Who has not heard that desperate times call for desperate measures? When one hears this saying they may think of dire circumstances. Or Desperate Housewives, the TV show I suppose. I'm learning that this saying is taking on a meaning in my own life.
What times are so desperate that I'm calling for desperate measures? The economic downturn has not affected us personally - thank you, God! I am feeling desperate when it comes to my son's sleeping and nutrition. OK, so the desperation regarding his sleeping isn't born so much out of my concern that his taking up to an hour and a half to fall asleep for naps or at nighttime is detrimental to his overall well being but out of a deep seated need for some alone time. Either time to do a puzzle or two while lounging in my bed or time to take a nap. Either way, it is restful and much needed, especially since I am great with child.
The real problem that is causing this feeling of desperation in me is related to his nutrition. Gavin isn't a small boy, he weighs 30 pounds which would put him in the 75th percentile for a 2 year old - he still has 2 months to go until he's 2. My boy is not wasting away, his cheeks are nice and chubby and super kissable. His eyes glisten, he runs around, he plays, he yells, he talks, he is even learning some letters from the fridge magnet set. But I still can't help but be concerned about what he is, or rather, is not eating.
Tops on his list to eat are yogurt (doke), milk (mick), juice (deuce), applesauce (bopple), peaches & nectarines (also, bopple), berries (of the blue, black and straw varieties - all called boo or bayee), cottage cheese (cheece). See any glaring omissions there? Say, vegetables? Non-dairy protein? He was eating a lot of peanut butter on whole wheat toast and apples with peanut butter but now peanut butter is off the list. He used to love black beans and rice with salsa. Now he will eat a few bites of rice but only if it has teriyaki sauce on it. Meat is off the list. He'll eat a piece of meat if it has enough of a sweet or tangy marinade but as soon as he chews all of the sauce off the meat gets spit out. Ryan and I don't really care if he's a big meat eater or not - heck it saves us money - we don't have to buy the hormone free, free range, raised by sweet fairies on the prairie meats. I've taken to adding ground flax seed to his yogurt and applesauce. With protein taken care of I need to turn my attention to vegetables.
In my desperation to get vegetables down his gullet I checked out Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook, Deceptively Delicious, from the library. He loved the pancakes with pureed beats especially with peanut butter and blackberries on top (yes, Ryan, you ate beats last week when I made pancakes for dinner), blueberry muffins with squash, banana bread with cauliflower but didn't like the turkey with pureed carrots and bell peppers. I tried the mozzarella sticks with cauliflower but they didn't exactly turn out - they melted into a pile of cheesy goo in the pan - AND the cauliflower was overpowering. Even I didn't like it and I like cauliflower.
Today I made him a grilled cheese sandwich with carrots - not a recipe from her cookbook but one from my own little noggin. I was in a hurry so I quickly chopped some baby carrots and nuked them for about a minute then threw them in the Magic Bullet (mini food processor that I'm really growing fond of now that I don't expect it to work like it does in the infomercials) then spread the carrots on top of the cheese. Gavin ate half of his sandwich - chock full of carrots! I felt victorious!
It was hard to not cackle an evil, evil laugh as he ate his dreaded enemy the vegetable. Even if the rest of the day is a total waste and I fail in many other areas as a mother I at least got some veggies into my son!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Great Day
Today was the second day I hired a babysitter to watch Gavin so I could clean the house. Two weeks ago I hired a sitter so I could clean mine and Ryan's room, although when Ryan got home he noticed my side of the room was spotless and his side was still disheveled. Eh, his stuff was mostly clothes. I added stuff to his dresser - stuff that was clearly his that somehow made its way to my dresser.
On today's to do list was the upstairs so I vacuumed the copious amounts of cat fur downstairs and hauled a boat load of toys down so the sitter and Gavin would have something to do. The upstairs is SO clean! The only thing I didn't dust were the light fixtures in the living room and that was because I realized I neglected them after I dusted the ceiling, crown molding, walls, door frames, mantle, window seats, outlets and baseboards and couldn't risk taking the fixtures apart and spreading dust on the newly clean surfaces. Yeah, I did it all. I even took the area rug outside to air out. I swept, vacuumed and mopped. Why sweep and vacuum? Because sweeping never picks up all of the little specks of dirt and dust. That and because I'm probably a little neurotic.
It feels so great to know that every surface has been cleaned. The kitchen is clean. The living room is clean and the dining room is now a disaster. Everything that needs some attention (lots of paperwork and stuff that needs to be boxed, given away, thrown away, etc.) is now on the dining room table.
That was part one of the great day.
Part two was nap time. Gavin fussed for maybe five minutes before crashing... for THREE hours! Holy cow! I put my pajamas on and hopped into bed and chatted with Ryan while he took a rest after working outside on staining the new cedar siding. Then I solved some puzzles, took a mini snooze and did some more puzzles.
Gavin woke up and Ryan arrived home bearing food from Chipotle. I ate dinner, fed Gavin, played with the dog, picked blackberries and got a call from a friend whom I haven't seen in over 2 months who invited me over.
Here is something newsworthy: I left the house after 8 pm to go visit this friend. I arrived at her house bearing ice cream and blackberries and she provided some yummy fresh baked brownies. She cuts her brownies pretty generously, too. Mmm mmm good.
We chatted for 3 hours and played Phase 10, which I had fun playing but still lost.
