Archives for August 2011

Back To Life, Back To Reality

August 31, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Truthbomb: This transition is tough.

Overall things are great, but I’m at the point of desperately hoping it stays that way. After being on sick leave for 4 1/2 months, I went back to work on August 15, starting part time and gradually increasing hours. The first week was fine. I worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and felt really silly leaving at noon. Same schedule the second week, same “it’s fine” feeling, except by Wednesday night I was wickedly cranky. Normally I would have ignored it – chalked it up to a bad day or PMS or something – but I know not to do that now. So I put on my sleuthing hat (with thanks to Yael for this technique) and started examining what was going on.

I knew returning to work was going to be challenging in some ways. I have less time with my boys and more time with bureaucracy. (In case you can’t tell this about me, I’m not good with bureaucracy.) I miss my boys. I also have less time to write and less time to read. I miss all of you.

I knew going in those things would be my reality. What I didn’t anticipate: Missing down time at the end of the day. I haven’t been going home at the end of the morning because Connor still naps and I don’t want a barking dog to wake him up, so I’ve been going to Starbucks or the library or the gym for a bit instead. But Connor is used to having me around, so of course when I do get home he wants me to play with him. I thought I would want to do that. I really did. But sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just want time to catch up on blog reading. (Oh hi, guilt! How I’ve missed you…) And if I don’t play with him RIGHT AWAY, he starts with the undesirable attention-getting behaviour, like hitting me or running full speed at me and body checking me. (Speaking of cranky…)

It doesn’t help that it’s taking me well over an hour to get him to go to bed at night. The constant escorting him back to his bed is getting really old, especially since standing sentry outside his room means I’m not getting anything else done, like tidying, making my lunch, or anything else that’s generally good for my mental health.

What I also (stupidly) didn’t anticipate: Connor missing me because I’m not around as much. When I was getting dressed on Monday morning he asked me where I was going. When I told him I was going to work, the lip came out, started to tremble, and then caught his salty tears as they rolled down his cheeks. (Oh hi, working mother guilt! I’d forgotten how much of a bitch you can be.)

So instead of reading and writing and playing with my son on and off throughout the day, which was lovely (in the last part of my leave, anyway, once I got over that whole wanting-to-die thing), I’m at work. Work is work and, as I said when I first returned, it’s okay for it to be just a job.

In theory, anyway.

We all have things we don’t like about our jobs and even though I’ve loved mine for years there are things that annoy me. Of course there are. And it doesn’t surprise me that those things are annoying me more right now after some time away.

Anyway, it’s making me cranky.

Or maybe it’s just – as my sister pointed out – that I feel my superpowers are needed elsewhere. (Anyone want to hire me to write about the reality of motherhood and how to find inspiration after life has kicked you to the ground? I can be whatever you want – serious, poignant, funny, you name it. I can only draw stick figures but I’m willing to do that to add visual appeal to the material.)

None of this is meant to be a criticism of the organization I work for. It’s a great organization and, as far as bureaucracy goes, it could be way worse.

Still, this transition is tough.

Filed Under: Writing · Tagged With: admissions, expectations, telling the truth

This I Believe – Guest Post By Yael Saar

August 30, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I am absolutely, joyfully, dancing-ly happy to have Yael here today sharing this amazing post. She added this as a page on her blog, PPD to Joy, not long ago and I just ate it up. I’m excited to share it here today because I think you’ll be able to relate.

This post is about postpartum depression, and about motherhood. But it’s also about relationships and hard days and things that suck. So it doesn’t matter if you’re not a mom or haven’t suffered through PPD – I still think this will speak to you. My suggestion: find a quiet spot, wherever and however you can, and read this. Really read it. Allow it to sink into your brain. I bet your breathing will be deeper and your shoulders lower when you finish.

***

Love is a renewable resource, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The more you love, the more you love.

This can be hard to feel, and even harder to believe.
Love is magic.
It works regardless of whether you can feel it.
Regardless of whether you believe in it or not.

Being kind is underrated.
Being right is overrated.
When in doubt, choose kindness.
Especially to yourself.

(Go slow and you’ll get there faster. Baby steps will take you farthest.)

About Motherhood

Motherhood is the hardest job on the planet.
Even if you’ve climbed Mt. Everest, you know kids can challenge you more than the tallest peaks.
Miraculously, unbelievably, (thankfully) this is, somehow, all worth it.
But why does this have to be so hard?

