Robin | Farewell Stranger

The Mom Pledge Matters

March 10, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

In 1999, I joined an online community. I was 24 then, and my (now) husband and I had been together for a year. Like so many who are young and in love we had started talking about getting married so I was looking for information. It was a relatively short-lived fantasy and our for-real wedding planning didn’t happen for another few years, but I got hooked on this online community and hung around.

It was my first foray into an online social environment. The community was large and all the things that are true to online communities to this day were present there: sharing of stories, tips and frustrations. Joy expressed at good news and good deals, sympathy for monster mothers-in-law and relationship roadblocks.

Oh, and ruthless backstabbing.

What is it about sitting behind a computer screen that makes it okay to take other people down?

In this particular case, there were the usual cliques, including the cool kids and the tacky girls. The tacky girls posted about cash bars, cheap alcohol offerings and money dances – all the things that are totally de rigeur in some regions but unabashedly tacky in others – and the cool girls mocked them for it. Relentlessly.

One brash bride would share her disdain, and others would chime in. A few brave souls would stand up for the original poster who, in posting about white Zinfandel, was only exploring her options.

You know how it goes. We’ve all been there. But if you think brides are bad, mothers are worse.

A wedding is a one-time event. When it’s over, it’s over, and others’ opinions cease to matter. Parenting practices are, apparently, everyone’s business. Especially when you blog about it.

My blog is a mere two months old. I’m barely past being a newborn as a blogger, but I’ve been a reader for many years. I’ve seen moms express moments of joy only to be shot down by the insignificance of their children’s so-called accomplishments. I’ve seen moms – sleep-deprived, scared new moms – reveal their struggles and ask for help only to be told they’re ruining their child’s life through crying it out/nursing to sleep/sending to daycare/whatever.

It’s all crap. And I don’t play that game.

I’ve had my own troubles and lord knows I’ve made some wrong choices in my 2 1/2 years as a mom. Some of those things I did because I was at my wit’s end and just needed to survive another hour. Some because I didn’t know any better.

The thing is, as much as I like to think I’ve got it figured out and the next time will be better and easier, I don’t. And it probably won’t. Not entirely anyway. Being a mom is hard and every kid is different. We’re all figuring it out as we go along and doing the best we can.

What I have figured out is that community matters. The bullying on that original wedding planning board eventually broke it. The creator, who was just trying to run a business helping brides-to-be, gave up. She re-launched later, in a different format, but in the interim the two communities split up.

Those of us who had had enough of the bullying let the cool kids leave to play in their own playground and we created a community of our own. 12 years later, we’re still there. I’ve met only two of these women in person, and only briefly, and yet I consider them fast friends. I have called on them when I need help and they’ve been there. When someone else was calling out, I’ve sent love and hugs and gifts and money. We came together because we shared values – a desire for healthy dialogue, respect and the acknowledgment that each of us is finding her own way through the world and gets by with a little help from her friends.

That’s why I’ve taken The Mom Pledge. We call out for an end to bullying in our children’s school, sports fields and online spaces, but bullying each other isn’t okay either, and it needs to stop.

Because it matters.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: community

Behind the Mask

March 8, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

At some point, many months ago, I put on a mask. I’m not sure exactly when I put it on. I don’t even know where I got it, and for a really long time I didn’t realize I was wearing it.

This mask covered up everything I had become and tried to turn me back into what I’d been before, even though I wasn’t that person anymore.

This mask, through some cosmic power I didn’t know I had, is invisible. It manifests in a hundred different ways, all of which hide what’s actually beneath it.

The mask is a smile when the person behind it wants to shut her door and cry.

It’s my outward I-can-do-that-attitude when the reality is that there have been days when the logistics of getting from my house to my office seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

It’s a calm demeanor that hides the tightness in my chest that’s been there so long sometimes I don’t even notice I’m not breathing properly.

It’s the cheerful mama voice – that one that can multitask with the best of them – trying to redirect a frustrated toddler while at the same time calculating how long it is until bedtime and wondering how she got to this place.

I’m a wife and a mother, a daughter and a sister. I’m an employee and a supervisor, a colleague and a friend. The mask pretends this space is hidden, that these words are just for me. It makes me wonder, every day, what those people I know, those people I see every day, will think when they read these words. If they read these words. Because here I am not hiding. Here I can set my mask aside.

Outside this space I haven’t quite managed to take it off. Recently I experimented with taking it off – putting myself out there in a place more people I know might find me – but for the most part I still wear it. It reappeared in full force this week, covering up a wave of reality I didn’t see coming.

For a long time, this mask has defined me. I have to have faith one day that won’t be the case anymore.

This post is linked up with The Red Dress Club’s memoir prompts.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: mask

Friday

March 7, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Monday morning. At work.

“How was Friday?” asked my friend and colleague.

Friday…Friday…

“I can’t remember Friday.”

“You had an appointment in the afternoon.”

Oh. Right. Friday.

How could I have forgotten Friday?

It was supposed to be a normal enough day. Meetings and work to do in the morning, time to eat lunch, zip out to my doctor’s office to talk about weaning off meds. Then something significant happened at work, meetings got interrupted and I barely had time to eat lunch before hightailing it to my doctor’s office, where, after getting stuck in traffic, I arrived 10 minutes late – a fact that was curtly pointed out by the receptionist before she stuck me in a room and left me to wait another 10 for the doctor who was apparently not so anxious to get her last appointment finished after all.

