Girl Detective

When I was a kid, I had babysitters. Some were good, some were bad, and in retrospect I’m not sure how any of them managed my two younger sisters and me. I don’t remember us as well-behaved, docile children who played by ourselves.

After my husband G. Grod and I had Drake, now 3yo, we were dismayed to find that babysitters weren’t inexpensive, ubiquitous, and plentiful. G. and I live far from our families (a choice about which they have every right to complain about, and they do), so the usual grandparent and sibling support isn’t there for us on a regular basis.

Instead, we took friends up on their kind offers of help, and began to swap childcare with other families. Finally, though, a trusted friend recommended her cousin, and we had an experienced, reliable college student who could care for Drake, and also baby Guppy after he arrived. Alas, like any personable, intelligent and capable person, she is often busy. I’ve begun to explore other options, and found a handful of resources that I hope will make things clearer:

There are several online sitter reference sites.

National Child Care Information Center’s Children Home Alone and Babysitter Age Guidelines

American Red Cross offers babysitter training courses

“‘Tweens,’ working parents, and summer plans: U parents share approaches to planning for their 8- to 12-year-olds,” an article from UMN News

Some things demand an exclamation point. This day is one.

[Caution: if you're here looking for an intellectual entry, this isn't it. This is the purview of mommy blogs. But I must celebrate; I hope you can share my joy.]

As Drake walked out the door of preschool, he said, “I have to go potty.”

My eyes widened in surprise. Drake was wearing a pull-up diaper. He had never before said that phrase while wearing a pull-up diaper.

“Sure, honey!” I replied, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. I’ve been disappointed so many times before.

We went back into the building. He went into the girls bathroom. I didn’t re-direct him. I asked if he wanted help.

“No, Mom, I need some privacy,” he said, having learned that phrase from a toilet-using friend.

I peered anxiously under the stall door as he pulled down his shorts, then his diaper, and sat on the regular-size toilet. I heard the sound of pee. (I also heard the sound of 15M Guppy screaming right behind me. He was immune to the significance of what was transpiring.)

“He’s never said that before,” said his preschool teacher, standing behind me. “Not in all the months he’s been here, not in all the times that the other kids have gone. Never.” Her voice echoed the awe I was feeling.

Once home, Drake did a repeat performance, unprompted.

During his quiet time, I began to compose this entry. Then he began banging on his door, his unsubtle sign that he wishes quiet time to be over. We went downstairs together. I asked if he would like underwear or a pull up.

“I would like some air time, Mom.”

We weren’t seated for many minutes in the basement before he announced that he needed to pee.

“You know where the bathroom is,” I said. “Let me know if you need help.”

He disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later he called out.

“I peed, Mom! And I pooped!”

I leapt off the couch, but again tried to diminish expectations. I’d had my hopes dashed so many times before. But my fears were unfounded; my hopes were realized. Drake had gone to the bathroom by himself. I reminded him to flush and wash his hands. I asked if he remembered what I said would happen if he went by himself. He paused, and a big grin came over his face.

“Mack!”

I went to my secret-squirrel hiding place, and brought back Mack. We called Drake’s dad to share the good news. And Drake is now happily playing with Mack as I write and edit this entry.

It may be some time before either event happens again. Drake still refuses to put on either a pull on or underwear; he’s going to have to cover up eventually. There will also be accidents and regressions. But no one can take today away from me.

Oddly enough, I had a related dream last night. I rarely recall dreams in the morning, and have never had a prophetic one. But in last night’s dream, I was complaining to a friend about Drake’s refusal to use the toilet.

“I understood when he was two that he might need more time than other kids. But I hardly expected him to be NEARLY FOUR and still in diapers. Everyone says he won’t start kindergarten in diapers. But I’ve seen nothing to give me hope,” wailed my dream self.

Oh, me of little faith. Way to go, Drake. Thank you for showing me, yet again, that you are on your own, unique time line. If I can remember and respect that, instead of fighting it, we’ll both be a lot happier.

