Waiting

I could feel it as soon as I stepped outside today. It's a strange feeling, a combination of things heard, seen, and felt. Maybe even tasted, too. A sense that the world is holding it's breath. My chickens stayed in the coop, refusing to set foot outside, barely stirring when I brought them food and water. There wasn't a rabbit to be seen. The hawks that usually circle the fields were absent. It didn't matter that my phone had started chiming with alerts last night, I would have known regardless: big snow is on the way. 

I love days like today. In the country, at least. In town, there is always a sort of apocalyptic feel; everyone descends upon the grocery store, evidently critically low on toilet paper, bread, milk, and patience. I tend to think it's an instinctual thing. Human animals have dealt with rough winters for most of our existence. The urge to prepare for them is bred into us. Living in a modern town, with every form of entertainment and every need virtually on our doorstep, the importance of the few things we might be running low on tends to increase to anxiety producing levels. 

Luckily, out here, I can channel that anxious preparatory energy into tasks that, while they aren't life and death, are at least not located in a store full of similarly anxious homo sapiens. Clean the house, plan the meals, make bread. BJ tuned up the tractor, and went over the functions of the blower one more time, since his work schedule will mean the clearing of snow will be my job (FINALLY! He's been hogging the tractor for a over a YEAR!). We moved firewood from the woodpile, up onto the porch, where it's more sheltered and easier to grab in a hurry. 

Most of that firewood came from right here on the property. And early summer storm hit with surprisingly strong winds, taking down several trees. We were luckier than some: the town just west of us took so much damage that there was debate as to whether or not a tornado was involved. Roofs torn off, power lines down. For a couple days there wasn't any access to the town at all, beyond people who had ID showing they lived there, and official rescue crews. 

Luckily, our damage was limited to those trees, and the baffling and, frankly hilarious, fact that our dumpster was flipped completely onto it's lid, without spilling any of it's contents. We dropped the kids off with my mom for the day, bought a second chainsaw, and got to work.

It takes longer than I thought it would, cutting up a tree. Especially when one of your chainsaw operators is a total novice, and slightly afraid of cutting off her leg. At the end of the day, sweaty, aching, itchy from wood chips that seemed to find their way into my clothing no matter what I did, I was struck by the fact that this was easier than the method used in generations past. Even so, it was fun. Hard work, side by side, bonds humans faster than anything else I've ever seen. The US military depends on that fact, as do many other occupations. Sharing that with my husband, aware every moment that the work we did now would heat our house come winter, was deeply satisfying. The fact that he told me I looked hot in workboots and a faceguard was just the icing on the cake. 

Tonight, as the sun went down, the stillness out here has deepened. The fruits of this summer's labor, the dry, split wood that grew right here on our land, is fueling the woodstove tonight. Henry, our silly, crazy dog, is curled up in front of it. Likely, he'd prefer be asleep, but small children are insisting that he be part of their games. Astrid's doll is riding him like a horse, and Sam's dinosaur keeps roaring right in his face. Henry is a tolerant soul. 

The snow is due to start late tonight. Tomorrow morning, no doubt, Bryn will be refreshing the "Closeline" on the local news site, praying to see "HBC HIGH SCHOOL-CLOSED". Hopefully I will remember the detailed instructions BJ gave me, and will have the driveway cleared by the time he comes home from the night shift. Astrid and Sam will insist on watching Frozen more times than my brain can tolerate, but I bet I can distract them with the start of our holiday baking. They will conduct an experiment to see how many sprinkles a toddler and preschooler can eat before pushing themselves into a diabetic coma. It will be a quiet day. Nowhere to go. Nothing urgent to be done. A view that resembles the inside of a snowglobe on a curio shelf. But for now, we are just...waiting. 

Godspeed

I haven't posted in far too long. I didn't intend to have such a lag. I intended to write a post about Team RWB, an amazing veterans organization I volunteer with, and the incredible yoga camp they sent me to. I intended to post about the craziness of Sam and Astrid, the snarky humor of Bryn, the continued blossoming of Ian. I planned to write about the big storm that came through last month, the trees it took down, and the day BJ and spent with chainsaws, cleaning up the mess. 

As the days stretched out, I knew an apology would be in order. An acknowledgment to everyone who asked me when I was going to post again. I'd planned to beg your forgiveness with humor and stories of summer fun, offered up as excuse and explanation. 