My kids are the best kids ever. And so are yours.
The fact that they can drive us crazy is beside the point.

Kids, especially toddlers, are physicists and social scientists.
They test the limits of gravity, safety, and patience.
They yank our chains for a living.
This ain’t easy on the mom.

Yelling at children is unavoidable.
Striving to yell less is important, learning grump-management is helpful, but let’s not kid ourselves, raising our voices at our loved ones is not about to go extinct.
Giving ourselves permission to yell when we are at the end of our rope just might keep yelling from turning into screaming.

Hugs are more important than food.
If we hug our kids more often than we yell at them, all of us will turn out all right.

(Baby steps will take you farthest.)

About Postpartum Mood Disorders

You are not broken.
You are not damaged.
You are struggling.
Every struggle is an opportunity for growth.

You don’t have to like this to survive this.
You don’t have to like this to learn and grow from this.
This sucks, so of course you don’t like this.
You have a right to be angry. How could you not be?
You have a right to be scared.

When you allow your anger and fear to be heard, they cannot rule you.
Interacting with them gives you power in situations you don’t have power over. Running away from your emotions means you can never rest.

If you fight your anger tooth and nail, it will turn into rage and guilt.
If you fear your fear, it will turn into anxiety and panic.
Fighting your emotions only feeds your demons.

Healing cannot happen in a war zone.
Permission-Based Healing is far more effective.

You are not lazy.
You are exhausted.
So is your partner.

Until you get enough sleep, try to respect your capacity, or lack thereof.
Accepting that being grumpy is unavoidable helps.
It is possible to be grumpy without being mean.
Yes, this is hard.

Trust turns caves into tunnels.
When you can’t find the light at the end of your tunnel, dare to ask someone to light a candle and hold your hand.

Asking for help is hard. Very hard. And scary.
And it is the first step to recovery.
If you only learn one thing from having to deal with this darn mood disorder, let it be how to ask for help effectively.
No, you will not be good at this right away. And that’s OK.

(Baby steps will take you farthest.)

About the Role of Community in Recovery:

Community is my favorite word.
I wouldn’t be alive without my family and my community.

Every single person has skeletons in their closet.
Well, these things only look like skeletons, because it’s so dark in there.
When we dare to bring them out into the light, we discover that the skeletons are simply our very human, very scared selves.
Inviting our scared selves out to play can be petrifying.
Sharing our scary stories with others creates community while connecting all of us on the deepest level.
In my experience such trust is always rewarded handsomely.

This is how we trust in the healing power of community.
When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and human, we allow others to do the same. And we all get stronger together.

Words build community.
When fighting doesn’t bring peace, writing does.
I believe every one of us is capable of writing for healing.
Not ready to write yet?
Read. Speak. Cry. Sing…

(Baby steps will take you farthest.)

***

See? Is that not one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever read? In one post she manages to address all kinds of things that have lurked in the shadows for me.

One of the links above, to Yael’s Permission-Based Healing page, is another new resource on her site. I’ve talked to a lot of people about accepting whatever threatens to overwhelm you – anxiety, rage, grief, whatever it is – and letting it in. Most say I can’t. I’m scared to. I’m afraid if I do I will sink. I know. I was too. I did too. But this approach is the thing that finally allowed me to get better, and one of the people I have to thank for that is Yael. She knows, because she’s been there too. Have a look at that page and let Yael know what you think. (But be gentle with her, she asks – it’s a subject close to her heart.)

Yael is also the one behind the PPD SpeakEasy support calls. When I first heard about these I told Yael (before I really knew her) that I couldn’t really imagine talking to strangers on the phone about my struggle with PPD. I got over it and joined in (I’ve even hosted) and in an upcoming post I’ll tell you about the last call, because it really was a very cool experience. (And if you have a site where you share PPD resources, consider posting Yael’s badge? Pretty please?)

Thank you, Yael, for all you do for our community. We love you for it.

Filed Under: Better world, Guest posts, Hard things, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: community, gratitude, perspective, rage, we're not alone

Creating Hallowe’en

August 29, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

The celebrations and holidays of summer are behind us and September is just around the corner. I know what’s coming next, if only because the decorations in the stores – on the shelves for weeks now – encourage us to do it up right.

