cranky pixels

I just got an e-mail saying that I didn’t get the paid blogging gig at ClubMom. Which, bummer, but not exactly unexpected. I can only imagine that they were inundated with resumes. And, if we’re being honest here, my query wasn’t exactly irresistible. I failed to mention my journalism experience (…why?…) and two of my three links were to this blog, which promptly went down for several days. So let’s see…a query letter that demonstrates no applicable experience and links to a defunct website? I’m shocked they didn’t hire me on the spot.

I’ve been applying to all sorts of things lately. I don’t have a good reason. We are, after all, starting our own business, so taking on an additional project doesn’t exactly make sense. On the other hand, I really miss writing (for, you know, money). There’s something extremely satisfying about seeing one’s name in print. I sort of secretly hope that one of the writing gigs will pan out; it’ll give me an excuse to multitask, and I’m happiest when juggling half a dozen projects. Perhaps I should take up actual juggling; it’d make it a hell of a lot easier to do things while Happy Fun Baby demands not only attention but hands-on attention. Typing one-handed: not exactly efficient.

I’m somewhat concerned that I might be pregnant again (replace concerned with absolutely fucking terrified for that sentence to read right). I know, I know – Cranky Mama, you’re a hypochondriac and a habitual worrywart – why should this be any different? And you’re right to think that.

However: I’ve been sick to my stomach for the past few days. I had a meltdown on Saturday of epic proportions, similar in many ways to the ones I had every frimping day while pregnant. And – this is the bit that makes me really nervous – I woke up with a nosebleed the other night. What does that have to do with anything? Well, before I knew I was pregnant with Happy Fun Baby, I all of a sudden started getting nosebleeds. Nosebleeds are a common but relatively unreported side effect of pregnancy, and since it was my first actual, physical symptom last time I feel somewhat superstitious about it.

There are plenty of non-pregnancy explanations for all of this, of course. The tummy ailments were probably caused by a virus of some sort or something I ate, since a couple of days later Happy Fun Baby seemed to get the same thing. A combination of hormones, meds and depression probably contributed to the meltdown. And sometimes people just get nosebleeds.

I’m just…concerned. It’s not that we don’t want another kid. It’s not that we do, either – we’re still undecided on that one. It’s just that now wouldn’t be the best time. I had such a crappy pregnancy with Happy Fun Baby; I’m not eager to do it again. Plus, you know, research has shown that 18 months between children is optimal, and four months is somewhat short of that mark.

Since I haven’t had my first post-partum period, I’m not really sure how accurately I can test. Do I still have residual pregnancy hormones floating around?(A simple internet search would probably clear that up, but I am suddenly overcome by a fit of laziness.) And part of me thinks I’m totally being a hypochondriac about the whole thing and don’t want to dignify it with a test. Plus, you know, I have enough to worry about – if I am knocked up, I’ll figure it out soon enough, right?

God, those eyes. Happy Fun Baby has these huge, round eyes of indeterminate color (which will probably turn brown one of these days). Bambi eyes, just like his daddy, and he’s learning to work them for all they’re worth. Already I can sense that he will have us wrapped around his finger by the time he’s learned to say “I want that.”

He’s got so much more hand control now. He can not only grap the plastic rings, he can bring them to his mouth and chew animatedly on one. He can pull a board book across the floor to him and open the pages, clumsily. He can pull my hair, Not So’s hair, Auntie Bec’s hair, Cousin Mia’s hair. He often wrings his hands together while he’s nursing or hanging out in the Boppy, looking like a worried old man. And he can scratch his head. I don’t know why it surprised me so much to realize that he had an itch and had figured out how to scratch it, but it seemed so grown up to me, as though he might next start picking out his own clothes.

Such a beautiful baby. His whole face is a poem. I don’t know how we managed to create such an amazing child.

See, the whole point of taking meds is to make my brain a more friendly place. I am not a pill popping sort of girl. Well – except for Valium, and I did not pop it, exactly. I more savored the lack of overwhelming anxiety and wished I could feel like that all the time. Which kept me from taking them any more frequently than was absolutely, completely necessary. Having a mom who’s addicted to escapes (chemical and otherwise) is the best anti-drug there is.

But I digress. I have been dutifully taking my half-dose of Zoloft every day, and instead of a slow, steady return to sanity I have achieved new depths of blah. My brain apparently rallied against the onslaught of seratonin, the result of which is that I’m more anxious and more hopeless than I was before. Which begs the question: why take the meds at all?