A few more ideas occurred to me that might make good gifts for the moms in your life.

Noise Reducing Headphones Not for walking out on the street, but oh, wouldn’t these be nice at home?

Nice Watch So Mom can take off the battered, bathproof Timex that keeps track of timeouts and falling-asleep intervals. My husband and I are fans of Nixon watches, which they sell locally at Lava Lounge.

Teapot and Loose-Leaf Tea Twin Cities treasure Tea Source ships! They carry single-person pots that hold enough water for about two and a half cups. The House Earl Grey is wonderful; I get raves every time I serve it. I also like their herbal tisanes (see their informative site to find out why herbal “teas” aren’t really tea). My longtime favorite is Evening in Missoula. I also like Starfire Licorice, Margaret’s Soother, and Earl Red.

Did you think Mothers Day was invented by Hallmark? It’s been around for longer than that. Some research dates it back to Cybele (pronounced with a hard C, short Y and long E at the end: KIH-buh-Lee) worship in ancient Greece. The American version is largely based on a post-Civil War peace manifesto. The English version, Mothering Sunday, was reportedly begun so working class domestics could have at least one Sunday off a year to visit their mums, and so the mums could have off to receive the visits. Whatever the origin, though, there’s little disagreement that mothering is a tough gig, and few begrudge moms the day as tribute to that.

Some very good news for moms: the Mommy War is more a media invention than an accurate portrait of reality:

Most women today have to work: it’s the only way their families are going to be fed, housed and educated. A new college-educated generation takes it for granted that women will both work and care for their families — and that men must be an integral part of their children’s lives. It’s a generation that understands that stay-at-home moms and working mothers aren’t firmly opposing philosophical stances but the same women in different life phases, moving in and out of the part-time and full-time workforce for the few years while their children are young.

In this week leading up to Mothers Day in America, think about the mothers in your life. Not just your mom, or your spouse’s mom, but all the mothers: friends, siblings, co-workers, neighbors. Give a mom a break this week. If you hear a screaming kid and judgment flashes through your brain, offer help instead. And think of pretty, comforting things, big or small, that might make a mom’s day a bit brighter:

Card Papyrus carries, and Marcel Shurman makes, lovely ones.

Flowers I love yellow roses and dislike lilies. Do your loved one a favor. Ask what she likes, and avoid carnations, daisies, baby’s breath, and alstroemeria, unless specifially requested. Gerbera daisies are an exception.

Chocolate Twin Citian’s are fortunate to have both B.T. McElrath (I love the passionfruit and dark chocolate truffles) and Legacy Chocolates (Potion No. 9) readily available.

Accessories Little blue box or big orange box, brand recognition can be a lovely thing. I love the blue/green En Duo ribbon pattern.

Books I recently recommended Jill Murphy’s Five Minutes’ Peace and Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum. Both take wry looks at the mundane reality of mothering small children, though Atkinson’s book is both funny and tragic. For self-examination and spiritual growth, I recommend Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Gift cards for www.amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Border’s, or your local book shop are always good ideas.

Ice Cream Did you know that you can get Graeter’s ice cream shipped? Now you do. The chocolate chip flavors are stunning.

Ice Cream, Again Twin Citians, you’ve got a lot to love.

Fancy Dinner at the best restaurant in your city. Twin Citians, this is ours.

Music Fun and Booty-Shakin’ (Justin Timberlake’s FutureSex/Lovesounds), Local (new Low album!), Singer/Songwriter male (Rufus Wainwright’s Release the Stars), Singer/Songwriter female (Patti Griffin’s Children Running Through), Sophomore effort (Arctic Monkeys’ Favourite Worst Nightmare)

Movies Go out to a theater that serves good popcorn with real butter (Heights, Riverview, or GTI Roseville in the Twin Cities), or stay in and watch the vastly underrated Children of Men, Alfonso Cuaron’s chilling look at a future without mothers.

