Night of the Screeching Howler Monkey

Last night was one of those nights. My fav little man was a little bit cantankerous. "Little bit' is an understatement. He was royally pissed. Every thing that I offered him was just no good. Epic fail on mama's part with every offering.

Food - forget about it. 1 clementine, 1 cup of mandarin oranges, 1 banana, 1 peanut butter & honey sandwich, the pasta that I made for the rest of the family, 1 hotdog, 1 donut, 1 sippy of milk, 1 sippy of juice, a donut, and even a cupcake were all met with disdain. 1 bite in, and there were tearful protests requesting something different. What kid turns down a cupcake, fully frosted and all? Mine does. Loudly, too.

He certainly was no Very Hungry Caterpillar to say the least.

Same thing with activities. Playing outside, the normal go-to activity, was not much of an option. After a red nose and some drippiness, I had to put on my Mean Mommy Pants and make him come inside. Screeching howler monkey took over. Every other thing I offered was just no good. Toys, our usual games, endless rounds of me singing "The Wheels on the Bus" did nothing to calm the screeching howler monkey. He clung to me and let me know just how mad he really was. Forget about setting him down - he climbed my leg like a monkey would a tree and continued to screech. Loud enough that I think the neighbors now doubt my parenting skills. I know that I began to. Unlike the zoo, I couldn't walk away from this exhibit.

Eventually we both passed out from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Yet, as he finally calmed, my mind began to go in circles. "What if this is my fault? What if he hates me? What if he is one of 'those people' that is never satisfied? What if no one likes him because he is an asshole? What if I am an asshole, therefore he knows nothing else, so therefore he is an asshole? Why would I think my kid is an asshole? I'm a crappy parent. Who thinks things like that? Especially about a baby?"

And the vicious cycle of parenting self-doubt began. Thoughts that I know are ridiculous and irrational competed for space within my brain. They were clunking around, looking for some kind of proof that there was truth to them. Sort of like a bull in a china shop. Knocking over my fragile state as a new parent, smashing to pieces my rational side knows that I can do this. That neither he nor I are an 'asshole'. Instead, we are just people living life. And, sometimes life is not pretty and people are assholes.

A good friend once told me, that if we were to stop and look at the abuse we mentally inflict on ourselves, we would be amazed. We would never talk to others as we talk to ourselves. So why do we have mental domestics with ourselves? I know I would never accuse someone of having an asshole for a kid because they were extra fussy one night. That is just how kids are. Sometimes they suck. Sometimes they are wonderful. Sometimes you are annoyed and at your wits end. Most of the time, though, they are just plain awesome.

P.S. - this was written two days ago. Turns out my screeching howler monkey has an ear infection. It is to the point that his tube has filled and is draining outwardly. So no one really was ever an asshole. Life just happened, and as I said before, it is not always pretty.

Dear Anxiety, I HATE You! Heart, Joanie

Anxiety.

The synonyms for anxiety are as follows -

angst, apprehension, botheration, butterflies, cold sweat, concern, disquiet, disquietude, distress, doubt, dread, fidgets, foreboding, fretfulness, fuss, goose bumps, heebie-jeebies, jitters, jumps, misery, misgiving, mistrust, nail-biting, needles, nervousness, panic, pins and needles, restlessness, shakes, shivers, solicitude, suffering, suspense, sweat, trouble, uncertainty, unease, uneasiness, watchfulness, willies, worriment

Or in my world, a real bitch.

(The word "willies" does make me smile, though)

I have always been a person that tended to worry.

Bills especially have a way of making me nervous - I will find myself lying there at night figuring out how I will transfer money from accounts or how I can come up with enough until the next payday.

Postpartum anxiety is much different.

I'm still a relative rookie to this parent thing. My most handsome, fav person in the whole world, is only 17 months. In terms of a lifetime, I think that puts me at intern status or perhaps just graduated college, trying to find a dang job status. I think, although I don't know any different because I am such a rookie, is that all parents worry. It starts out during pregnancy with these never-ending questions. What kind of food can you eat? Oh shit, did I just eat soft cheese?!? Does that mean that my baby is going to come out with three eyes because I had brie?!? Why, oh why, didn't somebody tell me that? Oh, fuck - honey is on that list, too.

That, my friends, is just a sample of a pregnancy worry. You add on decisions about the gear babies require, breast v. bottle, birth plans, maternity leave, new expenses to consider, parenting style choices, and a person could drive themselves insane before they have even reached the end of their first trimester.

But I digress...

The synonyms for anxiety, grouped as a whole, barely do the postpartum version justice. I think of the anxiety I experienced, post-baby, as comparable to that icky adrenaline rush you get after you almost hit another car. You slam on your brakes, barely missing the other car, and as your brain comprehends that you did not actually crash and/or die, a massive surge of adrenaline races through your body. Almost electric. Definitely jarring. Very uncomfortable. The beauty of those situations is that it quickly passes.

Postpartum anxiety does not. Rather, you feel that first jolt, and your body insists on saturating your system with more and More and MOre and MORE...until the sentence "what if I am really, truly going crazy?!?" plays over and over again. Every sentence begins with "what if...?!?" Like a record player stuck. The needle just can't quite make it to the next song. Your worries completely and totally control your mind.

The body is not separate either. The electricity jolts through you. You feel like a cell phone constantly on vibrate. Air, into the lungs, a necessity for human life, is a chore in itself. Imagine feeling like you ran a marathon, out of shape. Your lungs would be screaming obscenities at you shortly after you cruised over the start line. The finish line - a joke. How the hell are you going to make it there? You don't feel like you can run another step.

People will try to comfort you as you plead, sometimes crying, sometimes without the strength to even cry, "that every mom worries - just try to calm down"; or "everything is fine - there is nothing to worry about". Or, "try to get some sleep - you are overly tired". Sleep. Out of the question at that point. Who could sleep with the electricity running through them?

What is not understood, is that "worry" does not do the experience justice. It barely touches the mental and physical experience a person is enduring. What does do the experience justice - "I have been there. My story is your story. You are not alone. And, you will get better".

Because a person does. I am living proof. If you would have told me that one year ago, I would have pretended to believe you. Just so I could make it through another minute. Forget about an hour or a Lord-help-me an entire day. It was down to making it from minute to minute. 1 second, 2 seconds, 3 seconds...60. I survived another minute.

Now, hours will pass. Forget that. A week will pass. I am ok. Not just ok. Stronger, wiser, and more compassionate. Plus, I have the cutest dang kid in the whole world. When he takes his pudgy baby hands and squeezes my cheeks and pulls me to him for a wet, slobbery, drool kiss I remember that I am lucky. I am alive. I have found peace.