Reaching

Dear Readers,

Merry Christmas, and other wishes of peace and joy as you would apply them. I am relieved to have pulled off the holiday with a minimum of carnage. Holidays have never felt natural to me and the first once after leaving my partner of 20 years was no exception. So today after handing my beloved progeny to their adoring father at the appointed time and after taking a MUCH needed nap, I took myself to dinner (at a VERY busy and delicious Indian restaurant) and a movie.

I went to see MockingJay (part 1), which I very much enjoyed - I loved the books. (Suzi you make no sense. You want to beat up anyone who so much as speaks rudely to children and you loved a trilogy which starts with gladiator children? The hell?) Watching Philip Seymour Hoffman was rather poignant. As the reader will likely recall, we lost Mr. Hoffman to a drug overdose early this year. The pain and anguish of addiction, to the addict and those that love the addict, is beyond measure to those of us blessed to have avoided the affliction. As a member of the loved ones category (no not Mr. Hoffman, I merely admired him from afar), I will liken it to repeatedly sticking myself in the heart with a hot poker.

We poorly understand our brains. Moving along in 2014 to lose Robin Williams to suicide underscores this point most painfully. Suicide is dreadfully understood, and widely misinterpreted. But for someone who spread such joy and laughter to die so sadly, so desperately, is inexcusable for us as the wealthiest nation in the world. We can heal amazing things. We can reattach limbs, faces even. We can cure cancers we couldn't even find 50 years ago. And we do a really shitty job healing the human spirit. From veterans earning subsistence wages and suffering from post traumatic stress to men so rich they could buy any cure we could provide, we are doing a really shitty job of healing minds.

When I suffered from post partum anxiety with Robert, I was afraid to ask for help. I thought if I admitted to anyone the horrible images that wouldn't leave my brain in peace, that Robert would be taken from me, destroying the tenuous breastfeeding relationship for which I had fought so hard, and breaking my heart. I thought if I asked for pharmaceutical relief, I would hurt him. I thought I was bad and wrong for having these thoughts in the first place, involuntary though they obviously were, and that admitting to them would be shameful. So I suffered, needlessly, and largely alone.

Thank heavens when I had Jackie, I had a midwifery team that I trusted. I knew they valued my bond to my child almost as much as I did. I knew they knew I am a good and loving mother. And on this go, suffering from both post partum depression AND anxiety (two for the price of one!!! But wait - order now, and the insomnia package is ABSOLUTELY FREE!!!) I was desperate enough to reach out to them at a horrible moment when I had been crying for hours and couldn't figure out why.

A long, difficult path followed. I tortured myself with various attempts to avoid pharmaceuticals for a few more months, until I decided that Jackie was better off with a little bit of SSRI in her gut than with no mother. Because lost to the world literally or otherwise, that's where we were headed. And I am so thankful I did. And I also know, I am so very lucky. Lucky to have that team of caring professionals with the right training. Lucky to have the resources to afford them. And lucky to have a caring community of friends and acquaintances who either are enlightened about mental illness or are polite enough to shut the hell up. Either way I am so very grateful.

My college classmates and I lost a bright and beautiful light a while back, to, ostensibly, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. She had suffered terribly for years, ineffectively treated and at times really just abused by a health system that did not understand at all what was going on with her. Shortly before she died, she posted a note indicating that CFS sufferers died mostly from three things, one of which was suicide. At the time I didn't realize her post might have been a cry for help. Shortly afterwards she was gone. The cause of her death has not been officially disclosed, but I know in my heart that I missed an opportunity to be of use. To demand that she call me or I would call 911. To tell her she was not alone. To tell her I would miss her. I wasn't very close to her, but her artistic spirit and sweet smile are memories I will carry with me always.

These memories remind me not to let it happen again. To always reach out. Obviously I can't save all the babies. I can't really save anyone - mostly people have to save themselves. But we can't do it alone. We have to know that we are loved. We need a reason to keep trying. I am so grateful that I did when it was my turn to suffer, to feel that my brain had betrayed me, to wonder if I would ever feel like myself again.

Please always reach out. Don't give up. Someone loves you. Someone will miss you. Someone will be so heartbroken to think they could have helped you and didn't take the right chance.

I pray (in my odd nondenominational pagan yogini faith way) that I always reach for my loved ones when they need me, or just want me. That they always ask and that I always answer. What if we each just let someone cry on us? What if we each just said, "I love you, I want you around me, I would miss you so much if you weren't here with me"? Would it help? Would it give someone the one more breath they needed to gather the strength to keep trying? I think it would.

