Frustration Station

Broken glasses, stained clothes, and other infuriating non-issues.

Posted on by amberhj

The other day during breakfast, I asked Stella to name her favorite animal. She sat there for a minute, with her brow furrowed and finger perched on her lips, obviously in deep thought. Stella then perked up and exclaimed, “MEERKATS!” We saw them at The Woodland Park Zoo a couple weeks ago. Honestly, I expected them to look more like rodents, but they were WAY more adorable than that. I remember Stella smiling from ear to ear as she watched the meerkats scurry around in their faux-desert environment. Melted my freezer-burned heart. Anyway, Cody and I were so impressed with her question-answering that we followed up with another query: “Stella, what’s your favorite food?” She immediately replied, “Animals!” Come to think of it, the girl does enjoy bacon and chicken.

It’s amazing to me how someone so cute, small and thoughtful can be so destructive. See, Stella’s first pair of glasses lasted only 18 days. Last night, while riding in the car, she just about tore one of the temples clean off. It’s still attached, but dangling and wonky. Kind of like my sanity, except with that, there’s no warranty.

Know what else is messed up? There are oil stains on every piece of clothing that I own. Pre-treating with dishwashing liquid helps a lot, but it’s hard to get them all out, because oil stains are invisible until you put the garment on to wear for the day. Then they leap from their hiding places, get all up in your face, and yell, “Surprise, chump!” And you’re not thrilled. Upon reflection, the amount of rage these stains have prompted from me is embarrassing. I have thrown tunics across rooms, and yelled angrily about how I have nothing to wear. And I’m 33 years old.

Perhaps my instability is linked to the fact that Stella’s been eating a lot less lately. Yep, when Stella’s appetite wanes to this degree, it still bothers me, even though I know better. When I said my sanity was dangling, I meant it. During the past week, more food has wound up on my clothes than in her mouth. She often refuses to sit in her chair and will only come to the table if she gets to sit in my lap. I’ve had to fight to remain calm–especially when she gets my hopes up by grabbing a fistful of tomato-y, olive-oil laden pasta, only to casually dump it back on her plate and grab me by the front of my shirt for leverage as she repositions herself in order to get down from the table, after eating just about nothing. Maddening. She’s just too busy thinking about meerkats to eat, and who has time for napkins when mom’s new t-shirt is at the ready?

But I’m not all hopeless or anything. Stella’s got a back-up pair of glasses (because I’m a genius). Even better–I haven’t seen Stella’s eyes cross since she got the glasses! Over the past couple weeks, I bought an entire new (summer) wardrobe for Stella and myself. But I’m no fool. At meal times I’m wearing that fun, striped apron I wisely bought a year ago and never used. Which reminds me, Stella happily ate a bit more at breakfast and lunch today–hooray!

Sorry, Cody and Stella. I’ve been a bit down lately. But it looks like we’ll survive. In the heat of a frustrated moment, I forget how good we are at that.

Adjusting

Posted on by amberhj

Our train, still rumbling through New Glassesville, jumped the track a couple days ago. Stella took an impressive spill in one of her signature, glorious full-sprint to flat-out moments. The temples got bent out of whack. I bent them back into approximate place. That marked the beginning of a new wave of resistance. I’d put the glasses on her head, and Stella would immediately and mercilessly tear them off. This went on for about two days. She’d only leave them on while completely distracted–like say, at the playground, on helicopter rides, or watching the fireworks I convinced the city to present nightly over our home. Not really, but the effort to entertain Stella (necessitated by the specs) had been waning when it seemed  she was taking to the glasses. And now I’m kicking things back up a few exhausting notches.

Clearly, it seemed, the glasses needed to be adjusted. But it was Memorial Day weekend, so we couldn’t go in. We had to tough it out, and I almost went insane because they’d be fine at first, and if she left them on for a couple minutes (an act of God) they’d wind up about a half inch off to the right. Finally, Tuesday, wondrous Tuesday, arrived. We went in that morning for the adjustment on her frames.

I found myself showing a distinct lack of trust in the very skilled optician. I just can’t help it. Because didn’t you know? The fate of not only Stella’s eyesight but THE WORLD rests in my hands. Apparently. if I’m not 100% on top of everything, this increasingly oily ball of life we call Earth is going to burst into flames (easier now, with the oil spill and all) and it’s all over.

Seriously. I spent a good five minutes explaining what had happened and what was off about the glasses. As if she didn’t know anything. She did initially ask, “What’s going on?” But I really took that ball and ran with it–just like Forest Gump. I just kept going, across the goal line, out of the stadium and across the nation, only I didn’t make friends along the way and inspire people to pursue greatness, I instilled new worries and pointed out everyone’s flaws.

So, probably because I kept insisting that the glasses were seriously “off” (she didn’t really see it) and not staying in place, she tightened them up a bit. Which created a whole new problem. They looked perfectly straight, but Stella’s refusal to wear the glasses reached new heights.  It got worse and worse and I got more panicky and angry with each passing hour. Then, driving home after running errands (which actually do a decent job of distracting Stella from her glasses), I looked back to see that Stella had removed her troublesome specs. Holding the temples in her white-knuckled fists, with an expression of sheer rage on her face, she stretched the glasses–temples and all–into one straight, flat line. They were no longer glasses. They became a bookmark. I was driving and there was nothing I could do about it except unleash a nervous, faux-calm, sometimes faux-perky, sometimes serious and admonishing, nonsensical string of, “No! Gentle! Glasses! Uh… uh… hey Stella! Look at the truck! No! Stella, gentle! Glasses! Gentle glasses!” Finally I just said, to myself because I never ever swear in front of Stella (usually sort of–I’m really trying!), “Ah screw it,” and she kept those glasses in that horrifying horizontal position until we got home a few minutes later.

Imagine my surprise when, not only did they spring back into place, but they seemed to fit better. She has been wearing them with much more acceptance today. What? Yes. Stella, in a fit of anger, managed to execute a perfect adjustment to her own glasses. And I didn’t even have to fill her in on what the several, nuanced issues were. Now she just needs to get a job at the optician’s office so we can pay for her stylish and amazingly resilient Parisian specs.

What the crap.

Posted on by amberhj

Skyping with Stella's grandparents always cheers us up.

Skyping with grandparents cheers us up.

