It would seem obvious that someone who has a long history of depression and gets mildly depressed every winter suffers from seasonal affect disorder. And yet, I only realized this year that this was the case.
I use many approaches when I experience a bout of depression: medication adjustments, talk therapy, cardiovascular exercise, yoga, massage, meditation, and beginning this year, bright light therapy. Something is bound to work, even if I never know exactly what. So although I have no evidence that light therapy is doing me any good, I quickly became enamored of it. Short of damning evidence linking it to a rare form of face cancer, nothing will get me to stop.
Light therapy has given me back the one thing that motherhood robbed me of: my breasts an opportunity to sit on my ass undisturbed.
Bright light therapy provides a bonafide medical excuse for my morning coffee ritual. The recommended dosage of light therapy is thirty minutes, so every morning I brew my coffee and settle in with my lamp. I set a timer and wrap my hands around my warm mug reading the news in the undisturbed quiet. Halfway through, David brings me a second cup of coffee; I especially appreciate this unanticipated perk of being served while sitting around doing nothing. Children might need helping, the cat could shit on the rug, but somebody else must take care of it when I am in treatment.
So if you are longing for some quiet contemplative time, I suggest you try faking mild depressive symptoms; feign an existential air of despair or adopt a mien of sadness, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and settle in.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
18 February 2011
07 April 2010
Eleven
Today is significant because you turned eleven, and although it is your day, the fact of your birth marks the day that I became both your mother, and a mother.
Soon after you were born, as your father and I admired you, we agreed that we wanted to raise a strong-willed girl. In that, we have succeeded in spades. You are so effortlessly authoritative that on occasion I have found myself responding to direction from you before I remember that I am the mother, and I give the orders around here. And though we'd like to take credit for the manifold ways in which you know, and express your heart and mind, the credit belongs to you.
Your kindness, maturity, humor and conscience are wise beyond your years, and often leave me speechless. I thoroughly enjoyed your last parent-teacher conference, which was less a critical assessment than a forum in which your teachers and I swapped stories about about your many forms of awesomeness. I left with a shit-eating grin on my face that did not subside until sometime after I fell asleep.
I know it's hard to comprehend that your birthday is not a national holiday, and it was only because you were sick that you got your wish to take the day off from school. And while it is disappointing to be sick on your birthday, I think we had a pretty good, albeit ordinary day knocking about together. I think you are well on your way to learning, at a far younger age than I ever understood, that try as we may to manufacture memories, they fail in comparison to the way in which the mundane is sacred, and the best moments often arise unbidden, in the crevices between running the vacuum, and throwing another load of laundry in the dryer.
You are remarkable beyond my wildest expectations, and I am forever grateful for the privilege of being your mother.
Happy birthday, beauty; I owe you some macaroni and cheese.
Soon after you were born, as your father and I admired you, we agreed that we wanted to raise a strong-willed girl. In that, we have succeeded in spades. You are so effortlessly authoritative that on occasion I have found myself responding to direction from you before I remember that I am the mother, and I give the orders around here. And though we'd like to take credit for the manifold ways in which you know, and express your heart and mind, the credit belongs to you.
Your kindness, maturity, humor and conscience are wise beyond your years, and often leave me speechless. I thoroughly enjoyed your last parent-teacher conference, which was less a critical assessment than a forum in which your teachers and I swapped stories about about your many forms of awesomeness. I left with a shit-eating grin on my face that did not subside until sometime after I fell asleep.
I know it's hard to comprehend that your birthday is not a national holiday, and it was only because you were sick that you got your wish to take the day off from school. And while it is disappointing to be sick on your birthday, I think we had a pretty good, albeit ordinary day knocking about together. I think you are well on your way to learning, at a far younger age than I ever understood, that try as we may to manufacture memories, they fail in comparison to the way in which the mundane is sacred, and the best moments often arise unbidden, in the crevices between running the vacuum, and throwing another load of laundry in the dryer.
You are remarkable beyond my wildest expectations, and I am forever grateful for the privilege of being your mother.
Happy birthday, beauty; I owe you some macaroni and cheese.
27 June 2009
Good enough mother
I am still working my way through Ayelet Waldman's book Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace, and yesterday I came across Insult and Injury on Judith Warner's Domestic Disturbances blog.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
11 June 2009
Guilt-free mothering
I am in the midst of reading Ayelet Waldman's book, Bad Mother, and then today, I stumbled upon this piece on Lisa Belkin's Motherlode blog, entitled "What Mothers Are Unhappy About". It is a guest blog by Jen Singer of MommaSaid.net, which references an economic study, The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness, and a recent New York Times op-ed piece entitled Liberated and Unhappy, by Ross Douthat, the newest addition to the Times' Opinion page.