I came home, straightened up the living room and kitchen because it is scary how quickly the house moves back to disarray (its natural state) and now here I am telling you all about my super duper day. I never said it was exciting.
On my way home this evening I was thinking about how today was so great and it occurred to me that my definition of what makes a day great has changed since I became a mom but the longer I thought about the more I realized it hasn't.
Even as a kid I remember the times when my older brother would wake me and my younger brother up before my mom and we would clean the house for her as a surprise. Sometimes I wonder how clean the house really was after we were done with it. When I was older and was made to clean my room - which I hated to do but always appreciated it afterwards - I would call my mom and dad up to my room to take in the wonder of its new found clean state. I didn't want to leave; I would lay on my nicely made bed and listen to the radio or read a book or just look around at my sparkly clean room.
The fact that there is such a great difference in how I feel about the dirty room versus the clean room should shed some light on just how messy it gets before I tackle cleaning it. Of course I have the nesting monster to thank right now for my pressing desire for a clean house. It has to be clean before the baby gets here because I know it won't happen afterwards. If anything its going to spiral down, down, down to messy oblivion when #2 arrives.
Its also times like this when I get the cleaning but that I wish I had it all the time. My mom used to say to me that she didn't "get me" because she was so clean yet she had to constantly remind me to pick up after myself. My room was always a disaster and I never took care of my toys. My dad was a tidy person, too. My brothers both are super clean. That leaves me. If I didn't look just like my mom I would wonder if I was adopte because I'm the black sheep of the family when it comes to tidiness. Although, I will say that for being unkempt I am still clean - before cooking I make sure I was the countertops with a clean soapy sponge, I will dust around stuff and vacuum several times a week - everyday if I can manage.
I have high hopes we can maintain this clean. High, high hopes.
On today's to do list was the upstairs so I vacuumed the copious amounts of cat fur downstairs and hauled a boat load of toys down so the sitter and Gavin would have something to do. The upstairs is SO clean! The only thing I didn't dust were the light fixtures in the living room and that was because I realized I neglected them after I dusted the ceiling, crown molding, walls, door frames, mantle, window seats, outlets and baseboards and couldn't risk taking the fixtures apart and spreading dust on the newly clean surfaces. Yeah, I did it all. I even took the area rug outside to air out. I swept, vacuumed and mopped. Why sweep and vacuum? Because sweeping never picks up all of the little specks of dirt and dust. That and because I'm probably a little neurotic.
It feels so great to know that every surface has been cleaned. The kitchen is clean. The living room is clean and the dining room is now a disaster. Everything that needs some attention (lots of paperwork and stuff that needs to be boxed, given away, thrown away, etc.) is now on the dining room table.
That was part one of the great day.
Part two was nap time. Gavin fussed for maybe five minutes before crashing... for THREE hours! Holy cow! I put my pajamas on and hopped into bed and chatted with Ryan while he took a rest after working outside on staining the new cedar siding. Then I solved some puzzles, took a mini snooze and did some more puzzles.
Gavin woke up and Ryan arrived home bearing food from Chipotle. I ate dinner, fed Gavin, played with the dog, picked blackberries and got a call from a friend whom I haven't seen in over 2 months who invited me over.
Here is something newsworthy: I left the house after 8 pm to go visit this friend. I arrived at her house bearing ice cream and blackberries and she provided some yummy fresh baked brownies. She cuts her brownies pretty generously, too. Mmm mmm good.
We chatted for 3 hours and played Phase 10, which I had fun playing but still lost.
I came home, straightened up the living room and kitchen because it is scary how quickly the house moves back to disarray (its natural state) and now here I am telling you all about my super duper day. I never said it was exciting.
On my way home this evening I was thinking about how today was so great and it occurred to me that my definition of what makes a day great has changed since I became a mom but the longer I thought about the more I realized it hasn't.
Even as a kid I remember the times when my older brother would wake me and my younger brother up before my mom and we would clean the house for her as a surprise. Sometimes I wonder how clean the house really was after we were done with it. When I was older and was made to clean my room - which I hated to do but always appreciated it afterwards - I would call my mom and dad up to my room to take in the wonder of its new found clean state. I didn't want to leave; I would lay on my nicely made bed and listen to the radio or read a book or just look around at my sparkly clean room.
The fact that there is such a great difference in how I feel about the dirty room versus the clean room should shed some light on just how messy it gets before I tackle cleaning it. Of course I have the nesting monster to thank right now for my pressing desire for a clean house. It has to be clean before the baby gets here because I know it won't happen afterwards. If anything its going to spiral down, down, down to messy oblivion when #2 arrives.
Its also times like this when I get the cleaning but that I wish I had it all the time. My mom used to say to me that she didn't "get me" because she was so clean yet she had to constantly remind me to pick up after myself. My room was always a disaster and I never took care of my toys. My dad was a tidy person, too. My brothers both are super clean. That leaves me. If I didn't look just like my mom I would wonder if I was adopte because I'm the black sheep of the family when it comes to tidiness. Although, I will say that for being unkempt I am still clean - before cooking I make sure I was the countertops with a clean soapy sponge, I will dust around stuff and vacuum several times a week - everyday if I can manage.
