Life Lesson: Don't say something out loud if you don't really mean it.

Last Saturday, Hurricane Irene pounded the Eastern Seaboard.  Michael and I were talking about how bad the storm was going to be (he didn't think we were going to get much), but I was more cautious.  Granted, we've had hurricanes in Maryland before, but they didn't do a lot of damage (at least where we lived.)  This storm, though.  This storm scared me.  I flippantly joked with him that "all we needed was for a tree to fall on our house" and we'd get a new roof to match the new floors, walls, trim, paint, and kitchen cabinets from the great broken-housepipe flood from three weeks ago. 

I was at work that night, and barely slept, as I was up worrying about Michael and the kids and whether or not they had power.  I kept imagining a tornado ripping the house off of it's foundation or a tree falling through the house.  That, of course, got me thinking about what I would do if there were, say, a tornado heading straight for our house.  What WOULD I do?  Would I have time to make sure the kids were safe?  Would I throw the twins and Taryn under the bed?  Huddle all 5 of us in the closet (how would I do that?)  What about dad?  He sleeps upstairs.  Would he hear the tornado coming?  On and on these thoughts went, all night long.  At the end of the day, Irene passed (seemingly) without any interruption of our daily routine.  We hadn't even lost power at my father's house, when we are currently staying until we can sell our other house (thank goodness - could you imagine no power in the middle of August with 2 infants and a toddler?)  Michael went back to our house on Monday to pick up the mail and check on everything, and he said all was well. 

All was well, except for the GIANT TREE that was laying on our house, that he didn't even NOTICE(?)!  (bless my husband, but he's got to be one of the most oblivious people on the planet.)  Thanks to Irene, a giant oak tree fell ON OUR HOUSE.  Yep.  Michael met with the insurance agent today, and they're going to send someone out to cut the tree away from the house ASAP.  After that, they can assess the damages. 

Great.  Another round of phone calls.  Another round of driving back and forth to the house.  Another round of meeting with insurance agents, contacting contractors, etc.  ugh.  At least I'm in a better place now than I was 3 weeks ago.  I remember staring at the phone and thinking, "this is too much work."  "I don't want to call the insurance company."  "I don't want to deal with the cleaners."  "I don't want to get out of bed."  Basically, I just wanted to melt into the floor.  I still am balking at this ever-expanding list of things to do, but I guess this is proof positive that the meds are working, since I can actually function and not feel like I want to curl up into a ball at the thought of dealing with unexpected occurances. 

So, it looks like by the time this is all said and done, we're going to practically have a new house.  With any luck, the improvements that are being made (that desperately needed to be made in order to have a snowball's chance in hell of selling the place) will allow us to sell the house AND bank some money to put toward the purchase of house that can fit a family of five.  That thought actually makes me kind of happy.  It's nice to feel hopeful, again.           

A Hard Pill to Swallow

As of yesterday, I am officially at my full dosage of Zoloft.  I started at 25 mg for 1 week, then went to 50 mg the next week, and so on, until I reached the full dose of 100 mg.  Thus far, I haven't noticed any effects of the medication, at least not the "happy" feeling that I would expect from the drugs.  I still have depressed days, where its a chore to get off the couch, and angry days, when I feel like I want to put my fist through a wall, but I don't feel that way all of the time, now.  Some days I am actually productive and can function like a "normal" mother, although I wouldn't consider myself "happy."  Is that what the pills are supposed to do?  I'd settle for just making me "normal" all of the time rather than the lazy, rageful, melt-into-the-couch person I've become. 

Yesterday, after I poured the little green pills into my hand, I stared at them.  This was THE dose.  The dose that I was going to be on for an indeterminate amount of time.  All of the sudden, all of the apprehension that I had about the medication before I started the prescription rose up again.  My biggest fear is that I won't be "me" on it (not that I really know who "me" is anymore.)  I worry about an "artificial" high; I don't want to walk around happy all of the time and question if that's how I "really" feel or if I'm only feeling that way because of the pills.  I worry that if I'm on the pills long enough, my body will not remember how to produce serotonin on it's own and that nothing other than the pills - not my children's smile nor my husband's kiss, will make me happy.  Then I spouted off the party line that I have given so many of my friends, "There is no reason to fear the medicine.  You are sick, and the medicine will make you feel better.  It's like taking cough syrup, for your brain."  I swallowed the pills because I knew that for the moment, this is what is best for me; this is what is best for my family.  My children deserve to know the "happy" me, even if, for the moment, that happiness is assisted.    

