An island of green encrusted in jewels
illuminated by the light of oncoming traffic
globes of dandelion fluff sparkling
in the beams undercutting the night mist
a field of glittering diamonds
nothing but a mess of a nuisance by day
An island of green encrusted in jewels
illuminated by the light of oncoming traffic
globes of dandelion fluff sparkling
in the beams undercutting the night mist
a field of glittering diamonds
nothing but a mess of a nuisance by day
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on May 4, 2016
My pace was slow as we approached the store. Partly because I’d just filled my belly and bladder and couldn’t walk without a hitch, but also because I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to crossing the threshold.
My mother and I were headed to the baby superstore. She had kindly offered to supply our new little one with bed linens, mattress pads, etc. It would be fun to pick at least the patterns on the sheets, and it made sense to come to such a store with a ridiculous variety of options; still, I hesitated – and not just when I realized the restrooms were in the far rear corner of the store. (Seriously, people? Preggos and newborns? Damn the marketing man.)
The fact that this store had such a ridiculous variety of options was part of the problem. If I’ve learned anything after three babies, it’s that simpler is usually better. The addition and care of a little person complicates life enough. Why does a parent need a proprietary gizmo for each and every function? They only suck up money and space.
One of the liberating aspects of this older, wiser, and unexpected pregnancy (ie gave away all our stuff) was that it would be bare bones. All that stuff I’d registered for and thought I needed and accumulated now was non sequitur. I could pick and choose what was truly needed to care for my baby. And really, that was not much of anything besides my hands and heart. (though, disposable diapers would be nice).
Especially after the rough ride with #3, I was looking forward to a pared down experience focused on the mother-child bond rather than the circus that can sometimes surround newborns and new motherhood.
So after my mother graciously offered to walk back to the front of the store to acquire a shopping cart, she found me staring glassy-eyed at the crib sheet display.
“You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you?” she asked.
More than anything, I felt like I was in an alternate universe, never having expected to find myself in this aisle again. It had been years. I felt older. A little self-righteous in a been there-done that sort of way. Appalled – and again older – to see how much the prices had gone up since I’d last bought this stuff. Amused by the upper tier options people who didn’t have any frame of reference would actually spring for.
After choosing a good foundation of necessities, we wandered into other departments, which was probably a mistake. Bedding I could do. The child couldn’t sleep itself into a sweaty, sticky mess on a bare mattress. But cradles, and cups and spoons, and bottles, and little padded strap cushions. Mom and I decided to get a few nursing supplies since I’d need those right off and call it a day.
Don’t get me wrong, Mom and I swooned when we saw the adorable itty bitty sheep on a crib sheet. I picked up a little fox and she nearly hugged a fuzzy penguin. Humans love fresh starts, soft little fingers and toes, and the fragility of life we often forget otherwise.
But I feel like the culture of modern motherhood and merchandising drowns all that. Sure, it shines through in a precious petite bodysuit. But the rows of cribs, reclining chairs, canvas art work, and countless accessories? No mother needs all that. If she wants it, fine. But I think the first insidious brainwashing of the perfect mother myth is that she must have it. The material, the physical accoutrements must be perfectly laid for her to perfectly welcome and care for her baby.
For those times when the maternal bond is muddled, all that material just masks the root problem – and ultimate solution – further.
It’s time to get back to basics.
I picture myself holding my baby, swaddling her* close, and facing the world together – without the marketing man anywhere in sight.
*And no, this is not a veiled announcement of the sex of our child; female pronouns just roll off the tongue after three girls
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on April 26, 2016
Before my third child, I never dropped the JC.
I was no pure linguist, but I did not take the name of the Lord in vain.
In the months and years following her birth, it became a regular part of my vocabulary, satisfyingly venting my rage and frustration at things gone wrong. Stupid things. Teeth not being brushed. Butts not being wiped. Nothing that should unleash rage, but they were the proverbial straws.
I knew its use signaled a loss of center, of control.
Perhaps it was a desperate plea. But it came out sounding like a kid forced to say please and thank you. Totally inappropriate in tone and timbre.