I did not intend to be writing this post, at nearly 2am, from an army bunk, typed out on the tiny screen of my phone. 

I am doing what national guardsmen universally call "summer camp". Sometimes it's a miserable experience, and the comparison to a childhood adventure is darkly humorous. Sometimes it really *does* feel like summer camp: fun roommates, card games, laughing until tears roll down your aching cheeks, your sides cramp, and your heartrate monitor records the whole thing as exercise. 

This year has been one of the good ones. The training has been interesting, the company riotously funny, and even the food has been outstanding. But this afternoon, a message landed in my inbox which seemed ominous from the start: a dear old army buddy, saying "I need you to call me ASAP". 

For far too many of us, those messages have come to mean one thing: a "battle buddy" has taken his own life. 

It's been in the news a lot lately: those "22 veterans a day". As near as I can tell, most people think of it as the cost of doing business; a damned shame, but nothing we can really do about it. They put it out of their minds, and go on about their day. But the nature of the military means that for every one of those 22, dozens, if not hundreds, of other veterans are dealt the sucker punch of knowing that someone they led, someone they followed, someone they shared those best and worst days with, a bearer of shared summer camp stories (the flooded tent, the pile-up in Wyoming, the rented jeep in the mountains of Utah, the misprinted Uno deck that we made do with), is gone forever. He isn't the first. We hope against hope he's the last. 

I am so fortunate. One word from me, and my unit members showed me the meaning of "closing ranks around" someone. I called out a request for support, and saw it answered from every direction. I want all of them to have the same. 

I've said it before. I will say it again: if you are struggling, reach out. I am here, and I promise, I'm not the only one. Help will come to you, if you ask. Call me, call another friend, call the Veterans Crisis Line, at 1-800-273-8255. Just call SOMEONE. 

Old friend, I miss you. It hurts like hell tonight. My thoughts are with your family. Tomorrow (or, rather, later on today) I will stand in front of a group of soldiers, and try to teach them skills to make them more resilient. It's a course I love to teach. This one will be in your honor. Godspeed. 

Heirlooms

On my bookshelf, I have my grandfather's and great-grandfather's flags. Framed in wood and glass, these are the flags that draped the caskets of the Navy electrician, and the Army Cavalry Veterinarian. Someday, no doubt, mine and my husband's will join them, on the shelf of one of our children.

In my bedroom, there is a jewelry box, given to us for our daughters. In it is the jewelry that belonged to BJ's late grandmother. She lived through troubled times, but found great joy in her visits with Bryn. My sweet girl, with her caring heart and gentle smile, who always vanished into the quiet of Farmor's room for the majority of every visit. She passed away when I was pregnant with Astrid, although she did know we were expecting, and I think she would have loved Astrid just as she loved Sam.

In January of 2010, BJ took a knee in front of me (and our whole National Guard Unit), and placed on my hand the ring that belonged to his great-grandmother. His mother had showed it to him, surprisingly early in our relationship, telling him that she had saved it for him, when the time was right. Evidently, everyone but me knew which way the wind was blowing. I love it so much that I opted not to add a band. It sits on my left hand, a symbol not only of the love of my husband, but of the love and acceptance of his mother. It had been left to her by her grandmother, who she loved dearly.

These are the objects we carry from our family. The little things that tie us to our history.

When I was five, my godmother sat me down with a tea towel, a hoop, and an iron-on embroidery transfer of a spotted puppy with a ball. I poked my fingers with the needle more times than I could count, and, even in my distant, foggy memories, it was mess, stitches going every which-way. I don't think I ever finished it, and I have no idea what became of that little towel. But I can still remember her voice as she explained how to do a satin stitch, a back stitch, a lazy-daisy.

Thirty years on, my stitches are neater now. My mother loves to marvel at how small they are, how straight. Over the years, I've accumulated quite a collection. Tea towels, pillow cases, baby quilts, bibs, wall hangings. It's difficult for me to look at a plain pillowcase without thinking about what I could stitch onto it. Every member of my family has at least one set that I've made for them. When BJ deployed to Iraq, I made him monogramed handkerchiefs to take with him. A silly, impractical gift that somehow seemed right for a civilized man in an uncivilized pursuit.