"Those" thoughts

I've come to realize that when you become a MoM (mom of multiples), the reactions you get from people run the gamut of "WOW, you've got your hands full," to "OH MY GOD!  TWINS!  I've always wanted twins!"  I'm never quite sure how to respond to these comments; I usually mutter something to the affect of "Uh-huh," as I hurriedly walk away, although I'm usually thinking something much more eloquent.  In regards to the "hands full" comment, the first thing that pops into my mind is a comment I stole from another MoM - "better to have full hands than an empty heart," and I do feel that way... sometimes.  I feel special and blessed to enter the rank of MoMhood.  I enjoy the "oohing and ahhing" from strangers when we go out in public.  I love rocking the twins to sleep at the same time.  I love watching them play, especially now that they are starting to discover the each other.

Then I get the "OMG!  TWINS!" comment, which automatically makes me think, "You have no idea..."  There's the tandem crying, the have-a-baby-in-your-hands-every-minute-of-every-day, the excessive laundry, the diapers, the getting up every 15 minutes because SOMEBODY dropped a binky...  All too frequently in those situations, one seemingly innocuous thought crosses my mind: 

"This would be a whole lot easier if there were only ONE of them." 

And, this is a summary of the thoughts that immediately follow:

"What a horrible thing to say." 
"You'll never forgive yourself if something happens to one of them." 
"If you had to choose, which one would you keep?"
"You're their mother.  You couldn't choose."
"There are people out there that can't even HAVE children.  You should consider yourself lucky."
"Well, I already have a girl, but the boy is SO needy..."
"Wow.  You're horrible." 

The truth is that I love my babies.  I could never choose between the two, and I do feel grateful to have both of them in my life.  Yes, everything WOULD be easier with just one.  I could fit all of my kids in my car.   I could go shopping without having to use 2 grocery carts.  I wouldn't have to spend all day trying to get a baby to sleep - once one was down, I would have "Me" time for the next couple of hours. 

But, I wouldn't be able to buy matchy-matchy twin clothing.  I wouldn't be able to see Tristan smile at his sister, or watch Teagan get mad because Tristan almost figured out how to turn over, and she still can't.  I wouldn't be able to hold a sleepy baby in each arm and know that only I have the "magic sleepy touch."

So, the next time someone tells me that they've always wanted twins, I'll think to myself, "You have no idea...  what you're missing."

Today was supposed to be a "good day."

I've become aware since my PPD diagnosis that I can usually tell how my day is going to go based on how I feel that morning.  The last several days have been up and down, well, mostly down days.  Saturday, I think it was, I woke up and could feel the tension in my body.  "Today is going to be an angry day" I thought to myself.  And, it was.  I had to fight the urge to jump down Michael's throat on many occasions.  Saturday night, Michael and I were busy taking care of Taryn, who spiked a 105.5 degree fever.  Sunday I was pretty numb; not angry or depressed, just "blah."  I woke up and took Taryn to the urgent care center, based on the recommendations of the nurse the night before, since her fever was still over 104.  We waited for an hour and a half, only to be looked at for 5 minutes and diagnosed with "a cold."  Really?!  A cold?  She had a super high fever, and chills and she FAINTED and you're not even going to do any tests?  I would have felt better with some tests.

I took Taryn home and put her to bed, woke her up every 6 hours to take some medicine and try to get some pedialyte in her.  Oh yeah.  Pedialyte.  That reminds me.  We needed pedialyte, so I took the twins to Walmart to get some, among other things.  ON A SUNDAY.  Who does that?  Not me, ever again.

Monday I woke up to realize that it was going to be a depressive day, and it was.  I took care of the babies just fine, but all that I wanted to do was sleep, or crash out in front of the TV.  Today though, today was posed to be a good day.  I woke up in the morning refreshed and energetic.  I played with the twins (lots of smiles), took Taryn shopping, had lunch at Chick-Fil-A, and let Taryn play in the jungle gym.  Taryn took a nap, I fed, bathed, played with the twins again, and got them to sleep, did a load of laundry, made dinner, gave Taryn a bath and got her to bed.  Good day, right? 

Except for the call from Michael in the middle of dinner.  He had gone home to take care of the cats, only to find that a pipe burst in the kitchen and the entire house was flooded; so much so that we had a river of water running out of the back of our house into the woods.  Yep.  Today was supposed to be a good day.          

Random act of Kindess

If you could save the life of a complete stranger, would you?

I was going to write about something entirely different tonight, but as I was perusing one of the message boards I frequent, I came across a something that touched my heart; an (ongoing) story of heartbreaking proportions and of a selfless act of generosity. 

