Really Hot Weater, no AC and the end of PPD

As a young girl, my mother always, and I mean always, insisted on using the air conditioning.  I suspect it is due to her being born and raised in the New Orleans, southern Mississippi area (yes, I did just sing M-I-S-S, I-S-S, I-P-P-I to get it right).

Moving to Germany required adjustments to many things.  For one, the weather here in NRW is far milder year-round than the weather in NE Ohio.  Every summer, it hits about 90 degrees for all of 3 days.  By the end of the third day, I am researching the costs of a room air conditioner, only to have the temperature drop back down to a lovely low- to mid-70s.

Normally, June is a month (as I remember) for the moderate weather. 

But this week, we jumped from a nice cool 68 degrees to over 90. 

It was miserable.

Hot.

(Not humid though – that was nice.)

But ridiculously hot. 

And not that kind of hot where instead of cooking at home you could grab a bite in a nice air conditioned restaurants. Nope.  Most restaurants do NOT have AC. 

There is no escaping integrating oneself into life with German weather.

And then, today, the rains came.  And they came hard and fast.  Soaked Bubba Joe and I through and through even with our umbrellas – which are a standard German attire – within a few seconds.

But the temperature is back down to what I call a June normal.

And that makes me feel human again.

But today marks a special occasion for me – it was my last therapy appointment.  I have been seeing a therapist for two years now.  We discuss mostly what is going on in life at the moment, but have addressed the issues in my past, including postpartum depression, preeclampsia, prematurity, feelings of guilt and the desire to fix the world.

I really liked my therapist.  She was open and honest and approachable (not what I had typically pictured as your stereotypical German therapist) and has helped me to become well, me again.

Turns out that I like me and that while I cannot change the world (why oh why don’t they do what I want them to do when I want them to do it) but I am making a change for the better in what I do and with whom I have contact with.

What’s up buttercup?

Since it has been, well, forever since writing, it feels strange to start again.  But I miss writing here … so if you’re still around, cool. 

Four years after my daughter’s birth, I am finally free of antidepressents.  The weaning process sucked.  Seriously.  It sucked.  I have found bits and pieces of information about weaning off setraline but there was nothing concise.

Mind you, I am glad that I was able to tolerate the medicine and it did help me get through the past few years, but weaning was a bit of a long road.

I am now sewing.  I can’t knit much anymore because I need to have surgery on my left hand – and I have always joked that I couldn’t sew, but I could poke myself with the needles but lo and behold, this girl can sew!  

Sadly, I seemed to have accumulated 3 sewing machines in a 6 month period – making dear sweet hubby not so happy, but, but, but …

I like sewing.  I like repaing the clothes we have.

I feel so domesticated. (Of course, it might be influenced by my desire today to bake 2 pies – and pie baking here in Germany means making your own crust.)

Bubba Joe is finishing up his first school year.  I get to hang with him 2 hours per week, teaching him English because, well, he was bored out of his mind in school.  (I am thankful that the school allows me to go in to teach him – but also am a bit frustrated that this was the only real solution.)

His sister is finally finding her own way.  She is terribly shy and that has made it difficult to get her to do anything without her brother or her cousin (who is 3 months younger but very outgoing).  

She really wanted to take dance lessons but when we went in, she would just sit ON me.  That is, until I bought her ballerina clothes.  And poof! just like that, magically, she became a ballerina and all her fears fell away.  Now she takes dance two times a week and wakes in the morning asking, do I get to dance today??  Wonderful!

I am playing piano again – practicing for my audition to begin my formal Suzuki Piano Teacher training.  I know me, and I know that I work well … with deadlines.  But I also recognize that I want to re-learn these pieces as a woman with a lifetime behind her and a lifetime ahead of me – play the rests, count, breathe, take your time, listen, can you feel what he wanted from the music?  

We’ve actually started planning a bit ahead – planning in my book means booking summer holidays (whereas “Germans” would have booked their summer vacations last year).

And during all these things, I am starting to think about what I want to do, who I want to be and where I am.  I am pondering returning to work in a few years – but to do what?  Maybe teach? maybe go and get my doctorate?  There are just so many options … 

Fostering a new adventure

Tomorrow is a big day for me.  I turn 38.  I am a bit freaked about the prospect of eventually dieing one day, but plan on that being a long, long time from now.