Please keep trying. I love you. I would miss you if you weren't here with me.

Much love always,
Suzi

PS - this is very much inspired by a particular someone in my life right now, and I would like to hasten to reassure all of you that it is NOT me, I am NOT in danger, and I'm really just fine. Promise.

What is Privilege?

Hello Beloved Readers,

We tree hugging lefty yuppies are mostly making noises of outrage tonight, about the fact that a "Peace Officer" shot a young black man and got off without a single charge (at the state level anyway). And then we, or let me just speak for myself since it's not like I was elected Representative of Liberal White Yuppies, *I* get to go quietly about my business, reasonably confident that no one is going to shoot my son when he does something that frightens them (like, say, buying Skittles and iced tea for his younger sibling). This is a privilege that should be a right. I have it. My darker skinned neighbors and fellow citizens do not.

This is not okay.

Can I give up my white privilege right now to make it fair? Not really. Would I if I could? Probably not. I'm too scared. I don't want to know what it's like to be watched like a hawk if I go into a store in sweatpants. I don't want to have to wonder if my mortgage application was turned down because of something about my appearance. I sure as hell don't want to have to wonder if my kids are going to get shot by someone that's supposed to be protecting them. I'd like to say I'm courageous and noble and I'd give it up in a heartbeat. But that's easy noise to make since I can't really do it.

What can I do? I can vote. I can hold an open heart and mind and not assume that I have totally expunged all ignorance or assumptions of privilege from my world view. I can educate other people who look like me, who maybe don't realize that they have privileges they didn't earn. I can lend out my white privilege, sort of - maybe offer to go with a friend when she applies for a mortgage or something. Shouldn't be necessary but hey if it helps, I'll do it.

I think the most effective thing I can do though is try to raise awareness amongst those who are as privileged as me and more so. I say most effective because I'm in a position to do it, I'm reasonably good at having these conversations, and I haven't been worn thin by decades of aggression and hostility that passes as normal zeitgeist pointed at me when I do something really unreasonable like go to school or try to get a job.

I spent a long time whining that people who have been swimming up this stream were cross with me when I did something totally ignorant. (I'd like to assert that it was never hateful but the effect can be essentially the same - I'm not sure this is really a useful point.) A lot of folks were really sweet and patient and brave with me and took the time to explain what was going on for the people who were cross with me. I'm grateful, now that I get it a teeny bit. So maybe that's what I can do, too - if someone wants to borrow me to go explain to another Europeanish person why what they just did was really a bit horrid, please do so. I'll do it if I can.

What can each of us do? What do our particular talents and situations lend themselves to? How can we make a world where my kids' classmates all have a really equal shot at a good life? Not a handout, just a fair chance.

Thank you for listening.

Love,
Suzi

Some News

Dearest readers,

So, I have some news. (Not injury or illness, so exhale, and thanks.) And I don’t quite know how to share it. So I’ll just blurt it out.

On May 1^st, I told my husband of 16 years, partner of 20, that I am divorcing him. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, including birthing a 9lb+ baby and holding my father’s hand while he died. The ensuing period has been the most intense I can recount. I would have liked to share this information with you sooner, but I wasn’t ready to do so in a calm and dignified manner.

This decision was not made quickly, rashly, or lightly. It was not selfish, bad for the kids, or based on an extramarital relationship. We have had a long standing struggle which over the years we have worked on with varying degrees of intensity and via various methods (mostly therapy). Tons of therapy, tons of help from family and friends. We tried until it was killing me. And then, even then, it took me another six months to finally admit to myself that it was over and I needed to end it.

He is not a Bad Person. He is a good person. I am not a bad person, I am a good person. We are not suited to each other, in fundamental and irrevocable ways. Nothing “happened,” in that there wasn’t one precipitating event that ended an otherwise functional marriage. We both did shitty things. Probably my side of the shitty behavior scale is heavier over the past two years. I’m not sure there’s much point in speculating whose side of the shitty behavior scale is heavier over the whole 20 year relationship. The point is, if we’re with the right person, we won’t behave that way.  I’m not naïve enough to think I couldn’t make the same mistakes again. Everyone has the capacity to be an asshole, and I need to be very careful to continue healing, growing, and learning about and loving myself, so that I don’t find myself right back in the same situation with someone who on the surface looked different enough to be not the same guy.

