Monthly Archives: September 2009

Post-Birthday Depression

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I knew today would be a bad day. I wonder if that is a self-fulfilling prophecy? I mean, if you think a day is going to be bad, does that mean that karmically you are making your day bad? I’ve been reading this interesting book called “How Yoga Works” and it talks about sowing seeds, positive and negative, and I can’t help but think that if I believe a day is going to be bad, then it will be bad.

It’s all my fault anyway. I was talking to a friend on Monday and I said that I couldn’t believe how well Jake was doing with all this birthday attention. He had been looking forward to his own birthday for about seven months, and I thought with all the buildup there would be a major letdown. That hasn’t happened, I said happily to my friend, I keep waiting for the ball to drop. And let me tell you, people, the freaking ball has dropped. It dropped hard. It dropped so hard it left a big, smoking hole in the ground and all that is left is me, wondering when I will learn not to bring curses upon myself.

Last night there was the post-birthday meltdown and ensuing sadness “I don’t want it to not be my birthday!” that kept Jake up an hour past his normal bedtime, which is highly unusual for him, being the type of kid who falls asleep seconds after going to bed. Needless to say, he was pretty tired today, and started to cry when I left him at school. It’s so heartbreaking to watch a four-year-old stoically wiping away silent tears, walking in his lineup with his giant backpack on. I felt totally deflated, despite knowing that after I left, he would be just fine. And he was, but the rest of the day was one big roller coaster of emotions. It’s hard to blame the kid: he’s exhausted after all, plus he has post-birthday depression. After four days of various celebrations, one is bound to succumb to the doldrums.

But the celebrations were great, especially the one that included eight small kids and a clown. If you live in the Calgary area, I would really recommend Button the Clown – she was very entertaining for that age group, and not at all creepy. Just make sure you call her Button, not Buttons. When I called to confirm, I got her husband (and I’m not making this up) Buddy the Clown on the phone. He tersely said, “Her name is Button. She is not plural.” Oh, snap! When I related this conversation to a friend, she said, “Button the Clown is married to Buddy the Clown? I wonder if they have clown babies.” And I will confess that the image that immediately popped into my head was so incredibly disturbing that I had to question my own mental stability. Again.

Anyway, I’m going for an early bedtime tonight and I’m going to sow the seeds of positive thoughts for a better day tomorrow. Repeat after me, it’s going to be a good day….

Labour Stories – Part Three, Jake’s Birthday

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As I vaguely remember from my days as one gainfully employed, getting called into work is no fun, in fact, it is enough to ruin your day. At the very least, it doesn’t bring out the best in you. That sums up the scenario with my delivery nurse, Cheryl. You see, when I was in labour with Jake, the hospital was packed with labouring women and women waiting for scheduled c-sections. This is what you get for getting pregnant at Christmas. All these women getting a little present from Santa, and nine months later hospitals are experiencing a mini baby boom. So what I’m saying is that the morning I arrived at the hospital, there was a shortage of rooms and nurses. So Cheryl was called in early, and not all that happy about it. To be fair, my delivery nurse with my first baby was Shannon, a youthful and eager nurse who held my hands during each contraction, and who set the expectation bar pretty high. All I clearly remember about Cheryl, really, is that she had a fabulous manicure. Her nails were gorgeous, and after each contraction she would look up from them and say “Was that a bad one?”

My labour was going quickly, so that it was not long after arriving in my delivery room that Cheryl looked up from her nails to say that the contractions were too close together for me to even get checked out, and she called the doctor. Now, I don’t blame Cheryl for her lethargy. Probably she was overworked and tired. Also I was just there, less than 18 months before, having a baby, so the whole process was still quite fresh in my mind: it wasn’t like I was a first-timer. The person I blame is my husband. He actually had the audacity to complain of being tired. Tired! I leave my response to the reader’s imagination.

On September 15, at 10:45 a.m., Jake was born. Our Jake. He is four years old today and a joy in my life: funny, smart, and loving. When he was born I said, with my usual grace and composure, “Thank God I’m not doing that again!” But what I meant was, Jake completed our family, and brings happiness to our lives every day. Thanks Cheryl, for helping him into this world, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Labour Stories – Part Two, The Hospital

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I fully support women who choose to give birth in places other than a hospital – their own homes, a birthing centre, or, in the case of an amazing You Tube video I saw, the Mediterranean Sea. A Russian woman traveled to Israel to give birth in the Mediterranean and it was astonishingly beautiful, the woman the picture of grace and strength. I fully agree that pregnancy is not an illness, and childbirth not – in most cases – an emergency, however, a woman like myself, who makes fifty to-do lists a week and panics over the unlikely scenario of twenty people being simultaneously unavailable to babysit, well, a hospital is my birthing place of choice. I find immediately available medical attention and equipment to be as soothing as the sound of ocean waves. But that’s just me.