Hallowe’en.

The stores have lined their shelves with candy already, tempting us to buy early and be prepared, knowing we’ll eat it all within the week and have to buy more.

I’m not falling for it.

The decorations have surfaced, as frightening (and kitschy) as ever, encouraging us to let spiders dance on doorways and make ghosts watch from windows.

Sooner or later I will buy some, to add to our growing collection, because it’s fun and I know Connor will be into it this year.

And then there are the costumes.

They hang from rods, on plastic hangers in their plastic packaging, many made from plastic themselves.

I knew nothing of store-bought costumes as a kid. My mom – ever devoted, ever creative – made our costumes herself and in doing so set a standard I never thought to question.

Until I had a child, that is.

And realized I couldn’t sew (and had no desire to learn).

On Connor’s first Hallowe’en, we went back and forth on whether to get him a costume. He was just over four months old at the end of October – not exactly trick or treating age. But we wanted to dress him up. My husband, never one to cheat on anything that provides an artistic opportunity, was determined to make a bumblebee costume. We searched for basics to form the costume core and accessories to bee-ify him. Nothing was quite right for my husband’s standards and so we abandoned the effort. Shortly before the big day, I came across a costume on a classifieds site – it was a good price for an absurdly cute ladybug costume from Old Navy, so I bought it.

Yes, he’s a boy. I didn’t care. That costume was cute.

Come October 31 I stuffed my son into it and dragged him down to a local children’s store for their Hallowe’en party. It was great, except for the part where my son screamed through the whole thing. I gave up, stripped the ladybug off him (without even getting a picture) and took him home, where we spent the evening desperately trying to get the dog not to bark every time the doorbell rang (a useless effort at the best of times, never mind on Hallowe’en with all its tricks).

By the second year I realized any desire my husband had to make something had long since faded when, much to my surprise, he came home with a yoda costume. From a store. I thought it was great because it gave us the opportunity to spend many hours practicing our yoda impressions.

“Wear a store-bought costume, you will. No crafty bone in her body, your mother has.”

You get the point.

Anyway, aside from that added bonus it was cute, which was the new standard. And it looked pretty good with a red clown wig, too.

Then last year a Spiderman costume caught my husband’s eye, confirming our abandonment of any pretence about making a costume ourselves.

This year is no different. I came home one day several weeks ago to find a very happy small boy dressed as a fireman. He and his dad had been out and found this costume in a store. With a fireman a clear choice for a costume, they bought it. And so it hangs in the closet downstairs, awaiting its turn to parade around the block.

I had no involvement in the procurement of this costume. I didn’t help my child come up with the idea. I didn’t sew a single stitch. I didn’t even buy it – on its plastic hanger in its plastic packaging – and bring it home so my toddler could look forward to being a fireman for Halloween.

I can’t sew, and I don’t want to. I might get out my black eyeliner and help him look coal-smudged and authentic, but that’s about the extent of it.

I loved my Hallowe’en costumes as a kid. Looking back, knowing how much time and love went into creating them, I remember them especially fondly. But I’m not going to make costumes for my kids. That’s not the sort of mom I am.

What I will do – like my mom did with us – is help my son get dressed on Hallowe’en and walk with him up and down our street delighting in our neighbours’ decorations. I will watch his face as he collects candy in his bag for doing nothing except showing up on someone’s doorstep (and looking cute). When our doorbell rings, I will run with him down the hall and admire the other kids’ costumes – not caring where or how they got them – and then let him choose a candy bar to add to their haul.

That’s the sort of mom I am. And it is enough.

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A reminder: Starting last Monday and continuing for 3 more, we are fighting cancer with the help of two incredible partners: Bellflower Books and Crickett’s Answer for Cancer. For every 20 link-ups received this month, Bellflower Books will donate a $75 certificate toward a 20-page memory book to a family identified by Crickett’s Answer who are fighting the good fight against breast cancer. Our goal is to be able to provide ten women the opportunity to receive a special book created by family and friends that will be treasured not only by the brave women fighting, but by their families as well.

Filed Under: Be enough me · Tagged With: Be enough me, expectations, family, mom's instinct

On My Anniversary

August 28, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Personal crises do funny things to relationships, as too many of us know too well. We go through these things, individually or together – or together-but-individually – and almost always, I think, something changes.