In anticipation of some frequently asked questions, I offer the following. Kids: our children are on a 50/50 schedule with us, always both kids. They are adjusting well, certainly with some normal stress and accordingly difficult behavior. They are already showing signs of being accustomed to the housing switches and I think they seem happier although of course it could be that everything seems happier now that I am happier. We know that a two house schedule might not work for them forever, and we will continue to act in the best interest of the entire, now binuclear, family.

I am very proud of how well we have handled our divorce. We are a team to co-parent these children. We are a team to help Robert navigate the world from the perspective of a quirky little genius. We are not asking anyone to take sides. My mother, five minutes into our phone conversation when I told her this news, asked if she could call Matt and say she still wanted to be his mother in law. She has since repeatedly declared her pride in how “gentlemanly” we have both been during the whole thing. We are hurt. We are angry. We are scared. We feel a lot of unpleasant things. I for one am scrambling to furnish a house (NOT my comparative advantage) and establish new normal routines, while continuing to keep up with my full time career and solo parent my adorable, challenging children, all while processing the huge emotional upheaval of ending a 20 year partnership. But I am happy to report, with perhaps a couple of ugly moments during negotiations in the counselor’s office, we are not trying to tear chunks out of each other and we are absolutely not asking anyone to get divorced but us. We are not fighting in front of the children or asking them to take sides. We are both determined to do the absolute best by these kids we can.

I hope I get back the friend whom I called my best friend for almost 20 years. I don’t know if I will. We both hurt too much right now to try. But we have moments of connection about our beautiful children which give me a glimmer of hope. Perhaps. Either way, I wish him all the best. He is a wonderful father and a beautiful person, and I hope he will be happy again, soon.

I never knew what friends I had until this. People came out of the woodwork to support me when my father died. Northeast Indianapolis brought deli trays when Matt’s parents died. Many things have surprised me in how blessed we are. But nothing like this. I have received extensive housing before I bought my new  house. I have cried in my colleagues’ offices. I have texted and messaged with people at all hours. I have only received three hurtful comments, and all of them I understood (they were sort of blatantly obvious) to be about that person’s personal experience or level of understanding of human relationships. Almost no one has written Matt off – even people who clearly were “on my side” checked on him to make sure he’s okay. I have the absolute best sister and brother (in law) on the planet. Friends I assumed would drop me like a hot potato have hugged me and told me they are here if I need them.  Friends have helped me move and fix up my place, watched my kids so I can pack, offered to take me drinking (custody and work schedule doesn’t leave a lot of room for partying but the offers were appreciated). The good and loving and supportive have outweighed the petty and the disappointing and the hurtful by orders of magnitude, and I am so very grateful.

Please feel free to ask questions. I’m not the fastest correspondent in normal times and right now, whoo nelly, I sort of fall behind on email for two weeks and then have a huge burst of communicativeness. But if you can be patient, I can be honest, unless they are not my answers to give.

I will always be okay again eventually, until I’m dead. It’s what I do.

As always, I am grateful for your notice and support.

Much love,

Suzi

Assorted Uterine Topics

Hello Beloved Readers!

Time to talk uteri. Menstruation in particular. Ew, right? Nope. The more we talk about things the more we normalize them. The more we normalize them the more we can talk honestly and ask for help and learn from one another. Those of us who have had babies in the family know that one tiny little person can turn you from "One only discusses poop with one's doctor" to "HELP CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET BABY DIARRHEA OUT OF A MICROSUEDE COUCH!?!?!" I'm using my bizarre brain/mouth filter for the greater good. So I'm talking period, period. (Tee hee.)

Right, so, two months before I turned 40, just to rub it in, my period got all "random mode" on me. I'm told this is perimenopause. Oh, then I'll ask my mom, she'll know. Except to get my mom to admit that something is uncomfortable you pretty much have to saw something off. (Please don't test this theory.) So when I asked her about it, she didn't remember. She has an absurdly detailed memory, so this probably means it didn't rate her attention. Fair enough. My sister is three years older. I can't honestly remember whether I've asked her or not, but either we somehow think of more interesting things to discuss when we find we have more than five minutes together without my kids, or she didn't have any helpful feedback on the topic. I actually got the most useful information from the receptionist at work, who, bless her, does not appear to have complained to my supervisor for me asking. And by useful, I mean, "Yup, that's how it went for me. Welcome." She actually said welcome, with a sort of bemused expression. I wanted to hug her. But I didn't. Which is probably why she didn't bother to file a complaint. So anyway, there's one topic I think should get discussed more.

