Memorial Day weekend lesson learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson about myself. Or rather, I officially recognized what I’d known about myself for a while yet hadn’t necessarily taken seriously.

If I get overheated, I do not function.

It’s not so much that if it’s warm out, I get a little cranky or if I get warm, I get cranky. If I’m overheated (which is exacerbated by the pregnancy, no doubt), my ability to engage with the world in a respectful way decreases until I’m a raging, frustrated puddle of sweat. I am unable to parent in a way that my child deserves. I am unable to interact with others in a way that they deserve. I am unable to care for myself in a way that I deserve (and even writing that sentence is somewhat difficult in that merely acknowledging that I deserve to be taken care of properly brings up feelings of guilt that I’d be taking time or attention away from caring for my family, but that’s a tangent for another post).

It doesn’t matter what the thermostat says. It doesn’t matter what other people are feeling. If I feel as if I’m overheating, I have to take steps to prevent it from getting out of hand. I have to make myself drink ice water. I have to get myself in front of a fan or in a room with air conditioning. I have to be ok with the possibility that our electricity bill will be higher from running our A/C more frequently, especially if that means that I’m able to treat my family the way they deserve and the way I prefer.

Maybe this kind of thing is obvious. Maybe this kind of self-care/self-awareness is normal for most people. Up until the past few days, though, I’ve been thinking of temperature control in terms of others being comfortable, and if I got too warm, well, I just had to suck it up and deal with it (so said my internal monologue, not anyone else). Sucking it up isn’t working anymore. I’m learning to trust myself, learning to recognize my limitations before I reach them (at least for the most part), and learning to speak up or make changes to prevent myself from turning into the Incredible Sweat Puddle Hulk. Because really, no one wants to see that.

 

Just teasing

This incident affected me way more than I thought it did at the time (and possibly way more than it affected Grace, who was the victim/recipient of the actions), so here I go rambling.

 

Yesterday, the three of us were visiting my in-laws for a bit. At some point, the habit of getting ready to leave followed by Grace getting a couple of marshmallows from my mother-in-law has developed. So yesterday, Grace was getting ready to go, she got her marshmallows in a baggie to take home and was making the rounds to say goodbye to everyone: her mom-mom and pop-pop (my in-laws), GG (her great grandmother), and a friend of my in-laws who’d stopped by to say hi. When she went to say goodbye to the friend (whom she’d been shy around and avoiding for the most part up until now) and he asked her about the marshmallows, she showed them to him and they started talking about them, with the friend quizzing her on what colors they were (which is annoying in itself but harmless so whatever). Then she went to take the bag back so we could leave and he pulled it away so she couldn’t get it. He repeated the offer/pull away routine a few times when Grace became upset and went to run away from him. People reassured her that he wasn’t taking them from her, they said he was just teasing, then they gave her the bag and encouraged her to say bye and give the friend a high five.

Intellectually, I know his intentions were in fun, but it brought up something emotionally for me that I’m feeling even the next day. Watching the scene play out even a mere five feet away, I felt helpless to protect her from what was happening. If a child had acted that way, would the expected response be laughing and understanding that he was “just teasing”? Or would someone have stepped in in defense of Grace and given the bag back to her? I felt helpless to stop this obviously distressing “teasing” and helpless to assist Grace to understand that her reaction was legitimate, since people were quicker than I to step in and tell her how she should feel. (I have minor issues with my in-laws’ use of the phrase “don’t cry” as well, but it’s usually been easier for me to reassure her in those instances.)

Part of my reaction has to do with my own grandmother using the phrase “just teasing” when I was younger. I can’t remember exactly the circumstances, but I remember strong feelings of not being taken seriously when I’d become upset at the teasing, or being told I was taking things too seriously or being too serious. These strong emotions are making it hard for me to understand if I’m reacting appropriately to something that happened to my child, or if I’m overreacting because I see myself in her place and see how hurt I’d feel were it me.

 

 

Nesting or preparing for the apocalypse?

