A Word About Fathers

I wanted to talk about WB's first Father's Day, which was just lovely. We had a wonderful afternoon driving through the country and going for a wine tasting at a local winery. It was sweet and romantic and we had a great time. But I don't want to write about that, I want to write about fathers. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Well, ok, the good and the bad.

I've been having a very difficult time with my father lately. And by difficult I mean he reduces me to tears at least twice a week. And by tears I mean big huge messy bouts of sobbing. (Maybe this is where the ugly comes in?) He's been spending every weekend with his new girlfriend- the girlfriend that he started dating a mere month after my mother died. My mother that he was married to for almost 39 years. He barely waited for rigor mortis to set in. Needless to say I had a bit of a hard time listening to him tell me how he was in love with her, so I asked him to please respect my grief and not talk to me about her. After the 5th request (and at the behest of numerous friends and WB) he complied. Since then things have been strained, to say the least. He doesn't really want to talk at all if he can't talk about her, and I'm sure the only reason he sees us is to see the LFM.

50% of my immediate family have died, and the ones left standing when the smoke cleared were the ones who always clashed the most. He is all I have left of my original family, and yeah, I know I'm creating a new family...but that doesn't just automatically replace the need for the old one, you know?

So this has all come to a head with several recent conversations. The other week, when I told him I needed a Dad, he said he was perfectly willing to be there for me, as long as it was a weekday. When I asked if maybe he could take just one weekend away from his girlfriend..one weekend for us, for his grandson..he said no, he didn't want to. We could see him any time on the weekdays and on the weekends if we want his girlfriend to be a part of things as well. That was hurtful. He was essentially telling me that he places this new woman above his only living child, above his grandchild. WB was so horrified upon hearing my father say these things that he had to walk away, lest he blurt out exactly what he was thinking.

But that conversation seems like the sweetest sonnet in comparison to the cruelty that was tonight's conversation. A conversation in which I mostly sobbed and asked "why are you treating me like this? why are you speaking to me like this? Please stop yelling at me!" while he ranted at me for 20 minutes. The conversation began innocuously...we were talking about the house hunting that WB and I are about to embark on. Then he starts in on how we don't really want his advice (live in the county, not the city...which would probably make us fairly miserable) and how we should just do whatever the hell we wanted. I was trying to discuss the pros and cons of both options, trying to have a discussion about this major life decision and he starts yelling at me about how tired he is of hearing me talk things to death and how I should just go buy a house and not think about it so much. That I think things to death and just go do it and shut up about it. How he doesn't want to hear about it, just take Mimi's money and have fun with it and stop acting like everything is the end of the world.

At which point I try to tell him that I want to share these things with him because he's my family, and I always talked everything through with my mother. But he doesn't want to hear that. He's begun this tirade, and the momentum is clearly overpowering him. He starts yelling at me about how I'm 32 years old, and how at 32 he didn't call his dad and ask him for advice or want to talk things over with him. Evidently in his world there is an age limit to being someone's child...and expiration date on fatherhood. He continued onward to tell me that he doesn't want to hear about my feelings, because he doesn't really care how I feel, and he's tired of me being so down about everything (yes, he actually said this). I, of course, was crying this whole time, and trying desperately to understand where all this was coming from. I told him that I just needed him to be my dad, to love and support me, and that wasn't a ridiculous thing to ask for, even at 32. He asked what that means, to support someone, and said that if it means listening to me complain he wasn't willing to do it. He told me that he wants me to call him, tell him one or two little unimportant things about my life and hang up. That's it. No talk about feelings, no talk about anything. That I should talk to WB about how I feel, but not him, he doesn't want to hear it. He said he would never be the father I wanted him to be, so I should just get used to it. He mocked me when I asked him why he was speaking to me like this, and that I didn't deserve it, actually repeating it back to me in a mocking voice...like a little child does.