If you have other ideas, email me and I’ll post them, too.

My unexpected gift, today? That baby Guppy is still napping, which has allowed me the time I needed for this link-a-palooza.

And if you were bothered by my lack of apostrophe in Mothers Day, get over it. Apostrophes are one of the most misused and unnecessary pieces of punctuation. Here’s a long explanation of why I can leave them out. But do you get what I mean when I say Mothers Day? Then you see my point.

When I cared for Drake prior to the arrival of baby Guppy, I did as many household tasks as possible when he was around, e.g., washing dishes. When he napped, I could then do the things only possible in his absence, e.g., writing. With the birth of Guppy early last year, everything changed. I had two people in my care whose needs often conflicted with the other’s, and both of theirs with mine. Naps were never simultaneous. For Drake they soon stopped entirely. Caring for two is harder, and allows for few or no breaks from roughly from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., and tends to deviate more beyond the extremes than to the middle.

My husband G. Grod was out of town last weekend for a last-minute family affair. He and I arranged before he left to have help for me at the toughest time of day, bath and bedtime. While it was a huge relief to have someone there each night to tag in and out with reading, bathing, listening, and more, it was not enough. I was still exhausted at the end of each day. From Friday evening to Monday morning I hardly had time to myself. I called upon the memory of last weekend’s solitary retreat several times.

With two children, help is necessary but it’s not enough. For me to keep going, I need quiet time each day to write, to read, to think. This past weekend, and the contrast with the weekend before, have made that abundantly clear. Now I just have to figure out how to do it, as well as how to provide the opportunity for G. Grod to get short respites as well, and not have to worry if he needs to take a longer one, too.

Sometimes Bunty feels as if the whole world is trying to climb on her body. (17)

Bunty….is irritated….(does she actually possess any other emotion?)…., disguising her thoughts with a bright artificial smile….Bunty maintains a Madonna-like expression of serenity and silence for as long as she can before her impatience suddenly boils over and she yanks the bars of [Gillian's] tricycle to hurry it along….

Is this a good mother? (19-20), Behind the Scenes at the Museum

A good mother? Maybe not. But a flawed, normal human that I can empathize with? Yes, yes, yes.

Poor Bunty, the main character’s mother in Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum. She was abandoned by a fiance, married to a pet-shop owner who has a series of affairs, and gives birth to a gaggle of girls for whom she feels scant connection. This might seem unempathizable, until we learn about the dearth of affection Bunty received from her own mother.

Nearly every day I fight the urge to shake off one or the other of my sons, as they cling like barnacles to my legs and cry out for affection beyond what I’ve given already, and beyond what I feel I possess. Just yesterday, I took 3yo Drake out to the sidewalk to ride his tricycle. I was quickly frustrated because he didn’t want to ride it; he just pushed it back and forth. To complicate matters, 1yo Guppy also wanted to push it, so several screaming fights ensued. I’m happy to say my screams weren’t part of the chorus, though they did clamor rather loudly in my head to be let out.

I frequently berate myself that I SHOULD be playing with the children, and that I SHOULDN’T have expectations of how that play should go. One part of me, the Bunty-self, can’t believe that riding a tricycle is so fracking difficult, and wonders why Guppy can’t be distracted by bubbles, and why he insists on spilling bubble juice over my lap, and trying to drink it from the bottle. Another part, the person who is trying to be a good mother (and yet who feels the sting of consistent failure), says that my kids are doing what kids do, interested in what they’re interested in, and ready when they are, not when I want them to be. Yet another part reminds me that my kids are clothed, fed, safe, healthy, learning, and mostly happy. I can’t be failing if all these are true.

So me as mother is a messy amalgam of all these parts. Perhaps I can be as compassionate to myself as I am to the character of Bunty.