Also, I secretly love hospital food. I love getting food on little trays, everything in its own little compartment. I love that the hospital staff brings you a bedtime snack, even if it is a bizarre combination of bran muffin, cheddar cheese, and orange juice with Metamucil. After I had Mark, they brought me a tuna salad sandwich and let me tell you, dear readers, this was the tuna salad sandwich to end all tuna salad sandwiches. This was the greatest tuna salad sandwich of all time. When I was pregnant with Jake, I dreamed about one day getting another such tuna salad sandwich. Nine months, I thought about that sandwich. Then when I had Jake, it was egg salad day. Wretched egg salad. However, they did bring me a Salisbury steak (I still ate meat at that time). It was a tremendous Salisbury steak experience. Angels sang around that Salisbury steak.

Later, as I was recounting this incredible meal, my husband said “You know it’s just a hamburger patty with gravy, right?” Oh, but what a hamburger patty with gravy.

The downside of giving birth in a hospital is, of course, the possibility that you can spend hours in triage, which is precisely what happened to me. Triage was packed, packed with women with scheduled c-sections, women in the early stages of labour, and women in the “MOTHEROFGOD, MAKE IT STOP!” stage of labour. Those in the latter group were quickly wheeled into delivery rooms, prompting my husband to suggest that perhaps I should add a little, shall we say volume to my contractions and although I am capable of dramatic screaming, I felt unable to rise to the occasion at the time.

My doctor came by to check in with regards to what is euphemistically termed “pain management”. Since I had no drugs with Mark, I felt that I should do the same with this baby, not just to quell arguments and sibling rivalry down the road (“Ha ha, you made Mom get an epidural!”) but also because I had the well-authenticated concern that having an epidural would slow down my labour and I wanted to finish and have the baby quickly so that Mark could come and visit in the hospital after his afternoon nap. Yes, you read that correctly. That was my actual concern. Yet another reason to make up a birth plan: when you are in labour, you are simply incapable of rational thought.

Speaking of rational thought, here’s another tidbit: if they offer you a wheelchair, take the wheelchair. I speak from wretched experience. When I was assigned a delivery room at about 7 centimeters, I refused the wheelchair. It’s just down the hall, right? Twenty minutes, several very loud contractions, and 8.5 centimeters dilated later, I finally made it to my delivery room. Why, you may ask, didn’t someone bring me a wheelchair? After all, I was crawling down the hallway, shrieking with a contraction every couple of minutes. I do not know the answer to that. Maybe they thought I would rip the wainscoting off the wall and begin beating people with it? Or maybe the staff is just used to hormonally crazy pregnant women and didn’t notice. All I know is that I was about to meet Cheryl, my delivery nurse, and that is a story for another day.

Today’s Date is 9/9/9!

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I’m having one of those “It’s already Wednesday?” type of Wednesdays. Because, in addition to mooning about Jake’s birth, there is his actual birthday to prepare for, which is in six days, but also not one but TWO birthday parties this weekend, one of which involves eight children aged five and under and a clown, and also there are cupcakes to make and a cake to order and sugar cookie dough to prepare and groceries to shop for and sugar cookies to bake and decorate, and we all know that decorating things is not my forte, and volunteer committee meetings, already, and a movie screening to attend. Did I mention that I was an extra in a movie? Well, that movie is being screened this weekend, right after the clown leaves our house and (I can only imagine) the children will collapse from their sugar high, but I may never be in a movie again so to the screening I must go.

So that outlines my next six days.

The birthday party thing is the bane of my existence. It all stems from my complete incompetence with cake decorating and my lack of creativity and imagination, which leads to canvassing people for ideas and trolling the internet at all hours. I have a new friend, who is amazing with birthday party ideas, and uses words like “fondant” and “royal icing” whilst I use words like “cake mix” and “creamy deluxe versus whipped”. Just saying.