I’ve recently taken to preparing for the birth of our second child, doing all of the normal nesting-type stuff one reads about in pregnancy books or articles on what you need when your baby’s born. I’ve been cleaning, organizing, putting food in the freezer, all of that normal stuff. I’ve also, apparently, been preparing for the apocolypse.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been preparing like those who prepare their homes for the end of days. I’ve stocked up on paper products from Costco, so, for example, we don’t need to buy toilet paper, etc. for the next 6 months. Also, we have enough oatmeal for a similar time period (unless I go crazy and make tons of lactation cookies). I’ve been making lists of foods, both for meals and snacks, that I can stock up on as we get closer to the due date. I’ve been working on all of those little cleaning or organizing tasks that I’ve been thinking about but never actually finding time for. (When I was pregnant with Grace, I gave myself permission to not scrub the tub grout and it taunted me every time I took a shower until I finally had the energy and time to clean it. Yesterday, I vacuumed the back staircase which I’d been meaning to do since 2011. There was no way I’d be walking up and down the stairs with a newborn looking at the same fluff of dust that’d been there for months. I might empty and scrub the flatware drawer.)

For some reason, getting closer to the birth makes me feel like I’m entering some sort of quarantine. I did similar things towards the end of my pregnancy with Grace. Intellectually, I know that the world doesn’t disappear once a baby is born. Target and grocery stores and everywhere else don’t cease to exist because I have a baby. Despite the fact that I might not be up to going out to the store doesn’t mean that someone else can’t go to the store for me. I know this, yet still I’m trying to prepare for what feels like the inevitable, that we’ll need to be prepared for weeks or months of being holed up at home.

I’m sure being as prepared as I can can only help. I’m not really trying to prepare for the apocalypse, either. I mean, I’m not getting us freeze-dried meals or anything, just stocking up on stuff for the freezer and pantry so we only have to think about the perishables for the first weeks post-birth. This frantic preparation also probably is related to my inability to imagine what life will be like once there’s two kids in my family, so at least I’ll be able to go to the kitchen and find some food even as every other aspect of our lives are in disarray. That’s a topic for a different post, though.

Did you prepare for the postpartum period by stocking up like I’m doing? Any tips, advice, words of wisdom for someone going from one kid to two?

 

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In defense of being poky

Reading The Poky Little Puppy for the zillionth time, I came to a realization: there’s no reason not to be the poky little puppy. At first, one might think that the four other puppies come out ahead in the end since they get the strawberry shortcake, whereas the poky little puppy is sent to bed with no dessert “feeling very sorry for himself”. We’re supposed to come away from this ending thinking how much better it is to keep up with the pack, that being poky is a detriment.

I say that the poky little puppy actually came out ahead overall. The first day, the four puppies ran home hoping for some rice pudding, but they got scolded instead and went to bed with no dessert. The poky little puppy slowly wandered home, presumably having a grand time seeing the world, then ate all of the dessert that his siblings were denied (with no apparent punishment for digging the hole, being late or eating all of the dessert). The same thing happens the second day with the chocolate custard.

The third day, the four puppies were scolded for digging the hole, but then they made it right by filling it back in. Since they had finally learned the lesson of not digging holes under the fence, they were rewarded with strawberry shortcake. The poky little puppy got home too late, so there wasn’t any dessert left nor was he able to express whether he’d learned the lesson or not. Despite having to squeeze through the fence and not having dessert on this third day, the poky little puppy still presumably had a grand time seeing the world while being poky on the way home. He also was not punished in any way other than merely not getting any dessert that night.

To sum up, the first two nights, the poky little puppy got all the dessert in addition to having more time out exploring than his siblings, while his siblings were scolded and got no dessert. The third night, the siblings still got scolded, but at least they got some dessert. The poky little puppy had as much time as he wanted to explore with no obvious penalty for either being poky or digging under the fence.

The book makes it out like the poky little puppy was the sore loser in the end, but I say, overall, he had more desserts and more fun than his siblings with fewer consequences. I’m also pretty sure that even if he had been scolded, he still came out ahead what with all the wandering and exploring he was able to do while his siblings were home feeling sad about not getting any dessert. Wandering, daydreaming, especially when you’re young. How can that be so wrong?

 

Pregnancy Post: 26 Weeks

[We're just going to ignore the fact that I haven't written anything about my pregnancy until now.]

Last Wednesday, I had my 26 week prenatal appointment. I had the gestational diabetes screening (with orange juice instead of glucola). Blood pressure, fetal heart rate and weight were all good. At my 22 week appointment, I was measuring 24 cm, and now I’m measuring 30 cm. The midwife reassured me that the measurements had a 2 cm wiggle room, and that there were many reasons I could be measuring a little bit larger than expected. She wasn’t worried, so I’m trying not to worry.