That’s how long my peace of mind lasted after I returned from my 36-hour retreat. I sent G. Grod out to a movie with a friend, and had to call him at 5 p.m. to urge him home. Guppy and Drake’s needs were so enormous that I eventually wilted. My struggle with depression and anxiety continues, obviously. The good news is that I can be happy, rested, and balanced when I’m apart from my family, though I’ve still got a ways to go before I can do, and be, those things at home.

I woke Friday morning with a severe spike in my already considerable irritability. It was not long before I was angry and cursing aloud in front of the kids, which I’ve learned is a sign of rising anxiety for me. I sent off a quick email to a retreat center to see if they had any space. We have a babysitter helping us with childcare for now, so I left soon after she arrived, and went first to a yoga class, then to my regularly scheduled therapy appointment. I returned home better, though not feeling calm, and had almost forgotten about my inquiry to the retreat center. When I checked email at home, they’d replied and had a last minute cancellation at the hermitage, their private cabin for a solitary retreat. Figuring that the universe seemed to be answering my request, I said yes, then sent off a few emails and made some calls to alert friends that G. Grod would be on his own for the next 36 hours and could use some help with the boys.

My friend Becca recommended the ARC retreat center to me, and I will thank her forever for it. I’ve now gone twice, and it is a haven. The hermitage cabin has just what it needs and no more. Since I tend to anxious overdoing, I took way too much with me, but sorted things out when I got there.

Once I could think clearly, I realized what I did and didn’t need.

Did need: book, journal, fiction notebook.

Didn’t need: laptop, City Pages, two Entertainment Weekly’s, five books to review for the blog.

I also probably didn’t need any toiletries other than sunscreen, toothpaste and toothbrush. (And I would’ve liked to have fluoride-free toothpaste, since the cabin doesn’t have running water.)

The staff at ARC is wonderfully supportive, and the food they make is vegetarian, hearty, sustaining AND delicious. There was fresh bread at almost every meal, some wonderful gingered beets from a recipe in Sundays at Moosewood. I had a restorative 36 hours. During that time, I tried and succeeded at doing only one thing at a time; I didn’t multitask. I didn’t read while I ate (or in the outhouse). I also tried, and mostly succeeded, at not making a to-do list. I did one thing at a time, and allowed myself just one, “and then”. This worked surprisingly well, probably because I was in a tiny cabin in the woods by myself and chose to limit my options to: eating, sleeping, reading, journalling, novelling, and walking.

I have a huge crush on the book I took with me, that I finished this morning in between my first breakfast (yogurt with strawberry rhubarb sauce and granola, bread and butter, coffee with almond biscotti) and second breakfast (egg scramble with cheddar cheese and hummos). It’s Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

READ THIS BOOK. It’s funny, sad, honest and intelligent and it’s got some GREAT stuff on religion and spirituality. Gilbert is instantly accessible and empathetic. My only quibble (oh, I always have one, don’t I?) is Gilbert’s overuse of male pronouns for God. A little equal opportunity time for goddesses would have been lovely.

I came back this morning rested and with some little reserve that helped me to handle the boys screaming and poking and crying that has sporadically filled the day. I really needed to get away, and I’m so thankful and fortunate that I could do so. Thanks, G. Grod. Thanks, friends who helped G. Grod. Thanks again, Becca. Thanks, ARC staff. Thanks, whoever cancelled your hermitage reservation. Thanks, Liz Gilbert for writing an awesome spiritual memoir. Everybody rocks.

I think 1yo Guppy may be a hobbit. He is short, yet round. He demands second breakfast. Unlike the other three of us, he is sweet and good-natured; he laughs and smiles often. He also has a straightforward demeanor. It’s usually simple to figure out his wants and needs, or what’s bothering him if he’s crying or screaming.

While he doesn’t have furry feet, he did arrive covered in lanugo, since he was born two weeks before his due date. Maybe hobbits are better at disguising themselves and insinuating themselves into human families these days. In any case, Guppy is pretty fun to have around.