I won't pretend that I have read the study, or that I ever will, because I would be lying to you. But I did read the column, and Douthat's piece with great interest. Perhaps I am late to the pity party, because I am just beginning to understand the extent to which mothers subject themselves to guilt regarding their mothering skills. I find this sad beyond belief.
I am glad to say that by and large, I do not suffer from this guilt anymore. A few years ago, my book group read Judith Warner's Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, and I skipped that month. I did not feel much anxiety about being a mother at that point in my life, so I had no interest in reading it. Now, I would like to revisit that book, because I enjoy Warner's writing in general, and I'd like to gain a better understanding of what is motivating all this gut-churning angst.
I think a lot of mothers, especially new mothers, spend a good amount of time berating themselves as they adjust to the major life shift and their new responsibilities. And because many women have tendencies toward perfectionism, this berating of one's mothering skills becomes a bad habit that is hard to break.
I did experience my share of guilt early in my mothering career. The key years for me were when Sarah was a baby, also known as the time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I remember feeling so overwhelmed and stressed out by the job that I spent a lot of time worrying, beating myself up, and whining to my therapist about what a bad job I was doing raising my child. She gave me much sound advice on the subject—she was full of such wisdom; if anyone wants her number, contact me offline!—but there are a few things in particular that I really took to heart.
I would obsess about some perceived mistake I'd made in the rearing of my child, and cry that I was so very afraid that I was going to fuck her up, like my parents fucked me up, which was after all, the reason I hadchecked myself in for outpatient treatment gone into therapy. She responded, "You will not fuck her up like your parents did. You will fuck her up in your own way."
I found this very sensible, and freeing advice. I will fuck my children up, but I will do it MY WAY!
Mistakes in child rearing will be made; as in any other part of life, they are unavoidable. But most mistakes are also correctable. Everyone has had the experience while eating out where your waitperson messes up your order, or spills something on your table, or even worse, you. If your waitperson handles their mistake with aplomb—apologizing sincerely, taking money off the bill, bringing you a dessert gratis—do you not give them an even bigger tip?
So for me, the issue became not would I make a mistake, but what would I do about it when I did. As a new mother, I used to get very worried when I yelled at my children; my parents yelled a lot; at the kids, at each other, at the dry-cleaners, and I was so afraid, that if I too, yelled at my children, I WAS REPEATING THEIR MISTAKES.
That is, until I realized a mother, you will lose your temper with your children. That in and of itself does not make you a bad mother. If you lose your temper for good reason, you do not need to apologize. If, on the other hand, you explode at your children because you are tired, or PMS-ing, or are generally having a bad day, you have just had yourself a temper tantrum, and you owe your children an apology.
Own up to your mistakes soon as possible, and make amends. It is only when you let your stubbornness get the best of you that you run into trouble.
Perhaps the most important piece of advice on mothering that my therapist gave me came deep in the mire of postpartum depression, when I was sleep-deprived and extremely hungry all the time, because I was nursing, and spent so much time caring for this baby that I did not make time to eat. It was a truly vicious circle.
My therapist reminded me that there is a reason why, when you are on a plane, in the event of an emergency you are instructed to put your own respirator on before assisting your children. If I was hungry, it would be alright to let my baby cry in order to feed myself. She assured me that if Sarah had to wait a few minutes before nursing, she would not starve. Once I inured myself to the sounds of my wailing infant, I could eat a sandwich, if not in peace, at least confident that when I was sated, I would attend to her.
A mother needs to feed herself in order to serve her children. This is not only literally, but metaphorically true. If as a mother, you give all of yourself over to your children in selfless service, there will not be much of you to share with your children.
It is very easy to lose sight of this, especially in the early years, when you are responsible for all your children's needs. If you have the luxury of a stable marriage, and decent living conditions, I believe it is imperative as a mother to find something besides child-rearing that you love to do, and then, to make time to do it. If you love your job and can't stand the thought of spending your days at home with your children, then find the best child care that you can, and go to work. If you are home with your kids, and enjoy volunteer work, whether for your PTA, Junior League, your church or synagogue, do it. But if this does not bring you great satisfaction, you need not feel guilty about it. Cultivate your hobbies, and if you don't have one, make the time to discover something you might find interesting.