Finally, one Lent, I decided to make a focused effort to stop saying it improperly. Keeping track of my missteps, I counted eight uses during those forty days. A significant reduction. I never did decide what would be an appropriate penance for each of those eight uses, but my non-JC oath habit stuck.
So here I am 32 weeks into pregnancy #4 and I’m being pelted with more stupid little straws.
My six year old has decided this is a fabulous time to assert her independence. Not in a dig-your-heels-in toddler sort of way, but in a snotty teenage you-can’t-make-me sort of way. Holding a stuffie I’d told her to put away at least three times, I stood over her as she sat on the bathroom floor fully dressed and not making any attempts to prepare for bed. I had to fight the urge to bean her over the head with it. After numerous non-oath reminders, I unleashed a torrent of reprimands peppered with choice words (though no JC – does that earn me some credit?).
Having to remove myself from the situation, I stalked in our bedroom, where my husband stood.
“This kid isn’t even born yet and I’m already swearing!”
He laughed. I think he appreciates seeing me get as frustrated as he does sometimes.
But his laughter also signaled to me that perhaps my reaction, while a bit overblown, was natural. I may be hyper-vigilant to signs of rage due to my postpartum experience last time, but that doesn’t mean that every freak-out is a bad sign. It could just be a bad day. Or a bad moment.
Just as uttering Jesus Christ in a proper context is not a bad thing, expressing anger or frustration in an appropriate way is not either. I need to watch the tone of my words and actions to see whether I’m struggling. It may not be a spiral, but a slight dip in the mood of the day.
I know many postpartum women – or anyone who’s suffered a mental health crisis – who see a bad day, a down period, a low point as a relapse. But even if it is, having been where we have and coming back from that place, we are equipped to do so faster, better, and with the proper supports.
We also are entitled to the same bad days our “normal” counterparts have all the time. Not every infraction is a sign of our condition, a harbinger of more to come.
Of course, all of this is easier said than done. Ironically, the organ we must rely on most strongly to convince us of our strength and resiliency is also the one most affected by our illness.
In that case, perhaps a call to the Lord would not be in vain.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on April 14, 2016
I never wanted another baby. I didn’t desire to hold one. I didn’t get the ‘aww’s and the itch when I’d see someone else’s. I wouldn’t wistfully remember packing them into footies when I saw someone with toddlers preparing to leave a late-night party.
I would bless my lucky stars it wasn’t me.
The very thought of returning to that period rife with anxiety and stress, dark anger and overwhelming feelings made me a bitter, sarcastic person. I was most certainly the old crone in the corner who said, better you than me.
In fact, just this last summer, a friend and I attended an outdoor concert on the grounds of a winery. As we toasted each other in the camp chairs we’d squeezed into the back end of the event tent to avoid the rain, I thought how lovely it was to get away. We ate our cheese and crackers, we laughed, we reveled in our unfettered evening. As the clouds broke just before sunset, some people ventured onto the surrounding lawn and set up blankets. A stylish young mother in a flowing skirt with dark hair to match, swaddled her baby and rocked to the music. Though we hadn’t said a word to each other, both my friend and I watched the scene; for as soon as I opened my mouth, she knew exactly of whom I spoke.
“Good for her,” I said, in a tone that unmistakably meant – better her than me; taking an infant to an outdoor evening concert, contending with rain; controlling wine intake if he needs to breastfeed; leaving early if he gets cranky.
My friend laughed and, in effect, toasted that sentiment.
The very sight of a mother and child, lovely as it was, brought my back up in disdain, for fear of the anxiety that wasn’t far behind. I was here to escape; I wanted no such reminder of that part of my life I was trying to escape.
And yet, though feelings like this were very authentic, they didn’t sit well with me.
I loved my girls. I welcomed them willingly into my life. I may not have liked or gracefully handled every aspect of my days with them, but I was dedicated to the role and importance of family in the world.
And so, to scorn other people doing the same thing – it did not compute. I knew exactly how hard it was and should have been supportive rather than snarky. And I suppose I wasn’t overtly snarky, but my attitude toward life had changed. I think the snark helped me build a shell around my wounded psyche. I’d returned to real life, but I hadn’t healed. I needed some fail safe so my wounds didn’t weep everywhere while I went about my business.
In September, I got pregnant.