Next one. Menstrual maintenance, I'll call it. I hate tampons. Freaking hate them. Totally eff up my biochemistry, expensive and wasteful, stinky, and after three in a day get rather uncomfortable to insert, and blah blah blah. Well, after a while cloth diapering, it occurred to me, hey, they make this stuff for menstruation. I got jealous of (then) Robert's fuzzy, colorful diapers, as compared to my funky, plasticky pads. So I decided to go a-Googling. Now, there are a bunch of options here. Luna Pads. Others. I have a lovely fleece one made by a work at home mama, but it's too bulky for anything but bedtime. GladRags is the one commercially available brand I found that I'm convinced has NO synthetics in it, which is my preference because it's the most breathable. So those are working well for me. And. DIVA CUP! Yes, that's in this hilarious video. It's a pretty simple idea. It collects the menstrual effluent and holds it there until you empty it. Wait what? How is that better than a tampon for breathing? Yeah I was worried about that, but it is. I theorize that it's because (1) it's nonabsorbent, so it doesn't monkey with the particular balance of fluids in your vagina, and (2) the effluent was in there anyway, so as long as you take it out and rinse it off as frequently as the package suggests you aren't introducing any real problems. Well how do you rinse it off in a stall at work? Either (1) you don't, you just empty it, put it back, and rinse it next time, or (2) pee on it. Yep. Pee is sterile, unless you are ill. They don't suggest that in the instructions but I tried it sort of out of curiosity and it seems to work. So if THAT doesn't make me a hippie freak, I'm obviously immune to the diagnosis. And anyway each month when I'm done I wash it with soap and then boil it for five minutes.

So when Jackie reaches "maturity" (snort) and it's time to start teaching her how to use all this stuff? I'm totally starting with cloth. We live in Portland and that's hopefully a good decade off, so by then it'll be so normal none of the girls in the locker room will tease her. HA! Good one. Well screw 'em. I'm raising my kids to think for them damn selves. Which probably means she'll tell me to go see a shrink and go running for the Tampax.

Okay so there's that topic. Maybe I'll think of something more tasteful for next post. Snicker. Don't hold your breath.

Much love always,
Suzi

Addendum: Okay so this wound up being wildly popular on my Facebook feed, and demonstrated that I need to share more about the Diva cup.

One interesting feature is it has volume measurements on it, so you can see how much flow you produce on a given day. If you are a data nerd raised by scientists, this is fascinating. If you are worried about your cycle for some reason, this is reassuring. If not, it's harmless.

Also the first few months I used the Diva cup I swear it made me fart more. Most likely in the process of either putting in the cup or chasing after it, I was pushing bubbles or other material the wrong way in the nearby rectum. Harmless, not a problem, don't let it scare you away, but an amusing side effect that I don't think was mentioned in the little leaflet in the box.

Someone mentioned that it can interfere with an IUD. It shouldn't, according to the website and what anecdotal evidence I have access to.


One thing I think freaks people out about a Diva Cup (or non-applicator tampons for that matter) is sticking their fingers up their vagina. Um. There are a bazillion reasons to get okay with this. Fun reasons, health reasons, figuring out when to try to have a baby reasons, figuring out what's going on while you're growing a baby reasons, and just because it's part of your body - are you scared of reaching into your mouth to get a seed out from between your teeth? But I think this may be a topic for broader discussion at a later date.

Lastly, another friend said her 14 year old LOVES GladRags, so I shan't give up hope...

Even more love,
Suzi

I will be okay.

I wrote a poem. I'm fairly ignorant about these things but it's what was on my heart. So here it is.
Love,
Suzi

I will be okay.

I’m always okay again, eventually.

Not because everything was fine.

But because I kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

Because I believed it would hurt a little less each day.

Not because I wasn’t sad.

But because I was brave.

Let me cry.

Let me rage.

Let me fear.

Let me wonder.

You may hold me

You may comfort me

You may offer me your sympathy and understanding.

But do not try to stop me.

Do not try to take away my anguish.

Let me feel.

Or get out of the way.

Without these feelings there is no joy.

To feel joy I must feel grief, anger, fear, hurt, doubt.

Without these I cannot love.

To have faith I must allow doubt and move forward anyway.

To love I must allow myself to be hurt.

Not to be mortally wounded.

Not to sit defenseless while I am abused.

I will care for myself.

I can take care of myself.

I can leave if I need to.

I do not need you.

I simply want you.

I must allow myself the risk of hurt

To allow myself the possibility of love.

I will trust you

Because I trust myself.

I am strong.

I am brave.

I will be okay.

Therefore, I can love.


 

Happens to Everyone, Right?