One of the skills I’ve acquired as a parent is the quick scan my environment for the most distracting and least harmful object to give my child(ren). Last week, my kind sister Sydney arranged for someone to clean our house. In a frenzy of pre-cleaning prep, I somehow found myself re-organizing G. Grod’s closet.

Why, yes, I do have anxiety issues. Thanks for noticing.

Both 3yo Drake and 1yo Guppy were trying to insinuate themselves into the not-that-large closet with me, making things crowded, metaphorically weird, and fraught with danger. Each by himself has considerable mess-making power. When Drake and Guppy join forces, though, the destructive power doesn’t just increase or double, I think it squares. In other words, it’s not incremental or arithmetic, it’s GEOMETRIC. The whole is WAY bigger than the sum of the parts.

With the Entropy Brothers approaching, my recon produced a talking Simpson’s watch, which I think was a Burger King giveaway, still in the original box. I gave the box to Guppy, and the talking watch to Drake. The noise button is Homer’s voice saying, “Mmm, burger,” but with two problems. One, the watch was a freebie, so it wasn’t that high quality and good an imitation to begin with. Two, it was old. The battery was dying, so the already poor sound was slowed down and gravelly.

My distractions worked, though. Drake backed out of the closet with the watch, pressing the noise button over and over. Guppy backed out and dismantled then chewed on the cardboard box. I finished re-arranging the closet. It just took that few minutes, though, for Drake to perfect his imitation of the watch’s “Mmm, burger.” I was astonished, impressed and disturbed that Drake’s imitation was spot on–Homer’s voice, filtered through a cheap watch, with a dying battery. It was uncanny.

[Isn't this post rather like a Simpsons episode itself; it starts out with me talking about one thing, then ends somewhere very different?]

#21 in my 2007 movie challenge was Over the Hedge, which we rented from the library and allowed Drake to watch. When I asked him what the movie was about, he answered, “A crash.” So I’m not sure Drake is quite ready for prolonged narratives, even of the animated kind. I liked the movie, too, and thought it was about more than a crash but about natural versus junk food, and the suburban desire to mimic nature while really avoiding it. There’s some very good voice work here by Steve Carell, as Hammy the hyperactive squirrel. Shatner as a daddy opossum does brilliant work playing dead. This is a decent movie for both adults and kids.

But be warned; it gave me a serious craving for Pringles. Oh, excuse me, “Spuddies”.

from Behind the Scenes at the Museum, by Kate Atkinson.

Poor Bunty. (12)

….suddenly, an unwelcome note of reality interrupts [her] reverie, somebody’s pulling at Bunty’s dressing-gown and whining in a not very pleasant fashion. (15)

Bunty unclenches the little fists that have fastened on to her hair, and deposits Gillian back on the floor.

Get down,’ Bunty says grimly. ‘Mummy’s thinking.’ (Although what Mummy’s actually doing is wondering what it would be like if her entire family was wiped out and she could start again.) Poor Gillian!

Gillian refuses to be ignored for long–she’s not that kind of child–and hardly have we had our first sip of tea before we have to attend to Gillian’s needs. For breakfast, Bunty makes porridge….

‘I don’t like porridge,’ Patricia ventures to Bunty. This is the first time she’s tried this direct approach….

‘Pardon me?’ Bunty says, the words dropping like icicles on the linoleum of the kitchen floor (our mother’s not really a morning person.)

‘I don’t like porridge,’ Patricia says, looking more doubtful now.

As fast as a snake, Bunty hisses back, ‘Well I don’t like children, so that’s too bad for you, isnt’ it?’ She’s joking of course. Isn’t she? (16)

I’m sure the first time I read Behind the Scenes at the Museum that I pitied the children. But on my most recent reading, it became clear that those children also grew up to be parents, who repeated the sins and omissions they’d been bequeathed through generations. The mothers were less obvious, but nonetheless sympathetic, characters. Every mother had been mothered inexpertly herself. Each generation of mothers was unprepared for the physical demands of motherhood, and ill-equipped for the emotional ones.