The one thing I have learned in my life is that while it is good to make plans and preparations, it is better to be flexible with them.

We are in the process of adopting.  Well, we are in the beginning stages.  BJD has flip-flopped a bit – but that is mostly his fears and lack of familial support.

During our first visit, the woman asked if we would be interested in fostering.  I said no.  I don’t share well.  We definitely wanted to adopt – a younger sibling at that.

See that?  Plans in place.  Preparations being made.

What do you think has happened since?

Bubba Joe has a friend.   His mom is a single-parent.  His friend was needing a foster home.  (Do you see where I am going here?)

He is now with us.  It has been a bit longer than a month with many ups and downs.  We have not had the support we hoped for from social services but we are confident in our capabilities, kinda.  It seems to be working more than it is not working and for right now, that is enough.

Our adoption plans are still in place – BJD has a second meeting today to discuss his fears and concerns.

And, drum roll please … I have decided what I want to do with my life.

I have worked in many industries, have my MBA (remember me talking about how presumptuous it is to speak of grad school and differentiating that from undergrad?) and have seriously been considering getting my PhD – though in what I don’t know.  My undergraduate degree was in Applied Music (basically theory – because I chickened out of a senior recital).

I have contacted the Uni-Münster about studying for my PhD there – and the process seems pretty straightforward.  But then what do I do with a PhD?  I don’t really want to work full-time.  I enjoy volunteering … and knitting … (I do NOT under any circumstances enjoy cleaning – a clean house, yes, but cleaning no way!)

And so, I have decided to become a certified Suzuki piano teacher.

It is the method in which I learned at the age of 3.  And it is the ear training that has helped in learning to speak German.

So I have been practicing again … on the piano we purchased with the money my dad left when he died – a beautiful baby grand with an amazing tone and touch and feel.

I am home again.

Has it really been that long?

I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I have thought about what I would blog when I took the time to sit down and actually blog. 

But then, life got away from me.

A quick run-down …

• I had carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand last year.  It was horrifying to see my hand after surgery (I watched BTW) but one year later and I love my right hand!  Now I am procrastinating getting my left hand fixed.
• Henry has started school.  Here it starts at the 1st grade.  He is struggling with not wanting to do homework and has even had a fight at school.  But his teacher insists that he is doing okay and we have faith in her.
• Speaking of faith, religion here is pretty basic – Lutheran or Catholic, with a strong tendency towards Catholicism.  Anne Catherine Emmerich is buried at the church that was associated with Henry’s preschool.  I have been seriously considering converting to Catholicism as for me, it is most important to give our children a base than it is to give nothing because there is no Methodist church within reasonable distance (the closest is 1.5 hours away!)
• Sofia, as it turns out, is much like me.  Quite shy.  Shy you say?  Yup, I am surprisingly uncomfortable in new surroundings and my mom insists that she sent me to multiple preschools to help me in my separation anxiety.  She is doing okay at preschool, but would absolutely prefer to be home with me all.day.long. 
• Given the complexity of my pregnancies, we have decided we will not have anymore biological children.  I was surprised when Alex told me last year that he wanted to look into adoption.  Turns out, the process here where we live specifically, is pretty straight-forward.  The process has started …
• I am still knitting like a fool.
• I have begun playing piano again.  I also have it in the works to begin the process to become certified to teach the Suzuki Piano Method.  It is the method I was taught when I began playing at the age of 3.5 and I really want our kids to play.  (Plus it really seems a shame that the baby grand we brought here with us – my dad’s last gift to me – doesn’t get use!)
• Alex is doing well professionally.  He travels quite often – and brings small treasures back.

I guess that’s enough for now … let’s see if I can keep up with this for a while more …

A Revival

Have you met Mrs. Spit?  If you haven’t, she’s a woman worth knowing.  She’s strong and compassionate and I  imagine her as a someone with whom not just knows her manners (as I do, honest, I know about them) but actually USES them.

She posted about happiness.

Which got me to thinking about me.

And I have been realising lately that I am happy.

Wait.

Let me try that again.

I am happy!  I am satisfied.  I am finding pleasure in things that I never thought I would.

I have always considered myself to be a bit (yes, just a bit) of a workaholic.  If I do something, I commit 110% .  If I don’t, it’s because I don’t like it.

