Sleeping's Not Just for Wusses Anymore

Lest this blog degenerate into just a litany of my complaints and self-doubts, I do want to share that, for the last two nights, Nolie and Addie both have slept through the night, from 8pm to 7am.  Both mornings Eric and I woke at 6:30 wondering what the hell had happened, and why we felt so, well, human.  Wowzer.

Imperfect Human Being

I left work at 4:15 to dash about and pick up the girls in Denver, and pulled up to the house around 5:45.  Eric had beat us home, and was there waiting to take Nolie out of my arms and make Addie a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (she basically just licks the peanut butter and jelly off of the bread, not daring to take a bit of the wheat-y stuff itself).  As I was unloading the thousand and one bags, he said, "Um, hon?  I know it's crazy for you in the mornings, but I got home and the heat was on and the door was unlocked."

I wanted to scream. 

Let me clarify.  This is not a post about how my husband is thoughtless or mean, because he's neither.  In fact, quite the opposite.  He's thoughtful and quite wonderful, though maybe his timing stinks a little.

No, I wanted to scream because it is crazy for me in the mornings, getting up and getting dressed and getting the kids dressed and getting everybody out the door and to daycare and me to work, all by 9.  In fact, just thinking about it makes me want to cry.  I wanted to scream because, clearly, things are coming apart a little at the seams, and I'm forgetting little things like locking our doors against the vicious thieves of the world who would like to enter our house and steal our stuff, or to pack formula in the diaper bag so that Nolie doesn't starve at Miss Debbie's, or to turn the heat down, which is just like handing a stack of benjamins to the guy at the power company.  I'm making a dozen tiny little mistakes today, which just chafe, reminding me I'm not the supermom or super-whatever that I like to imagine myself to be.  That I am, in fact, quite human and imperfect. 

In fact, my therapist once gave me that mantra:  "I am an imperfect human being.  I am an imperfect human being."  And it was hard for me to say!  Not because I think I am perfect, or at least not all the time.  I live at either extreme, see?  Sometimes I imagine myself to be perfect.  Look at me, look how together I'm keeping things, look how in control I am.  And other times I am wholly, ridiculously self-critical.  Look at me, look at what a mess I make of everything, look at what a toilet bowl my life is. 

Consciously, I am taken by neither extreme.  I know that my life is full of goodness and imperfections, and that the sweetness of it all lies in those in-between places.  No, all of this happens under the dark cover of my internal machinations, my subconscious, where it takes on gargantuan proportions, of course.

Anyway.  I stewed for an hour or so after Eric's comment, the child-me wanting to yell at him, be angry at him for making me feel this way.  Finally I sorted things out, though, and told him I needed to feel a little more appreciated, that I wanted him not just to notice the unlocked door or the steaminess of the house, but also the myriad other tiny little things I do all day to make our lives happen.  He took that in, and didn't respond defensively or meanly (as I might have).  Then, later, when I wanted to make pots de creme for a meeting I'm having today, he ran to the store and got the stuff for the recipe for me.  And that made all the difference in the world.

 

Balance Schmalance

 

I teach an introductory writing and ethics class at Mines that has a one-hour large lecture component to it.  Once a week, for an hour, 325 first-year students gather in a giant room to listen to a lecture by one of my colleagues, or a guest speaker.  I coordinate the course, so I usually introduce the speakers.

Because Addie was still recovering from croup yesterday and couldn't go to preschool, she came to work with me.  She stood up in front of 325 "big kids," twirling and dancing and generally quite comfortable as the center of attention.  I felt a little like throwing up the whole time, though.  Somehow the intrusion of my home life into my work life makes me terribly nervous.

Why is this?  I count almost everyone I work with as a friend, and all have been extremely supportive with regard to my family choices, covering for me while I was on family leaves, asking after the kids, offering kind support.  And yet, I worry, at some deep, shameful, buried level that I will be judged for bringing my daughter to work.  That I have somehow lost control of the important boundaries that separate work and family, that I will inconvenience someone who doesn't have children, that I will appear unprofessional.  I feel sad and embarrassed even writing that, because I am not ashamed of my daughter, or of being a mother.  And yet these feelings persist.