This is a man who has already lost one child to suicide, you'd think he'd be a little more sensitive to a daughter who's going through a pretty bad depression. But no, he was anything but sensitive as he literally yelled over everything I tried to say. It was amazing, really, and horribly hurtful. And it was completely out of the blue, we were just talking about houses. And I'm not even asking him for help with any of this (though we totally need help), I was just telling him what the mortgage people said and going over possibilities with him. When the conversation went downhill he still kept bringing up the house stuff, saying I should just take the money and buy a house and have fun with it, and I kept saying this isn't about buying a house, Dad, this is about us.

He's my only family left, and he was cruel to me. I would classify that horrible conversation as cruel...it doesn't read that way, but picture me sobbing while he yelled all those things at me, unprovoked, and maybe you'll get more of an idea. Then multiply it by 1000.

All this has made me so very thankful for WB, and the wonderful father that he is. Not only would the LFM never have to even say "I need you", if he ever did the request would be met immediately with a flood of love and support and never with derision. I am thankful that this is all unfathomable to WB, because I know and trust that our children will never, at any age, feel abandoned by their parents.

It also made me fantasize about skipping town with no forwarding address. Seriously.

PPD

I have a post in the works about mother's day, but who knows when it will be completed. Instead I'm living (and posting) in the moment. And the moment is and has been pretty tough lately. I've been dealing with some very heavy post partum depression mixed with a liberal dose of grief and that's just not my favorite recipe in the world. I'm feeling pretty fragile these days...like cracked pottery that just might break into a million fragments the next time you put it in the dishwasher of life. I didn't even fully realize how hard its been and the extent of what I've been feeling until I went to see our wonderful wise midwife the other day and my busy bee facade of I'm handling it just crumbled before her gentle loving gaze. The truth is I'm a mess. A huge weepy overwhelmed mess. And now I'm putting my mess out there for all the world to see. I am not handling things well, and I pretty much want to hide under the covers and cry all the time. But I can't. The LFM needs me, WB needs me, the laundry...well, never mind, at this point the apartment is one giant metaphor for my emotional state. Hopeless.

And amidst all of this, my father (and everyone else really) is pressuring me to take advantage of the real estate market and buy a house with Mimi's death money as a substantial down payment. Because you know, when I'm overwhelmed and sobbing from little things like making dinner or getting the car inspected, that's the perfect time to make major life decisions, right?

A Bit of Honesty

Its the middle of the night, the LFM is sleeping soundly, WB is snoring away in the next room and its ideal sleeping situation for me...but I can't sleep. The injustice of what I just typed is overwhelming. So instead, I will enjoy the freedom of typing with two hands, and delve into a little bit of new motherhood honesty.

I'm having a bit of an identity crisis these days. I can't seem to find or recognize myself at all. I know its completely normal..I mean, hell, any number of the major life changes of the past 9 months alone would probably cause an identity crisis of sorts, much less all at once. But here you have it- at moments I feel utterly lost, to myself especially. I know who I am as the LFM's mother, as WB's partner...but who am I now as a person, in addition to those things? Right now I just feel lost. Lost and incredibly boring. I used to be interesting and funny with a quirky edge, and now I am just fat, tired, and incredibly boring.

One thing that may be a difficult factor is that I'm not acting or pursuing acting at the moment, and that's always defined so much of who I am. I feel disconnected from the theatre community here these days, and considering I just left the LFM alone with WB for the first time ever last Saturday, it may be a while before I can even think about doing a show here. I received a phone call yesterday from a casting director in New York, whom I had taken a commercial acting class with several years ago (and who had called me in for a national spot shortly after the class had finished because he liked my work). He was calling to ask me to come in to audition for a commercial, and I had to tell him that I was not currently living in the city. So he asked if I was gone permanently, and I had no idea how to answer that one (especially to a casting director), so I explained that for the moment I was gone because I just had a baby. He congratulated me and said "If you get back in the game, let me know". Ouch! I know I'm no longer in the game, but to hear it spoken out loud crushed a little something in my soul. I'm no longer in the game!

Okay, so then where am I? Where do I even want to be? I've been pining for New York a lot lately, but is that where I really want to be with a child? Or am I pining just a little bit for the life that was?