It’s tough being a child, but it’s also tough being a mother. Does anyone feel prepared for it, or good at it? Or do we all just muddle through as best we can, with the light we have at the time (as my own mother likes to say)?

Because I haven’t been able to get it, this week. Or if I have, then it was quickly undone the next day: eeny, meeny, miny, moe, bad day, good day, bad day, whoa.

Mrs. Large took a tray from the cupboard. She set it with a teapot, a milk jug, her favorite cup and saucer, a plate of marmalade toast and a leftover cake from yesterday. She stuffed the morning paper into her pocket and sneaked off toward the door.

“Where are you going with that tray, Mom?” asked Laura.

“To the bathroom,” said Mrs. Large.

“Why?” asked the other two children.

“Because I want five minutes’ peace from all of you,” said Mrs. Large. “That’s why.”

This morning I had Drake set the kitchen timer for five minutes. Twice. Neither time did we make it to zero without the boys both screaming. Drake and I both love this book because it is funny and true about the push/pull between kids and moms. Consider this as a Mother’s Day gift for the tired moms you know.

I got this book at Barnes and Noble in the paperback section. I originally saw it recommended at a book blog, though I can’t find the link. (Book Moot, was it you?) I love the paperback children’s book section. I can splurge and not feel guilty for spending $15+ on a book that Drake is just as likely to throw as he is to “read”.

I completed an outpatient hospital program last Friday for post-partum depression and anxiety. It was a brief, intense program designed to help those in a recovery rut who don’t need full-time hospitalization. There are two partial programs in the Twin Cities. The more well known is at Abbott, but they didn’t have space, and the one at Fairview did. I had an excellent experience at Fairview. The combination of group therapy, individual checks, and patient education led me to a variety of insights. I had time and space to learn and think, far more than I’d been able to fit into the brief interstices of full-time care for two small children. My last day I felt full of optimism, and brimming with possibility.

The happy mood passed over the weekend as 14M Guppy became sick and clingy, spiked a fever, and then kept us all up between 1:30 and 4:30 am today. Lots of screaming and little sleep wreak havoc with my anxiety-prone nerves. Additionally, one of my coping strategies, ear plugs, backfired and I got an ear infection. So not only can I not use the ear plugs, but I have to take ear drops. Instead of making a peaceful and leisurely entry into the new week, I had to spend time at the doctor’s office and the pharmacy.

On one hand, it feels like I’m being unfairly punished for the time I took to attend the program at Fairview, and curtailed from following up on the aftercare plans I’d begun. On the other, I have enough perspective to know that all things, good and bad, pass. A friend once joked that they may pass like a kidney stone, but they’re gonna pass. I also know, all too well, that I plan and the universe laughs, and that life sometimes is unfair and difficult. So I’m trying hard not to take the recent setbacks personally and to muster what humor and energy I can to have another go tomorrow.

One of the things I enjoyed most about being at Fairview was its proximity to the North Country grocery cooperative. They had a great selection of deli and takeout food and drink. I tried something new nearly every day. Walking to the coop allowed me both fresh air and exercise. I had spinch/feta, lemon/leek, and mushroom/keff boughatsa and baklava from Gardens of Salonica. I tried the Flex, Radiant, Calm, and Focus flavors of the Airforce Nutrisodas. I made a huge mess when I shook my Kombucha too hard. Both the Gingerade and the Trilogy flavors were very good. From Sushi Express, I had a veggie maki combo. I enjoyed the avocado spring roll so much I got it twice. I also got a slice of tater tot pizza from the Seward Cafe, as well as their Goddess Bar and Ranger cookie. I don’t know where the Key Lime and Sweet Potato Pie tartlets came from, but those were also excellent. The good food and friendly staff at the North Country made my time at Fairview go all the more quickly and pleasantly.