Do not do everything for the sake of your children; if it doesn't serve you, it will not serve them. Your children's mental health and stability are very much tied to your own. If you remember to feed yourself body and soul, you will be a happier, better-adjusted person, more interesting and well-rounded, and, as an added bonus, your children will be the beneficiaries.
I won't pretend that I have read the study, or that I ever will, because I would be lying to you. But I did read the column, and Douthat's piece with great interest. Perhaps I am late to the pity party, because I am just beginning to understand the extent to which mothers subject themselves to guilt regarding their mothering skills. I find this sad beyond belief.
I am glad to say that by and large, I do not suffer from this guilt anymore. A few years ago, my book group read Judith Warner's Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, and I skipped that month. I did not feel much anxiety about being a mother at that point in my life, so I had no interest in reading it. Now, I would like to revisit that book, because I enjoy Warner's writing in general, and I'd like to gain a better understanding of what is motivating all this gut-churning angst.
I think a lot of mothers, especially new mothers, spend a good amount of time berating themselves as they adjust to the major life shift and their new responsibilities. And because many women have tendencies toward perfectionism, this berating of one's mothering skills becomes a bad habit that is hard to break.
I did experience my share of guilt early in my mothering career. The key years for me were when Sarah was a baby, also known as the time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I remember feeling so overwhelmed and stressed out by the job that I spent a lot of time worrying, beating myself up, and whining to my therapist about what a bad job I was doing raising my child. She gave me much sound advice on the subject—she was full of such wisdom; if anyone wants her number, contact me offline!—but there are a few things in particular that I really took to heart.
I would obsess about some perceived mistake I'd made in the rearing of my child, and cry that I was so very afraid that I was going to fuck her up, like my parents fucked me up, which was after all, the reason I had
I found this very sensible, and freeing advice. I will fuck my children up, but I will do it MY WAY!
Mistakes in child rearing will be made; as in any other part of life, they are unavoidable. But most mistakes are also correctable. Everyone has had the experience while eating out where your waitperson messes up your order, or spills something on your table, or even worse, you. If your waitperson handles their mistake with aplomb—apologizing sincerely, taking money off the bill, bringing you a dessert gratis—do you not give them an even bigger tip?
So for me, the issue became not would I make a mistake, but what would I do about it when I did. As a new mother, I used to get very worried when I yelled at my children; my parents yelled a lot; at the kids, at each other, at the dry-cleaners, and I was so afraid, that if I too, yelled at my children, I WAS REPEATING THEIR MISTAKES.
That is, until I realized a mother, you will lose your temper with your children. That in and of itself does not make you a bad mother. If you lose your temper for good reason, you do not need to apologize. If, on the other hand, you explode at your children because you are tired, or PMS-ing, or are generally having a bad day, you have just had yourself a temper tantrum, and you owe your children an apology.
Own up to your mistakes soon as possible, and make amends. It is only when you let your stubbornness get the best of you that you run into trouble.
Perhaps the most important piece of advice on mothering that my therapist gave me came deep in the mire of postpartum depression, when I was sleep-deprived and extremely hungry all the time, because I was nursing, and spent so much time caring for this baby that I did not make time to eat. It was a truly vicious circle.
My therapist reminded me that there is a reason why, when you are on a plane, in the event of an emergency you are instructed to put your own respirator on before assisting your children. If I was hungry, it would be alright to let my baby cry in order to feed myself. She assured me that if Sarah had to wait a few minutes before nursing, she would not starve. Once I inured myself to the sounds of my wailing infant, I could eat a sandwich, if not in peace, at least confident that when I was sated, I would attend to her.
A mother needs to feed herself in order to serve her children. This is not only literally, but metaphorically true. If as a mother, you give all of yourself over to your children in selfless service, there will not be much of you to share with your children.
It is very easy to lose sight of this, especially in the early years, when you are responsible for all your children's needs. If you have the luxury of a stable marriage, and decent living conditions, I believe it is imperative as a mother to find something besides child-rearing that you love to do, and then, to make time to do it. If you love your job and can't stand the thought of spending your days at home with your children, then find the best child care that you can, and go to work. If you are home with your kids, and enjoy volunteer work, whether for your PTA, Junior League, your church or synagogue, do it. But if this does not bring you great satisfaction, you need not feel guilty about it. Cultivate your hobbies, and if you don't have one, make the time to discover something you might find interesting.