Also, and this has nothing to do with birthday parties or the many, many volunteer committees I’m suddenly on, but I almost broke my nose yesterday! It was a lovely Calgary day with winds gusting 70 km/hour, I was parked on a slight angle, I was opening the car door and a wasp flew in my face. I brushed it away while letting go of the car door and smash! Door in my face. Fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, which took the brunt of it. I don’t even have a black eye, which I think would have made me look like the tough mom in the neighbourhood, and would have probably circumvented my appearance on any more volunteer committees.

Labour Day and Labour Stories – Part One

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Jake’s fourth birthday is less than two weeks away, which has had me reminiscing about, appropriately enough, his birth. I LOVE birth stories, labour stories, pregnancy stories. I love hearing about them. If you want to share, I promise to be a rapt audience. I love the ordinary run-of-the-mill birth stories, the grisly birth stories, the weird labour experiences, the pregnancy-related aches and pains. The only thing I do not like about labour stories is the term that is frequently employed, “birth experience”. I don’t know, that term conjures up the same feelings that “synergy” and “optionality” did in my long-ago working days.

You know when you see an enormously pregnant woman, and her behaviour is incredibly irrational and insane, and you know with the benefit of experience that any minute now, that woman will be going into labour, but when you are that enormously pregnant woman, you believe your behaviour is perfectly normal and reasonable, and everyone else around you is crazy? That was exactly my situation prior to going into labour with Jake.

The day before I went into labour I was at the hair salon, which was incredibly fortunate as I did not want to be an exhausted mother to a newborn and a toddler who was not yet one and a half with three inches of grey roots. I really needed those roots covered to rise to the situation. Thank you Dad for those genes. Anyway. In retrospect I should have guessed I was about to go into labour. I hated everyone in that salon. Every single thing bothered me but I had to hold everything inside because really, who wants to annoy the woman with the scissors? So I seethed on the inside. What is with the insipid chatter, I thought. Why is the smell so bad in here? This is an OLD issue of People! If they hadn’t been so behind, I wouldn’t be driving at this time of the day, I fumed in the traffic on the way home. I was so irritable and uncomfortable I decided to try to sleep on the couch. My husband checked on me when he heard my uncontrollable sobbing. He probably thought something was horribly wrong.

“WHAT IF NO ONE IS AROUND TO TAKE CARE OF MARK WHEN I’M IN LABOUR?” I sobbed. This was my fear: that I would go into labour and no one would be around to take care of the toddler. Side note: my parents live twelve minutes away, less if my lead-footed father is driving. My husband pointed out this fact, and also the fact that my elderly neighbour had specifically said she didn’t want to see me on the news as someone who had given birth in a taxi, so if my mom couldn’t come right away to call her. Also, I had been so paranoid that I had made up a list of people who could possibly look after Mark, starting with my best friend and my brothers and ending with almost every neighbour on my block and a couple of his co-workers. Still, I would not be dissuaded. I was convinced that everyone on that list would be unavailable all at the same time. Either I was going to go to the hospital by myself while Rob looked after Mark due to NO ONE else being available, or we would have to take Mark with us and he would be scarred for life watching his brother exit his mother’s vagina. There could be no other options. I cried until I fell asleep.

Then I woke up, at 4:30, to let Rob know we should call my mom to come over and take care of Mark.

The fat guy in the red suit

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Mark and I were reading on the couch, and talking about superheroes and villains. “Of course, this is just a story,” I said, “Sandman is not real.”

“Just like Santa Claus,” Mark replied.

Startled, I looked down at him and he smiled his angelic, gap-toothed smile. I went back to reading about Spiderman and Sandman.

I have a feeling this is not unrelated to the loss of his two bottom teeth. When they fell out, I told him that we could put them under the pillow and the tooth fairy would come.

The fallout from that was tremendous. “TOOTH FAIRY? I don’t want the TOOTH FAIRY to come! I don’t even want a fairy in my ROOM. PLEASE don’t make the TOOTH FAIRY come here!” I looked at my husband a little helplessly. His inspired answer? “Don’t worry, Mark. The tooth fairy is really just Mom and Dad, and we’ll give you money for your tooth.”

Mark was instantly relieved. I, however, was a bit anxious he would shatter everyone else’s tooth fairy dreams, although this has not yet happened. I’m all for being truthful, but is five too young for abject cynicism?