The heartbreaking part:  Kate, 10 months old, has been sick on and off since birth.  No one knew what was wrong, until a few months ago, when she was diagnosed with a rare genetic bone marrow disease.  The only cure is a complete bone marrow transplant, as soon as possible.  I can not imagine the fear that the family endured upon hearing that diagnosis, not to mention what Kate herself will be put through in the next year.  If the transplant is successful, she'll have to spend the majority of the next year in isolation  All night, with tears in my eyes, I've been going over and over in my head what would happen if it was me?  What if it was my child?  How would I handle it?  How would I handle it if, in 5 months we found out one of them had a disease that would require them to suffer chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant?  Would I be able to be strong for my family? 

The awesome part (be careful - this will really make you cry):  Six weeks after her diagnosis, Kate was paired with a perfect match donor, an anonymous 24 year old man.  I am absolutely in awe.  I don't remember what I was doing at 24, but I sure as heck wasn't saving a life.  The maturity, courage, and compassion that this act of kindness displays is, to me, truly inspiring.  (read more about Kate's story, HERE )

Up until tonight, I knew very little about bone marrow donation.  The truth is that the two things I "knew"  were that it was 1) painful and 2) it could only be done for a close family member with compatible DNA, neither of which is really true.  There is a national database for bone marrow donation.  Potential donors sign up, send a swab sample of DNA and, if approved, get added to the database.  When someone needs a transplant, their DNA is matched against the database to (hopefully) find a compatible match.  Depending on the procedure that the patient needs, a donor may be able to donate blood cells instead of actual bone marrow, which is an easier, less painful procedure.  Inspired by this anonymous man and little Kate, I signed up right away.  (more info about becoming a bone marrow donor, HERE

I think, perhaps, this story touched me so much tonight because I have friends, both online and in real life, with babies around the same age as the twins that have recently had, are currently having or are about to have, a hospital stay.  I feel so lucky to have not one, but two healthy infants and an amazing toddler, (truth be told, there's some guilt there, too, when I see my friend's babies sick), and I don't even want to think about the "what ifs."  For those of you that are suffering from PPD, I encourage you to do what I did when I got home from work:  take a deep breath, and just for a moment, put aside the stress, the exhaustion, the tears, the anger, the apathy, the sadness that you feel.  Hold your baby and just love him or her. 

And, for everyone - sign up to be a donor.  Who knows, maybe someday it will be my baby's life that you save.

The Healing Power of Harry Potter

As any new mother knows, finding time for oneself after the birth of a baby is challenging, to say the least.  Changing diapers, feeding, burping, tummy time, bath time, rocking seem to take up the majority of your day.  When you're not busy engaged in one of the aforementioned activities, there's the household stuff that needs to get done, (that never seems to actually GET done); dishes, laundry, vacuuming, more laundry, cooking, taking care of the pets, grocery shopping, more laundry.  At some point, you also need to find time to EAT and BATHE and SLEEP, although, I found that your options are really more limited than that;  the reality is that it's often a choice between eating OR bathing OR sleeping.  I remembered that craziness from Taryn's first few months of life and I was prepared for it, even knowing that I would have to do all of that x2.  What I wasn't prepared for was doing it all, while also suffering with postpartum depression.

The last three months have truly been a blur.  I feel lucky to have simply survived.  I can't tell you how many days I went without showering; I considered myself lucky if I could actually microwave a frozen dinner and eat it while it was still hot.  The only time that I took for myself was the time that I took to sleep, and when I did sleep, it was disturbed.  I was so worried about not waking up if the babies cried, that my sleep was broken and restless.  I clearly remember one instance in which I had gotten both babies down for a nap.  I stopped in the middle of the living room and asked myself, "OK.  I (should) have about 45 minutes before the babies wake up, what should I do?  Should I make something to eat?  Should I lay down and take a nap?  Should I clean the kitchen?"  The PPD amplified my emotions.  If I took too long in the shower, I'd feel guilty for leaving Michael to watch the babies.  If the babies woke up before the time that I estimated I had left, I'd feel frustrated and angry.  If I didn't clean the house, I felt useless and pathetic.  When I went back to work, it just got worse.  If Michael called and I heard the babies crying in the background, I would cry, too, because I couldn't be there for them.  I rushed home every night, just to go straight to baby duty.

Admittedly, I have more time now than I did before, since the twins are starting to sleep 4-5 hours between naps during the day, and 8-12 hours at night (hallelujah), but I still don't take care of myself like I know I should. Michael goes out with his friends a couple times a week after Taryn and the twins go to bed; he's able to do that since they live locally and work shift work, but I really can't.  All of my friends work during the day and I work at night, so I can't hang out with any of them during the week.  Michael and I have tried to make arrangements to spend some alone time together, but we have failed each time.  With an active almost 2 year old, and 3 month old twins, we don't have many options for a babysitter.  Heck, we feel guilty even asking someone to take on that responsibilty, if just for a few hours, because it is such a daunting task, especially when they don't cooperate. 