I have high hopes we can maintain this clean. High, high hopes.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sleep
It has been so long since sleep has been an issue in my house. Well, sleep as related Gavin that is. I haven't been sleeping well with this pregnancy but that's been ok because I would take a nap when Gavin takes a nap. His napping schedule was so consistent. Somewhere between noon and 1:00 he would go down for a nap and sleep about 2 hours; some days he would even sleep 3 hours.
Something has been happening over the last several weeks. I don't know what it is but I do know that I don't like it because it is interfering with Gavin's sleep which in turn interferes with my sleep. I'm not a nice person when I'm sleep deprived. Well, that's not entirely true. I can still put on a good show to outsiders but lemme tell ya - I'm not pleasant to be around. Ask Ryan.
Something has been happening over the last several weeks. I don't know what it is but I do know that I don't like it because it is interfering with Gavin's sleep which in turn interferes with my sleep. I'm not a nice person when I'm sleep deprived. Well, that's not entirely true. I can still put on a good show to outsiders but lemme tell ya - I'm not pleasant to be around. Ask Ryan.
I've tried to account for all of the different variables that have the potential to affect ones sleep.
- Heat. Not a factor. We have central a/c so the temperature is pretty constant.
- Light. Being summer it stays light well into the night. Also not a factor as he was sleeping just fine even when his bedroom was well lit from the natural light streaming in through the windows. His sleep has started to deteriorate even as it gets darker earlier and earlier.
- Fatigue. Is the little dude actually tired? Well, yes. He still has his time of delirium when everything is not just hilarious, its freakin' hilarious. This is our favorite time.
- Routine. Has the bedtime routine been followed? Yes.
- Teething. I don't think any teeth are coming in. He's not chewing on stuff (unless you count his attempts to bite me when I muffle his screaming in public places like the library, train or doctors office) and more telling - he's not drooling; nor is he more grumpy than usual.
After this week of him fighting his nap (the shortest period of time he fought was 45 minutes) and taking over an hour to fall asleep at night I'm beginning to think this is just how he's going to fall asleep for a while. I just need to make peace with it. In the beginning of the week he cried more but after realizing we weren't going to take him out of the crib (we would go in and comfort him) or put him right back after giving him a hug he's just taken to jabbering, calling the dog or meowing really, really loud.
At least once he falls asleep for his nap he will sleep for 3 hours. THREE HOURS!!! He's not falling asleep until 10 at night but is waking up at the same time so he makes up for it at nap time. That gives me plenty of time to take a nice nap myself and take a shower.
I hope he's still taking 3 hour naps when his brother arrives.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Trust
I have been writing in my head for several weeks now. When I can't sleep, which is often, my thoughts become even more introspective and I work through them by thinking about them even more and writing essays in my head. I think its time to commit some of my internal ramblings to ink... or typeface.
Part of me doesn't know where to begin with this subject because, while it is easy to pinpoint where it began, it permeates most aspects of my life. It is a subject that lends itself to many tangents.
My problem has grown worse over the years. At first it attacked only at night. It was frequent at first but eventually subsided. Then after certain life events it started knocking on my door again, as unwelcome as ever. At first the visits were few and far between but as time progressed the visits became more frequent and they felt more viscous.
These gruesome visitors of which I write are nightmares. They aren't your run of the mill menaces where you wake up running away from a bad guy or realize, no, you weren't just in public buck naked. I wish. No, these nightmares come and steal my family. My loved ones.
It all started in 1981. The year my dad died. He died a few months before my 5th birthday. He was 27 and had 3 children, 7, 4 1/2 and 18 months. He had a known heart condition for which he had seen a cardiologist. He was told he was going to need a pacemaker by age 40. They were off by 13 years. His heart went into some sort of fibrillation, he went into a coma and died in the early hours of the morning as he was watching the news in the living room.
I could tell you all about that morning. I didn't really know what was going on. The walls in my parents room was pulsating red and I think blue, from the paramedics parked out front. My mom must have taken me and my brothers and put us in her room while the paramedics were in the house. I stood at the head of the bed and peered over the headboard, looking at the still dark outside where the ambulance lit up our street with its lights.
Wanting to know what was going on I opened the bedroom door but mom was standing right there and she very quickly shut it. I lied and told her I had to go to the bathroom - my older brother joined the lie and mom ushered us the few feet from the bedroom to the bathroom, trying to shield us from seeing our dad but I managed to peer around her legs and just saw a figure with a cloth draped over it and really tall people milling about with clipboards.
I had no idea. I didn't cry until I was at my grandma's house. I sat on the couch while all of the adults sat at the dining room table, their tones were low and hushed; the coffee they sipped was hot as I heard some them trying to get just a few drops at a time without burning their lips. The most noise was made when they set their mugs on the table. My grandpa called my dad's mom and told her the news. It was a small house and the distance wasn't that great from where the phone was mounted on the wall to where I was sitting on the couch but I still heard my grandma scream on the other end of the line. When my mom came home from wherever she was, the coroner's office, maybe, I ran to her and asked, "Did he make it?" She said no - maybe everyone thought I knew or didn't know how to talk to me or they were all in shock themselves. I ran to the couch and cried. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I don't know how long I cried for, it felt like days.
Soon after that the nightmares started.
Of course I had fantasy dreams where my dad was with us on Christmas morning. I would wake up happy for a split second before I realized it was a dream. I would prefer those heart wrenching dreams any day over the nightmares. For a long time it was the same nightmare. My family was in a house that was a huge spool - the kind you would wrap industrial cable around - and it would catch fire and start rolling down a hill. I have no idea how long that nightmare went on for.