#10 in my 2007 book challenge was Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson. When I first read it, about ten years ago, I thought a reveal near the end undermined Atkinson’s conceit of Ruby as an unlimited-omniscient narrator. I was sure I’d never want to read it again, and gave away my copy. Happily, a new copy wasn’t hard to come by when I changed my mind. (I ask myself two questions when giving a book away: Am I likely to read it again? Will it be easy to get from a library or used book store if I change my mind?)

Three things made me reconsider Behind the Scenes. One was how much I enjoyed Atkinson’s Case Histories last year. Two was the high praise by the author of Mental Multivitamin, whose good opinion is not too freely given. And three was that a good friend of mine was reading it, so I’d have someone with whom to discuss it.

The ending didn’t bother me this time. I was also surprised to find how much I empathised with the character of Bunty, Ruby’s mother. I’m sure I didn’t do so the first time I read it, which was pre-marriage and very pre-children. Perhaps it’s my post-partum depression, but I found all the mothers and all the children very sympathetic on this read.

Bunty makes herself a cup of tea in the kitchen at the back of the Shop, relishing her few moments of morning solitude….My poor mother’s very disappointed by marriage, it’s failed to change her life in any way, except by making it worse. If I listen in on her airwaves I can hear an endless monologue on the drudgery of domestic life–Why didn’t anyone TELL me what it would be like? The cooking! The cleaning! The work!….And as for babies, well…the broken nights, the power struggles…the labour pains!

#9 in my reading challenge for the year was Siblings Without Rivalry by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. For a long time, I thought Drake didn’t have sibling issues. Then Guppy started to crawl, and everything changed. This book was recommended to me by several parents, and I found it worthwhile. Like many of the people in the book, I wanted ideas to help the relationship between my kids, and the topics brought up a far wider range of relationships. I got insight into the dynamics between me and my kids, between my two kids, and between my kids and other kids. Interestingly, I also got a lot of insight into my relationships with my siblings and parents. I found it affirming to be reminded that parenting in general, and potentially loaded topics like sibling relationships especially, aren’t intuitive. The challenge, as with any self-help book, is to pick some of the advice and practice it. This book has a good number of suggestions, large and small, that are easy to understand and implement.

Shortly after I started this weblog, I decided to focus more on learning, and less on mommy-ing. I am a mom, but I’m also a writer, a reader, a cinephile and an auto-didact, with thanks to Mental Multivitamin both for the term and for the role of that weblog played in clarifying the central role of learning.

With the arrival of Guppy last year, though, life changed. Learning remains a priority, but mommy duties have necessarily increased, and thus I write about them more. I try, however, to keep the stuff on kids and parenting focused on the learning–both mine and the kids.

I’ve written a handful of times about the continuing struggle I’ve had with depression since Guppy was born. I tell almost everyone in my life about it. Perhaps I do this because I’m an over-sharer and a queen of TMI, but I’d like to think I’m doing it for good reasons. I want to be accountable for continuing to get help and get better; I want to let people know that even if my shoes do match my bag that my insides are messy and angry. And I want to add my voice to the many who say, “I have the illness of depression; I need help.”

My post-partum depression isn’t the stuff of romantic books covers. It hasn’t been me sobbing quietly, or hiding out in bed. My depression is ugly–it’s impatient, angry, shouting, and cursing. I often have to mark the distinction between thinking about doing something harmful, and making a plan to do it. It’s a discouraging disinction to have to make; I’m constantly reminded that my mind is not a nice place to be. But it’s also heartening, because I find myself nearly always on the healthier side of the distinction.

I’m lucky I have a doctor who listened when I said “I feel angry all the time at my kid.” She urged me to get help, and followed up with me. I’m in an outpatient hospital program for my depression. It’s discouraging. Part of me feels like I’ve failed because I’m crazy and in the loony bin, even if it’s an outpatient one. I try to quiet that disparaging voice, though, because I’m doing a hard, good thing. I’m sick and it’s affecting all my family. We all need me to be doing better than I have been.