So, we’re dealing with what shall be known as “The Great Glasses Adjustment of 2010” (also referred to as “Operation Straight Eyes”) when at some point last night, Stella developed a cold, and some jerk broke into my humble tan sedan. Probably at the same time. I somehow left my now stolen iPhone (which I got for $99, refurbished, so don’t get the wrong idea about my spending habits) on the seat after a late-night grocery run to fetch staples for Stella and dinner ingredients for tonight. And I know what you’re thinking, but no. I don’t resent the fact that the fancy Volvo station wagon parked in front of my dented Ford Focus was left untouched.

We quickly replaced the smashed window, the remnants of which Cody spent the morning cleaning up, rather than working out as planned. He cut his hand, but not too bad. Between optical expenses, ER bills, theft, and broken windows, we are hemorrhaging money. I think I just saw a fat-ass fly ride a twenty dollar bill out the window like it was a magic carpet. Because money is just getting more and more creative about how to get the hell out of here.

Stella’s hypoallergenic formula, a.k.a. gastronomical gold dust, wasn’t covered by insurance after she was weaned from the tube, so for about eight months, we spent $1000 on Elecare every thirty days. Our household ran at a deficit–we haven’t had credit card debt for a long time and didn’t accumulate any, but our savings withered. There were also many, many tube-related ER trips and a hospital stay during that time. Over-the-top expensive, but to be honest we didn’t think much about it, because of the urgency of Stella’s healthcare needs back then. Cost didn’t really matter, because we had our savings to fall back on and because we just wanted her to eat, no matter what it took, and before too long, she did! Well, very recently, we’d finally caught up were able to send a chunk of change to our neglected nest egg. Now we’re taking a step backwards, further away from our financial goals. But that’s life. We’ll bounce back. I’ll get some project work. Come hell or high interest rates, we’ll own a home soon, and we’ll appreciate every nail in every floorboard, every drawer that opens and closes smoothly without creating sawdust, every annoying, costly repair that at least reinforces the home we own.

Do you believe in The Secret? I used to be pretty pumped up by it. Now I’m totally embarrassed about that. The Secret, at least in the form this concept took in the movie, creates the illusion of complete control over life and wealth and circumstances. Yes, that ever-elusive sense of control. Which is probably why I loved it so much at first. Not that there’s no truth contained therein. I do think that our attitude and beliefs to shape our world in powerful ways. But it’s not that simple. Some things really are beyond our control. We can’t avoid all disaster or disappointment or difficulty just by looking in the mirror and telling ourselves how wonderful and perfect our lives, bank accounts, and vision are. But we can choose how to respond, and make the best of it. What an old-fashioned idea.

I’ll buy a new phone, move on, and take care not to leave it or anything else of value in the car. Besides, the joke’s on them! Those stupid thieves didn’t realize Stella’s car seat was worth about three times as much as the iPhone. Though, it’s probably not quite as easy to tote around while lurking in an evil fashion along the streets looking for more shit to steal from stressed out, absentminded moms.

Here’s an attempt at a point. Why am I so quick to blame myself for everything? I don’t think that way about other people. Obviously, Stella didn’t do anything to deserve or “attract” a feeding tube or accommodative esotropia. And all those kids starving in Africa, and those hungry here in this wildly unbalanced country of ours? You think their bellies are grumbling because they don’t know The Secret? Right. I bring this up because part of me does wonder how I could’ve brought all this upon us. (Possible answers: My negative attitude. My dissatisfaction with our rented home and distance from family. My impatience.) But there’s another voice that is out of breath from jumping up and down while yelling loud enough to be heard: “It could be a lot worse, you idiot!” See? Even this voice is self-deprecating. It continues, “You are still very lucky! Remember all the things and people that are right and beautiful and decidedly not stolen!”

And hey, you know what? There’s this. Stella did a pretty fantastic job wearing her glasses today. At some point, she sat on the big chair by the window and counted to ten while smiling. And I got a free triple latte from Fuel today–they said the machine was acting up, but I think the barista knew I needed a boost. It’s a start. I’m grateful for that and a whole lot more.

Put me back together.

Posted on by amberhj

Ouch.

"Stella! No, use two hands! Gentle! Ah, crap. Just hand them to me."

Cody, Stella and I were all over at Cooper’s house the other day while his parents enjoyed a date night, an event that Cooper (Stella’s best bud and play-date companion)  refers to as an “update,” which really makes sense if you think about two parents going out and spending time together away from their one-year-old. Music is almost always playing while Stella and Co0per are together, because they love to dance (which looks a look like jogging–actually, sprinting–in place) during play dates and within five minutes of arrival one or the other starts in with, “Music? Musiiiiiiiic?” So, we’re intermittently bopping to the music and sending miniature skateboards down ramps when this irresistibly sweet, poppier-than-pop song by Meaghan Smith comes on. The chorus innocently asks, “What’s the use in fixing what’ll only break again?”  And good lord did it hit the proverbial nail on the head. Pesky tears invaded my eyes and a boulder lodged in my throat and I just danced toward the corner until it passed.

As you now know, Stella got her glasses on Friday. We were in the optical shop for an adjustment today, Monday. Already. At first, on Friday morning, I thought she was taking to them amazingly well. She wore them for a long stretch on the playground, briefly removed them and asked me to put them back on while in the car, and she wore them all through lunch. But now I’m realizing that her initial interest can be chalked up to sheer novelty. The more she realizes they’re sticking around, the less wants to do with them. Usually, she’ll wear them for two to five minutes before ripping them off with one hand, stretching the frames in a way that looks like nails on a chalkboard sound. It’s excruciating to see her twist and throw them. But it’s not just that. It’s tough because it’s such a battle, actually more of a war with many, many battles taking place and well-thought out strategies and tactics required for victory. It’s stressful and exhausting to see her tear them off, and then my brain starts whizzing, as in, “Okay, how long can I give her before I put them back on? How long before her eyes are in danger of crossing? What will I distract her with this time–a book? No, we’ve gone though all her favorites already. Stickers! I’ll try the stickers.  What if she doesn’t let me put them on–for the fourth time in a row during these last few minutes? Should I put them in the case for a while or is that like giving up? Wait–have I eaten yet today? When does Stella need to eat? Maybe she’ll wear them if I give her some chocolate chip.” Cue the screaming.

Like a well-programmed mombot with super human strength and endurance (but not really), I automatically bend over backwards to repair a fragile something that is forever poised to break. The glasses. But also something in me (and maybe Stella, too?). When Stella got over her feeding aversion, no longer required a feeding tube and learned to enjoy eating, I thought we were clear. We were going to be okay from then on. But it wasn’t true. That’s impossible, and every parent on earth faces the same perilous reality. There’s always another challenge, frustration, or heartbreak around the corner. Thank god they’re so damn cute and resilient. And for every soul-searing ER visit and agonizingly difficult hurdle that you somehow muster the strength to clear, there’s–oh, where to begin–thousands of laughs that lift you up so, so high, dozens and dozens of triumphs that affirm you, your child, and life itself, and about seven hundred smiley, silly dances. Not a bad bargain at all, even if the song makes me cry.