Which leads to my current living situation.

Alex and I celebrated 10 years of marriage this year.

And finally, FINALLY, we have lived in one place for more than a few years.  In fact, we have committed to staying here in Dülmen.  And in doing so, painted.  Colors.  On walls.  Which means our half of the house is no longer stark white walls with start white tiles (standard German rental property) but is a lovely taupey with grey and blue and well, just lovely.

Even before the painting though, I realize how happy I am that Alex works in a company that provides his the challenges and financial security that make him happy and allow me to  stay home.

I have found that (gasp!) I like cleaning.  Well, not so much cleaning as having a clean house.

And stuff being organized.

Maybe someday I will get pics up of our house – with all it’s order, cleanliness and color!

We had the piano tuned today.  I still find it strange that in German, one specifies  between a piano (i.e. upright) and grand (what we have – well, a baby grand).  Alex is playing right now.

My right hand is doing very well after carpal tunnel surgery. We have agreed to wait until winter time to have the surgery on my left.

I am still knitting – but have found some things to be too hard on my right hand (like cables – which I love the look of).

And Sofia has started preschool part-time.

I plan on finding a teacher for piano.  I would like to think that I am advanced enough to learn new pieces on my own – I am.  But I require the whip.  I need the accountability.

I also have a plan to lose weight.  Well, the plan is simply to lose weight.  I’m still struggling with implementing it, but our health insurance has some good initiatives that I am hoping will help.  I am 5’1” on a very tall day. 10 years ago, I was 130 pounds.

Now, I am pretty steadily between 175-180 pounds.  I am snacking less and exercising more.  But as my neurologist said (here in Germany, you see a neurologist for depredssion and carpal tunnel stuff.  crazy, eh?) it could very well be the meds I am on for both depression and high blood pressure.

I have noticed signficant pitting edema with the new BP meds I am on and have an appointment tomorrow to have them changed.

Plans are in the works.

I am a revival in the making.

A wonderful evening at the circus – Cirque Bouffon

My niece has been visiting for the past month.  We had planned on attending an opera in Münster last weekend, but the traffic back from our family reunion was horrific, so we missed the opera.

To make it up to her, I found some tickets via groupon for the Cirque Bouffon, a cirque neuveau, along the style of Cirque du Soleil.

One word.  Amazing.

It was an intimate setting, with one big tent and seats all around.  Every seat was a good seat.

I won’t tell you much about the storyline, but I will tell you that it was the most impressive performance I have seen.  Ever.

What I enjoyed the most, though, was that the entire theme surrounded around musicicians.  Not just the circus performers, but actual musicians – a bassist from the Ukraine not only performed but composed the “script”; a xylophonist who seemed to enjoy being in the background but then is coerced on stage to perform beautifully.  There was a vocalist, who’s singing abilities matched her beauty and an accordianist who, well, just wow.  Wow wow wow!

I found myself saying out loud – “no way” and “oh my!” and WOW!”

Each and every moment built upon the last and just when you think it can’t get better, it does.

A rope act, juggling, dance, acrobats, and hoop artists …

Sensual, personal, moving, and at times, sad …

I fought back tears at times and found myself wooping with the best of them at others.

I cannot thank this circus enough for bringing such a wonderful performance to my heart.

Reoccuring Dreams

It all began just over 5 years ago, just after my dad died.

I had dreams so realistic, so emotional, I sometimes wondered if they were dreams or just memories.

Only if they were real they would be awful.

I dreamt last night that my dad was alive.  Again.

He had died.  I did his eulogy.  I led my family in planning the funeral. These things happened in real life and were a part of my past in my reoccuring dream.

But then, somehow, he was alive again.

Walking, talking, alive.  Still sick and dying, but not dead.

And then he died again.  And I am stuck dealing with all these emotions all over again.  The disbelief, the shock, the anger, then overwhelming sadness.

Even as I type, tears stream down my face.

His death was such a significant blow to my immediate family.  It destroyed each of us – my brother, my sister, my mom and I.  We each went our own way in dealing with it.

And I haven’t had to relive this (in a dream) for quite some time.

This dream was an indicator of how deep my depression was and always meant my meds needed to be adjusted.

But I am at the end of it all!  It isn’t fair or right to have this dream again.  I was done with dealing with the grief of losing my father.  How dare I have a dream of him living and dying again??