Do not do everything for the sake of your children; if it doesn't serve you, it will not serve them. Your children's mental health and stability are very much tied to your own. If you remember to feed yourself body and soul, you will be a happier, better-adjusted person, more interesting and well-rounded, and, as an added bonus, your children will be the beneficiaries.
04 June 2009
Coffee and cocktails
Since becoming a parent, two rituals have become very important to me; my morning coffee, and my evening cocktail.
I love the coffee for several reasons, chief among which is that it tastes so delicious. The caffeine is nice, but secondary; when I was pregnant with Sacha, I could not metabolize caffeine very well; one cup and I felt like a speed freak. So I switched to a half decaf blend, and have never bothered switching back. It is the ritual that is most sacred to me, and while I would notice a difference in the taste if I switched to decaf, the ritual would still sustain me. I love the silence in the house when I come downstairs, all the kids (hopefully) still asleep, and those few precious minutes alone; with my thoughts, the newspaper, my warm mug, before the chaos of the day begins.
And then there is the evening cocktail. Once you become a mother, and spend great amount of time alone with small children, it becomes clear why so many women were popping tranquilizers half a century ago, and why many mothers drink today.
Again, the ritual of my evening drink is sacred. I start my dinner preparation, pour myself a small glass of wine, or an apertivo, and start cooking. Just as my cup of coffee signifies the start of the day, the evening drink signals that the day is winding down.
So when I read Lisa Belkin's column, A Mother Gives Up the (Wine) Bottle this morning, it gave me pause.
It is about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, a mother of 3 young daughters, and a blogger and author. Wilder-Taylor writes a blog on Mommytrackd.com called Make Mine a Double: A Tale of Twins and Tequila. Yesterday, she wrote an essay entitled My Sobering Secret in which she held the mirror up to herself, and publicly admitted she has a bit of a drinking problem, and that in late May, she stopped drinking.
Because my evening cocktail is so important to me, I have asked myself on many occasions; do I have a drinking problem? Most nights, I have something to drink while preparing dinner, and maybe a half a glass of wine with dinner. If I've had no wine with dinner, I will sometimes join David for a bit of wine (usually with a piece of chocolate) after the kids go to bed.
For me, the answer to whether or not I have a drinking problem is no, for several reasons. While I look forward to that evening drink, I do not need it, and do not feel deprived if I don't have it. I am none the worse for going without it.
The other reason is that I never drink to excess. Since I have had children, I can remember one occasion, when Sarah was a baby, when I got drunk, and was hungover. It was so unpleasant, I haven't done it since.
The other reason, for me, is that I am always aware of how my behavior, both conscious and unconscious, affects my children. We are extremely powerful, Godlike, in their eyes, and they are watching our every move. There are times when I think I've seen my children whip out their metaphorical notepads, making note of some important bit of evidence, for future reference.
I am not about to offer my children a drink, but I think that if they see me drinking, but not to excess, it will help them to learn, as they get older and begin to experiment with alcohol, that drinking responsibly is not a big deal. I am sure before they leave our nest, they will get good and drunk, and David and I will know it--I can't imagine that a hungover teenager is a very good actor--and we will have to have a TALK, and there will be CONSEQUENCES.
I don't think my either of my parents had a drinking problem, but I can remember many occasions when I knew my father was hungover. (My mother may have been drinking as well, but she was so depressed, it was hard to notice anything else.) But at some point, Mommy explaining that Daddy doesn't feel well this morning no longer rings true. From this, I extrapolated, that unless my mother had not been drinking, and drove home, my father had driven them home drunk. (I also recall, at one point, when I hope to god I was past the age of 21, my father giving me this advice: if you ever have to drive home after having had a bit too much to drink, put your hazards on, and go slowly and stay in the right lane.) This is not the kind of sage parenting advice I hope to pass on to my children.
My father was also a pot smoker, and by the time I was a young adolescent, before I could even conceive that I would ever do such a thing myself, I knew something weird was going on with him. Why did he leave the house for a drive, and come back shortly thereafter looking so odd, with a shit-eating grin on his face? I asked him directly about it, and after skirting the issue for several months, he eventually had a talk with me. I remember his exact words: "Every so often, just to relax, I like to go out and smoke a joint." I believe I was twelve or thirteen when we had this conversation. It was when the scales began to fall from my eyes, because while he may have believed he was doing me a service by being honest, this heart-to- heart did not endear him to me. Instead, I was filled with an uncomfortable, squirming feeling, which I now recognize as one of wild confusion because he was supposed to be an adult, the role model. Needless to say, any further advice he gave me about not doing drugs did not have much authority behind it.