She’s worth it a million times over.

Eye on Stella: Strabismus Watch 2010 Continues

Posted on by amberhj

They say that the eyes are the window to the soul and that the face is the soul of the body. Crap, now I'm confused. Anyway, if Stella gets glasses, they will just magnify the power of her soul, highlight her beautiful eyes, and possibly, shoot lasers to fend off bullies.

I’ve been hearing that many are concerned about Stella and wondering what’s up with her big blue eyes. To be honest, I keep sitting down to write about it, only to bail out and head directly to gossip blogs or pediatric eye health websites. The latter are now just as addictive as the former–but thankfully they don’t erode your soul. There are just too many details to convey! Too many questions! Too many nuances! Nuances can be real nuisances, you know.

Several weeks have passed since Stella’s ER visit during which doctors witnessed her eyes crossing and ruled out scary causes via a head CT scan. They stamped the nebulous “convergence spasms” n0n-diagnosis in our brains and promised they’d go above and beyond to help us to get in to see the head of ophthalmology at Children’s, Dr. Weiss, as soon as possible. As I fully expected, this never happened. They arranged for us to see another ophthalmologist, at a clinic that’s further away, after a two-and-a-half-week wait. All appointments are double- and triple-booked, so Stella is clearly not alone.

During our appointment, the ophthalmologist-who-is-not-Weiss and some other person, whose name and role I should certainly have noted, did a very thorough exam of Stella’s eyes. They dilated her eyes, with drops that nearly caused Stella’s eyeballs to unhelpfully shoot right out of her head due to sheer force of rage. They directed Stella’s gaze through lenses, at animatronic stuffed puppies and stickers, and on flicking, fast-moving fingers. They peered into her eyes through goggles that seemed to meld “space-age mind-reading device” with “old-timey miner helmet.”

Then, in very matter-of-fact fashion, the ophthalmologist told us that Stella is farsighted, and that they “think” she has accommodative esotropia, a type of strabismus (yep, I called it, and the ER can suck it). The doctor wrote a relatively strong prescription for glasses. This was big news in a way, but we took it well, considering the many worse scenarios we’d been ruminating.

Backing up. All toddlers are farsighted. They naturally outgrow it as their eyes get bigger and their vision develops. (By the way: Farsighted eyes are short eyes. Nearsighted eyes are long. Now you know.) Stella’s farsightedness is slightly above average for her age. Stella’s left eye is a bit more farsighted than her right, but the difference is not enough for concern. If her eyes never crossed, we were told, glasses wouldn’t be a consideration. The whole point of the glasses, we’re told, is to decrease strain in order to prevent her eyes from crossing. Because if Stella’s eyes start to cross more and more, her vision will suffer. Her brain, in an attempt to see clearly with two eyes that don’t cooperate with one another, would likely shut off one of her eyes (a condition called ambylopia). This would cause problems with depth perception and peripheral vision, among other potential worries. (Update: She totally wound up with amblyopia. Check it.)

Above all else, of course, we want to prevent problems with Stella’s vision–she gets frustrated enough already, trust me! Glasses are certainly nothing to cry about (though I have). But they will greatly impact her vision, for better or even possibly for worse. At this point, Stella rarely crosses her eyes. The last time I saw it, a couple weeks ago, it happened for about two seconds while she stared off into space–her right eye drifted in a bit, but snapped right back into place when I said, “Stella! Over here!” With accommodative esotropia, the crossing is expected to happen when looking at things up close. I think it’s possible or even likely that she has accommodative esotropia and needs glasses, but when I consult my gut, it doesn’t quite add up. I need a little more convincing before we move ahead with glasses. Yes, Stella’s doctors probably view me as a giant hemorrhoid. I am a second-guessing, question-asking pain in the ass that erupts at inconvenient times and makes it hard to sit down and relax. And proud of it. Pass the Preparation H.

I found a developmental optometrist via strabismus.org, and Stella and I ventured downtown for a second opinion. We only went to one wrong building and I only placed one out-of-breath phone call before we arrived seven minutes late at the correct destination–not bad! As suggested, Cody arranged for Children’s to send over the charts and notes from her previous exam. The optometrist reviewed them and conducted her own, less intensive exam with Stella, to see for herself how Stella’s eyes behaved.

Turns out that doctor number 2, after warning me that she has a “very different philosophy” from that of Children’s, strongly recommends holding off on glasses, and coming back to check Stella’s eyes in two months. A “wait and see” approach. (How’d that pun get in there?) Her opinion is that a strong glasses prescription is too aggressive at this point, because Stella’s eyes cross so rarely. She couldn’t get Stella’s eyes to cross during the exam–though she thought she may’ve seen one of them drift in very, very briefly at the end, while I got our stuff together and a tired Stella stared into space. During the previous exam, they put things right in front of Stella’s eye, moving to the center of her face and flicking quickly back out to the side. Again, far more aggressive. So, in the previous exam, Stella’s eyes did cross, but as I found out from doctor number two’s reading of the notes, only small number of times despite the intensive effort to get them to cross.

Here’s the thing that keeps me up at night. There is evidence that early intervention with strabismus reduces the risk of vision loss and other problems. Other studies inform me that glasses can inhibit the natural decrease in farsightedness that occurs at Stella’s age. We have a doctor on either side, for and against glasses. We also have solid research on either side, for and against glasses. I don’t know what Stella needs, and that isn’t a good feeling.

In a foll0w-up call with the ophthalmologist at Children’s, the one who prescribed glasses, I asked a lot of questions. During this chat, she tossed in, casually as an aside, “Stella has great vision in both eyes.” And that’s when confusion overload caused my own eyes to roll in and then drop out of my head. Turns out Stella’s visual acuity (acuteness or clearness of vision) is above average for her age. And she can track objects with her eyes very well. She, like most toddlers, has incredible focusing power. Stella can bring images into focus that adults with similar farsightedness just couldn’t sharpen. At the end of our talk, this doctor did reluctantly suggest that we could hold off on glasses but that she believes Stella’s eyes will start crossing more and more in the months ahead. (Update: This doctor was spot-on. I feel silly for delaying glasses at all. But you know what they say about hindsight: It’s a manipulative bitch!)

