Code: Meltdown

June 23, 2011 by ·

We’re good at meltdowns in this house. I can pull off a spectacular one, though have had less need lately. Connor, on the other hand, has an ongoing, intrinsic need to completely lose his cool on a fairly regular basis.

This is normal for toddlers, I know. Occasionally – very occasionally – I find it funny. This is huge progress, mind you, because I used to absolutely lose it when he lost it, and that was all kinds of not pretty. One of the reasons I know I’m getting better at tolerating his meltdowns is that I’ve developed my own little rating system. The Code: Meltdown System has three levels.

The characteristics of a Code One Meltdown include:

  • Dropping to the floor in a puddle because he didn’t get what he wanted (see also: Things the Books Don’t Tell You, item #2).
  • Refusing to brush his teeth.
  • Flopping around on his bed like a chubby, soft little fish in cute jammies because he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Usually accompanied by on-and-off tears and the wail of “I don’t want to go to sleep!” which means he’s tired.
  • Throwing something, but gently because he doesn’t really want to invoke the Wrath of Mama.
  • A brief bout of tears that subside when the appropriate response is given to the arms-raised, sad-face “up” gesture.

With a Code Two Meltdown you get:

  • Ongoing tears that don’t respond to normal efforts to provide comfort and a resounding “NO!” to anything offered as a possible diversion.
  • Any of the following: running away, pushing, hitting, biting, smearing toothpaste on the sink/counter/mother, throwing things with aim and intention, hiding with face buried in couch cushions, adopting rag doll pose, or mimicking octopus limbs while dressing is being attempted.
  • One of the following outbursts, always included for the purposes of attention seeking or release of frustrated energy: loud banging, a trademarked “RAWR” (that I really must get on camera one day because it’s a perfect combination of dinosaur/pissed off toddler), or, more recently, a scrunched-up, spitting sort of face that I don’t understand but certainly don’t appreciate.

The Code Three Meltdown is where things get really interesting:

  • Screaming. My god, this kid can scream.
  • Did I mention screaming?
  • Very physical responses – usually aimed at parental head and face regions – designed to provoke a specific response.
  • Throwing himself on the floor and writhing around in a way that makes it almost impossible to pick him up (but not quite, ha ha).
  • More screaming, which, as the defining characteristic of the Code Three Meltdown, tends to go on for quite some time.

As I’ve previously admitted, he gets a lot of this from me, so I get it (though it’s also – hopefully? – because the toddler switch has been flicked to “ON”).

This system is more observation than criticism, and besides, when tolerating a meltdown, analyzing the level and assigning a code to it gives me something to do other than stabbing myself in the eardrums so I don’t have to listen to it. That’s good parenting, right?

This previously published photo is an example of a Code One Meltdown (liked his outfit, didn't want his picture taken). Funnily enough, I don't have a photo of a Code Three. Must get on that.

 

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: , , ,

Hello, Inspiration – Father’s Day

June 19, 2011 by ·

I haven’t posted in a couple of days. Confession: I feel like I’m slipping. A rough few days and I feel like the swirl is coming back, so I’m just trying to hold it off.

I’m going to save my planned inspiration post until I can feel it again and express it properly. In the meantime, some thoughts on Father’s Day.

I know some people don’t have dads – my parents have both lost theirs. I know some dads aren’t perfect. I know some moms out there are doing it on their own for one reason or another.

It sounds silly, but this blogospheric community has made me really realize how hard Father’s Day can be for some people.

I’m blessed in the dad department – both with my own dad and the wonderful dad my husband is.

This might seem like a downer, but I’m actually inspired by those of you who don’t or can’t rejoice in Father’s Day. You’ve shared stories of bad relationships with your fathers. You’ve commented that you don’t have a relationship with your father at all.

Some of you have lost your fathers. Some fathers have lost their children.

Some of you have amazing and wonderful dads but just don’t get to see them as often as you’d like.

Whatever your situation, your strength and honesty inspire me.