To earn my cooking badge in Girl Scouts, my mother helped me bake an apple pie the year I turned seven. I remember cutting the shortening into the flour, rolling out the dough. I remember licking cinnamon and sugar off of one of the apple slices, then sneaking it back in the pie when her back was turned. I remember the painful wait until it had cooled enough that we could eat it, and the pride I felt that I had cooked something yummy. That remains one of my greatest joys. While my specialty is now bread, I enjoy any chance I have to bake a pie, and I clearly picture the pattern of the countertop at our little rental house every time I work the rolling pin across the dough. And, just like my mom, I take the scraps of pie crust dough, bake them, slather them with butter, cinnamon, and sugar, and dole them out to my eager, dancing children.

When I was ten, my grandmother taught me to quilt. Not piecing, not yet. She gave me a small square of fabric, printed with a quilt-like pattern, and taught me to stitch at the joining of the different patterns. It wasn't hard, with five years of embroidery under my belt. I liked it, but, again, I don't think I ever finished that little project. Two years ago, though, I took the things I remembered from that long-ago lesson, added some tips from the internet, and taught myself to piece a quilt, as a baby gift for a friend.

In Jr. High, I worked in an antique store owned by some family friends. Let me tell you; being a 7th grader with a passionate interest in depression-era glassware tends to make one stand out amongst ones peers. My nerdy little heart rejoiced at carnival glass, milk glass, and the pale, translucent colors of Depression glass.

The family who owned the shop had a small farm not far from my house. Beyond the obvious allure of the herd of ponies that ran, nearly wild, in their pasture, and the windmill water-pump that I found endlessly fascinating, it was also my first experience with chickens. I was afraid of them, at first, but it didn't take long for me to discover the joy that is pulling fresh eggs out of a nest for breakfast. It felt like a treasure hunt, one that, with their large flock, was always wildly successful. It left such a lasting impression on me that, at one point, a psychologist asked me, the "shell-shocked" veteran sitting before them, what I really wanted from my life. "I want chickens!" I declared, through tears. To me, they meant simplicity. Peace. A life lived according to the calm routine of a walk to the chicken coop with food and water, and back to the house with eggs.

This is the knowledge. The information and the passions we take with us, and, hopefully, pass along again.

At my in-laws home, there is a wall of photographs of little blonde boys, starting with my father-in-law, running down through my husband and my two brothers-in-law, landing on my son and his cousin, who resemble each other so strongly that one would be forgiven for thinking them brothers. Several months ago, when she dressed up for "90's day" at school, I walked into the kitchen and actually jumped in shock, so strongly did Bryn resemble my sister at her age. When I look at Ian, I can see the features of the boy I was crazy about my sophomore year of high school...but also, around the eyes, something that reminds me of my father. Astrid Elizabeth, her middle name chosen to honor my mother-in-law, was well named, and seeing a one-year-old mimic the facial expressions of a seasoned critical care nurse makes me laugh. Every day I find myself standing, sitting, or speaking in a way that echoes my mother nearly perfectly...not to mention our bizarre, slightly annoying habit of showing up at a gathering or event wearing the same clothes.


These are our true heirlooms. Always. No matter what, they are always with us. Ten generations down the line, someone will have my dimples. My husband's eyes. Bryn's freckles. Sam's blue-green eyes. Astrid's reddish hair. This is how we leave our mark on the world. This is immortality.

Musing from a sleep-deprived housewife

I am a "stay-at-home-mom". Or a "housewife". I'm fine with either, so you can take your pick.  At any rate, aside from my commitment to the National Guard, I do not work "outside the home".

It's an interesting endeavor, in this society that has such...contradictory views on such things. On the one hand, it's lifted up as the best possible thing for a family. Everything from juvenile delinquency to childhood obesity has been blamed on single parents, or working parents. Motherhood, in particular, is spoken of as the "hardest job in the world". Mothers who stay home with their children are seen as angels, sacrificing themselves for the well-being of their offspring...exactly as they should, it is implied, or even stated outright.

At the same time, everyone seems to think you are somehow getting away with something. We are "wasting our education". "Not using" our potential. "How did you talk your husband into that?" "Why does he let you do that?" We are dismissed as having nothing interesting to say. No particular skills. "Mommy bloggers". We are either lazy harpies who force our husbands to work their fingers to the bone while we play on facebook and spend his money, or we are tragically vulnerable, trapped in our marriage with no way to support ourselves if that cad we married decides to run off with that little tramp from accounting. We force all of society to put up with our little demon-spawn, who insist on acting like, gasp, children, no matter where they are!