Fortunately, we talked about my dad a lot. There was no nonsense about ignoring what had happened and not talking about him to avoid sad feelings. If we wanted to talk about my dad we were given free reign. I think that helped my waking self but it did nothing for the nighttime.
Eventually the nightmares subsided. My nights were filled with peaceful sleep for many years. Then sometime in high school they slowly started again. Sometimes I had pleasant, if not bizarre dreams. I used to keep a journal of my dreams because they were so darn entertaining. One dream I remember vividly involved stealing milk from a fabric store (which was inside my grandparents motor home) and being chased by an animated superman turned into a red streak when he chased a mob of people after an earthquake - and the mob turned around and chased superman. Hilarious stuff.
I wish every night brought such great entertainment. When the nightmares came back they were few and far between but they involved one of my brothers, mom or step dad meeting an untimely end. After the first "showing" of the nightmare my mind would replay it over and over with alternate endings. I think I was trying to take away the bad ending but it would just change, always resulting in death.
The nightmares really ramped up when my older brother had his first daughter and my younger brother moved to Oklahoma. Ike and Joel were always dying - usually together. Then I think my niece was always in danger. I would wake up with my pillow drenched in tears. Even when I was awake I couldn't shake that awful feeling even though I knew everyone was ok. If I went back to sleep too soon the nightmare would continue. So I learned to pray and read my bible a bit before going back to sleep. That usually worked and brought me back from the edge.
As I got older the nightmares became more frequent. I think I woke Ryan up once or twice and asked him to pray for me.
All hell broke loose, or so I thought, when I was pregnant with Gavin. It seemed like most nights there was someone trying to kill me or steal my baby. Then Gavin was born. That's when hell came to visit me during the day. It's one thing to have Satan and his minions knocking at your door when you are unconscious, but to have him grab your heart in the middle of the day is another thing altogether. The daytime terror subsided as Gavin got older and I wasn't so concerned with always making sure he was breathing - which is, as I understand, not all that uncommon for a new parent.
It doesn't take anything now for me to have a nightmare. Hearing a story about a kid being kidnapped on the news. The toddler who woke up from his nap while his mom was also napping and got outside and drowned in the pool. Flipping through the tv channels and seeing a mangled stroller in the road on the news, staying in a high rise hotel with a balcony, visiting my in-laws whose back yard terminates into a canyon (it's fenced now but it doesn't keep my brain from conjuring up ways Gavin can get around the barriers).
The nightmares come in waves. I'll have a horrible couple of nights or weeks. Even worse is when a horrible though pops into my head when Gavin is not with me. I know Ryan is a good dad. He's very concerned about Gavin's safety but that doesn't stop me from freaking out. Ryan knows how devastating these nightmares are so he is very good about not taking offense when I grill him on safety issues. Every so often I check in to make sure he wouldn't leave Gavin in the tub unattended even if it was to go answer his phone, that he cuts grapes in half because they are a choking hazard, that he wouldn't leave him unattended on the balcony (like in the hotel where we stayed in Hawaii). Once I'm certain Gavin is safe and Ryan is acutely aware of the dangers that surround our son I can breath easier.
I know how to stop the nightmares once they start. Wake up, get out of bed, pray (which usually involves me just begging God to make it stop), watching TV, reading... anything to get my mind on something else. Then I can usually fall back asleep with no more attacks. Until the next night, at least.
What I would really like to do is to stop the nightmares from happening in the first place. There's the rub. I have been told to trust God. Well, sure. Trust the God who guarantees nothing other than his faithful, undying love. It's just I know what that pain feels like when a loved one dies. It is all consuming and it crushes you, eviscerates you. I don't ever want to feel that again. If that is how I felt when my dad died.... I can't even write it out.
If something were to happen to my family I know God would love me and see me through but that does nothing to stop the fear and nightmares. I trust God that if our home was taken away, if Ryan lost his job, that we would still have a good life. Food would be there, we would have some sort of shelter.
I'm not concerned about the day to day issues of life. I'm concerned about life. Period.
How can I trust that God will spare my family from death when he didn't spare my dad? It seems unfair and unrealistic to have God shelter me and my family while the rest of the world can fend for itself. I look at the life of the disciples - all of whom, except one, met an early horrible death.
That doesn't sit well with me. I know that God doesn't love anyone person more than another and that all of our good deeds aren't stored up in a cosmic safety bank where He he checks the account and says, "Well, April. You've read your bible and said your prayers and gave money to the poor so I will keep you and your family safe."
Over Lent my pastor was talking about giving up fear instead of chocolate or TV.
How?
I know that fear isn't keeping my family safe unless I think I would be less vigilant if I thought my children be given full, long lives.
I should probably see a shrink about this but how are they going to help me trust God who I know loves me but makes no guarantees. If only God told me to carve into tablets, not the 10 commandments, but the promise that my children will all live long, healthy productive lives all the while serving Him then Iwould have it in writing.
Christians often point to Job as an example of God's faithfulness. Sure, he gave Job lots of stuff and a bigger family but only after he allowed his first family to be wiped out. I don't want a new family - I want to keep the ones I have.
Many, many people balk when I answer "3-4" when they ask me how many kids I want. I hear all of the reasons why one or two is better than 3 or 4. Like I'm a bad person for wanting a big family. Or at least just crazy.