I feel lucky to know others who do whatever you need to do on Father’s Day – celebrate it, ignore it, rail against it, or take the time to remember your dad and hold him in your heart.

So to all of you who have lived with the hard stuff, and to all the fathers and father figures out there who spread love and joy and caring, I wish you a Happy Father’s Day, whatever that looks like to you.

fathers-day-tags

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Why I Run

June 16, 2011 by ·

At first all I hear is silence. Then birdsong. The crunch of my feet on gravel. The rhythmic sound of my breath.

I am running.

***

I started in running in January 2005. I hated going to the gym, so I figured I’d try something with a goal in mind and registered for a 10k clinic.

At first one minute of running made me feel like I was going to DIE.

I went to the run clinic every Wednesday night and dutifully did my solo runs two other days a week. I progressed, increasing intervals until I got to the point where I thought I might actually be able to do it.

And I did. That year at the end of April I ran my first 10K.

But I didn’t stop running.

Why do I run?

I run because it’s hard. Every run, good or bad, feels like an accomplishment.

I run because it gets me outside into the fresh air.

I run because a sunlit trail often seems like the place on Earth to be.

I run because when it rains everything feels refreshed, even me.

I run because, as I wrote before, it’s a battle between mind and body and it’s good for both.

I run because I have friends who run and I run with them.

I run because I’ve made new friends through running.

I run because often when running I’m also writing – drafting things in my head and thinking about the right turn of phrase as my feet pound the path.

I run because the trails are there.

Because I run, I get alone time I might not otherwise take time for.

Because I run, I’ve seen my expression reflected on other runners’ faces – a grimace signalling determination through pain.

Because I run, I also know what an expression of joy looks like on the face of someone out in the fresh air and sunshine doing something that’s good for them.

Because I run I see more dragonflies.

Because I run, I get to see my dog in his happy place, skipping along, sniffing, falling behind, catching up, surging ahead, pushing me farther.

Because I run I have learned to push myself – to not quit when I want to because I remember my dad’s advice and I’ve learned it’s true: “If you stop when it’s hard you never improve.”

Because I run I know what it’s like to cross the finish line of a half-marathon and receive a medal for finishing something I once thought I would never, ever be able to do.

***

I see sparks of sunlight glinting off the lake. Shadows bounce and twirl, reflecting the dance of the trees above them.

Today I ran.

Because I am a runner.

Yes, my face always gets this red when I run.

Filed Under: Happy things · Tagged With: , , ,

3 years / 4 weeks + 1 whoa = 6 months

May 26, 2011 by ·

3 years = how long I’ve been dealing with postpartum depression and its aftermath.

4 weeks = the amount of time I asked to take off work when I couldn’t deal with this properly anymore.

1 whoa = a whole bunch of things, actually. I thought if I took a few weeks off work I’d have time to find my balance again. Instead I fell over. Mostly figuratively, but also literally one time. And I kept falling. So I’ve actually been off work for two months now. At times I’ve felt like I should be there, but there are a lot of things about my job that aren’t easy and I’ve had to accept that I just can’t do that job right now.

Today I saw my doctor again – not the mean old psychiatrist, but someone in my GP’s office who has been helping me through this – because I needed another doctor’s certificate signed. She knows how things have been going. Last time I saw her she said she thought it would be more like 3-6 months that I’d be off work. When I gave her my latest she seemed cautiously optimistic, but not prepared to tell me to put my suit back on yet.

A few days of better = good, but I know it’s not time to start counting chickens yet. I’ve learned that the hard way, many times over.

But that’s how I’m feeling too – cautiously optimistic. Maybe this medication I’m on that I’ve hated and that I blame for the worst 6 weeks of my life is actually starting to work. Or maybe it’s because mentally I said, “Screw you!” to everything outside of me and am finally able to start doing what I need to do for myself.

There’s no way to know which it is, so for now I’ve decided not to change meds. I can always do that later if I need to, but I’m not going to risk the fallout of a transition right now. I need to be okay for a while, and all I can do is get up and do a workout and get dressed and eat well and keep writing and cross my fingers that I will be okay.