One of the defining moments of my adolescence came shortly after my family moved to New Jersey, from Staten Island. I was a sophomore in high school, not an easy time to move, and I was chronically depressed. (As were, I believe, my parents. But since they did not know this about themselves, how could they have recognized it in me? All they knew was that I was unhappy, and they were desperate to make me happy again.) I spent a weekend back in Staten Island with my old friends, where I proceeded, to literally drown my sorrows by gettiing rip roaring, puke-spewing drunk. I also happened to sleep at the home of some family friends, who saw me come home half-conscious, and alerted my parents.
Once I was home, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I don't remember exactly what was said, but I do remember when my father told me he knew I'd been drinking, that he slapped me across the face. I mustered all the self will I could summon to keep myself from crying at the blow. Certainly, I was shocked, and the punishment clearly did not seem to fit the crime. Discovering that your teenager has drank to excess is an unfortunate rite-of-passage, that in this day and age, parents must brace themselves for. But I do remember thinking very clearly, at that moment, about my father, "You fucking hypocrite."
Raising children is hard work, and lord knows it can drive you to drink. When I was a child, my parents were very unhappy people, and it is hard for unhappy people to raise happy children. My parents are divorced and remarried now, and I think they are both considerably happier, and my children are the beneficiaries of their happier, better-adjusted selves.
A key part of becoming an adult is realizing, slowly, over time, that your parents are not gods; they are imperfect, and all too human. I have my flaws; I could give you a long list of them right now, at the top of which is that I am very judgmental; can't you tell? I am sure I am giving my kids many, many reasons to put themselves on the couch someday. But our children learn by the example we set, and it is our sacred obligation to them to provide the very best example we can.
Life is hard and pain is inevitable, and uncomfortable. We will try to do anything possible we can to avoid it, to anesthetize that pain. Having children brings us face to face with the unresolved pains and conflicts of our childhood, whether we are aware of it or not. If we are blessed to be aware of it, we then have a choice as whether to confront that pain, or run from it screaming. But when we do not confront our pain head on, it comes to haunt us in other ways. Other ways which may, at some point, hurt our children, either directly, or indirectly, in the form of bad habits and negative qualities that we do not want them to inherit. So I have to hand it to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor for being brave enough to hold the mirror up to herself, confront her uncomfortable truth, publicly, and do something about it.
I love the coffee for several reasons, chief among which is that it tastes so delicious. The caffeine is nice, but secondary; when I was pregnant with Sacha, I could not metabolize caffeine very well; one cup and I felt like a speed freak. So I switched to a half decaf blend, and have never bothered switching back. It is the ritual that is most sacred to me, and while I would notice a difference in the taste if I switched to decaf, the ritual would still sustain me. I love the silence in the house when I come downstairs, all the kids (hopefully) still asleep, and those few precious minutes alone; with my thoughts, the newspaper, my warm mug, before the chaos of the day begins.
And then there is the evening cocktail. Once you become a mother, and spend great amount of time alone with small children, it becomes clear why so many women were popping tranquilizers half a century ago, and why many mothers drink today.
Again, the ritual of my evening drink is sacred. I start my dinner preparation, pour myself a small glass of wine, or an apertivo, and start cooking. Just as my cup of coffee signifies the start of the day, the evening drink signals that the day is winding down.
So when I read Lisa Belkin's column, A Mother Gives Up the (Wine) Bottle this morning, it gave me pause.
It is about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, a mother of 3 young daughters, and a blogger and author. Wilder-Taylor writes a blog on Mommytrackd.com called Make Mine a Double: A Tale of Twins and Tequila. Yesterday, she wrote an essay entitled My Sobering Secret in which she held the mirror up to herself, and publicly admitted she has a bit of a drinking problem, and that in late May, she stopped drinking.
Because my evening cocktail is so important to me, I have asked myself on many occasions; do I have a drinking problem? Most nights, I have something to drink while preparing dinner, and maybe a half a glass of wine with dinner. If I've had no wine with dinner, I will sometimes join David for a bit of wine (usually with a piece of chocolate) after the kids go to bed.