Coincidentally, it was last week that I started having stomach capacity issues. It took me a few days or so, but I’ve figured out that I can eat from half to 2/3 of what I normally eat at a meal without feeling like I’m going to explode. The first few meals, I just felt like I was going to vomit for hours after the meal. Then one day I felt like I couldn’t eat anything, and was somewhat worried that my first trimester food aversion (everything sounded and smelled disgusting and I had to force myself to eat at times) was back, but it only lasted a day or so.

I’m gradually getting used to this new food limitation, as I’m gradually getting used to the limitations in my activity. I’m mostly able to keep up with my energetic little one as well as keep up with some housekeeping, as long as I make sure to rest throughout the day. I also have to pay more attention to what position I’m sleeping. Overdoing it in the garden plus sleeping in a less optimal position left me with almost a week of back pain that I’d like to avoid.

My belly is only going to get bigger. I’m only going to have to run (waddle) to the bathroom more frequently. I’ll probably get into a better habit of sleeping when Grace sleeps (such as for naps). Bring it on.

 

Lazy Sunday

Husband took kiddo to his parents’ house to watch her while he’s out for a bit, so that means I’m on my own at home. What do I do with my time? Shower, some laundry, lounge on the couch and watch episodes of Doctor Who. (Yes, I’m also writing this post, but who’s counting?)

Could I have done something more productive? Could I have gotten more done? Written a more intelligent/intellectual post? Gotten back to a hobby I haven’t done in a while? Read a book?

Probably, but rest is good, too.

 

Toddlers are helpful.

Some of the ways Grace “helps” me throughout the day:

When getting dressed, she’ll open the drawers and pick out my underwear, socks, shirt and pants for me (always in that order). Sometimes she helps me put on my pants or socks.
When using the bathroom, she opens the toilet lid for me, holds my hand as I sit down on the toilet, pushes on my knees to “help push the pee out”, pulls up my pants (and sometimes zips them), closes and flushes the toilet.
She likes to open the bathroom cabinet and hand me my deodorant. She likes to open the bathroom cabinet to grab her toothbrush and toothpaste. She likes to open the kitchen cabinet to grab her reflux medicine. (Her getting things from the cabinets means I have to hold her up so she can reach.) If I’m carrying her from room to room, she likes to turn the lights off and on.
She doesn’t always do all of these things every time, but there’s always the possibility of her wanting to do all of these things every time looming over me like a rain cloud, threatening a storm if I neglect to let her help. It’s possible to get something done on my own, but there’s always the possibility that if I “forget” to ask her if she wants to help in some way, she’ll freak out and we’ll have to go back and start whatever it is over from the beginning (which is not always possible, especially if we’re talking about the bathroom).

As one can imagine, we have a pretty specific morning routine where Grace “helps” me get dressed before breakfast. It’s a good thing we don’t have to get anywhere in a hurry every morning, but then again it’s probably because we don’t have a place to be that we were able to develop this drawn out routine. I’m trying to think of something funny to say about toddlers and routines and whatnot that can end this post, but I’m coming up blank so I’ll just say that life is good.

 

Cleanliness, housekeeping, excess.

My parents (I almost said my mother, like it was only her responsibility even though both parents worked outside the home…but that’s a post for some other day when I’m feeling more political) were never great at home maintenance in terms of house cleaning. Cleaning was something to be done in binges before company came over (or for whatever other reason), but we never really got in to a weekly or even monthly cleaning routine. I did have some friends with weekly chores. One friend even had a weekly cleaning time that she would participate in with her whole family, everyone doing their part to keep the house clean. I somewhat kept my room as tidy as i wanted it to be, but never actually cleaned as in dusting or vacuuming.

This makes it sound like our house was a pit of dirt, which it wasnt. Somehow cleaning happened but it was never really on a regular basis and I wouldnt be able to begin to tell you who did what and when. Part of that, though, is due to my inability to remember much of my childhood. (Again, a post for another time and another mindset.)

 

Medicine. Yay?

Coughing and coughing, off and on during the day, then waking her up early in the morning or keeping her from sleeping well during a nap. Then so much coughing she threw up a bit. Ped appointment where her lungs and throat were fine, so ped diagnosed reflux. Kiddo was all excited about going to the pharmacy to get her medicine. She seemed quite enthusiastic.

Then it came time to actually take the medicine.