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to be a mother, I adore motherhood, and I love the LFM with a fierceness I never knew was possible. I would not trade motherhood for all the national spots in the world and I knew the moment I saw that little plus sign that the world was going to be a very different place for me. Its just that I'm still not sure what that place is for me and where I fit in with regards to this new world and the remnants of the old world. WB best summed it up tonight at dinner when he said that between cancer and the move from NYC and death and birth and postpartum difficulties, its like we were picked up by this gigantic tornado and torn from everything we knew and transplanted into an entirely new terrain and we're still standing there dizzy and reeling and asking "What the fuck just happened?".

I'm also realizing that I do get a little bit lonely during the day, even though I try to leave the house at least for a little bit every day. Sometimes the interaction with the cashier at the store just isn't quite enough, and while I do love conversing with the LFM all day, his grasp of sarcasm still leaves something to be desired. Yet somehow our days seem so full that to fit in a little extra socializing seems difficult. How can this be? And why is it that the days seem so much easier when we are out and about all day than when we are just at home most of the day?

I know these are all normal new mama feelings that everyone goes through, yet I somehow feel so pathetic for feeling them. That and the fact that I am by far the fattest I've ever been in my life (all those comfort sweets in this difficult postpartum period have not helped, I'm sure) are just plain depressing.

And then I look over at the bed to my sweet boy and everything softens. None of this is permanent. I just keep telling myself that. These are the growing pains of life, and I will find my way again. This is just one of many moments...and I should be enjoying them.

Actually, what I should be doing is sleeping. Grrrrr.....

The Latest and Not So Greatest

The LFM at his first bath, about 2.5 weeks old

After his first bath, tasting the towel to make sure it was still fresh

This has been a hard week with much grieving...grieving over milk, grieving over Mimi's death, and yesterday was the 9 year anniversary of my brother's suicide. 9 years? Really? Where did they go? And why has my family done more shrinking than growing in that time?

Last week I had my 6 week checkup (even though it was technically 7 weeks) with our amazing midwife, whom I love and respect so dearly I cannot even write about her in any way that does her justice. And more significant than the fact that I got the okay to start having sex again (not that exhaustion creates all that much desire mind you) was the discussion about milk that ensued. This amazing woman, whose opinion I trust more than just about anyone else's, told me that I'm never going to be able to solely breastfeed. She said that if the milk production was going to turn around, it would have already. She said that we tried absolutely everything and we tried valiantly and for longer than most, but that now it was time to move forward. She said it all far more gently and poetically though. The lactation consultant agreed, and said she was thinking the same things.

And I broke. Just a little bit. I broke.

So what does moving forward mean exactly?

On the one hand, it means gradual liberation form my jailer, the evil pump. This is the positive side of the coin. It means that in a few weeks I'll only be pumping once or twice a day, simply to give Jonah the teensiest bit more breastmilk. It means not freaking out about missing a pumping and feeling eternally guilty when I do. It means no more obsessing every single second of the day and night about my milk supply and how to increase it, because I have to let go of the control there and accept that it just may not increase, even with all the pumping in the world.

On the other hand it means letting go of that dream that I've been clinging so tightly to. It means there's a mean voice in my head that needs to be banished calling me inadequate and a failure. It means this is just one more painful thing that I have no control over and just have to swallow and accept, even despite my constant hard work and vigilance. It means a lot of pain and tears on top of a preexisting mountain of grief from Mimi's death. It means great jealousy of other Mama's who can nurse no problem and great bitterness towards those who can but chose not to. It means bitterness towards the universe. It means the straw that may not be breaking this camel's back, but its certainly injuring it.

And now the plan. The plan is first and foremost that I have a therapy appointment Monday morning with a therapist of my wonderful midwife's reccomendation, because the LFM does not need a depressed and constantly crying Mama on top of everything else. Feeding wise, the plan is that every feeding I nurse him on each breast so he can get as much as they can offer (which was about an ounce and a half total between both breasts at 2:45pm Friday at the lactation consultant's) and then he gets his supplement of pumped breastmilk and/or formula on the breast with a Supplemental Nursing System (SNS).