In this dream, I was surrounded by childhood friends, laughing and having fun.  Then my dad dies.  I am so angry by this that I refuse to participate in the funeral planning, much less give a eulogy.

I woke up from this dream, with the feeling that I had been sobbing for hours – the same feeling I had when my dad did die.  The feeling of sublime reality – is this what my life is to be like from now on?

I hate this dream.  I much prefer the ones where I have to go back to college to finish up a class (in spite of having a graduate degree – which is strange because I keep saying in this dream that I have a graduate degree but that I must finish one class to get my bachelor degree).  Or the classic forgetting your locker combination in high school.

 

 

PPD – the ups and downs

As I continue to write about my experience with PPD I am amazed at how many women feel the same as I do, or have.

To me, the worst part of PPD was not how it destroyed every last bit of me that once knew. No, it was that not every day (or every moment depending on the day) was a bad day.

The hardest part for me was in fact when I had a good day. When Henry didn’t scream so much. When Sofia’s belly wasn’t so full of air. When I actually took a shower, including shaving my pits (and giving them a good scrubbing in hopes to get rid of that funk).

Those were good days.

And they felt so rewarding.

Sometimes, it felt as thought a lightbulb went off and “click” this, I mean this was what it was supposed to feel like to be a mom.

Capable.

Confident.

Maybe not the prettiest, or sexiest. But definitely stronger than weak.

And then something, any one thing would go wrong.

And I was a failure all over again.

I used to think of depression as sitting around, moping and crying and just feeling sorry for myself.

Now, for me, that was definitely a part of my PPD, but I was angry, irritated and sick and tired of feeling miserable. It took so much energy to find joy.

I can honestly say that I did not enjoy that first laughter from either of my children.

I didn’t rejoice in their first teeth or first crawl, or the first time they ate food.

Sure, you can find pictures that I took documenting those occasions, but I did not, deep in my heart, have that feeling that *I* as a mom, was proud.

But to tell you the truth, I don’t regret my lack of pride in those occasions.

For me, Sofia eating solids was more about her belly learning to fill up and digest something other than my milk. I wanted, no, I needed to nurse her as the only thing I alone could do.

But I also needed a break every now and then.

I have begun to celebrate things that my children do.

Henry deciding to ride his bike, WITHOUT training wheels. I actually jumped up and down and screamed in joy and excitement (rather than the screaming I have done at him in the past – I write that with shame).

It never helped me in the depths of my PPD to know that others found a way to the end – all it did was piss me off. Where was my end? When would I feel bettter?

and then eventually, fearfully asking, would I ever feel normal? What if I hate the new normal?

I don’t have answers yet, because I am not yet through.

But I can tell you I have more ups than downs.

And I am learning that the downs do not have to be the end of an up.

Let me interface this – I hate roller coasters. I mean hate. I like to think of PPD as a roller coaster. One of those great ones that people stand in 2-3 hour lines in 90-degree high humidity heat at Cedar Point.

And I guess that’s why normalcy, with all its boringness and simplicity is so appealing at this point.

Normal.

That’s all I want.

PPD – Expectations

As I reflect upon my journey through motherhood, I realiize that many of the issues I have had to deal with are the same issues I had problems with prior to becoming a mom – expectations.

I have often been told My mom has often  told me that my expectations of others is too high.  My boss has said the same.  It is a constant throughout my life – this notion of my expectations being too high.

When I first became pregnant with Henry, it felt wrong.  Alex and I had been trying (or rather, not preventing) for over a year and nothing had happened.  Then my dad died.  The same week he was buried, I conceived.  It just felt, well, as I said before, wrong.

I find myself often disappointed in others – family, friends, co-workers.

I am very hard on myself.  Having PPD just made it worse.

No one could do anything to help me.  There was no fix for my constant feeling of being let down.  My dad was gone.  Each member of my family was grieving in their own way – and none was even remotely similar to another.

Not only was I alone but I was alone and resentful.

I expected that my pregnancy would be normal.  It wasn’t.

I expected that I would return to work before the 12-week postpartum I was allowed.  I didn’t.

I expected that I would easily find balance between working in the office, losing myself in my work (as I had done before) and the obligation I felt as a mom (pumping for Henry while at work).