In other words, there is a huge schism between these feelings and my politics.  I mean, I believe that workplaces need to be family-friendly, that it is good for my students to see a professional woman who is also a mother.  I believe that one can do her job really well and also be a good mother.  And I also believe that these are impossible tasks, and that there is not nearly enough support for them, for most families, in our society.  I want to be visible in this way, to show others what can be done, and also what should be different.

But I was all sweaty palms and queasy stomach yesterday, while Addie twirled in the front of the large lecture hall, as she and I walked hand in hand to my office, while she sat drawing and watching movies at my desk.  Have I simply inflated my own importance, in imagining that others care so much what I do with my time as to be worried about Addie's presence at work?  Or is there really a threat to my reputation, my sense of professionalism?  Will students view me differently?  My colleagues?  My boss?

It's probably all of these things, really.  One of the program assistants here at work calls me "Little Mama" every time I come in the main office, while calling others (mostly men) by their titles and last names.  She means it kindly, but it makes me cringe.  Why don't I say something?  While I was on family leave last semester, I chose to come back to work early, and agreed to take on extra projects during the leave because I worried how others would view my absence.  I now regret the time I didn't spend with Nolie.  Why did I do this?  I stayed late last night to make up for the hours lost when Addie was here yesterday.  When I got home, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me.  My kid was sick, and I should have been home with her.

Yeah, yeah.  Work/parenting balance, yadda, yadda, yadda.  All over the news, isn't it? Elizabeth Vargas and everything.  But I think that's b.s.  There's just no way to balance it.  You just get pushed and pulled so that some days you do your job well and some days you're a good mom and very rarely do you feel like you excelled at both.  The expectations are too freaking high, and no hot bath or pedicure or day at the mall can make that right.

Do I sound sour?  Disgruntled?  Dissatisfied?  Critical?  Maybe.  There are times I feel all of those things.  And there are just as many times I'm fine with the see-saw, fine with being just good enough at everything, not having to be perfect.  Because the striving for perfection is hard, and it's boring.  I get bored with my own incessant judgments, of that treadmill, and sometimes have to step off and be okay with the less-than-perfect. 

"Where's your computer?" Eric asked last night, when I walked in the door at 7:30.  "I left it at work," I said, throwing my hands up.  "I figured working until 7:30 was enough."

He grinned, and hugged me.  "Great," he said.  "Great."

Huge, Protruding, and Blocked :)

Addie update, for the folks

Eric talked to Addie's ENT doctor today, and he said her adenoids were "huge," her tonsils "protruding," and one of her sinuses blocked.  We'll try to get her into surgery this week, but it will most likely be next week.  We'll keep you posted.

 

Croup-the-loop

 

 Eric and I had just wrapped up an episode from Season 6 of The Sopranos--which I am watching now solely for narrative closure, and not because I'm really enjoying it anymore--and I was doing dishes while Eric turned out lights and locked doors.  All of a sudden, over Addie's monitor, came the clarion call of croup:  hoarse, whooping sobs and asthmatic wheezes.  Eric ran upstairs to get Addie and brought her down.  I took her into the airplane-sized bathroom on our first floor, ran the hot shower full blast, and read her stories from her favorite book until her breathing had regularized, then Eric took her outside for a few minutes.  The hot and cold blasts broke the stridor somewhat, and I was able to put her back to bed, still wheezy and coughing but calm enough to rest.

Addie had croup for the first time a year ago, and because we didn't know what was going on and it was a really bad spell, we took her to the E.R.  This was a huge mistake, not because the croup wasn't serious, but because it's worsened by panic and upset, and Addie did not take kindly to being looked at by all sorts of strange doctors and nurses in the middle of the night.  The x-rays of her chest were also extremely traumatic for her (and the rest of us, actually).  She's had two croup spells since, and both times we decided to just ride it out at home, trusting the steam from the shower and the cold night air to break the stridor, and using light touch massage, reading books, and singing songs to keep her calm.  Both times it has worked.  Having some confidence and experience has helped us not to over-react.