So, last night, I finally made the decision to do something for myself.  I went to the movie theater to see Harry Potter.  By myself.  Yep.  I got the twins to sleep, made Taryn dinner, gave her a bath, put her to bed, did some dishes and left Michael asleep on the couch with the baby monitor while I went to see my movie.  I was so happy to be out of the house that I didn't care that the theater was crappy, that I wasn't able to get popcorn because there was only one person working the concession stand, that the movie was 3-D when it wasn't supposed to be (I get wicked headaches from 3-D movies) or that I sat through 20 minutes of previews only to watch the first 15 minutes of the movie before it cut off.  They had to restart the movie to get it to work.  From the beginning.  Of the previews.  While I'll admit it would have been more fun to have seen the movie with someone, there's something cathartic about going to the theater alone - almost an empowerment of sorts.  I got good, old fashioned "me" time.  And, it was good.

Reason to smile:  Teagan and Tristan falling asleep in my arms after their early morning bottle.     

         

What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday (Sunday) was a good day.  I woke up, went to work, came home, played with Taryn, made dinner, took care of the twins.  I felt like I was in control of my life.  I felt better, happier.  I knew that it was too early for it to be an effect of the medication and that I was most likely feeling a placebo effect of getting help, but I didn't care.  For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself.  The little things that would have angered me before, didn't.  I know my husband (Michael) could tell - he apologized over and over for things that weren't done around the house because the kids ran him all day.  I don't think he believed me when I said, "Its ok, honey.  You had a hard day, I understand."  And really, why should he; I've said it before, only to be quickly followed with an, "Oh my god!  Why is the laundry spread all over the bed?  I just folded that" and "Why the hell is this room trashed; it was clean when I left for work this morning!"  It shouldn't be a surprise that my attitude filtered through the house.  The twins were easy, Taryn was happy and playful, and Michael seemed more relaxed and focused than I've seen him in a long time, despite having a baby in his arms every moment of the day.

Today, not so much.  I could feel a cold coming on starting last night, and when I woke up with the twins at 0630, I started my day with a full blown head cold.  Once the twins finished eating, Taryn started her day (right around 0700.  When mommy's not home, she sleeps until 0830/0900.  Somehow she KNOWS I'm home and ALWAYS wakes up at 0700.  I guess she just wants to spend more time with me...), and thus, my day officially started.  I dragged myself through the process of getting her changed and fed, but something was off and I knew it.  As much as I would like to think it was just the cold that made me feel like crap, I know that it's the depression.  I tried to take everyone to the shade garden around 0930, so that Taryn could play outside before it got blazing hot.  I thought that perhaps the sunlight would make me feel better, and it probably would have, except that ten minutes into our foray, Tristan decided he had had enough of the heat and insisted we go back inside.  Playtime fail.  Once inside I called Michael to come home because I just couldn't take care of all three today; I was overcome with exhaustion.  I told him it was because I didn't feel well and was dizzy - it must have been the heat, or maybe because I took my medicine on an empty stomach. 

How funny it is that even though I have a husband that understands depression and it's affect on people, I still felt the need to make excuses for it.  Somehow, it's just easier to say, "I don't feel well" than it is to admit, "I'm depressed."  To be honest, the lie was probably more for my benefit than for his - he knew exactly what I meant when I said "I don't feel well" and picked up my slack without complaint. 

Once he came home I layed down; I felt completely defeated.  I couldn't take care of my own children, not even for a few hours.  When I woke up, I tried to help out, but still couldn't muster the energy.  I did manage to sit with Taryn during dinner, give her (and myself) a shower and put her to bed, so at least that's something. 

Michael and I have always known that we're deeply connected to each other's emotions.  When one of us is happy, we lift the other up.  Unfortunately, when one of us is depressed we drag the other down.  I don't know why it never occurred to me before that maybe I really WAS the problem in our relationship, as Michael had previously asserted.  I was so busy being angry at and blaming my husband for our problems.  In my defense, his accusations always came in the middle of an argument, so it's not surprising that I wasn't receptive to them.

So, in summary; yesterday was good, today sucked; tomorrow?  We'll wait and see.  On that note, I have promised myself that, no matter how bad of a day I have, I will find one thing, just ONE thing, to smile about.  Everyday.  If I want to get better, I need to change the way that I view the world, so this if my first small step. 

Today's reason to smile:  Taryn loves to take showers with mommy.  She asks me to pick her up and when I hold her under the water, she opens her mouth to catch the falling water.