Now that I think about crazy may be one of the factors. I know 3 people who have had children die at a young age. One woman, Anne (was in her 90's when I met her at the adult care facility where I worked) lost her only daughter when she was returning home to visit while in college. Anne kept a framed photo of her beautiful daughter on her nightstand. It always made me so sad knowing Anne lived so long without her child. My high school band teacher lost his only daughter in a car accident on her way home from college - now he has one child, his son. My grandmother had 4 children. Dennis died when he was 2 from pneumonia and my dad died when was 27. Now she has two kids. What if she only had my dad and Dennis to begin with? She would be left with no children.
As I get further and further in this post I feel better and better. There is of course some time put into writing all of this which puts some distance between and the nightmare but I think writing it out also helps. I hope sharing it helps, too. Me and whoever reads it. I'm not putting this out there for people to feel sorry for me but I think we all grow when we can share in another person's anguish. I think Ryan would disagree with that, though. He hates it when I tell him sad stories (not my own - he's a good husband, he listens) because he doesn't like to feel such pain. He's a good guy, he wants everyone to be happy.
Too bad for him he married a melancholy woman who bleeds for everyone else around her.
Part of me doesn't know where to begin with this subject because, while it is easy to pinpoint where it began, it permeates most aspects of my life. It is a subject that lends itself to many tangents.
My problem has grown worse over the years. At first it attacked only at night. It was frequent at first but eventually subsided. Then after certain life events it started knocking on my door again, as unwelcome as ever. At first the visits were few and far between but as time progressed the visits became more frequent and they felt more viscous.
These gruesome visitors of which I write are nightmares. They aren't your run of the mill menaces where you wake up running away from a bad guy or realize, no, you weren't just in public buck naked. I wish. No, these nightmares come and steal my family. My loved ones.
It all started in 1981. The year my dad died. He died a few months before my 5th birthday. He was 27 and had 3 children, 7, 4 1/2 and 18 months. He had a known heart condition for which he had seen a cardiologist. He was told he was going to need a pacemaker by age 40. They were off by 13 years. His heart went into some sort of fibrillation, he went into a coma and died in the early hours of the morning as he was watching the news in the living room.
I could tell you all about that morning. I didn't really know what was going on. The walls in my parents room was pulsating red and I think blue, from the paramedics parked out front. My mom must have taken me and my brothers and put us in her room while the paramedics were in the house. I stood at the head of the bed and peered over the headboard, looking at the still dark outside where the ambulance lit up our street with its lights.
Wanting to know what was going on I opened the bedroom door but mom was standing right there and she very quickly shut it. I lied and told her I had to go to the bathroom - my older brother joined the lie and mom ushered us the few feet from the bedroom to the bathroom, trying to shield us from seeing our dad but I managed to peer around her legs and just saw a figure with a cloth draped over it and really tall people milling about with clipboards.
I had no idea. I didn't cry until I was at my grandma's house. I sat on the couch while all of the adults sat at the dining room table, their tones were low and hushed; the coffee they sipped was hot as I heard some them trying to get just a few drops at a time without burning their lips. The most noise was made when they set their mugs on the table. My grandpa called my dad's mom and told her the news. It was a small house and the distance wasn't that great from where the phone was mounted on the wall to where I was sitting on the couch but I still heard my grandma scream on the other end of the line. When my mom came home from wherever she was, the coroner's office, maybe, I ran to her and asked, "Did he make it?" She said no - maybe everyone thought I knew or didn't know how to talk to me or they were all in shock themselves. I ran to the couch and cried. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I don't know how long I cried for, it felt like days.
Soon after that the nightmares started.
Of course I had fantasy dreams where my dad was with us on Christmas morning. I would wake up happy for a split second before I realized it was a dream. I would prefer those heart wrenching dreams any day over the nightmares. For a long time it was the same nightmare. My family was in a house that was a huge spool - the kind you would wrap industrial cable around - and it would catch fire and start rolling down a hill. I have no idea how long that nightmare went on for.
Fortunately, we talked about my dad a lot. There was no nonsense about ignoring what had happened and not talking about him to avoid sad feelings. If we wanted to talk about my dad we were given free reign. I think that helped my waking self but it did nothing for the nighttime.
Eventually the nightmares subsided. My nights were filled with peaceful sleep for many years. Then sometime in high school they slowly started again. Sometimes I had pleasant, if not bizarre dreams. I used to keep a journal of my dreams because they were so darn entertaining. One dream I remember vividly involved stealing milk from a fabric store (which was inside my grandparents motor home) and being chased by an animated superman turned into a red streak when he chased a mob of people after an earthquake - and the mob turned around and chased superman. Hilarious stuff.
I wish every night brought such great entertainment. When the nightmares came back they were few and far between but they involved one of my brothers, mom or step dad meeting an untimely end. After the first "showing" of the nightmare my mind would replay it over and over with alternate endings. I think I was trying to take away the bad ending but it would just change, always resulting in death.
The nightmares really ramped up when my older brother had his first daughter and my younger brother moved to Oklahoma. Ike and Joel were always dying - usually together. Then I think my niece was always in danger. I would wake up with my pillow drenched in tears. Even when I was awake I couldn't shake that awful feeling even though I knew everyone was ok. If I went back to sleep too soon the nightmare would continue. So I learned to pray and read my bible a bit before going back to sleep. That usually worked and brought me back from the edge.