So I got that doctor’s certificate to give me time to do that. It now says 4-6 months, though who knows how long it will really be. It might be shorter. It might be longer, though I doubt it (and really hope not for that would mean the return of Bad Things).

How do I feel about this? Not sure. I’m just taking it a day at a time and trying not to worry about how many days that will add up to.

 

PS I was nominated for Circle of Moms Top 25 Mental Wellness blogs. I won’t harass you every day for three weeks to vote for me, but you can if you want to. 🙂

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Smashed to Smithereens

May 25, 2011 by ·

A few weeks ago I was on a meandering stroll through the Internet, clicking on links in tweets and following paths through blogs until I could no longer remember where I’d been or where I’d started. And yet I ended up where I was apparently meant to be: Bad Words, reading the heartbreaking story about the birth of this woman’s son. I wanted to know what happened next, so I kept reading. I clicked on a few of her links, and learned something about the deaf community that was really eye-opening for someone who has always thought “hard of hearing” was the politically correct term.

And then I noticed an odd little word in the navigation at the top.Whoa

“Whoa.”

Not the type of thing you usually see in a blog’s navigation, so I clicked on it and read what was there.

Yeah. Whoa.

“Do you have a day?” the page asked*. “Before this day, you were just you… Until it happened to you. Suddenly you weren’t you anymore. You were that person that the unimaginable thing happened to.”

Not me anymore? How did it know?

“Did you rage against it? Being an other?”

Did I rage against it?! Yes. Yes, I did.

“Did you beg and plead and pray to The Universe to make it not be? Were you certain that if you demanded that it not be, if you begged, plead, prayed hard enough, The Universe would hear you and change your life back to what it was?”

Ah, The Universe. The Universe and I are on very good terms. Or not, depending how you look at it, for The Universe did not change my life back to what it was.

“Did you admit defeat, shed the delusion of control and leave yourself at the mercy of The Universe?”

No. Why? Should I?

“And once you let it all fall away, did you flick that last bit of rubble off your shoulder, plant your hand on your hip and wonder who you were going to be on the other side of this? Did you tell The Universe it could go ahead and have its way with you?”

Hand on hip – check. Wondering who – check. But oh dear. I hadn’t let anything go. I was afraid of the rubble, frankly. What if it buries me? What if whoever I am doesn’t come out from under it? But…okay. I’ve started listening.

At the end the page asked (in italics because it’s important):

“Do you want to go back in time and whisper to your former self:

Don’t worry. It’s going to be ok. It’s going to suck. You’ll be smashed to smithereens. You’ll be built back up again. You’ll be more you than you’d ever imagined. It’s going to be ok.”

Smashed to smithereens. It sounds like a sudden occurrence. A single blow. For some people I imagine it is, but for me it’s been a long process. More than three years (and probably longer if you count other parts of my history) of issues and illness chipping away at the rock of my core. There is rubble already – jagged, tear-stained rubble – and for weeks now I thought I’d flicked it all off. I have flicked some of it away. I’ve had crews come, without being asked, to help me lift some of the larger pieces. But it wasn’t gone. And then I found more including the most recent rock slide, which I didn’t see coming.

I’ve been smashed to smithereens all right, but in the last few days I’ve hauled out my industrial-sized broom and swept away some of that rubble.

I won’t lie – I’m afraid some of it will come back. Or that there’s yet more rubble to fall.

But after begging and pleading and waiting for the Universe to just fix this already, I’ve started to accept the process. And the next part of it has to start with me.

I have shed the delusion of control – over some things, anyway – and have left myself at the mercy of The Universe. We’re back on better terms now – things are coming across my path when they’re meant to and I’m taking note of those signs.

One such sign was these words of whoa, for which I thank Tulpen, both for writing them and for allowing me to share the effect they had on me.

So yes, I want to go back and whisper that to my former self. Because, for today at least, I think it’s going to be okay.

*These excerpts are just that – parts of a raw, powerful, in-your-face whole that I encourage you to read in its entirety.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , ,
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