The consensus is that a short period of waiting is l0w-risk. Stella has great balance and her gross motor skills have always been ahead of schedule, she knows all the letters of the alphabet and numbers up to ten, and loves to read with us and page through books on her own. These are all reassuring signs that even if there is an issue requiring glasses, her vision is not hindering her at this point. On the other hand, Stella rubs her eyes a lot, and sometimes I wonder if the rubbing is really also “covering,” a behavior consistent with accommodative esotropia in which she is blocking one eye in order to help focus. She also stares into space quite often–but don’t most one-year-olds do that, especially when tired? It’s all so unclear (another pun?), so I find myself staring into her eyes all the time, looking for answers. Sometimes I think I see her eyes misaligned for a fraction of a second, but I’m never sure.

The optometrist told me that Stella is too young for vision therapy (eye exercises to correct vision problems), but that I should get Stella outside as much as possible, encourage her to crawl, and do “eye tracking” activities like rolling a ball back and forth. We’re going to get one of those collapsible fabric tunnels to get the crawling underway, and we’re spending even more time at the playground than before. I suspect it won’t make a huge difference, but you never know. And it’s something that, to some extent, I can control. Which is about as refreshing as a mimosa to my dehydrated, brunch-loving soul.

During that crazy ER trip when Stella was sick and her eyes were crossing severely–sometimes both at once, which is not really consistent with an early diagnosis of accommodative esotropia–I started blaming myself for this problem. Have I not made enough eye contact with her? Is it because she wasn’t fed in a “normal” fashion (bottle or breast) for some time as a baby, so her eyes didn’t get to “take turns” focusing during feedings? Is it because, despite our best intentions, we let her look at screens too much? Stella only crawled for two months–should I have encouraged her to crawl longer? Does she look at books too much at her young age?

During a session of my masochistic wondering, Cody made a remark that hit the spot. Among other possible sources for blame, and this is pretty ridiculous, I’d asked if we encouraged reading too much, if we rewarded that activity more than others without realizing it, because she sits in our lap to read. Cody pointed out that much of the time, she’s looking at books on her own. She’s always preferred books to other toys. She just loves books. He said, “That’s just who she is.”

He’s right. To the full extent possible, she calls her own shots. She has her own interests and preferences and personality that have little to do with me. I’m not, in fact, her. I’m her mom, and even at this early age, I only have so much influence over her. Stella is Stella. She’s an active little girl who walked at ten months. She loves to read, and cherishes her books above all other objects (except maybe Pup Pup). She couldn’t tolerate my milk but thrived on hypoallergenic formula while courageously overcoming a feeding aversion and moving on to develop a passion for cheese. She loves to do whatever we do, and that includes watching basketball when Daddy tunes in to a game and looking at pictures of herself on the computer and my iPhone at times. This eye issue, whatever it is and however it’s treated, is not so much a “problem” but just part of who Stella is. It’s not anyone’s fault. It just “is.” It’s something that needs to be addressed, yes. Something to lament or torment myself over? No.

After the initial diagnosis, I took Stella to several offices and shops to try on glasses. She hated it. I think the longest she tolerated wearing a pair was about four seconds, and that was with a very pained and confused expression on her face, and it required that I keep her fingers occupied–with a salted caramel cupcake. Yep, I really did resort to that. But since then, we’ve collected about six books featuring characters with glasses or getting glasses or finding amazing glasses. By the way, Stella and I absolutely love GOGGLES! by Ezra Jack Keats. As a result, her enthsiasm for glasses is growing, and it could come in handy. It would be great if Stella didn’t need glasses, to save us all extra hassle and to avoid inevitable battles over her having to wear them. But if after a third opinion (I’m working on that) and a few weeks of watching and waiting, Stella does need specs, we’ll figure it out. She’ll come around. She always does. My goal is to be ever positive, and as resilient as Stella.

No acute abnormalities.

Posted on by amberhj

This is part of a new segment I’m calling “Eye on Stella: Strabismus Watch 2010.” Sorry. I just thought that was kind of funny. And I’m running with any humor I can find these days.

The ER, whose job it is to save lives and not provide conclusive diagnoses, called Stella’s condition “convergence spasms.” A quick google search on this term terrified me (apparently, in some cases it’s brought on by hysteria–Stella’s tantrums aren’t THAT bad), and thankfully led me in another direction. After some research, and due to the nature of what actually happens to Stella’s eyes on occasion, I’m convinced that they’re incorrect. My theory is that Stella has the treatable, relatively common condition known as intermittent strabmismus, known to flare up during times of stress, fatigue, or illness. Of course, last time I checked I was a stay-at-home mom and copywriter–not an ophthalmologist. Though, I did diagnose my husband with photography-induced crazy-eye. Nailed that one.

So, last Friday. It was:

The culmination of a week during which Stella barely ate and lost a whole pound of weight (at least), due to a bastard of a cold entailing massive congestion and a cough that could drown out a chainsaw.

The day Stella may have bumped her head on the window sill in the kitchen. I was making lunch, heard a scream, and only saw what happened out of the corner of my eye.

When her eyes rolled in severely, a total of ten times by 11pm for two to ten minutes per spell. When this happened, she couldn’t see remotely straight.

The evening we headed to her doctor’s office having snagged the last appointment of the day, waited as they paged neurology at Children’s, then headed to the ER, where they awaited our arrival and Stella was not allowed to eat or drink for several hours and underwent a head CT scan that showed “no acute abnormalities.”

Since that day, I’ve been carrying around a feeling that threatens to burst my chest. It ebbs and flows. It makes me cry, sometimes. It makes me think about what-if’s and the meaning of life. It makes me wonder, once again, if I’m strong enough to survive parenthood. But I can’t quite pinpoint it. It’s too vague and all-encompassing to grasp. So I keep wondering what it is. I don’t think it’s as simple as “anxiety” or “fear.” It’s something to do with those. But more do to with love. It is absolutely huge and it is always there, probably in every parent, but right now it’s much too close to the surface. Which makes it hard to function.