So we're still breastfeeding, just not entirely, and that's what I'm clinging to for dear life. My new mantra that I repeat about every other second of the day is I AM A BREASTFEEDING MAMA. The midwife says that I need to be able to stand on the hill near our apartment which overlooks the city and scream that I am a breastfeeding Mama, and that this is just how my particular body breastfeeds and I need to find a way to embrace that. I need to find a way to get to a place of peace and acceptance and I need to be able to appreciate my breasts for what they can produce. And I'm trying I really am.

Yesterday, at a friend's baby shower, someone turned to me and asked the dreaded question of whether or not I was breastfeeding. To my credit I answered yes, but then launched into the whole explanation about the low supply and having to supplement and at one point she said something along the lines of "So you're not entirely brastfeeding" and internets, it killed me to hear that, it really did. When I explained abot all the work we were doing she then said something about how I've worked hard for every drop I can give, so she did finally get it, but it still stings a little, you know?

And now I must go nurse my baby, because he's hungry and I AM A BREASTFEEDING MAMA.

What I Have Not Been Writing About

My Happy Smiley Treasure

Must. Type. at Speed of Light. [while the LFM is (miracle of miracles) not in my arms...a rare occurrence indeed]

Okay, so what I have not been writing about, because it has been devastatingly heartbreaking to me, but what has been occupying my every waking moment and my every waking and sleeping moment, is milk. Specifically the lack thereof. I should preface this for those who may not be in the know, that breastfeeding has always been something that is so incredibly important to me, even before the LFM was an itch in his Daddy's pants. Its something I looked forward to, not only for the superior nutrition I believe it gives, but also for the bonding factor. And I love that bonding factor, I truly do. I adore nursing, even in the middle of the night, and Jonah loves it too. I love that when he wants comfort he asks for and looks for it in my breast- that he knows that is always a safe place for him. I love nourishing him with my body.

And that last one is where the heartbreak begins.

The LFM hasn't been getting as much nourishment from these breasts as he needs since the get go. We've been having to supplement with formula since we discovered at about 2 weeks old that he wasn't getting enough to eat. Since that time I've also been busting my proverbial balls to increase my milk supply through a prescription med, every herbal remedy known to woman, and a rigorous and demanding schedule of incessant pumping so that each feeding takes about an hour to an hour and a half with nursing then giving the bottle then pumping. And make no mistake about it, the pumping sucks. It sucks beyond belief. I feel like a moo cow imprisoned by this machine- I can't go anywhere without either bringing it along or racing to be back in tgime to pump. Its been my jailor but I was hoping it was also to be my savior, so I dutifully stick to it for the last month, charting my way through the whole endeavor to log every single ounce and cc I got. I went to the Lactation Consultant every week, the pediatrician every 5 days, suffered through thrush in the LFM's mouth and on my nipples (ie stabbing pain in my breasts every time I nursed and pumped) and cried endless buckets of tears, but I was certain that in the end it would be worth it. That all the hard work would yield a bountiful harvest of milk in the end, because doesn't hard work pay off? Don't I deserve a little slack from the universe after everything?

It seems like the universe is slapping me in the face here. Or getting quite a laugh at my expense. Or both.

Because when I went to the Lactation Consultant's last Friday, the cruelest of the cruel was revealed...my supply now seems to be decreasing.

I'm sure its hard for most of you to understand why this is even a big deal...if you have enough milk you can't understand, if you chose to bottle feed you can't understand, and if you're a guy or have no kids, fuck you if you even think you can try to understand. Basically I feel like the world's most inadequate mother. I feel like my body has betrayed me. I feel like I'm missing out on something everyone else gets to have. And I feel like this is just one more thing that cancer has stolen from me.

And the grief, she is immense.

And I want my Mama.

We're not giving up yet, but its not looking good at all.