I had referred to number three as a surprise; what a poor example that was compared to this! Six years out from our youngest. All three kids: potty-trained and self-feeding; able to run around without a bodyguard; play dates with friends and some quiet time for us adults.
I felt really silly when I thought back to that scene at the concert. I’d served myself up a huge slice of humble pie. How could I have made such a remark and then go and do it to myself? But there was no way I could’ve held my tongue in preparation for what was to come. I never imagined it would be so.
In the days following the birth of our third, I slept fitfully while the baby dozed nearby. I awoke at one point in a cold sweat, having dreamt I was in labor, contracting forcefully. When I realized it was a dream, I thanked God it was over and prayed I’d never have to do it again. It was almost a PTSD reaction. (side note: my postpartum depression was swiftly developing and I’d had a traumatic recovery from labor)
Yet, here we were. Preparing to do it all over again. With a strange sense of calm. I’d had a spiritual epiphany of sorts at the start of my pregnancy that set me off on a good foot. But I also had already faced nearly everything of which I was afraid. I’d seen how shitty it could be – and how I’d survived.
Obviously not unscathed, given my snarky attitude, but I think that’s precisely why I find myself in this lovely predicament. This baby is a chance to wipe away all my negative associations with expecting and bringing a child into this world. Does that mean I’ll push out roses and sunshine? Hell, no. It’s going to be a hard road, but I feel this experience will also rebirth my wonder in life. My ability to see love and light in little faces and the tired faces of mothers. To once again give a shit, to stand and support myself and other mothers around me. To say, not only will you survive, but you will enter a place of peace – at some point.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on April 12, 2016
The ghost of winter,
a puff of breath
whisking swirls of snow
off the branches and into the air
a last gasp of cold crystals
the pine boughs flash frozen for a moment
and then it’s gone,
green grass poking through the raised mounds of snow
by the fledgling growth of spring
a delicate dance
but gone in the blink of an eye
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on April 5, 2016
I am very much inside myself lately.
Thinking about what needs to get done,
Worrying about pain and exhaustion,
Waiting for my next chance to lie down
I weigh this alone time
for its relaxation
opportunity to accomplish,
both sans wee ones
Motherhood has brought me to this state
and yet, it’s all in my head.
I struggle and strive to survive
yet yearn for me
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on March 31, 2016
After my third pregnancy, it felt like I saw every specialist under the sun. Midwife, general practitioner, physical therapist, behavioral therapist, chiropractor, podiatrist. It took a lot of work to put me back together physically and mentally.
My schedule hasn’t changed much this time around, except I’m starting my visits prenatally rather than post. And I haven’t hit everyone on the laundry list yet – which is probably a good thing, given I’m already having continuity of care issues.
Today I saw my general practitioner.
It was to be a followup after my visit to a psychiatrist. Shortly before my pregnancy, I’d started with this GP. When discussing my mental health history and current condition, she suggested I get a specific diagnosis from a psychiatrist since what initially presented as postpartum depression was persisting. I’d been continuing care with a LICSW I’d been seeing. Thanks to hospital systems and network nightmares, I’d need to go through 12 CBT sessions at his facility before even seeing the psychiatrist – even though that’s what I’d been doing for years with my own therapist. Already spooked by the red tape and thought of strong psychotropic drugs, I put it all on hold once I found out I was pregnant. I couldn’t start on new meds anyway and didn’t need any additional stress.
Through the guidance of my LICSW and midwife, I decided the benefits of continuing my low dose of meds were greater than the risk of harm during pregnancy. That’s not to say the decision was made lightly. I cut out mostly everything questionable when pregnant. I’d always felt guilt for taking meds in the first place. But after weighing all my options – and a few bad days of trying to wean – the meds stayed.
Now, my GP didn’t know any of this.
When I tried to verify my protocol and discuss my midwife’s suggestion to possibly wean toward the end of pregnancy so the baby would not suffer any possible ill effects of the drug as a newborn, she wondered whether she would’ve advised taking meds at all had she found out earlier in my pregnancy. She said that’s why she wanted the input of the psychiatrist, especially now with a pregnancy, to know exactly with what we were dealing.