On the other hand, after unthinkable tumors and lesions and brain bleeding were ruled out, I am obviously extremely relieved that the issue appears to be isolated to her eyes–or more specifically the muscles that control her eyes. If I’m right and it’s strabismus, early intervention ensures an excellent prognosis, ideally achieved through vision therapy (eye exercises) and maybe a patch to strengthen the weaker eye (which seems to be her right one). But I’m having a hard time as we navigate the two weeks that separate us from her ophthalmology appointment at Children’s Hospital. Every time she cries or screams in frustration or stares off into space or rubs her eye or refuses to nap or has a tantrum, I feel a contained form of panic rise up and I’m gripped by a question that is more of an all-encompassing mentality: What is wrong? This is a terrible way to live, really. A mode of existence encouraged by the worst-case-scenario culture of the internet, where I spend too much time. It’s a way of being that I am familiar with, as a worrywart by nature and having gone through Stella’s feeding aversion with her, but it’s currently heightened. Maybe there’s a touch of PTSD-like trauma from our tube days. Following Friday’s scare, I jump too quickly to the idea of wrongness. But! There are also times in which I see more clearly and with more appreciation everything that is right. The contrast between the two is sharp. It makes me ache.

I sometimes wonder what is wrong with me, and the way I see–the world and myself. Why is this all so hard for me? Why am I so jumpy around Stella since Friday? Why does it sometimes feel as if I walk on eggshells through life and motherhood?

As I sit here, I’m afraid of the radiation of her CT scan (ugh, do I remember correctly that they had to run it twice? why didn’t they work with us to keep her still in order to get it right on the first try?) and of an admittedly imagined potential for vision loss (could this nebulous eye issue make life harder for Stella?). Since Friday, I’ve seen her right eye drift in very briefly a couple times, and it jolts my entire nervous system like an electrical current. I’m disturbed when I see her eyes misaligned, not because she is any less beautiful or sweet for it, but because it’s a signal that something is likely amiss with my baby–something I don’t understand. What’s causing it? What does it mean? How will it affect her? My mind fills in the blanks, creating scenarios and possibilities with whatever is lying around: fear, anxiety, hope, and love so strong I can hardly bear it sometimes.

Back when Stella wouldn’t eat, I always felt 100% convinced that in the end, she would be just fine. Beneath all the panic was a kernel of certainty. It’s still there.

Unladylike ladies

Posted on by amberhj

Neither Stella nor I are particularly dainty. Except when Stella runs on her toes, which is quite graceful and precious. (I do it, too, even when playing basketball, but it doesn’t have the same effect.) She looks like a tiny fairy ballerina prancing about, excitedly granting wishes, instead of a toddler, running around wreaking havoc. It’s a good cover.

“Ladylike” is not a word usually associated with me, for sure. I’m pretty sure I often eat with my mouth open. I sometimes sit with my legs sprawled. During important work meetings. I don’t do the kind of heavy-lifting, when it comes to socializing, that people expect from true ladies. You know, those women who instinctively smooth out every social situation with such grace, especially in regards to men who lack their skills, making everyone feel wonderful and engaged and the center of attention, all while re-filling their glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and maintaining constant eye contact. Not me. I halfheartedly try, sometimes, but my energy is so quickly drained by extended attempts at extroversion that soon I’m the one alone, in the corner, at my own party. And I’m fine with it.

It’s too early to tell what her true inclination is, but at the current moment at least, Stella is a bit of a tomboy, like me. The last time I put a dress on her, she almost tore her arm muscles in a futile attempt to rip it off. Her eyes were popping out of her head from the strain of the effort to remove the flowly, intrusive garment by simply pulling it directly away from her chest. (After just a moment’s entertainment, I took it off, of course.) She won’t let me put clips in her hair. She immediately ruins all her pretty, expensive shoes with massive dirty scuffs. I always find it puzzling that so many toddler boy shoes have protected or reinforced toes while little girls’ footwear is left with butter-soft leather on the toe. Might as well throw a heel on it as apparently, shoe manufacturers don’t expect little “ladies” to be as active as boys. And don’t get me started on sippy cups. So boys get to gaze at dinosaurs and imagine about and perhaps imitate what these prehistoric creatures  may’ve been like while girls get to look at bright pink flower and dot patterns? Humph. I purchased the dinosaur cup but haven’t been so bold as to opt for boy shoes. Soon, she’ll make that call. But I digress.

You could not describe Monday’s incident as ladylike. We were at a friend’s house, attending a get-together of about seven of Stella’s peers and their parents. Music, both kid- and parent-friendly, filled the air. People noshed on lentil stew, veggies and an assortment of cookies. Kids played happily all over the joint. The vibe was jovial. When all of a sudden, the loudest, most blood-curling scream in the history of anger pierced the air like a butcher knife. Everyone’s eyes bugged out, jaws dropped, wide-eyed children froze in fear, and soon all parents within a ten-mile radius had rushed to the scene to administer CPR or otherwise address whatever life-threatening injury had been sustained, to hopefully keep the toddler alive until paramedics arrived. Okay, EMTs weren’t summoned, but I’m pretty sure I saw someone grab their phone. I, on the other hand, didn’t move. I waited until the sustained, eardrum-shattering, horror-movie-style scream at last ended, because I needed to collect myself. It was Stella. She was not dying. Her pathway had been partially obstructed by a chair.

Deep. Breaths. I’m pretty sure that any time Stella feels boxed in, her frustration skyrockets immediately. She expresses it with a primal scream. This has happened in response to the fit and snag potential of dresses. Those with an empire waist can fit snugly around the middle, which she loathes. My mother recalls very clearly that I too raged against remotely tight-fitting clothes, so really, Stella’s behavior may be simple karma. Anywho, this “boxed in” theory of Stella’s frustration has als0 been proven at Gymboree. Once, she stopped mid-slide to just hang out there observing Gymbo’s antics, and some sweet kid has the audacity to try and pop a bubble at the bottom of the slide. She screamed and kicked at him, and I swooped in to prevent her from making contact.

Yes, she got it from me. I have unladylike responses to frustration. (Cody is almost impossible to frustrate, which is infuriatingly frustrating.) But exactly how was this inclination transmitted from me to her? My outbursts during her feeding aversion probably didn’t help. Her frustrating 32-hour birth, wherein she basically got stuck because her head was sideways, wasn’t a great way to start life as a content little lady. Going back further, all the very unbecoming road rage I experienced while pregnant could be the problem. Maybe all that beeping led to all this screaming. Pretty sure I could find a study to confirm this in five seconds of googling. But the other likely cause is toddlerhood. Toddlers, both girls and boys, do scream. Not surprising for her age, Stella’s very active and feels way more comfortable when she has a lot of space. I have to say that she’s not always doing flips and wind sprints–she is also social and sweet, darn close to ladylike. She gives a good hugs, and often puts her arms around her playdate buddy, Cooper (they hugged each other this week, actually–a first). Those two dance together (okay, sometimes Stella tries to drag him to the dance floor, but still). They get excited about seeing each other! But God forbid he ever get in her way. I bet Cody (my husband) knows how he feels.