The fact is, for us, it made the most sense. Prior to Sam's birth, I was working full time. BJ was finishing up nursing school, in a program that was, for the most part, online. It worked great: most of the time, he was home. It fell to him to manage all the household stuff, while I was at work. The amount of stress it took off the family was amazing. I didn't have to miss a day of work every time one of the kids was sick. Doctor's appointments could be scheduled without arranging an exchange of hours with a coworker. The house stayed clean, and dinner was made, and on the weekends we could all relax and do something fun together, because we weren't trying to cram 1,000 overdue house cleaning projects into a single weekend. We knew things would change when BJ graduated and started working, but figured we would make it work.

As Sam's arrival loomed, we discovered the other hang up: daycare. The more affordable options either had very limited hours, meaning they wouldn't work for us (my shift started at 6 am), or they were crowded, with overwhelmed staff. The places we saw that seemed able to provide the kind of  high-quality care we were looking for were expensive. We sat down and crunched the numbers, and came up with a rather surprising result: if we enrolled the baby, at age 6 weeks, in the daycare center we liked best, my take-home pay, less child-care costs, would be about $30 a month. Clearly, this wasn't worth it. Add to that the difficulty and inconvenience of using bottles and trying to pump during the work day, and it was clear: it made a lot more sense for me to stay home.

The realities of that decision were...not what I expected. It's hard. Harder than I thought it was going to be. I would not, however, call it the "hardest job in the world". Let me be perfectly clear on this: the worst day with my kids, involving tantrums, vomit, endless diaper changes, no sleep, no food...a perfect storm of awfulness...is still better than the best day in Iraq. But it's not easy.

Much of what you do as a stay at home parent is totally invisible. The sort of thing that no one notices...unless it's not done. If you come to my house and it looks like a tornado came through, please know that if I had not been running around all morning, it would look worse. Or maybe the dishes are piled in the sink, but all the laundry is washed, folded, and put away. If I make a big, delicious meal from scratch, you would notice...but on the days when I shove a microwaved hotdog at the toddler while eating a bowl of cereal, you might think I've just given up. What you don't realize is that we ran three hours worth of errands, got all the bathrooms cleaned, and got the kids some socialization at a park meet-up.

I have found that I tend get irrationally wound up about small things. It might seem silly to you, but when the house and the kids are all I do all day, these small things are really important. At a job, you get constant feedback. You have a quarterly or yearly review. Your manager tells you that sales are up. A customer review tells you that you resolved their issue, or points out an area that you need to improve. I don't get any of that; it's more or less up to me to review myself. This is bad. I have a habit of setting an impossibly high standard for myself, and then beating myself up when I (predictably) can't reach it. I'm luckier than most in this area; BJ understands how hard it is to balance everything, and he's very good about letting me know that the house looks great, or thanking me for doing laundry. But if someone comes over at noon and says "Oh, everyone is still in pajamas?"...I'm going to dwell on that for weeks, I promise you. I've sat at the toy shelf, sorting toys into the proper bins, muttering to myself "THIS bin is for animals and THAT bin is for dinosaurs! Why is the T.Rex in with giraffe?! Doesn't anyone CARE that it's WRONG?!"

No, Darcy. No one cares. You should not care. Let it go (let it go! Can't hold it back any...damn it Frozen, get out of my head!)

And it never ends. That is, without a doubt, the hardest part about it. It. Never. Ends. There is no downtime, no break. When the kids have fallen asleep, and I sit down to unwind and watch a little netflix, I'm still looking around, thinking about the fact that I really should be dusting. The garden needs attention tomorrow. I need to clean the catbox. The laundry room is a mess. I will never get to the point where there is nothing left to do; I just get to the point where I give up, for a little while.

When I go to sleep, I know that I will be woken up by one or more children. I haven't slept through the night in about four years. Even when I'm away for drill, I get up at night to pump: Astrid nurses too much at night for me to sleep that long without getting uncomfortable.

