Green means GO GO GO!

November 12, 2005 BlogPants

Car.
Duck.
Night-Night.
Mama.
Daddy.

Go.

Go Go Go!

Six little words. Mista T is finally speaking and the feeling of hope is back in our lives. For more than half of the last 16 months I have felt frustrated, down, tired, angry, sad and depressed.

It’s been ridiculous what my husband and oldest son have put up with really. The yelling, the crying, the outright silence. The gain of weight, the loss of self-esteem. It’s been ugly. Not just ugly in that sad pathetic way, but ugly as in the incredible release of tears and loud snorting and sobbing, or what Oprah calls, “The Ugly Cry.”

The sun is out now. Mista T being able to communicate is really something amazing for us, even if it is six little words and a series of gestures which we have learned to interpret. For so long he has just cried and screamed. A lot.

Not like any other kid.

I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before and probably in a good way. Take Little D for instance. He is nearly 7 and he is not like any other kid. He is amazing. Intelligent, good looking, athletic, and he has charm. He is one of those people that will always be labeled as special. Like his father, his grandfather, and especially his great-grandfather.

I feel as though I’ve broken Little D somehow. The last 16 months have really taken a toll on all of us. I could be best described as a bully. The yelling especially was horrid in the beginning. I would freak out over the smallest of things. Shoes in the wrong spot. A jacket not hung up. Having to say “Do your homework,” more than once. Getting ready for school was the worst. We’re up at 6:30 so he can catch his bus and if I woke up late, which I often did… well the consequences weren’t pretty. He would often be rushed out the door with a jam sandwich stuffed into a Ziploc for breakfast, because he didn’t have enough time to eat a proper bowl of cereal or a piece of toast. Our toaster is broken so you have to stand there and hold the stupid fucking button while your toast is cooking. Kind of hard to make a kid’s lunch when you’re wasting the 3 minutes you have to get ready on holding a button. Ironic how I’m pushing a button, no?

So even though he was 5 and a half at the time, and capable of getting dressed without Mom, I whipped off his pyjamas and whipped on his clothes within a minute, hissing at him to turn around to put his belt on, or give me his feet for socks. All the while, worried we would wake Mista T. Mista T has CIA hearing, I swear. He was a spy in his last life, complete with the freaking power hearing chip built into his big ass head.

This crazy morning routine went on throughout all of Grade One. His birthday is in December so he’s always the youngest in his class. He gets excellent grades though and has never had a development or academic problem. Thank goodness. See? I told ya. Special with a capital S.

Somehow he managed to come home every day without deciding to run away from home. Every day that Mista T was sleeping when Little D got home from school, I would wait for Little D at the door, so that I could open it stealthily, and get him inside without waking the little devil. We would talk in hushed but tense whispers, about Little D’s day, about what homework he had, and I bet he kind of liked this because at least Mom wasn’t yelling.

Every night after these little boys were in bed (Mista T didn’t sleep through the night until 10 months old), I would play on the computer while Big D went to hockey or fell asleep on the couch. I was addicted to the internet. I still am, but at least it isn’t just reading about other people’s happy, more meaningful existences. Now it’s about blogging about my family, who I love so very much and realize now how much they love me too. It about learning new things, like Graphic Design and HTML code. I’ve even been asked to write something for a parenting website!

So back when all this yelling and shit was going on, it was because I had postpartum depression. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but my OB/GYN says that she even thought I was depressed while I was pregnant. Wow. That hit me like a ton of bricks because I thought I was happy to be having our 2nd child. I was happy he was our last, and I, for one, was happy that he was not a she. I would not be a great mother to a girl. At least not a confident one, and I really feel girls need confident mothers. So here I was, pregnant to the gills, and the doctor failed to mention she thought I was depressed. I sure wish she had said something. It would have been so much clearer to me why I felt the way I did. I am really weird when I’m pregnant. I’m bitchy, I do not relish in the belly, the fatness, the cravings, the heartburn or the waiting, waiting and more waiting. I’m not a patient person. So impatient, in fact, that I drank exorbitant amounts of coffee during the last 5 weeks in hopes of evicting this little gaffer early. Big mistake. Now he is a terrible sleeper and I feel I broke him too. I was desperate. I tried everything I could think of to get him out. I drank cranberry tea, had more then enough nooky to tire Big D right out (not an easy thing to do, lemme tell ya), and waddled miles a day. I was so very anxious to meet him, to hold him and for Little D to be a big brother. I was confident that I would be so good at mothering this child. I was successful at breastfeeding Little D as an infant, and I knew everything there was to know about babies and young children. I WAS SO READY!