As I got older the nightmares became more frequent. I think I woke Ryan up once or twice and asked him to pray for me.
All hell broke loose, or so I thought, when I was pregnant with Gavin. It seemed like most nights there was someone trying to kill me or steal my baby. Then Gavin was born. That's when hell came to visit me during the day. It's one thing to have Satan and his minions knocking at your door when you are unconscious, but to have him grab your heart in the middle of the day is another thing altogether. The daytime terror subsided as Gavin got older and I wasn't so concerned with always making sure he was breathing - which is, as I understand, not all that uncommon for a new parent.
It doesn't take anything now for me to have a nightmare. Hearing a story about a kid being kidnapped on the news. The toddler who woke up from his nap while his mom was also napping and got outside and drowned in the pool. Flipping through the tv channels and seeing a mangled stroller in the road on the news, staying in a high rise hotel with a balcony, visiting my in-laws whose back yard terminates into a canyon (it's fenced now but it doesn't keep my brain from conjuring up ways Gavin can get around the barriers).
The nightmares come in waves. I'll have a horrible couple of nights or weeks. Even worse is when a horrible though pops into my head when Gavin is not with me. I know Ryan is a good dad. He's very concerned about Gavin's safety but that doesn't stop me from freaking out. Ryan knows how devastating these nightmares are so he is very good about not taking offense when I grill him on safety issues. Every so often I check in to make sure he wouldn't leave Gavin in the tub unattended even if it was to go answer his phone, that he cuts grapes in half because they are a choking hazard, that he wouldn't leave him unattended on the balcony (like in the hotel where we stayed in Hawaii). Once I'm certain Gavin is safe and Ryan is acutely aware of the dangers that surround our son I can breath easier.
I know how to stop the nightmares once they start. Wake up, get out of bed, pray (which usually involves me just begging God to make it stop), watching TV, reading... anything to get my mind on something else. Then I can usually fall back asleep with no more attacks. Until the next night, at least.
What I would really like to do is to stop the nightmares from happening in the first place. There's the rub. I have been told to trust God. Well, sure. Trust the God who guarantees nothing other than his faithful, undying love. It's just I know what that pain feels like when a loved one dies. It is all consuming and it crushes you, eviscerates you. I don't ever want to feel that again. If that is how I felt when my dad died.... I can't even write it out.
If something were to happen to my family I know God would love me and see me through but that does nothing to stop the fear and nightmares. I trust God that if our home was taken away, if Ryan lost his job, that we would still have a good life. Food would be there, we would have some sort of shelter.
I'm not concerned about the day to day issues of life. I'm concerned about life. Period.
How can I trust that God will spare my family from death when he didn't spare my dad? It seems unfair and unrealistic to have God shelter me and my family while the rest of the world can fend for itself. I look at the life of the disciples - all of whom, except one, met an early horrible death.
That doesn't sit well with me. I know that God doesn't love anyone person more than another and that all of our good deeds aren't stored up in a cosmic safety bank where He he checks the account and says, "Well, April. You've read your bible and said your prayers and gave money to the poor so I will keep you and your family safe."
Over Lent my pastor was talking about giving up fear instead of chocolate or TV.
How?
I know that fear isn't keeping my family safe unless I think I would be less vigilant if I thought my children be given full, long lives.
I should probably see a shrink about this but how are they going to help me trust God who I know loves me but makes no guarantees. If only God told me to carve into tablets, not the 10 commandments, but the promise that my children will all live long, healthy productive lives all the while serving Him then Iwould have it in writing.
Christians often point to Job as an example of God's faithfulness. Sure, he gave Job lots of stuff and a bigger family but only after he allowed his first family to be wiped out. I don't want a new family - I want to keep the ones I have.
Many, many people balk when I answer "3-4" when they ask me how many kids I want. I hear all of the reasons why one or two is better than 3 or 4. Like I'm a bad person for wanting a big family. Or at least just crazy.
Now that I think about crazy may be one of the factors. I know 3 people who have had children die at a young age. One woman, Anne (was in her 90's when I met her at the adult care facility where I worked) lost her only daughter when she was returning home to visit while in college. Anne kept a framed photo of her beautiful daughter on her nightstand. It always made me so sad knowing Anne lived so long without her child. My high school band teacher lost his only daughter in a car accident on her way home from college - now he has one child, his son. My grandmother had 4 children. Dennis died when he was 2 from pneumonia and my dad died when was 27. Now she has two kids. What if she only had my dad and Dennis to begin with? She would be left with no children.
As I get further and further in this post I feel better and better. There is of course some time put into writing all of this which puts some distance between and the nightmare but I think writing it out also helps. I hope sharing it helps, too. Me and whoever reads it. I'm not putting this out there for people to feel sorry for me but I think we all grow when we can share in another person's anguish. I think Ryan would disagree with that, though. He hates it when I tell him sad stories (not my own - he's a good husband, he listens) because he doesn't like to feel such pain. He's a good guy, he wants everyone to be happy.
Too bad for him he married a melancholy woman who bleeds for everyone else around her.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Mini Rant
I don't know what I did for pajamas when I was pregnant with Gavin. I think I slept in a lot of nothing when it was hot but as it got colder I wore non-maternity lounge pants and tank tops and t-shirts. Not so comfortable - or flattering. This time around I wanted more comfortable sleep attire especially since we replaced the windows in the entry way that one can actually see through and straight through our long skinny house.