I expected that since my sister had gone through preeclampsia and a preemie, she would be more understanding/hold my hand/carry me through it all.

Every one of my expectations was unrealistic and unmet.

And I was so angry for so long because of that.

And an angry Alice, much less one dealing with all I was dealing with – well, let’s just say that it wasn’t pretty.

I distinctly remember at one point after Henry’s birth taking a bath.  I started sobbing because I was just so angry at everything.  I raised my fist to God and blamed Him for everything.

I was done.

Soon after, I took a leave of absence from work.

I stopped functioning.

The weight of the world, no, the weight of a day, was so heavy.  The thought of it was unbearable.

I began seeing a therapist three times a week.

I was too tired to take Henry to daycare, so he stayed with me.

I felt guilty about everything.

And, somehow, I expected my life to be different.  I expected that even though my pregnancy, delivery and baby were not what I considered “normal”, that I could just deal with it.  That I would just suck it up, get on with my life and live.

At the age of 3, I started taking piano lessons.  I continued them throughout college, majoring in music.  But Henry hated me playing – it was too much stimulation.

I am learning to try to set realistic expectations.  I expect my husband to be honest and fair and gently and kind.  I expect the same of myself in return to him.

I expect that one day, I will figure out this hausfrau business – until then, I expect to get up daily, get dressed in non-stretchy pants (unless of course, I am giving myself a lazy day), brush my teeth, keep laundry going, take care of the dogs and the kiddoes and remember to feed us all as healthily as I can.

I expect that my faith, while being tested, will continue to remain and will, in fact, grow stronger.

I expect that I will continue to set unrealistic expectations but will learn to deal with them better than I have in the past.

Sofia’s up!  Got to go … I expect we’ll be going for a bike ride soon.

PPD – the beginning

Since my last post, I find myself in a weird emotional state.  In general, I feel more me than I have in a long time.

So good, in fact, that I am considering attempting another mutter-kind-kur (mother-child cure – a 3-week long intense therapy/health retreat).

But of course, in looking at this, it brings back the memories of the last time I attempted a mutter-kind-kur.  Sofia was 7 months old, Henry only 3.  It was horrible.  I just couldn’t deal with being a mom all.the.time with no break whatsoever.

Which, of course, only accentuated my feeling of failure.

I had already failed in providing both of my children a safe haven in my womb (thank you preeclampsia).  Wasn’t taking care of them 24/7 supposed to be just, easy?  I mean, I had children to hold and love on every day.  There are many women who don’t.  Couldn’t I just be grateful for what I had?  and what is it, anyway, that I want as a mother?

See.

These are the feelings that are now going through my mind.  The memories of how bad it was and when I realized that I was going through it a second time.

With Henry, I tried so hard to be the career woman I had been.   I mean, come on,  I had worked full-time (plus some) AND gone to grad school.

A long standing conversation between Alex and I was that I thoroughly believed that you could in fact, have it all.  It was merely up to you to decide what that meant.  Then go for it.

Well, that is all the past now.

I couldn’t have it all.  I could not work, be a wife, and a mom, and find peace and harmony and flowers and songs and sunshine in it all.

Nope.

Instead, I felt this increasing pressure in my core being.  A suffocation of everything that I am, everything I once believed in was in question and doubt.

The only connection I felt to Henry was that of guilt.  Guilt because I didn’t feel any connection.  Sure, I breastfed him.  But he was a sick baby.  And he had a milk-protein allergy on top of reflux and colic.  Breastfeeding was the only thing I figured that he needed me for – everything else he could get from somewhere else.

And THAT made me feel worse!

One day, I picked Henry up in his hoity-toity daycare (specialized in babies and only took children up to the age of 18 months), came home and sat.

I don’t remember if he was asleep  in the carseat or not.

I don’t remember much of anything from that moment on.

I simply remember sitting.

and stopping.

Alex came home to find me unable to function.

I completely shut down.

And short of breastfeeding, I had no connection to Henry.

OTHER – than when he was sick.  There was this strange connection I have had with my son since he was born.  I know instinctively when something is wrong, when medical intervention is necessary.  I have heard about a mother’s instincts.  They are very real.

And now, as I try to decide whether to really do a 3-week kur, I am just not sure how ready I am for intense therapy and really looking at what I continue to avoid.