When do I get a little break here in the sadness and grief dept?

Le Fin

Mimi died this morning, probably around 4:30am in her sleep. I'm sure she chose to die when everyone was asleep, and I'm just so glad that the end was so very quick. Its all so surreal...that's all I can keep saying, over and over again (in 3 different languages...I'm so freaking confused I don't even know what language I'm speaking!). I don't know what else there is to say. I'm just praying we don't go into labor before the funeral, which is Tuesday at noon. I really really want to be there, and its already heartbreaking enough that she missed the one thing she was doing her best to hold on for...I now want to be the one who holds on and makes it.

Sadness and Joy

No baby yet, but it looks like a far closer race between birth and death than any of us would wish for. I'm pretty sure birth will occur first, but unfortunately the joy and sadness will be pretty intermingled.

They already are.

Mimi has agreed to go into hospice and hopefully they'll be able to make her very comfortable at home. She is pretty much no longer able to do anything on her own- last night WB and I had to run out there at 1am (she couldn't get my Dad on the phone, who was sleeping in the next room) to cover her with more blankets...blankets that are situated on a chair beside the recliner she sleeps in. That's about where we're at now, she can't even reach right next to her to get a blanket when she's cold. Sitting upright isn't even always doable- she's been doing the world's best leaning tower of Pisa impression lately. Dad says that she fell out of the wheelchair today and now needs to be strapped in. I don't even know what to say...its more heartbreaking than you could ever even imagine, and to be going through it while on the verge of becoming a mother myself...well, needless to say my emotional state is pretty damn fragile.

At the beautiful blessingway that was thrown for me last wed (which I totally wanted to get to write about), I feel like I created a space for joy amidst all the grief. It has been incredibly challenging to maintain that space and not let it be overwhelmed by grief and sadness. I don't want to birth my baby in sadness- I don't want his story to begin that way.

Fuck, I don't want any of this story to be happening this way.

I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?

Sleepless in Hippoland

The 3rd trimester insomnia/uncomfortableness is killing me here. I'm just getting over a horrible upper respiratory infection and a week of being a walking snot faucet and now I can't sleep. At all.

Also, did I ever happen to mention on this blog how WB got that particular moniker? It stands for Wild Boar...which is exactly what he sounds like when he sleeps. Seriously. I am not exaggerating at all. The first time he ever spent the night and slept (evidently he stayed up all not a few times, knowing just how terrifying the first exposure could be), I woke up in the middle of the night convinced there was some sort of wild animal in my bed. While that can be a good thing in the waking hours, when you're trying to sleep through that sound in your ear (night after night) it can try even the calmest and most patient of nerves.

I am all the way across our huge floor through apartment and he is in the bedroom behind a closed door and I hear him loud and clear right now. And even 1000 feet away (I totally made up that number, I have no idea how far it is, just far enough that any normal person's snoring would not be audible) its incredibly annoying. No, really. Trust me. I'm cringing as I type this.

Every night I wear the highest decibel blocking earplugs I can find in the drugstore and he wears a nasal snore strip and one of 3 things inevitably happens at some point in the night:
1. I ruthlessly kick him out of bed and force him to sleep on the very uncomfortable couch. When he carries the next child, he can kick me out of bed.
2. I scream out desperately at the top of my lungs "WB! PULEEZE STOP! JUST STOP! HAVE MERCY ON MY POOR MISERABLE SLEEP DEPRIVED SOUL!"
3. I try and smother him with a pillow.

This nightly cacophonous racket, compounded with an already difficult period sleep wise does not bode well for our little family. Either I will end up a Benadryl addict shivering and alone in an alley somewhere sniffling for my fix and crying that "I just need a little sleep man, just a little!" or the first ever adenoid removal surgery performed in a bedroom just might take place. I'm gazing longingly at the kitchen knives right now.



[Great! Guess who just decided that now would be a perfect time to start to use my abdomen for boxing training? If you need to find me, I'll still be here....awake and miserable all night folks. That's right! 24 hours a day of guaranteed fun!]