With the old windows I kept the 'temporary' paper shades closed in front of the cloudy window that you couldn't see through anyway so it didn't matter what I was (or was not) wearing; but now with the new windows the curtains are always open because its such a pretty window with a view of some trees. No one out for a midnight stroll needs to see a half naked pregnant lady wandering around the house at night as she looks for Tums, a snack, drink of water, the laptop for some facebook time...
Today I decided it was past time to get some pajamas. The ideal time to buy new jammies would have been before our family vacation where every time I had to get up to use the bathroom I had to pause to pull on some shorts before waddling to the bathroom. I waited until Ryan came home from work before I left although I did offer to do a baby drop off at his office at quitting time on my way to the Gap downtown.
I was pretty excited to see what kind of cute maternity duds the Gap had in stock and I was pretty disappointed with their three measly racks of clothing in their stuffy basement. Oh well, Old Navy was across the street. I hauled myself up the slight incline to Old Navy and asked an employee where the maternity department was. Third floor. I was pretty disappointed with their three racks of clothing as well. Again, no jammies to be found. A clerk thought there might be a maternity store in Westlake Center. Do the Gap and Old Navy think pregnant women don't want pajamas?
On my way to Westlake Center I popped into Nordstrum. No maternity department but one employee told me she thought their maternity clothes were spread out between departments. She suggested I start on the second floor. Obviously this is a woman who has not experienced the joys of the third trimester as your hips and pelvis turn into jelly - walking is good exercise but who wants to walk their gelatinous self to death in Nordstrum in search of hippos sized pajamas? Not me.
One more block to Westlake Center and lo and behold I saw in print on the directory: Motherhood Maternity. The clouds parted and angels could be heard singing as they shone a light on the all things maternity store one level above.
Blessed store designated to outfitting the pregnant woman. Not only did they have pajamas - and cute ones - they had several styles to choose from. And robes! It was hard to not buy all of them but I reasoned a long pair of pants and a pair of shorts would be sufficient. I'm taking the cute pajamas with the super cute top with me to the hospital so I won't have to wear their hideous blue floral print robe with ruffled sleeves. Gag.
I think I'm going to go put on my super cute new pajamas now.
With the old windows I kept the 'temporary' paper shades closed in front of the cloudy window that you couldn't see through anyway so it didn't matter what I was (or was not) wearing; but now with the new windows the curtains are always open because its such a pretty window with a view of some trees. No one out for a midnight stroll needs to see a half naked pregnant lady wandering around the house at night as she looks for Tums, a snack, drink of water, the laptop for some facebook time...
Today I decided it was past time to get some pajamas. The ideal time to buy new jammies would have been before our family vacation where every time I had to get up to use the bathroom I had to pause to pull on some shorts before waddling to the bathroom. I waited until Ryan came home from work before I left although I did offer to do a baby drop off at his office at quitting time on my way to the Gap downtown.
I was pretty excited to see what kind of cute maternity duds the Gap had in stock and I was pretty disappointed with their three measly racks of clothing in their stuffy basement. Oh well, Old Navy was across the street. I hauled myself up the slight incline to Old Navy and asked an employee where the maternity department was. Third floor. I was pretty disappointed with their three racks of clothing as well. Again, no jammies to be found. A clerk thought there might be a maternity store in Westlake Center. Do the Gap and Old Navy think pregnant women don't want pajamas?
On my way to Westlake Center I popped into Nordstrum. No maternity department but one employee told me she thought their maternity clothes were spread out between departments. She suggested I start on the second floor. Obviously this is a woman who has not experienced the joys of the third trimester as your hips and pelvis turn into jelly - walking is good exercise but who wants to walk their gelatinous self to death in Nordstrum in search of hippos sized pajamas? Not me.
One more block to Westlake Center and lo and behold I saw in print on the directory: Motherhood Maternity. The clouds parted and angels could be heard singing as they shone a light on the all things maternity store one level above.
Blessed store designated to outfitting the pregnant woman. Not only did they have pajamas - and cute ones - they had several styles to choose from. And robes! It was hard to not buy all of them but I reasoned a long pair of pants and a pair of shorts would be sufficient. I'm taking the cute pajamas with the super cute top with me to the hospital so I won't have to wear their hideous blue floral print robe with ruffled sleeves. Gag.
I think I'm going to go put on my super cute new pajamas now.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Playing Tourist
I've wanted to to take Gavin to the Pike Place Market for a while but since I don't want to pay $20 for parking (or find free parking and hoof it for a mile uphill) and since I HATE taking a bus with a stroller (a must for a kid who wants to be held by his mama who is already carrying a baby) we've just not gone.
But then light rail opened... and now we have an easy way to get to the market - the Westlake Center stop is only 5 blocks from the market. Of course, we didn't go straight to the market. First we stopped to see Ryan in his new office in his new building. Click here to see some photos from our day.
Now I do like the light rail but I have to beefs with them and both are related to the bus tunnel (or as Ryan calls it the Transit Tunnel).
#1. Elevators. There are elevators. That's good. There are signs to point you to elevators which is also good but once you leave the bus tunnel and are on the street level there are no signs to point you back to the entrances with elevators. That is REALLY annoying.