Now, this GP is solid. She did not shy away from discussing different prescription therapies. She wanted me to see the psychiatrist to get to the origin point at the bottom of my pit. She is candid, empathetic. Today, however, I felt the doubt and guilt over taking meds during pregnancy try to push up. The doubt that I’m not getting the best possible prenatal care cropped up when she suggested I see an OB in my group rather than only a midwife; her reasoning being that should my situation become critical I would need someone to assess and intervene immediately.
She is following due process. She is looking out for the best interests of me and my baby. She is talented, trained, and professional.
And yet there are gaps in her knowledge of perinatal mood disorders and their treatment.
My midwife, fully aware there is no definitive research saying meds are 100% risk-free during pregnancy, also knows the research that an anxious and/or depressed mother can also have ill-effects on a developing fetus.
My LICSW knows the mental anguish I put myself through in making this decision and that I can’t hang without the meds.
All three are looking out for the best interests of me and my baby. All three are experts in their fields. And yet, at times, all three have told me something different.
Where is the continuity of care in the perinatal period? Yes, the knowledge base is growing. Yes, awareness is spreading. Yes, some practitioners are training themselves to be experts in this ever-growing area. But there isn’t enough widespread know-how. There are gaps in which women can and will fall through.
I haven’t met any of the OBs in the group I visit, but seeing one doesn’t guarantee me swift and effective intervention in the postpartum period. Not taking meds doesn’t guarantee a perfectly formed baby. Taking meds doesn’t even preclude mood disorders.
There is always some mystery involved in making and growing a baby. Insert mood disorders and mental health issues and the lines are blurred even further. Unfortunately, it still falls primarily to the mother to advocate for her own health amidst all the conflicting care.
Though still haunted by the postpartum experience in my previous pregnancy, I feel that I can advocate for myself this time. Knowing the danger signs, the markers, the despair, I feel equipped to request and access care as soon as it’s needed. I know who to ask and how to get it. However, that doesn’t mean that all of my helpers will be on the same page. One perinatal hand may very well have no idea what the others are doing – just as I don’t know which specialist I’m seeing unless I know which day it is.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on March 29, 2016
Netflix is making me depressed.
Ok, I can’t in good conscience blame all of my troubles on on-demand television services, but I can make a good case for their use attributing to my condition.
I’ll be the first to admit that I find cable television seasons highly annoying. You wait an inordinate amount of time for a show to start up again, only to watch it whisk by in five to six weeks. Each episode ends on a ridiculously frustrating cliffhanger, leaving you lunging at the TV for more, an urge you must tamp down for the following week. This manipulative cycle of desire and gratification has got us viewers trapped hook, line, and sinker.
Enter the world of on-demand services.
They don’t solve the week’s wait between new episodes, but glom onto a show just past its prime, and all the episodes are there for the taking. Want to see what happens next? No problem, my addictive friend. Binge away.
Such binges lead to a glorious few days or a week, depending on how long you stretch it out, but leave you – at the end of it – in the ubiquitous showhole. My kids don’t get that commercial. I find it eerily accurate. The fact that I recently learned to knit adds to the effect.
But choose a show so popular, there are scads of episodes, and the showhole never becomes an issue. I’ve recently fallen under the spell of Criminal Minds. I never watched it when it initially aired on network television. I missed that highly popular boat. I discovered it on one of the four over-the-air stations we were left with once we cancelled cable – the only one not airing paid programming or home shopping. However, the marathons I loved so much on Mondays and Tuesdays gave way to other crime shows I enjoyed much less the rest of the week. I searched Hulu to no avail. When we added Netflix a few months later, I was so excited to see all seasons represented. I could watch whenever I wanted and start from square one.
I would settle onto the couch with my pregnant morning snack or lunch or under the afghan when I needed a rest, my BAU friends entertaining me while I vegged. I could rationalize sitting there vegetating as long as the episode continued. Just until this episode finishes, just until they find the unsub, just until they solve the mystery.
However, when motivation is not high to begin with, and I haven’t been sleeping through the night, and I’m growing a child, and whatever low-level mental health issue is ailing me come together and Netflix plays their shows on a constant loop, it’s easy to stay on the couch for the next episode and the next and the next . . .