Beloved Readers,

As you may well have noticed, I am a yoga enthusiast. It can be tricky to get a real yoga class squeezed in between work, kid time, laundry, and oh, right, sleep. So the other day, I left work at 4:40 to rush over the river to a 5:00 class. (Which turned out to be a 5:30 class, which renders all the ridiculousness to follow even less necessary.) My favorite studio is just at the first exit off I-5 North after crossing the lovely Willamette, so I take that route even when it looks like a parking lot. Which it did on this lovely evening. Going six miles per hour, I reasoned, even if I completely lost control of my cute little Prius, I wasn't going to kill anyone - likely not even bruise them. So it made perfect sense, of course, to change my clothes in the car. Right? Are you with me? Come on, I've pumped milk in that car... Right. I'm glad you agree.

Now I didn't want to give any truckers a free show, so I calculated how I could effect the whole transaction without actually being bare at any time, while still waiting to get up the on-ramp. I wiggle my shoes off, move forward a bit, move the waist of my skirt up a couple inches, go ten feet... so I'm working on merging into the stop and idle traffic just as I'm getting my underpants off my second leg, glancing at the person who's going to be neighborly and let me merge in front of him. I'm changing totally on autopilot, I've totally forgotten that it's even going on, just as the guy waves me in, I bring my right hand up to wave thanks... and then realize I've got my hot pink panties in that hand.

So that's how I waved my panties at a stranger on the freeway. I was mortified and giggled my way across the river. But that's the nicest smile I think I've gotten in traffic for years and years.

Right. Happens to everyone, I'm sure.

Much love,
Suzi

Massage, Weaning, and Other Matters

Beloved Readers,

Hello! I've missed you. I won't presume the feeling is mutual. I've had stuff going on, and I've been quite remiss. You would be well within your rights to be mad at me. But I am quite determined to finally write my weaning post. Why would that take me so long? Surely Ms. Boobjuice knows all about the weaning.

Nope.

Fairly useless on this topic. You can scroll back to see that in fact Robert called it quits, not the other way 'round. Jackie is still a boobmonster, and will turn three in September. Actually at this rate *I* will be turning to *you* for weaning tips. I have to preferred to think that I will let the kiddos decide, but with 32 pounds of squirmy mischief climbing on me at 5 in the morning, I may have to re-think that philosophy.

Luckily I have some other ideas for you.

One is to look at Kelly Mom. That website is a wealth of information.

Another is "Nursies When The Sun Shines," which is pretty much what it sounds like - a book to help a toddler understand that if they crawl into your bed and yank on your jammies at midnight, they ain't getting the good stuff.

Which leads me to another thought. A lot of us have cried "ENOUGH!" when in fact what we really want is to sleep for more than three consecutive hours. I am not going to judge you on either count. But if you think it's time to wean and are feeling conflicted about it, maybe consider if there is an interim step that would address your needs and your concerns at the same time. Like no nursing from 9 pm to 6 am, or something. Or to have your mother in law shut the hell up about how nursing past a year will turn your son gay. (I love that one. I thought men who loved boobs preferred women? And who the hell gives a crap if he's gay? People are so silly.)

With Robert, pretty soon after his first birthday I limited him to bed time and wake up time, and if he asked and it wasn't one of those, I explained that to him. (At 16 months I'm sure he found my reasoning terribly compelling.) In retrospect, this probably led to him weaning at 21 months instead of the 24 months I had hoped for. (And yes, with the balm of time I have acknowledged that those three months probably wouldn't have made a big difference to either of us.) I was a bit heartbroken, which my husband found confusing. Have y'all noticed that the sweetest, most supportive, allegedly pro-breastfeeding people do not understand why weaning leaves mama feeling like baby just broke up with her? I mean sometimes. Probably some mamas it doesn't. But I felt so rejected.

So with Jackie I was bound and determined not to do the same thing. I decided I'd let her decide. Well, at this rate, I'll be nursing her before she takes her driving test. Not my particular preference. So I have started enforcing the "it's too freaking early, I'll tuck you back into bed but no nursies" policy, and if I'm feeling "touched out" or if she's been chewing on me or if I'm trying to slice up steak for stir fry, I'll say no. More news as events warrant on whether she loses interest or I cut her off at the source.

Meanwhile I want to share that I had a FANTASTIC massage today at Dragontree Spa in NW Portland, and a lovely conversation with the therapist about birth. Tee hee! I love my cute little crunchy granola city. I also loved my massage - I may request her next time. And massage is SO. LOVELY. But you knew that.

AHhhhhhhhhhh.

Much love,
Suzi