#2. Elevators. There are elevators. That's good. There are too many elevators. Sort of. There are 3 levels that the elevators service - the platform where the buses and trains are, the mezzanine - where you can cross over the roadway the buses and trains use to go the other direction and access to some stores and the third level - the street at ground level. To get from the platform to the street you have find the nearest elevator and wait for the super duper slow elevator and go up one level. Then you get off the elevator and find the next elevator and repeat.
Long story less long: we made it to the market.
I took a few pictures, walked past my favorite cheese store and realized I walked past my favorite cheese store so I turned around, got in line and bought some cheese curds. YUM. Some may know them by another name, squeaky cheese (it kind of makes squeaky sounds when you chew it). Gavin ate a few bits but then spit the rest out. That's just what he does now. He'll try it and if he doesn't like it out it comes - or if he feels he's had enough he'll spit whatever is left in his mouth that he doesn't want to swallow.
After walking around for about 15 minutes he wanted out of his stroller. After about 2 minutes he decided he didn't want to hold my hand so he went back in his stroller. 10 more minutes in the stroller and he was d-o-n-e. Therefore we were done.
Our big day - no make that - our big hour - at the market. It was fun but I think the next time we go I may reconsider going during a peak tourist season even it is fun to see people from all over the world enjoying our city so much (even if they all stick to Pike Place just to see flying fish and the original Starbucks). To show a French couple how lovely Americans, especially Seattlites are, I offered to take a picture of both of them in front of the Pike Place Market sign as they were taking turns taking pictures of each other.
When we arrived at our home station there was a man walking up the street with his shirt halfway unbuttoned (and he's not a someone who should feel like taking those kinds of liberties - even on a warm day). Dude - if I'm 7 months pregnant and have to wear a shirt so should you. When we got home there was that same guy but this time he stopped to ask me if he could ask me a question.
I knew what his question was going to be but before he got around to asking the question he had a story to tell about being out of gas and his car being ticketed and ready to be towed. Of course he also had to assure me he tried getting help at the churches and yada yada yada. Could I spare some change?
Sorry, no. I'll buy something to eat for people hanging outside the grocery store but I don't like giving money to strangers, especially from someone asking me as I'm heading up the stairs to my house! He'll know where to come ask for more at a future date and I never know who to believe. Argh. I don't normally get upset about people asking me for money but it was in front of my house!
So I guess we had the full tourist experience although getting hit up for money happens everywhere - just more often in the city. Some days the suburbs don't look so bad.
But then light rail opened... and now we have an easy way to get to the market - the Westlake Center stop is only 5 blocks from the market. Of course, we didn't go straight to the market. First we stopped to see Ryan in his new office in his new building. Click here to see some photos from our day.
Now I do like the light rail but I have to beefs with them and both are related to the bus tunnel (or as Ryan calls it the Transit Tunnel).
#1. Elevators. There are elevators. That's good. There are signs to point you to elevators which is also good but once you leave the bus tunnel and are on the street level there are no signs to point you back to the entrances with elevators. That is REALLY annoying.
#2. Elevators. There are elevators. That's good. There are too many elevators. Sort of. There are 3 levels that the elevators service - the platform where the buses and trains are, the mezzanine - where you can cross over the roadway the buses and trains use to go the other direction and access to some stores and the third level - the street at ground level. To get from the platform to the street you have find the nearest elevator and wait for the super duper slow elevator and go up one level. Then you get off the elevator and find the next elevator and repeat.
Long story less long: we made it to the market.
I took a few pictures, walked past my favorite cheese store and realized I walked past my favorite cheese store so I turned around, got in line and bought some cheese curds. YUM. Some may know them by another name, squeaky cheese (it kind of makes squeaky sounds when you chew it). Gavin ate a few bits but then spit the rest out. That's just what he does now. He'll try it and if he doesn't like it out it comes - or if he feels he's had enough he'll spit whatever is left in his mouth that he doesn't want to swallow.
After walking around for about 15 minutes he wanted out of his stroller. After about 2 minutes he decided he didn't want to hold my hand so he went back in his stroller. 10 more minutes in the stroller and he was d-o-n-e. Therefore we were done.
Our big day - no make that - our big hour - at the market. It was fun but I think the next time we go I may reconsider going during a peak tourist season even it is fun to see people from all over the world enjoying our city so much (even if they all stick to Pike Place just to see flying fish and the original Starbucks). To show a French couple how lovely Americans, especially Seattlites are, I offered to take a picture of both of them in front of the Pike Place Market sign as they were taking turns taking pictures of each other.
When we arrived at our home station there was a man walking up the street with his shirt halfway unbuttoned (and he's not a someone who should feel like taking those kinds of liberties - even on a warm day). Dude - if I'm 7 months pregnant and have to wear a shirt so should you. When we got home there was that same guy but this time he stopped to ask me if he could ask me a question.
I knew what his question was going to be but before he got around to asking the question he had a story to tell about being out of gas and his car being ticketed and ready to be towed. Of course he also had to assure me he tried getting help at the churches and yada yada yada. Could I spare some change?
Sorry, no. I'll buy something to eat for people hanging outside the grocery store but I don't like giving money to strangers, especially from someone asking me as I'm heading up the stairs to my house! He'll know where to come ask for more at a future date and I never know who to believe. Argh. I don't normally get upset about people asking me for money but it was in front of my house!
So I guess we had the full tourist experience although getting hit up for money happens everywhere - just more often in the city. Some days the suburbs don't look so bad.
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