Lifehacker linked to an article on changing negative thinking, which seems hokey (I envision myself with wings! Ha!) but worth a try. I’ve pretty much given up on Kaiser as a depression resource. I may try some homeopathich remedies (more vitamin B – which can be beneficial to both mama and baby – and suchlike) and some diet changes. Not that I’m taking up the flag of the Ineffecual Kaiser Therapist on that one; it’s just common sense. Like the breathing thing. I intend to breathe, and I intend to eat, but I certainly don’t intend to spend my valuable time listening to advice I could find in a pamphlet.

I looked out the window today at the blue sky and the clouds and the trees, listening to my baby babbling in the other room, and I had a moment when I knew exactly how wonderful my life is. I need to remember that feeling.

My sister recommended that I read The Glass Castle. “It’s the book you’d write about our childhood,” she said, and then explained how the father reminded her of a more harmless version of our dad. “He draws you in,” she said. “He has this whole fantasy world, and he convinces everyone that it’s true.” She said that it was weird reading it, because she knew that most people would think that the story was so out there, but she found it close to home. Familiar.

I finished the book, but my impression is vastly different from hers. It was familiar, all right. I was angry the whole time – angry at parents who don’t make their children’s welfare a priority, angry at a father who would use his daughter to make money, angry at a mother who thinks she’s entitled to whatever small happiness catches her fancy no matter what the cost. And then I realized that my sister sees it as almost a fairy tale, and that she sees our childhood that way too.

It wasn’t the memoir I’d write. It was the memoir she’d write. We’d all be larger than life, and brighter – the king father, the exiled queen mother, we two princesses and our baby brother the prince. Our castle would not be made of glass, but it would be just as fragile.

I don’t see anything romantic about going hungry, or cowering in our rooms while our father raged about some stupid slight, or laying awake at night wondering how we were going to pay our rent. I never thought that running out of propane and having to wash my hair in cold water was an adventure. I hated waking up before dawn every weekend and loading up the car so that we could spend the day at the flea market, desperately hoping to make a sale so that we’d be able to eat that night. But then, I’m a pessimist. It’s easy for me to see the worst in everything, just like, for my sister, it’s easy to see the best.

We’ve taken our childhood experiences and run with them in dramatically different directions. She’s tight with her money; I spend as though there’s no tomorrow. We both sort of micromanage our lives, but I do it a lot more internally. She works 40+ hour weeks and rarely takes time off (but she loves her job); I’m following some silly dream to become a graphic artist. But it’s easy to see how similar our motivations are. We’re both reacting to the same stimulus.

Maybe if you put both of us together, the optimism and pessimism would cancel each other out and we’d have something close to the truth. But who needs truth? I’d much rather be a fairy princess.

“I just hope I don’t have twins. Twin boys, especially.”

“Twin girls, though – they’ll fight all the time and sleep with each other’s boyfriends.”

“Oh, definitely. I did.”

So, no therapy. The more I thought about it (and believe me, when you wake up at 3am every morning with your mind pointlessly racing, you end up thinking about things a lot) the more I felt that ineffectual, temporary therapy would be worse for me than no therapy at all. I mean, I’m a clever girl; if the solution to all my problems turns out to be as simple as breathing exercises and eliminating sweets, I can figure that out on my own.

What I can’t figure out on my own is whether the meds are making me any better. I think they are, and then I think they aren’t, and then there are days like today when everything was huge and unmanageable and all I wanted to do was lock myself in the bedroom so I could stare at the ceiling and not have to move. Movement is for people with energy, and I? I have no energy. I have anxiety, but that’s not really the same thing.

Happy Fun Baby is going through yet another screaming phase, which seems to have been exacerbated by the fact that his nap schedule has been erratic this last week (Not So’s 11 year old niece was in town and there was much out in our world). He had his four-month doctor’s appointment today and he made it abundantly clear that he was so over his stroller it isn’t even funny. The stroller clearly equals baby torture. I didn’t help matters by inadvertently under-dressing him for our excursion. Short sleeves and no jacket in 60 degree weather? Yes, I am a great mother.

So it was to the sound of a screeching baby that I discovered how very anemic our bank account is (another thing about visiting nieces: they’re expensive! I don’t think I really realized how much money is involved in entertaining/feeding/transporting an 11 year old). We are, yet again, broke, and I hate being broke. In the next few days I will have thought of all the ways our lives could fall apart due to my gross mismanagement of our funds. My brain, it is a fun place.

In the mean time I will binge eat, because I feel badly about myself and what better way to soothe my self-loathing than to offer it a brownie?