Speaking of being away...that isn't really any less stressful. It's not that I don't trust BJ, or my mom, or his mom. It's just...that anxiety thing that I talked about it my last post. I worry. So I think about what is going on at home. What did I forget to tell Grandma? What if Sam takes off down the road, like he did last week, frightening 10 years off my life? What if someone gets sick? If Ian is babysitting, bless his heart, I know it's going to take me three days to get to house clean again (not that I don't appreciate it, Ian! I do! It's ok! You're just...a teenaged boy, so...yeah)

There are days that are perfect. Fun with the kids. A clean house. Giggles at bathtime. Bedtime cuddles. The almost painful sweetness of watching one of my children express love and caring towards one of the others.

There are days that are a damned nightmare. Crying, screaming, tantrums, fights. The house is a disaster. I burn dinner. I lose my temper and yell at the kids, only to have the worst-behaved one of the bunch suddenly puke and spike a fever, which explains the attitude and makes me feel like the biggest asshole on earth.

I love being home with them. I love that I don't miss all the new, fun, amazing things they do. I love that we have been able to address Sam's language delay aggressively, with twice-per-week speech therapy and occupational therapy appointments for over a year, something that would have been hard to do without one of us at home. I love that I get to spend most of my time here on our beautiful acreage, gardening with the kids, playing on the swing, and enjoying our place.

I do NOT love the fact that I sometimes end up feeling really isolated. That the majority of my social interaction has to take place online. That, despite the fact that he never does or says anything to make me feel this way, feelings of guilt prevent me from relaxing when I leave BJ with the kids for a few hours (I'm working on this one). I don't enjoy the implication that I'm taking advantage of my husband, or he's taking advantage of me, with this life that we are both invested and supported in. I don't feel comfortable with the elevation of motherhood to the level of sainthood, but I loathe idea that I'm somehow wasting my time and talent.

Basically, I'm not here because I'm spoiled and pampered. I'm not here because my special snowflakes deserve the very best, and only I am perfect enough to provide it (in my deepest anxiety-driven breakdowns, I've melodramatically declared that they would be better off if I left them on any doorstep in town). I'm not trying to make a feminist statement, nor am I betraying the cause and declaring myself the helpmeet of my husband. I'm just...living my life, doing the best I can. Working with the love of my life and trying to make everything work. There are some things about the work/life views in this society that I think are deeply, horribly flawed, but, until they change, I have to try to work within the framework that exists. Maybe I talk about my kids too much, and maybe I am just a "mommy blogger", but we tend to talk and write about what we know, and, without a doubt, these kids are the biggest thing going on in my life right now. They aren't the only things, and I do try to talk about my writing, my garden, my hens, art, music, and books. But, just like they have a tendency to creep into my lap, displacing the laptop, notebook, pencil, and coffee mug, so too do they creep into my conversations and my blog.

The house isn't perfect. Neither am I. But, you aren't unwelcome here. In fact, I need your company more than ever. Come on in. Shift that pile of laundry over. Go ahead, it's just towels. Have a seat on the couch. I'll get you a cup of coffee. Be careful...I found a plastic lion in mine this morning. Stuff like that tends to happen around here. It's a bit chaotic and messy, but it's fun, and happy, and, if you are brave enough to visit, we will welcome you with open (and slightly sticky) arms!

Postpartum Anxiety

It's impossible, this soon after Astrid's first birthday, not to look back over the last year, and think about where I was at this time last year. Obviously, I was totally in love with my new baby. I was living in my dream house. I was adoring, and being adored by, my husband. And I was suffering from an overwhelming, debilitating, terrifying case of anxiety. 

Thank you, hormones. I really didn't need your help. I was born a worrier, into a family that is absolutely seething is anxiety. The PTSD that I struggled with after Iraq certainly pushed me a little more firmly in that direction. The usual newborn-stage exhaustion can make any mom a little anxious. But the postpartum hormone dive was what really put the nail in the coffin. This was no mere "worrywart" stuff. This was treading the ragged edge of panic. 