Friday was supposed to be about how I can do this. How I’m feeling all right and I’m ready and I’m going to break up with those stupid green pills. Except I’m not. And I knew that would be the case even before I got there.

When I booked the appointment – after procrastinating for over a week to make the call – I wanted the advice to be along these lines: “Yep, sure! Here’s how you do it and here’s what you can expect. Now go next door to the friendly pharmacist – the one who told you, when you went to pick it up the first time, that this medication can cause sexual side effects, isn’t he helpful? – and get a lower dose. Taper slowly and you’ll be fine!”

That’s not what she said, of course. She asked all kinds of questions about how I’m doing and what I’ve done to address my issues and what kind of support I have and all the usual things that constitute proper care. And then she suggested it’s probably too early.

It’s a question of math, apparently. However long you had symptoms is how long you should be on meds before trying to wean, and it hasn’t been that long for me. It actually doesn’t matter, because I’m not ready to come off and I know it.

I didn’t actually tell her that – I was determined to get through one appointment with a health professional without breaking down in floods of tears (and I did! Gee, I’m so proud.). Instead, after a long discussion about timing and considerations and implications, we decided it might be wise for me to come back in April and have the discussion again and start weaning at that time.

I appreciated the support, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen. Between a family issue and a couple of other life issues last week, my view of the world is starting to feel a little bit like this:

It’s a lovely view, but that cliff is feeling awfully close and I have no idea what’s around that corner.

On Saturday, all I could see was that cliff. And I thought I was going to fall off of it.

On Sunday, I spent the day totally mad at myself for finding myself back in this place after thinking I was out of it.

Today, at work, I spent the morning trying not to hyperventilate. I looked at my office door and wanted so badly to close it, but I knew if I did I would sit in front of my computer and cry and the road would crumble and the cliff would be real.

Now, after some time spent thinking about other things and a few deep breaths and a tiny little voice at the back of my head saying, “You don’t have to let this happen,” I’m feeling…okay. Just okay. (Scared shitless, actually, but same difference.)

But that’s okay. I don’t know where I am on the path, but I’m still on the path. The cliff is there, but this time it’s not the only thing I can see.

And, at least for right now, I’m still packin’ Prozac. And it’s going to be that way for a while, so I may as well enjoy the view.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: admissions, meds, meltdown

Fluid

March 5, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I had done everything. I had hung upside down off my couch. I had gone swimming. I had played music, shone lights, talked convincingly in my best soon-to-be-your-mama voice. I had even smoked my toe (which is not what it sounds like) and gone for acupuncture (I HATE needles). EVERYTHING. Except scrub the kitchen floor on my knees, because who wants to do that 9 months pregnant?

He was still breech.

Last stop: OB’s office. I had waffled, but only a little bit. I had heard how much it hurt, but I didn’t care. I was willing to try it to get this babe turned around so I could attempt a natural birth.

“External cephalic version” is just a fancy way of describing the process where a doctor, under fairly specific circumstances, grabs baby’s head and bum from the outside and tries to force him to flip around. I figured it sounded like a lovely way to spend a Thursday afternoon, so after getting the scoop from him on how it worked, how long it might take (not very) and how good my chances of success were (not very) we decided to go for it.

My husband and I gamely trotted out to the hospital and I had the mandatory pre-version ultrasound. I think it was my 6th. Yep – there was the little bugger, still not head down.

The tech did a bunch of wiggling and pushing and prodding with the ultrasound wand and then started making noises about fluid levels.

“There’s one big pocket over here,” she said, which apparently counted for however much it is when it’s not enough at that stage of pregnancy.

She prodded some more but ultimately decided to get the OB to take a peek.

More prodding, more squinting at the black and white monitor.

Ultimately, the word came down.

“You don’t have enough fluid to attempt a version,” the OB told me. “In fact, he probably needs to come out. If he weren’t breech we’d probably induce you, but you’ll have to have a c-section. Would you like to do that today or tomorrow?”

Gulp.

We picked “tomorrow” primarily because it was past 3 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten since midnight the day before and I was capital-S starving. Plus, you know, I wasn’t really ready to have my abdomen sliced open right then and there.

This day, this event, this conversation has stuck with me. What if I had gone home, chugged a whole bunch of water and checked again? Would that have made a difference? What if I had just said no?

The stories about being educated and having a say in your birth experience leave me both feeling empowered and haunted. There was a lot I didn’t know at that time. I, like so many women, skipped the c-section parts of my pregnancy books. I didn’t know anything about fluid levels, I just trusted my midwife and the OB.

I will always wonder.

Maybe drinking water would have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybe this is just the way it was meant to be.

In any case, I didn’t go home and drink water. I had one last lunch/dinner with my husband and my mom and went home to ponder what was coming next.

I should have just scrubbed the damn floor.

This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club:
“Water gives life. Water takes it away.”

Filed Under: Uncategorized · Tagged With: expectations

Fledgling Friday link-up: March 4 edition

March 3, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

It’s week three of Fledgling Friday! I’ve been so happy to have so many new bloggers linking up for this.

If you’re a new blogger looking for some friends, some traffic, some comment love, please link up one of your posts from last week (or any post, really – I’m not fussy). Please try to visit some of your fellow newbies, too – I will always visit and comment on all posts included here. Love reading what you’re posting! (And if you want to put the button for this somewhere on your site, I’d love that too – code can be found on the right.)

If you’re not a new blogger, remember what it was like to be one and give these folks a visit – please and thanks!