If you come here looking for humor, or edification, or stuff about girl detectives, and instead find posts about depression and mommy stuff, you might be disappointed. But I don’t want to be yet another person who denies the depression, or hides it, or downplays it. The bad news is that it sucks. The good news is that it’s likely to get better, and also that I’m still learning. As always, that’s what I’ll try to keep the focus on. My learning is an ongoing process, though I don’t always get to choose the topics.

Guppy was born over a year ago, but the depression and anxiety that came with him are not diminishing inversely to his growth. In spite of medication and the help of a good team of healthcare professionals, I have continued to struggle. To get me unstuck, my team recommended an outpatient therapy program instead of the sporadic therapy I have been doing, and I started this morning.

A small part of me hoped that someone would wave their hand and tell me I didn’t need to be there, and send me home. And, as has happened at every step of this depression, no one did. So I guess I belong.

What does one wear to a partial hospital program? As I’ve noted here before, I take care with my appearance, perhaps more so when I’m feeling worse, both as compensation and as a way to demonstrate some control when I don’t feel I have any elsewhere, e.g., Drake won’t listen, Guppy’s screaming again, but my accessories match my outfit AND I’m wearing mascara, so things can’t be too bad. I attempted to mesh style and comfort, and found myself wearing an outfit and accessories made up almost entirely of things I got from family and friends:

Black Max Mara sweater and black Tod’s bag, presents from friend N.
Blue, green, and black patterned top and jade drops on white gold hoops, from sister Ruthie
Green spring leather jacket espied years ago in Nordstrom Rack by sister Sydney, later tried on and purchased with sister Ruthie.
Navy Gloria Vanderbilt pants with a bit of Lycra, a bargain from Valu City courtesy of sister Sydney
Nixon Mini GTO watch, picked out with and also from G. Grod
Blue Venetian beaded bracelet made by friend S from my parents’ church, given while I was pregnant with Guppy
And the only thing I bought myself: $9.99 black Chuck Taylor knock-offs from Target

I had layers, and I was comfortable yet still stylish. The therapy program went pretty well, too.

Speaking of defective products, don’t even get me started on baby monitors. I swear, they’re programmed to self destruct after ninety days. More links and vitriol when time allows.

Because life with ongoing post-partum depression that isn’t responding to treatment isn’t hard enough. Ha! My current bugaboo is things that break. Because not only were they a waste of time and effort, but they either need to be thrown away, or sent back to the manufacturer so that someone can be held accountable for the shoddy work. I should probably just throw these away, but they represent so much money, so much hope for a product that would work, that I can’t quite bear to just toss them.

Evenflo Top of Stair baby gate. Arrived broken from Target.com. Returned.

Summer Top of Stair baby gate. Purchased at Target. Broke within days of installation. Worse, the pieces that broke off were about exactly the size of baby windpipe–shoddy construction AND a choking hazard! Thanks, Target! Thanks, Summer! Returned, but I don’t think I’ve finished spilling bile on this one yet.

Kitchenart adjust a cup measuring set. Inner plunger broke apart. Why is it multiple pieces? Why not just one? Never found a use for the spoons.

Oxo cheese slicer #1. G. Grod threw away before I could rescue it from the trash.

Oxo cheese slicer #2, which I was excited to see came with a replacement wire. Guess what? It wasn’t the wire that broke. Grr.

Kitchenaid cheese slicer. Huge and unwieldy, and still couldn’t slice off the rind of my Dante 6-month sheep’s cheese.

Nike watch. Every time I pushed the upper right button, I also hit the lower left. Bad design, then the strap separated and couldn’t even be contained with duct tape.

Seiko watch. Can’t stay working. A battery works for a few weeks, then caput. I loved this watch.

I’m sure there are more broken items littering our home, waiting to be sent to their maker with a vitriolic letter from me. I’ve got to get these out of here. They’re wrecking the feng shui, and I’m going to get an ulcer from all this internal bile. More links to come when I finish complaining about these shoddy products online.