Every night, I dreamed of Sam dying. Usually because of something I did, or failed to do. I left the door unlocked, and he got outside. I slept through some crisis, and didn't save him. I wrecked the car. I didn't buckle his car seat properly. I dropped him. All day long, I dealt with periodic surges of adrenalin; moments where a concern would pop into my head, and I couldn't relax until it had been addressed. The baby had been sleeping for thirty minutes...or was she sleeping? Was she awake, her brain starving for stimulation? Had she stopped breathing? Maybe she had stopped breathing. I'd better check. It looks like she's breathing. But maybe she's unresponsive. Better poke at her. Ok, she's fine...she's also awake, and furious. But she's ok. Wait, what has Sam been doing this whole time I've been with the baby? What if he got into the cleaning products and poisoned himself? Did you leave dishwater in the sink? He could drown in that, if he climbed up on the counters. The counters are granite. If he hit his head on those, he could cause serious damage. Your son could be lying on the floor with a subdural hematoma, and you've been standing up here watching the baby sleep! What kind of mother are you?! There are so many things that could happen, and you will never be able to protect all these kids from all those things. You are going to lose one of them, and it will be all your fault. 

Written out like that, it seems pretty obvious that something was wrong. But, at the same time...I was happy. Incredibly so. I had, literally, gotten everything I'd wanted, everything I'd dreamed of, and more! My kids were beautiful. My husband was wonderful. My home was perfect. I wasn't depressed. My hospital paperwork asked about depression; warned to watch for it. But I wasn't sad. I didn't feel hopeless. I didn't feel suicidal. I just felt...scared. Most of the time. I knew how to handle being scared. You just push through it. 

It all came to head when Astrid was a week old. BJ needed to go into Sioux Falls, and he asked me if I wanted to go with him. The question paralyzed me. If he went, and I stayed home with the kids, something could happen to him on the way. Or, something could happen to us out here, and I wouldn't have him here to help me. But, if I go with him, we could all get in a car accident. If that happened, he and I could both be killed, and the kids could be orphaned. Or the kids could be killed. And then what? He would blame me. He would leave. I would lose my whole family all because I was silly enough to load us all up in the car and put us all at risk just because I haven't been out of the house in a week...

BJ gave me a look. "Whats going on in your head right now?" he asked. 

I broke down. I told him how I was feeling. The weird, paranoid path my thoughts led me down. The panic that was constantly pushing at me, surrounding me. The energy I was putting forth to force it back. 

He did what he always does in difficult circumstances: he took charge. "Here is what you are going to do: we are all going to town. Everything will be fine, and I will be there to help you. But first, right now, you are going to call your midwife, and you are going to tell her exactly what is going on, ok? Because this isn't supposed to be how it is for you." 

My midwife, of course, had heard all this before, and knew what to do. Unlike me, her office knew that postpartum anxiety is something that happens, alone, or in connection with the more commonly talked about PPD. They called in a prescription for me, that very day. Prozac, a low dose. Safer for Astrid, by far, they assured me, than a mother who was being driven crazy with worry. It could take about 6 weeks to kick in, but, in the mean time, keep talking, and do whatever you can to relax.  I hated the idea of "drugging myself" so that I could parent, but I clearly needed some help. It felt like failure, but I filled the prescription, and took the pills. 

It didn't take six weeks. One morning, about three weeks after starting the medication, I woke up and felt...better. Calm. Relaxed. Comfortable. Astonishingly, the medication didn't just lift the panic that had set in after Astrid's birth; it took away the feelings of anxiety that I'd been dealing with for so many years, I didn't even recognize them until they were gone. It felt like taking off a heavy backpack that I'd worn for so long I didn't even remember what it felt like not to have it weighing me down. Not only that, but focus and organization, things I'd always struggled with, suddenly seemed easier to me. The house stayed cleaner. I didn't lose things as often. I slept better. I enjoyed life more. I never noticed a single negative side effect. 

The plan was for me to take the medication until the following spring. My midwife said she'd had better luck taking people off meds when its getting warmer and it's not so grey and bitterly cold. Small wonder, that; Minnesota winters can be enough to push anyone to edge of their sanity. When the time came, however, I asked if it was necessary. Did I have to go off the medicine? The short answer? No. 

I have often talked to women, friends in real life, or online, who are in the same position I was in. And I hear them say what I thought: That going on an antidepressant was a failure. That it somehow proved that they weren't good enough, strong enough, smart enough, loving enough, whatever enough. And I tell them: it was a miracle for me. It was the difference between enjoying this first year of Astrid's life, and letting it pass in a blur of panic and fear. Being an even more sensitive and empathic child than average, that would have had a major impact on Astrid as well. 