At the same time, after I put her to bed I'm always a little terrified.  What if she stops breathing in her sleep?  What if it worsens quickly, too quickly for us to react, and we couldn't help her in time?  Croup is terrifying in this way--Addie's lips turn blue because she's not getting enough oxygen, and she gets really disoriented.  Addie is a very verbal kid, and last night when I asked her what kind of juice she wanted--orange or apple--she responded "ABC."  This sounds kind of funny, but it's so out of character for her that it just ends up being scary.  So, even though she was in bed, calmly sleeping, her rattly breathing finally a little more even, I wasn't able to sleep for some time, listening through the monitor for her breath, her coughs, her stirrings.

We have no doubt all of this is related--the drool, the snot, the croup, the snoring, the stumbling.  I hope the CAT scan results take us a step closer to understanding how we can help Addie get better, feel better.  I just want her to be a healthy, happy kid.

Nolievolution

Ah, Nolie.  Nolie has undergone a complete transformation in the last few weeks, and just in time.  We've been so busy dealing with Addie and her many nose hole issues, that if Nolie had also been up to her old shenanigans, we would have been in big trouble.

As it is, though, she's been a delight on most fronts.  She puts herself to sleep in her crib now, unswaddled, making sweet, sweet yummies with her Gigi blanket.  She stays asleep all night, waking at 5:30 for a bottle, but then going back to sleep, sometimes UNTIL 8:30!  She holds her own bottle, which means we can all sleep lying down, so my lower back isn't in a perpetual state of crankiness.  She jumps like a maniac in her Johnny Jumper, and plays in her "office":

 

Also, she is wicked cute.  She has the roundest face I've ever seen, and ears that stick out a little, and the most glorious smile.  She is many, many fistfuls of chubby-mc-chub-loveliness.

Oh, there are a few annoying things.  She still urps constantly--so much so that we think we probably need to talk to the pediatrician about it, and maybe switch to a different formula (she's already on the soy kind), or put her back on Zantac for a while.  Honestly, though, I don't feel like I can really deal with this until we know more what's going on with Addie.  I'm having to prioritize a little, and we can deal with a little urp better than we can with a kid who is not breathing.

Nolie is also not stranger-friendly.  If someone other than her dad, me, or Miss Debbie even so much as looks at her, out comes the lower lip, and she begins to wail.  Other people, in essence, freak her out.  But she'll grow out of this, too.

Mostly, I fall in love with her a little more every day, and am watching her personality start to emerge.  She is a happy baby, finally, and starting to explore the world a little on her own.  With the second child, it's easier to see this process happen on its own, without being so invested in guiding and shaping every second of it (or feeling guilt and worry over it).  Nolie is evolving, at her own pace, with us there to accompany her, nudging her now and then, but mostly letting her find her own self. 

Snow Blows

Holy God. It is snowing again. Will it ever stop? The weather reminds me of this movie they made us watch in elementary school, about a group of kids in the future or on another planet where it rained constantly.  They were never allowed to go outside.  Then, one day, miraculously, the rain stopped for a few minutes, and they all went outside, where flowers had instantly bloomed, and they played in a beautiful green field until it started dumping again.  What the hell did they make us watch that movie for?  I must be forgetting something.  Anyway, my point is this:  we are trapped in some sort of snow-filled purgatory.

The only thing that makes it not so bad is that our floors LOOK AMAZING.  Holy crap, do they look good.  I just keep staring, admiring them.  Addie threw her stuffed bear on them yesterday and I dove for it, trying to catch hit before it hit the new floors.  "Nooooooo...." Slow motion, the whole bit.  I'm crazy.

When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong.  I was wrong.  Addie was able to sit still for her CAT scan today.  She went through the tube like such a big girl, licking her lips and drooling the whole time, but staying pretty darned still.  My big girl.  So glad we didn't have to get the anesthesia.  We get the results from the test Monday, because doctors don't want to spoil us all by giving us information immediately, even when they have it.  Right there.  In front of them.

We are wondering what will be different after (if) she gets the surgery.  Maybe no more drool spots, like the sweet one you see in the picture above (that's orange playdough she's stirring, by the way).  Maybe she'll be able to taste food better, sleep better, feel better.  Maybe there will be fewer tantrums?  Or not.  Maybe all of that is just who she is.  But we're wondering.