Our journeys become harder when we’re faced with something other than the chosen road. Doubly so, perhaps, when we’re fighting against the current, thereby using energy we previously put into our partners, our relationships, our life-as-we-knew-it.

This extra baggage we carry isn’t always something we acknowledge. We don’t pick up rage or grief or illness and turn to our companion and say, I’m sorry. I have to carry this for a while. For now I’m going to have to put down your need for time to yourself / some of the things I do around the house / my ability to be a nice person to live with.

We just don’t.

Or at least I didn’t.

My baggage was an extra weight, strapped to me like a backpack, that I couldn’t identify. I questioned it constantly, turning around and around in desperate attempts to identify it. But it was a part of me, and so it turned with me, always just out of sight.

I picked up that backpack when no one was looking. When I wasn’t looking. It was just there, and it became part of me. My husband could see it, but he didn’t realize it was unidentifiable to me, and unwanted.

To him, it had become part of me.

He didn’t want it in our lives either. He didn’t like that backpack, and he hadn’t agreed to let me bring it on our journey. He thought the backpack and I were inseparable and, not satisfied with that, he gave me a choice: ditch the baggage or get off at the next station.

I chose to ditch the baggage, of course. I hadn’t wanted it in the first place.

As it turned out, it wasn’t so easy to set down.

In the end my husband had to help me. It was too heavy a weight for me to deal with on my own. So as I sat down in the middle of the path, like a stubborn child unwilling or unable to go on, he started loosening the straps so I could walk on. Slowly, bit by bit, he moved things around to adjust the load. He held my hand for a while. He kept me going.

It wasn’t enough.

When I said I needed to stop – just stop – he didn’t blink. He called in others on our path to help support the weight of my baggage and slowly, gently, he helped me take the pack off.

That baggage is gone now, though my body still bears the evidence of its weight – the marks it has left on me, the ache of having borne it for so long. My husband sees these scars, as only the one I’ve chosen to travel with me on the path of life truly can.

I’m less afraid of that extra baggage now. I know what it looks like, what it feels like to carry. I know more about where it came from and what it almost cost me.

I said almost.

Today is our 7th wedding anniversary. We’ve been together 13 years.

I’m feeling lucky.

I love you, my love.

Filed Under: Happy things, Love letters · Tagged With: family, gratitude, love

Edit Me: Striped Socks

August 27, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

One of the things on my life list is learning how to use a graphics editing program properly. I also want to take more pictures in general, but (a) I don’t really seem to be doing that and (b) when I do take pictures they seem to stay on my camera (just ask my husband). When (a) and (b) are combined, it makes it sort of difficult to do much editing. Resourceful little me, however, has found a solution!

I came across the Edit Me Challenge a while ago, and I love love love this concept. The host provides a photo and those participating edit it as they see fit and submit their edits for judging. Fab idea, no?

When I first looked I noticed that a lot of people who participate are photographers or photo bloggers, which I am not. (So if you’re visiting from the challenge, hi! I’m not a photographer, but I’d love it if you’d offer your best tips or suggestions for resources or links to stuff of your own that you’re proud of. I would love to browse!)

I saw the photo for this week and decided it was time to work up the nerve to participate. This photo provided by Jamie from Mommy’s Camera, this week’s guest judge, is just so great:

I’m using Pixelmator, and I played around with a whole bunch of different effects. Because of the colours in this photo, some of the filter tools create really artsy looks.

With all of these edits, I adjusted the contrast, colour and exposure just a little bit. Then this one was done using the pointillize tool:

This one is just a simple click in the spot colour tool, with the levels adjusted to define the stripes:

I like those and actually think the first, especially, would look good framed. But for the judging (ha ha, please don’t laugh at me) I’m going to submit this one:

I cropped this one, and focused on sharpening the details in the dresses, socks and in the rocks. I adjusted the colour map, then did a gamma adjust on it and sharpened it to bring it really into focus. That left it just slightly dark and I really wanted the sunlight to show, so I adjusted the contrast just a bit to bring that back.

I was pretty happy with that in the end – it gives just enough of the dresses for interest, but really focuses on the striped socks, which I love.

Whaddya think?

Filed Under: Photos · Tagged With: firsts, Life list, living life

Archives for August 2011

Back To Life, Back To Reality