It's not all gone. I know that. I'm still, by nature, a worrier. Rather than raising my dosage, I find that running and yoga tend to keep that tendency under control. So, too, does journaling and talking about my worries. I have, on a couple of occasions, had to fight off that feeling of panic, but not all day, every day. Most recently, when Bryn babysat while BJ and I ran to the store, I called her on the way home, just to check in. When she didn't answer, my mind started racing through all the different terrible things that could have happened. I let BJ know. His calm manner is one of the things I love most about him. He was understanding, level headed, supportive, and reassuring. No wonder this guy is such a good nurse. And, in the end, he was right; the kids were happily watching television and eating crackers, and just didn't hear the phone ring. 

I have enjoyed this past year. With all it's ups and downs, it's challenges, and it's notable lack of nights-slept-through. The fact that I can say that, is a gift. A gift given to me by medical science. I was a fool to have ever thought of it as failure. Don't deprive yourself of a chance to enjoy your life. If you think you are dealing with postpartum anxiety or depression, or, honestly, any kind of anxiety or depression, talk to your doctor and do something about it. You have nothing to lose, and so very much to gain. 

The littlest and last

One year ago today, exactly one day after her "due date", Astrid Elizabeth arrived in a big hurry. So big a hurry, in fact, that she bruised her face. Her first days were spent bearing a remarkable resemblance to a damaged peach, with a sign on her hospital bassinet advising the nurses that she was purple due to bruising, so they need not begin CPR every time they walked past her. She was beautiful beyond measure, of course...but I will admit that the pictures get better after the first few days, when she starts looking more peachy-pink, rather than bluish-purple. 

Astrid is my last. We knew that from the very beginning, but it was driven home by the difficulty of the pregnancy. At 13 weeks, we thought we were going to lose her when I started bleeding heavily in the middle of the night. The hip pain I'd had during the last weeks prior to Sam's birth started early in the second trimester. By the time we were trying to settle in to our new house, in February, it was hard for me to walk far enough to complete the weekly grocery shopping, much less help BJ with the rigors of moving. And, as with all my pregnancies, I had the constant, unrelenting nausea of hyperemesis, the pregnancy disorder that people overwhelmingly dismiss as attention seeking. (Here is a tip: if you are throwing up a lot and thinking "Oh god, I'm afraid I'm going to die", you have severe morning sickness. If you are throwing up all the time and thinking "Oh god, I'm afraid I'm not going to die, and it's just going to keep on like this forever", you probably have hyperemesis)

So, any doubts about this being our last were put to rest. And, honestly, there weren't many doubts. After Sam was born, we knew we wanted one more. When Astrid arrived, putting us at a neat and orderly four children, two girls, two boys, arranged boy-girl-boy-girl...it felt finished. 

I've never been one who got sentimental and wistful about my babies milestones. I have friends who talk about crying when they packed up the crib, and while I offer hugs and support, I secretly wonder if there is something wrong with me, since I don't feel that at all. I just always felt excitement for the next stage. Those early questions, where everything in the world requires and explanation. The fun of seeing them off to school, when their understanding about the world explodes. Those pre-teen years when they learn to counter my tendency to sarcasm with their own. The teen years, when I can introduce them to politics and activism and we can talk about controversial subjects. I love the first time we discuss some major world situation (war, poverty, the war on drugs), and they make a point to disagree with my opinion, articulating their own position with passion and thought. I've never wanted parrots; by all means, lets debate! 

It's a bit different today. My last baby...isn't a baby. She is absolutely a toddler. Her birth set the stage; she's still in a hurry, her first steps coming at almost exactly 9 months old. She is quite focused on talking right now, which is, I think, pushing my late-talking Sam to step up his game a bit. And, while I don't regret anything, I kind of wish she'd slow down just a little bit. 

There will be other babies in my life. I will have nieces and/or nephews. Many of my friends are younger than me, or, at least, in an earlier stage of family-building, and I will enjoy their children to the fullest. No doubt, at some point I will go back to working as a doula, where I will once again have the privilege of seeing tiny humans take their first breath of the world. We've even talked of someday doing foster care, inspired in large part by the tender heart of my ER-nurse husband, who wants to bring home every abused child he's ever treated. But the era of my own tiny babies has ended. 