So, it was with trepidation that I purchased a truly beautiful, only-one-of-its-kind dress, designed and sewn by a local woman from cheerful, mostly floral vintage handkerchiefs, for Stella to wear to this coming weekend’s wedding in NYC. Cody’s cousin is marrying her charming British beau. The bride just so happens to help create the beauty that appears in the pages of Martha Stewart Weddings. That’s right. She works for Martha. She helps envision beautiful weddings for a living. So. I was not going to let Stella wear fleece pants and a dirty onesie to this particular event. I was also not going to let myself wear stained jeans to this fabulous occasion,and purchased a comfortable but stylish vintage-inspired shift dress (say that ten times fast) for myself.

My hope was that for one night, at least, we could fake it. I’d chat up strangers, cross my legs, and chew with my mouth closed. Stella would wear a compliment-magnet of a dress and gracefully and quietly navigate her way around chairs and people, and we would look back at the pictures one day and marvel at what pretty ladies we were. If only for a moment.

So imagine my surprise when I put on my own dress, and Stella took notice immediately. She perked up and grabbed at the hem, as if to admire the fabric. “Dress” instantly became part of her exploding vocabulary. I seized the moment and asked her if she’d like to try on her very own dress. She put her arms up, ready for it. I pulled it over her head, zipped it up and tied the bow in the back. She smiled, and pranced away while tilting her head to the side, the very pleased way she does when she looks in the mirror, a move that translates to, “Aren’t I adorable?” I figured it was a fluke and took it off a couple minutes later, wanting to preempt a frock fit. She demanded it be put back on. WHAT? Perhaps I sold the dress thing a bit too hard. Remind me to applaud when she asks to wear jeans. You know, for the sake of balance.

But. Our flight to JFK was canceled on Thursday. Then it was canceled again today. I was not surprised at all, because our flights are canceled about 75% of the time. This is not exaggeration. Our terrible travel luck is the stuff of legend. Further, the more prepared and excited we are, the more likely it is that we’ll be staying put. Here’s a typical pre-trip email conversation: I write, “Hey, family! We’re on a direct flight on Alaska Air. Can’t wait to arrive on Sunday!” Family: “Great! See you Tuesday, if at all!”

So, we will not make it to NYC for the wedding. I’m so sad to miss the chance to both celebrate the very happy nuptials of a wonderful couple and to spend time with our extended family. But it’s out of our control. I should probably just return Stella’s pricey frock, as she’ll surely outgrow it before she has an occasion to wear it. Part of me wants to keep it and let her wear it to Gymboree and the playground. Something about a dress of flowy vintage handkerchiefs on a tomboy rolling in a mix of dirt, sand and wood chips is incredibly appealing to me. I could wear my shift dress and gold heels while chasing Stella around the park.

Due as much to my demeanor as my apparel, there have been many mortifying incidents wherein I was mistaken for a boy–even into my teens! And unless Stella’s wearing head-to-toe pink, people tell me how cute “he” is. (That’s a whole other post.) So maybe we’ll make a statement next time we’re out. Ladies? You want us to be ladies, world? We got dresses and we’re not afraid to use them. We’ll show you how REAL ladies roll–and skewer your rigid gender stereotypes. Believe.

All is not lost.

Posted on by amberhj

How can a mere misplaced item spark such rage?

This morning, I could not find:

  • My boots. The ones I wear all the time. Eventually found them in the front closet with the rest of our shoes. I’m pretty sure Cody put them away just to mess with me.
  • Stella’s right shoe. It was nowhere near the left one. Later discovered in a far, dark corner of the living room between our hutch and the wall. Of course.
  • The ERGO carrier. Turns out it was in the same place as always.Where it belongs. In the kitchen by the back door. Hadn’t used it in a couple weeks, and it hadn’t moved in that time.
  • My mind. Still looking.

Minor inconvenience? To most. For me, it resulted in clenched-fist fury! I could not see straight, which only made the hunt more difficult. I was so angry, because we’d already been awake for two and a half hours without doing anything semi-productive or quasi-enjoyable (productivity is  not how I measure a morning, trust me) aside from picking at breakfast. Where do those hours go? I remember reading Stella a few stories, which slowed down my post-breakfast clean-up efforts. Then I sort of just hung out with her on the couch in the office for a while, helping her do somersaults–she recently figured out how to climb up on the furniture and treats couches as gyms. At some point, I wet my hair and dried it about halfway so I didn’t look quite so nuts and disheveled. We brushed out teeth together. I rinsed off my face, which is close enough to washing it–I’m out of cleanser and moisturizer and resorted to using olive oil last night. From the permanent pile of clothes on top of my dresser, I unearthed yesterday’s jeans and deemed them clean enough to wear. I cobbled together an outfit for Stella that passed my minimum cuteness standards. I packed a makeshift diaper bag with the bare essentials. And that’s precisely when steam began pouring out of my ears as I tried to pinpoint the location of our footwear and ergonomically superior baby backpack. Of course, as I searched high and low for these items (ie looked in the same potential hiding spots over and over again expecting them to suddenly appear), Stella grabbed books, brought them to me, tugged on my pant leg, and cried. The entire time.

At one point during the morning’s madness, I actually stopped and listened to what I was saying to myself. I’m pretty sure I called myself an idiot about a dozen times, not to mention a frighteningly disorganized failure and lazy mom whose shoe-losing ways are no doubt eroding Stella’s potential and endangering her even foot development. And to make matters worse, I’m pretty sure that the stack of thank-you cards on the bookshelf, with names written on them but no addresses, looked at me and nodded in total agreement with these negative thoughts. Not only is my mental dialogue insane and uncool, it’s melodramatic.

I have phases where I get so down on myself so fast. Examples abound, but Facebook comes to mind. I want to quit Facebook, but can’t. I’ve noticed that the oh-so-sunny and wonderful virtual representations others create of themselves using pictures of their gorgeous new homes and perfectly happy children and new cars and other symbols of “success” lead me to feel crappy.  Don’t get me wrong, if we owned a lovely home, I’d be showing it off for sure, because due to the hard work and pride naturally involved. But status updates like, “Feeling so grateful for my life. Everything is wonderful!” kind of make me want to vomit, especially when posted every other day. I hope that these are genuine expressions by well-intentioned people, but come on! No, Facebook is not all bad. I do enjoy some fun banter with Facebook friends which helps me feel less isolated, but sometimes, I log off feeling “less than.” It sucks. I’m reminded of a brilliant quote along the lines of, “Don’t compare your inside to someone’s outside.” I try to keep that in mind, but it doesn’t help. I’m holding myself up to some high standards, and I’m not sure they’re even possible to meet.