For me, the answer to whether or not I have a drinking problem is no, for several reasons. While I look forward to that evening drink, I do not need it, and do not feel deprived if I don't have it. I am none the worse for going without it.
The other reason is that I never drink to excess. Since I have had children, I can remember one occasion, when Sarah was a baby, when I got drunk, and was hungover. It was so unpleasant, I haven't done it since.
The other reason, for me, is that I am always aware of how my behavior, both conscious and unconscious, affects my children. We are extremely powerful, Godlike, in their eyes, and they are watching our every move. There are times when I think I've seen my children whip out their metaphorical notepads, making note of some important bit of evidence, for future reference.
I am not about to offer my children a drink, but I think that if they see me drinking, but not to excess, it will help them to learn, as they get older and begin to experiment with alcohol, that drinking responsibly is not a big deal. I am sure before they leave our nest, they will get good and drunk, and David and I will know it--I can't imagine that a hungover teenager is a very good actor--and we will have to have a TALK, and there will be CONSEQUENCES.
I don't think my either of my parents had a drinking problem, but I can remember many occasions when I knew my father was hungover. (My mother may have been drinking as well, but she was so depressed, it was hard to notice anything else.) But at some point, Mommy explaining that Daddy doesn't feel well this morning no longer rings true. From this, I extrapolated, that unless my mother had not been drinking, and drove home, my father had driven them home drunk. (I also recall, at one point, when I hope to god I was past the age of 21, my father giving me this advice: if you ever have to drive home after having had a bit too much to drink, put your hazards on, and go slowly and stay in the right lane.) This is not the kind of sage parenting advice I hope to pass on to my children.
My father was also a pot smoker, and by the time I was a young adolescent, before I could even conceive that I would ever do such a thing myself, I knew something weird was going on with him. Why did he leave the house for a drive, and come back shortly thereafter looking so odd, with a shit-eating grin on his face? I asked him directly about it, and after skirting the issue for several months, he eventually had a talk with me. I remember his exact words: "Every so often, just to relax, I like to go out and smoke a joint." I believe I was twelve or thirteen when we had this conversation. It was when the scales began to fall from my eyes, because while he may have believed he was doing me a service by being honest, this heart-to- heart did not endear him to me. Instead, I was filled with an uncomfortable, squirming feeling, which I now recognize as one of wild confusion because he was supposed to be an adult, the role model. Needless to say, any further advice he gave me about not doing drugs did not have much authority behind it.
One of the defining moments of my adolescence came shortly after my family moved to New Jersey, from Staten Island. I was a sophomore in high school, not an easy time to move, and I was chronically depressed. (As were, I believe, my parents. But since they did not know this about themselves, how could they have recognized it in me? All they knew was that I was unhappy, and they were desperate to make me happy again.) I spent a weekend back in Staten Island with my old friends, where I proceeded, to literally drown my sorrows by gettiing rip roaring, puke-spewing drunk. I also happened to sleep at the home of some family friends, who saw me come home half-conscious, and alerted my parents.
Once I was home, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I don't remember exactly what was said, but I do remember when my father told me he knew I'd been drinking, that he slapped me across the face. I mustered all the self will I could summon to keep myself from crying at the blow. Certainly, I was shocked, and the punishment clearly did not seem to fit the crime. Discovering that your teenager has drank to excess is an unfortunate rite-of-passage, that in this day and age, parents must brace themselves for. But I do remember thinking very clearly, at that moment, about my father, "You fucking hypocrite."
Raising children is hard work, and lord knows it can drive you to drink. When I was a child, my parents were very unhappy people, and it is hard for unhappy people to raise happy children. My parents are divorced and remarried now, and I think they are both considerably happier, and my children are the beneficiaries of their happier, better-adjusted selves.
A key part of becoming an adult is realizing, slowly, over time, that your parents are not gods; they are imperfect, and all too human. I have my flaws; I could give you a long list of them right now, at the top of which is that I am very judgmental; can't you tell? I am sure I am giving my kids many, many reasons to put themselves on the couch someday. But our children learn by the example we set, and it is our sacred obligation to them to provide the very best example we can.
Life is hard and pain is inevitable, and uncomfortable. We will try to do anything possible we can to avoid it, to anesthetize that pain. Having children brings us face to face with the unresolved pains and conflicts of our childhood, whether we are aware of it or not. If we are blessed to be aware of it, we then have a choice as whether to confront that pain, or run from it screaming. But when we do not confront our pain head on, it comes to haunt us in other ways. Other ways which may, at some point, hurt our children, either directly, or indirectly, in the form of bad habits and negative qualities that we do not want them to inherit. So I have to hand it to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor for being brave enough to hold the mirror up to herself, confront her uncomfortable truth, publicly, and do something about it.