Someday soon, there will be no one getting up in the night. Eventually, she won't want to nurse anymore. The baby bottles are already giving way to sippy cups. Nothing is being pureed anymore, unless I'm making soup. I can't say I'm going to miss diaper changes, when those finally go, but I will miss the way she falls asleep on me, turning into a limp, heavy, boneless little critter that I call "jelly baby". It will be fun to put her hair in pigtails, but I will miss the wispy, silky baby-hairs at the nape of her neck. I look forward to talking to her, but I will miss the wordless baby-babble songs she sings when she wakes up happy. And, while she may not seem any different today than she did yesterday, it feels different to me.  My littlest, my last, is a year old today. 

Open letter to the entertainment industry

I can feel Hollywood executives rolling their eyes already.

"What is it this time?" they ask. "What are we being blamed for now? The unrest in Baltimore? School shootings?  Homosexuality, teen pregnancy, the rising cost of kale? What?!"

You are being blamed for my undoubtedly-very-expensive-8pm-on-a-Sunday-house-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-emergency-plumbers-visit. I don't have numbers, because I haven't gotten the bill yet. I'll forward the damn thing to Pixar when it arrives.

Why is it their fault? Finding Nemo, A Turtle's Tale 2, Flushed Away. Movies aimed at children, wherein some creature is flushed down the toilet to safety. Admittedly, they are cute stories. Top notch. Big name actors, big money in the theaters, very popular on DVD and Netflix.

But seriously, guys. Have you ever even met a kid?

Here's how the whole thing came about:

Plumbing problems have suddenly become a really big deal in my life. The initial issues cannot, I'm perfectly willing to admit, be blamed on Hollywood. The problems that led me to be on a first name basis with a plumber, the kind of relationship, in fact, where they answer my phone calls with "Hello, Darcy"...those issues can be laid at the feet of the house-flippers who remodeled my home.

One night, several weeks ago, I discovered sewage backing up into the shower in the kid's bathroom. When BJ got home from work, he snaked the drain, things started running again, and we thought we were good to go. However, the next day, when I drained the bathtub, Bryn ran out of her room, screaming that there was water coming in. When we tore down the ceiling, BJ noticed a few things that didn't look right. We called a plumber, who told us it was likely an easy fix, and stopped over.

I knew, by the look on his face, that it was NOT an easy fix. He looked like he would have rather been anyplace else in the world when he told us that the plumbing was an absolute disaster: wrong types of pipes, wrong (or non-existent) venting, held together with caulk rather than plumbers putty. His advice? Pull it all out, and start over.

So we did. The poor teenager lost all her privacy, moved onto the couch, and had all her belongings stashed in the basement, for lack of a better option. Ceilings were pulled out, holes were hacked in drywall, new pipes were installed. Contractors were called...and called....and called. Plans were made to repair ceilings and walls, paint was purchased, carpet picked out. We thought the worst was over. I heaved a sigh of relief, certain that things would start getting back to normal, and my plumbing trauma was over.

I was wrong. Once again, we started draining the bathtub, and someone ran out screaming. This time, it was BJ, running up from the basement. This time, water wasn't coming from the ceiling, but from the floor. Panicked calls were made to the long-suffering plumber, who hitched up the trailer and started for our house. I tried to resist the urge to yell at small children who were attempting to go on about their toddler-business while we attempted to manage yet another crisis.

When the plumber arrived, he and BJ vanished into the basement with some sort of equipment that took both of them to wrestle down the stairs. I heard clangs, cursing, and, suddenly....laughter. BJ came upstairs with a bright yellow, plastic fish.

I recognized the damned thing: I'd pulled it out of the toilet several days prior. At the time, I thought it was rather funny. Sam had just watched A Turtle's Tale 2, which featured fish that wanted to be flushed down the drain to the ocean. Shortly afterwards, I had found the toy in the toilet bowl. Since he had just dropped it there and hadn't made any attempt to flush it, I just laughed, pulled it out, cleaned it, and told Sam not to put toys in the toilet. Unfortunately for me, that had not ended it. Sam had, evidently, decided to take it one step further, freeing his beloved fish forever.

Explaining to a three-year-old the workings of modern septic systems in a land-locked state is an exercise in futility. Especially when his new favorite movie has made it completely clear: "All drains lead to the ocean, kid!"

So, Hollywood. Disney. Pixar. All of you. A plea from the heart of a mother: NO MORE FLUSHED FISH, OKAY?!?