaying corpses shambling after you craving your brain...it's going to be neatly dressed white kids in khakis and button down shirts...but they'll still be after your brain.
I'm investing in a sturdy helmet and reruns of The Family Guy. Hey, when the Christian zombies attack...at least I'll be safe on my mountain with dirty cartoons to fight the mind melting attacks of the Christian Right.
Anyway, she was not falling asleep, so I put a documentary on (Love that Netflix streaming on the Wii) and she was out in five minutes flat. I left it on for background noise while I trolled the message boards for parents of children with diabetes. Not trolled in the Craigslist sense of the word. I WAS NOT looking for hookers or meth or goats...I just wanted to talk to someone else who was also not sleeping because of diabetes (Damn you, Diabetes!!). But, I got sucked into the documentary.
It was the stuff of nightmares. "Jesus Camp" is a look at the complete and utter mindwashing that goes on amongst children in Evangelical churches. These kids are crying about their sins, having convulsions as "the spirit moves them" and speaking in tongues. It made me physically ill. Small children, who should be worrying about how much money the tooth fairy is going to leave them, are crying because they "sinned." They used a bad word or had a mean thought.
Now, I'm all for religious freedom. I'm not religious myself, but if someone else wants to have faith, and chooses to live his or her life according to that faith...Hey, knock yourself out. Your faith says you need to pick up the poisonous snakes to prove that you have faith?...Umm...okay, but I'll be over here out of reach of the fangs, 'kay?
However, this goes beyond having faith and teaching children about that faith and crosses the line into child abuse. Pulling kids out of schools so you can teach them that evolution is a "belief" while creationism is "fact" is simply wrong, but you have the freedom to do it. But when you start telling kids they are bad for having mean thoughts, that they are bad for thinking about sex, that they are bad for doing doing any number of things that are natural and normal parts of child development you are warping their fragile minds. You are teaching them to hate themselves at a fundamental level. A developing boy can no sooner stop thinking about his female friend's developing body than he can stop breathing. Human beings have natural, inherent behaviors and instincts and labeling them as wrong does nothing but set a child up for the worst kind of self-loathing imaginable.
And this movement, the movement aimed at these children, was designed with a purpose. The ministers themselves admit to designing this movement with the sole intention of "reclaiming our Christian nation." These are the children who are supposed to grow up, become our nation's leaders and lead the country into the path of light. Furthermore, these ministers make it clear they want these children trained, as the children of Islamic extremists and terrorists are trained, to fight and die for their faith. Even when there is no threat to their faith besides the fact that there are people in this world that don't have the same faith. They want all Americans to be Christian and to be Christian in their way, and frankly, they don't care about the children themselves, about what the price is for these children who will be raised being told that the world is this "one way" and then venture out into that world to find out that there is no "one way."
These people are making these children into fanatic Christian zombies. When the zombie apocalypse comes it's not going to be decaying corpses shambling after you craving your brain...it's going to be neatly dressed white kids in khakis and button down shirts...but they'll still be after your brain.
I'm investing in a sturdy helmet and reruns of The Family Guy. Hey, when the Christian zombies attack...at least I'll be safe on my mountain with dirty cartoons to fight the mind melting attacks of the Christian Right.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Really, Universe?
My poor midget...Type 1 Diabetes??? In the latest Lifetime movie of the week twist in my life, my sweet (haha, bad pun..) midget has been diagnosed as a Type 1 diabetic. We are in the hospital learning how to test blood sugars and give shots.
Thankfully, I tend to overreact rather than underreact, so I caught that something was wrong before she got seriously ill. Her numbers are high, and not at all under control and won't be for a few more weeks at least, but she's nowhere near as sick as she could be or as sick most kids are at diagnosis. She's the toughest, bravest, most amazing kid, and I'm so damn proud of her.
As a parent, it's damn important to trust that voice in the back of your head that says, "Hey, something's not right." Don't feel like a freak if you're worried about your kid and you want to get something checked out. It is so much better to be the neurotic Mom who worries too much than the Mom who wishes she'd listened to her gut...
Thankfully, I tend to overreact rather than underreact, so I caught that something was wrong before she got seriously ill. Her numbers are high, and not at all under control and won't be for a few more weeks at least, but she's nowhere near as sick as she could be or as sick most kids are at diagnosis. She's the toughest, bravest, most amazing kid, and I'm so damn proud of her.
As a parent, it's damn important to trust that voice in the back of your head that says, "Hey, something's not right." Don't feel like a freak if you're worried about your kid and you want to get something checked out. It is so much better to be the neurotic Mom who worries too much than the Mom who wishes she'd listened to her gut...
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