Well, after a couple of emails to my husband, who has nothing better to do at work than help me find things that are right in front of me, I found all the “missing” stuff. Almost three hours after waking up, Stella and I headed downtown on a birthday mission for Cody. He turns 38 today. Happy Birthday, sweets! (I’ll report on the birthday festivities once they are complete, this weekend.) While he and Stella attend Waterbabies, I’ll be cooking a German feast for him, with ingredients sourced from Pike Place Market, to be followed by his favorite dessert in the world: Dahlia’s coconut cream pie. We won’t eat until just after 8:30, when Stella goes to bed. You know, so as to spend more than five minutes with a meal.

Our morning completely turned around once we were out and about. Funny how that happens. Stella clearly loves Pike Place Market, and being downtown with all the people, sights and sounds, and I love that about her. We had a fabulous time. The ladies at the bakery were fittingly sweet. We snacked on Dahlia’s sour cream vanilla bean coffee cake and sampled organic plum and pear. We stopped to listen to a piano man, and Stella particularly enjoyed (judging from all her bouncing) the old timey tunes by The Tallboys. One of the gospel singers that are stationed near the original Starbucks cheerfully called Stella “a bottle o’ joy” and pretty much made my day with his enthusiasm. Stella took a stroll down the less-busy Post Alley, where she tried on some boots and an old woman in a tall leopard-print hat stopped to chat with her. We watched and waited as someone spent about $500 on ingredients for an Oktoberfest dinner at Bavarian Meats Delicatessen. I was inspired but all I had left on my list was swiss cheese for spaetzle. On our way out of the Market, I grabbed some plums and pluots and Stella and I shared a smoothie in which every single ingredient was grown at a local farm. They use their own cider as a base and Stella and I agreed that it really worked.

Then I saw it:  the parking ticket. We were ten minutes late. But to my surprise, fire did not shoot out of my eyes. I simply didn’t care. We lingered at the car, continuing to enjoy our smoothie. It dawned on me in that moment to appreciate how content Stella had been throughout our long-ish adventure. It was worth an extra $25.

This calls for a new Facebook status: “Wow, what a fabulous morning. Life is good and I’m truly blessed!” Gag me with the truth.

What would my mom and Kevin Garnett do?

Posted on by amberhj

I remember one day, having been home from college for a brief stint, my mother, who is a pretty wonderful kick-ass character, sensed that I was not doing so well. She drove me back to school, and as I reluctantly got out of the car, she suddenly put her hand on my arm and said, very seriously, “Don’t take crap from anybody.” I smiled all the way back to my dorm.

It looks as though I won’t need to give Stella this important lesson. Not any time soon, at least.

This is the child who decided she’d really rather not eat. At all. With each vehement refusal, I came to see just who I was dealing with. “No, thank you, mother. I’ve decided that eating is not in my best interest. Take your boob and shove it. The bottle can kiss my ass. Back off!” She was trying to tell me something and found a very effective way to get her message across. She would not back down. However frustrated and desperate I became, I respected her immensely.

She is a good eater and a toddler now. And she is starting to throw tantrums. Real tantrums. Formidable fits. She tosses herself with abandon. Cody calls them “trust falls,” and they’re not always done in times of anger or frustration, but she will throw her entire body on the ground, apparently expecting you to catch her, no matter where you happen to be at that moment. She will scream as if being physically attacked in the event that–God forbid–you don’t hand her that snack, piece of trash, or whatever it is that she wants immediately.

Frustration pose: Exhibit A

Rare photograph of Stella's frustration pose

For months, Stella would occasionally strike a very alarming pose. She balled up her fists tightly, stuck her arms straight out, made “crazy eyes” and clenched her jaw with all her might. This would last just for a couple of seconds, and then pass, leaving us bemused and mildly disturbed–she was obviously upset but we had no idea why. Many other parents had not witnessed such behavior in their babies. I now know that she did this because she wanted something but had absolutely no way of communicating to us the object of her desire. Stella has always known what she wants (and doesn’t want). This expression decreased in frequency when she began to point, a development that I savored because she would actually point to food she wanted to eat. It made me cry. I was so happy.

Anyway, last week, we went to the park. She would not let go of her beloved Snack Trap, so I let her walk around the playground with it. Now, my gut told me that this was a bad idea. She could fall and she might wind up with the handle in her eye. It might distract her and she may be more likely to run into something or someone. Or, it could set off World War III. Which it did.

A very friendly, smiley young lady, who had to be around 18 months of age, sauntered up to Stella in, as you’d expect, a very friendly, smiley fashion. She then gently, and I mean gently, reached for Stella’s snack trap. Stella took a step back. The girl then lunged for the goods, managing to stick a couple fingers into the cup’s opening–and as she did so, Stella yelled, clearly agitated. But she stayed put. The girl’s father and I tensed up slightly and moved closer to them, not sure how exactly to handle this but realizing that diplomatic intervention would likely be required.

He said something like, “That’s not yours, sweetie. You can’t take other people’s snacks.” She ignored that wise counsel, as warring factions often do, lured by the catnip-for-toddlers appeal of the Snack Trap, and lunged again. This time, Stella actually stepped toward the girl, and held her off with her free hand while screaming and violently waving the cup high over her head. It was so intense! And actually, rather impressive. It reminded me of basketball. A street game. And Stella was somehow a center, about to dunk on this girl’s head and then do something like this. The girl’s father smiled and said, “There  you go!” as if pleased that Stella had taken such decisive action.

This stand-off highlights for me that gray area that new parents struggle with. Should I have encouraged Stella to share? Stella is good at sharing. She spends most of her day handing things to people. But do I want other kids’ hands in her food? And aren’t we supposed to teach boundaries? These questions became more urgent a few days later, when a kiss-happy boy planted several smooches on Stella. The incident escalated to the point where his mouth was over Stella’s nose, and left it covered in saliva. Yeah. All I could think/say the whole time (nervously, with the pitch inching ever higher) was , “Um… um… um… um…” Stella didn’t react. At all. But I was sorta horrified. I expected the parent to reign the kid in, but that never happened. I understand not wanting to discourage such loving behavior, but isn’t there a limit?