23 May 2009
Happy Pills
It is true that we all inevitably, to some extent, become our mothers, in ways both great and small. To give a trivial example, I have on occasion found myself transferring leftovers into smaller containers to make space in the fridge, which for my mother, was something of a hobby.
In my case, I find that I am also finding that I am becoming my grandmothers. Specifically, I am referring to the pills. Both of my grandmothers were great pill poppers. I'm sure my my maternal grandmother was taking her share of mother's little helpers, because she was plum loco.
While my paternal grandmother may have been taking tranquilizers as well, what I remember was the nutritional supplements. She was an early adopter health-food advocate. She had spring water delivery service before that was common practice, read Prevention Magazine (which, regarding the dissemination of dubious medical advice to laypeople, one of my doctors calls the Internet of the twentieth century), and adored listening to Carlton Fredericks, host of the nutrition program Design for Living, on WOR.
I find myself falling somewhere between these two extremes. I take my psychoactive medications to keep me from becoming certifiable, but as I've hit 40, I also find myself taking my share of nutritional supplements as well.
One morning last week, as I laid out my arsenal, Sarah, my 10-year old, asked me what were all those pills, and why was I taking them? I started by explaining the nutritional stuff: the multi-vitamin, calcium, fish oil, niacin and Co Enzyme Q-10, hoping we could leave it at that.
But she is nothing if not a sharp observer, and knew there were more pills than that, and so she asked me, pointing right at the Wellbutrin and Lexapro "And what about those?"
My parenting philosophy is that when faced with a direct question, give an honest answer, with only as much information as is necessary. (AVOID TMI!) If your children are not satisfied with your answer, they will let you know, and I feel I owe it to them, as a matter of respect, and trust, to answer their questions as best I can in an age-appropriate way.
And so here I was with my back to the wall, so to speak, about to have a TALK about my mental health issues. I tried to explain as best I could that I have something called depression, which means that my body is wired to get stuck feeling bad, or sad, sometimes for no good reason. But luckily, I said, I can take these medicines that help me feel the way I am supposed to feel.
Sarah nodded, satisfied with this explanation.
But now, every morning, she asks me, "Mom, are you taking your happy pills now?"
In my case, I find that I am also finding that I am becoming my grandmothers. Specifically, I am referring to the pills. Both of my grandmothers were great pill poppers. I'm sure my my maternal grandmother was taking her share of mother's little helpers, because she was plum loco.
While my paternal grandmother may have been taking tranquilizers as well, what I remember was the nutritional supplements. She was an early adopter health-food advocate. She had spring water delivery service before that was common practice, read Prevention Magazine (which, regarding the dissemination of dubious medical advice to laypeople, one of my doctors calls the Internet of the twentieth century), and adored listening to Carlton Fredericks, host of the nutrition program Design for Living, on WOR.
I find myself falling somewhere between these two extremes. I take my psychoactive medications to keep me from becoming certifiable, but as I've hit 40, I also find myself taking my share of nutritional supplements as well.
One morning last week, as I laid out my arsenal, Sarah, my 10-year old, asked me what were all those pills, and why was I taking them? I started by explaining the nutritional stuff: the multi-vitamin, calcium, fish oil, niacin and Co Enzyme Q-10, hoping we could leave it at that.
But she is nothing if not a sharp observer, and knew there were more pills than that, and so she asked me, pointing right at the Wellbutrin and Lexapro "And what about those?"
My parenting philosophy is that when faced with a direct question, give an honest answer, with only as much information as is necessary. (AVOID TMI!) If your children are not satisfied with your answer, they will let you know, and I feel I owe it to them, as a matter of respect, and trust, to answer their questions as best I can in an age-appropriate way.
And so here I was with my back to the wall, so to speak, about to have a TALK about my mental health issues. I tried to explain as best I could that I have something called depression, which means that my body is wired to get stuck feeling bad, or sad, sometimes for no good reason. But luckily, I said, I can take these medicines that help me feel the way I am supposed to feel.
Sarah nodded, satisfied with this explanation.
But now, every morning, she asks me, "Mom, are you taking your happy pills now?"
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