From birth, Mista T was fighting. He came out of the womb with outstretched arms and the loudest howl I’ve ever heard come from such a small creature. It was like a superhero entering the earth with a huge proclaim of, “Here I am to save the day!”

I’m positive no one was stepping on his tail, but he went on and on like that’s exactly what the nurses were doing. That must have been while they were pulling his little horns out too. They had to shout over him. I was elated. Little D was born not breathing, and that was one of the scariest moments in my life. So to hear Mista T screaming was pure joy for Big D and me. I couldn’t wait to show Little D his new baby brother.

The first night in the hospital was restless. Very restless. The breastfeeding was not going as I had remembered and I couldn’t quite remember how to swaddle and diaper such a small baby. We did not have benefits at the time, and I share a room with 4 other babies and mothers getting acquainted, as well as listen to loud visiting grandmothers, with shrill voices and that repetitive shit that new grandmas always say.

“He/she is SO beautiful/perfect/GORE-geous!”

Okay babies looks like shriveled up trolls, so um; beautiful is so not the word.

“He/she has the smallest fingers/toes/nose!”

No kidding.

“He/she looks JUST like you/his dad/me/your father/your Great-Aunt Bertha.”

Poor kid.

I’m pretty sure my mother-in-law is guilty of saying some of these things, but I love her like a fat kid love cake, so she is exempt from this little rant.

So the room was noisy and Mista T was not the best of sleepers. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep and every time I finally drifted off, someone would come into the room and speak. I had Mista T at 6:23 a.m. and by dinner, I wanted to go home. I knew I could get more rest there. I asked the nurse and she advised I stay one night. I begged her and told her, that this was my 2nd child and I was fine to go home, I felt great and really wanted to be at home for some rest and perhaps an extra set of hands since hubby had to be home for my oldest. That verbal diarrhea is pretty much how I asked her too!

She called my doctor for me. A little while later, my doctor called me and asked me a few questions and convinced me to stay until morning. I grudgingly agreed, but I wasn’t happy about it.

Pouting, I decided the best course of action was to try and sleep through as much of this horrible hospital stay as I could. The majority of my back was raw meat from the anesthesiologist poking at me during FOUR attempts to put in my epidural and the bed was not helping me at all. I’m not even discussing my vagina with the internet. Forget the ‘gina people.

So for about an hour at a time, I was sleeping on my side. My hip would start to hurt and I’d have to somehow flip over with what little abdomen strength I had, avoiding my back and crotch as well. By the time I flopped over, I would be awake, and so would Mista T. He was awake with me a lot. He cried a ton! I was getting frustrated and I was extremely tired after labouring the entire night before. I finally padded down the hall to the nurses station and did what I never would normally do.

“Hi,” I barely whispered.

The nurses were all quietly chatting and turned to look at me. One of them whispered back, “What do you need hun?” She smiled.

“I would never normally do this. I know you guys are busy. But I’m not getting any sleep and I’m wondering if you would take Mista T for a little while.”

I felt like the worst mother in the world. I was standing there, completely defeated after the first 18 hours of Mista T’ life and ready to hand him back.

“Of course! That’s what we are here for.”

A friendly nurse followed me back to my curtain, and gathered Mista T and the things he might need to hang out with the nurses, and disappeared with him.

Feeling more tired than guilty, I collapsed into bed and fell asleep, only to be woken 8 seconds later by a different nurse holding a screaming Mista T.

I must have looked confused, because she said, “He’s ready to nurse.”

I started to sit up, “How long has it been?”

“You both slept 5 hours.”

“Wow.” I supposed I should have felt refreshed, but I SO did not.

I nursed Mista T, while he scratched me and fought to come off the breast the entire time. I tried to be calm and soothe him, but truthfully, I was baffled why he wasn’t like Little D.

So here we are, 8000 diaper changes later, 160,000 feedings have gone by, and about 5 MILLION tears have been shed by every member of this family, including Big D.

We are healing. We are stronger. And whatever I did to break these two kids, the broken parts are fixed, and they are both thriving. I sure hope I don’t screw up again. I know the PPD wasn’t my fault, but the way I handled myself certainly is, isn’t it? I know I have to let the guilt go to be a better mom. I just don’t know if I have a box big enough to ship it off.

These kids teach me something, everyday. I do believe Little D has taught me perseverance, and that Mista T is still teaching me patience. He may take 18 years to teach me that one.

At any rate, I’m well aware of how lucky I am to have my family. My adulthood has been the complete opposite of my childhood. Trust me, that is fantastic.

GO GO GO!

Thank you to Mama Says Om for the inspiration. This one has been a long time coming.