This happens a lot. I guess it’s just part of being a toddler and enjoying that brief time in your life when you can walk up to total strangers and tongue them, rob them, share their food–all without saying a word, and it’s pretty much business as usual. Not cause for imprisonment or restraining orders.  We were at Seattle Children’s Hospital recently, waiting for Stella’s foll0w-up renal ultrasound a few weeks ago (it came back looking good, by the way–really more of a formality than anything). She was enjoying a snack in her stroller when a happy little boy came up and put his hands on Stella’s face. I wasn’t sure what to do. Oh they fool you with their glowing sweet faces and then BAM! Germ attack! I waited for his mother–standing right behind him–to intervene, but she did not. The kid then put his hand in Stella’s mouth, his fingers covered in her chewed up cracker. His mother did not do a thing. Again, we were at Children’s Hospital, a place were germs loom like deformed monsters! I did my best to brush it off because that mom looked like a depressed zombie. She was there for a reason… and it may’ve been a devastating one. I cut her some slack. What else was I going to do?

These days, Stella seems to know exactly where to draw the line, but I’m often not so sure. I want to heed my mother’s advice. I don’t want to permit misbehavior on Stella’s part, but she is too little to understand real discipline. I also don’t want either of us to take “crap” from anybody, but I don’t want to stifle Stella or instill mistrust and fear. I certainly don’t want my anxiety to rub off on her. It’s a balancing act. Balance isn’t exactly my strong suit but I’m working on it.

The next time Stella throws herself on the ground, I can, at the very least, admire her n0-holds-barred decisiveness. Her Kevin-Garnett-like intensity. It’s interesting. On the court, I was a guard, but it looks like Stella is more comfortable in the paint. Have I mentioned that she is now in the 90th percentile for height? I know, I know! Stop getting my hopes up about basketball! Tutus are ahead! Princesses, pixies and fairies. Oh my god–and pink fairy princesses in tutus sprinkling purple glitter pixie dust!

All I know for sure is that she’s got guts, that kid. And I love her all the more for it.

Why I haven’t written in so long

Posted on by amberhj

You know Nervous Nelly and Debbie Downer. But have you met Anxious Amber?

I’ve found that anxiety is a worthy and conniving foe. We’ve battled it out for years and so far, it hasn’t defeated me. But, as is required for proper tension in any comic book or superhero flick, it does get the best of me temporarily and puts into question my ability to keep the upper hand. Perhaps the worst incident occurred during my senior year of high school (pretty much a living hell), when, after being verbally attacked by a fellow member of the softball team, I collapsed at the bottom of a stairwell and literally could not move my strangely numb, curled-up fern frond arms for a good hour. That has happened–without loss of arm function but with complete loss of my head–numerous times since Stella’s birth, most notably during her now legendary, but thankfully resolved, feeding aversion. This past Sunday, anxiety dealt me a huge blow and it took two days to catch my breath. In an extreme bout of panic and lingering postpartum depression I projectile vomited despair in every direction, not as actual puke but in the form of desperate phone calls and/or emails t0 Dooce (yes, I emailed a celebrity blogger who doesn’t know me from a speck of dust on her fancy “#26”-engraved computer monitor), a member of my PEPS group, my sister, my mom, and my therapist. At the time, I thought I was going to break. My recurring thought was, “I can’t do this anymore.”

What caused this latest attack? I have been pondering this question and, amazingly, reached a conclusion, which I rarely do, preferring instead to roll around in indecision and agonizing in-between-ness. First off, I don’t take care of myself. I drink less water than is required to keep a cactus alive, I stay up too late, and I eat about half as much as I should and most of what I do eat is chocolate and coffee. I rarely take the supplements that I invested $250 in, thereby dismissing the solid hour that I spent with an insightful nutritionist in order to come up with a way of out feeling so crappy.

That lack of self-care puts me on shaky ground. I’m not nearly as stable and healthy as I should be, and perhaps because I’m not on solid ground, I still worry about Stella too much. Or maybe because I worry about Stella so much, I don’t take care of myself. Either way, it has to stop. Afterall, Stella is thriving to such a fabulous degree that I cry when I think about it.

The thing is, I’m an incredibly determined and persistent person. This helped me get Stella off of her feeding tube–I mean, no other outcome besides “Stella, with no tube, eating happily on her own” was acceptable (I told her doctor this) and I literally would have cut off my arms off if helpful. But there’s a dark flip side. When I don’t have anything to worry about, I find something to worry about, damn it! I recently realized/admitted that when I don’t have anything tangible to obsess about, I swear, there is an uncomfortable void. So in my spare time, I’ll read a book or website that plants problematic mental seeds. Voila! Worry and a sick sense of order are restored. Stella had a small mark above her lip this weekend. I convinced myself that it was a cold sore that I caused by kissing her, and that I had doomed Stella to a life of humiliation due to constant cold sore outbreaks. The mark was gone on Monday, and was clearly not a cold sore at all. More likely a little nick from her razor-sharp finger nails which I don’t cut enough because Stella. Never. Stops. Moving. I don’t even get cold sores. Nope. But my worry was hungry, and I fed it.

I believe I am addicted to anxiety. I’m so used to it that I can’t function without it. Granted, I function poorly with it, and it’s really no way to live, but I simply don’t know how to live without it at this point. And that is what I need to work on and move past.

I find that it helps to have other people around. A healthy distraction, a necessary part of a balanced life. We don’t have family in the area, except for one fabulous cousin, so that doesn’t help matters. I have kept a possible move back east (I’m from the Boston area) on the table, and we continue to consider it, though the economy seems to get in the way. I know that moving wouldn’t solve my problems, but it might help create some much needed breathing room and comfort.

At the end of the anxiety-ridden, dehydrated, unshowered day, I have to ask myself, “Why?” Why don’t I take care of myself? The answer is probably very simple, and sad. Though I must say, most new moms go through this and in that way, I’m pretty normal. I realize that. But I think that in my case, it’s a bit extreme–the lack of self-regard and eating and whatnot. On some level, the simple truth is that I believe I am not worthy of care. I don’t deserve it. I’m awkward and “less-than” and disorganized and crazy and, for lack of a less cheese-tastic cliche of a term, unlovable. Yet, amazingly and immediately, when I look these hidden beliefs in the face, when I pull them into the light and dust them off, they start to fall apart pretty quickly. They’re old and worn out and need to be tossed out like the garbage they are (as do the entire contents of our basement). I am a really, really great mother. I care about Stella, and all babies and people, really, so much that sometimes it’s hard to bear. I am practically Gandhi! (Yes, I know I sound ridiculous but I do care a lot.) But if given the proper balance, that sensitivity is a powerful and good quality. I am a warrior and I can do any-f’ing-thing I want. I can help myself and others, with great success. I’ve proven it time and time again. Now it’s just time to pick myself up (again) and do it.