About half way through the third episode, the show isn’t even that scintillating anymore. It’s the construct and the comfort that leave me there, rooted to the couch, all semblance of productivity drowning in the abyss of my mind and pool of my guilt.
There is definitely a pleasure seeking/reward system at work with any media viewing. We seek solace, relaxation, a treat in our favorite show. But just as that huge bowl of ice cream eventually empties out, so our show ends, leaving us wanting and needing more to fill that reward center. With the overzealous access of on-demand services, it can become very easy to remove oneself from time, place, social connection in search of an elusive endgame – whether it’s escape, entertainment, distraction, avoidance, or happiness.
Holding Netflix responsible for my lack of mojo and self-control is about as ridiculous as suing McDonald’s for getting fat. I need to set up fail-safes and proactive measures to keep me from swirling ever closer to the rim of the showhole. But it’s so easy to drift along on the gentle current of complacency, detachedness . . .
At least I only have ten more seasons to go.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on March 24, 2016
Yesterday, the first day of spring, my children had a snow day from school.
No, the irony does not escape me. Yes, I realize our region of New England does not preclude such occurrences (one blizzard happening several years ago on April Fools’ Day – apparently Mother Nature has a healthy sense of humor every year). Alas, the snow totals fell drastically short of the predictions and the sun shone and snow melted by what would have been dismissal time.
As I lay in bed Sunday night, after receiving the robo-call from the school department, I was more relaxed than usual knowing I wouldn’t have to rush the kids out the door the next morning. I did say to my husband, however, that I wasn’t looking forward to a whole day inside with the kids. He agreed with me that my comment didn’t exactly sound nice, but I’ve gotten used to some quiet school days as a respite. Plus, I’ve been having iPad battles with the oldest (see previous post), all the girls have been having battles with each other, and I just end up yelling.
It made me laugh, then, when a friend called in the morning, saying I had a ‘bonus day’ with the kids. None of us were dressed. I’d been on my phone all day. They’d bounced between their rooms, the Wii, iPad, and computers. Her use of ‘bonus’ implied unexpected and appreciated quality time. I think I was on vegetation/survival mode.
I finally got my butt in gear enough to strip all three of their beds, a task – believe it or not – they’d been bugging me to do. My very particular middle wanted tightly tucked sheets. My little wanted new blankets. The oldest sleeps with such reckless abandon her bed was just torn to shreds. I figured with them home, perhaps they could help me. I also hoped I’d find my middle’s long-lost library book shoved under her mattress. Ha ha!
When I pulled the bunk beds out to sweep for books and animals lost to the abyss, I made the mistake of leaving the room for a bit afterwards. We all know what empty spaces and crevices and unexpected configurations are for, right? For me, it meant extra room to tuck in those pesky sheets on the far side of the bunks. For them, it meant fill with stuffed animals and baskets and blankets!
Suddenly, awash in piles of bedding flooding the hallway, random crap scattered everywhere on the bedroom floors, another step added to an already unwelcome task – I was transported back to days when all three were pre-school. When it was one step forward, two steps back. When it was literally shoveling shit against the tide. When keeping them happy and/or entertained and a house with the least order of squalor attainable and some semblance of sanity was a nearly impossible balance.
And I was scared.
I was reminded what life was like with a house full of littles. As the sole caregiver, comforter, cheerleader, coach, craft guru . . . I am well aware that I need not be all these things at all – and certainly not all at once. But my anxiety treats any deviation from a perceived plan or expectation as a misstep, a notch closer to irritation, panic, anger. It makes me hide in a corner of my couch, balled up in my pjs, content to try nothing rather than get frustrated with things not going according to plan. Or overwhelmed by the enormity of a whole day with all these people – when it should be about the moments.
Even when summer vacation starts and I have not only the new infant, but the older three, it will not be the same as those insular days when they bounced off the walls like ping-pong balls. They are not all toddler and preschool age. They can have some independent and alone time. Even while I tend to the baby, they can play on their own or swing outside. Hopefully they will understand that I won’t be able to – nor should I – entertain them all day. Hopefully I’ll remember that, too.
And to take each moment one at a time for what it’s worth – not worrying the whole day away before it’s even started.
Posted by Jennifer Butler Basile on March 22, 2016