What is this “free time” of which you speak?

You’d think that being unemployed would come with oodles of free time.

But I’m finding that having more time at home does not mean having more time to do with as I please. In fact, it means having less time. Because now I’m spending eight hours every day taking care of my toddler, and what used to be my “free” time, when I could write and do laundry and maybe squeeze in a shower, has now become my apply-for-jobs-online time.

And that’s on the good days. You know, the days when there are any new jobs at all for me to send applications to.

Anyway. I just wanted to check in and let my readers know that I have not fallen off the face of the Earth.

I’m hoping to summon the time and energy to write an actual post in the near(ish) future. Thanks for bearing with me.

From “Mom of the Group” to Real-Life Mom

Everything changes when you have a baby.

People have been telling me this for years, and for the most part I believed them. But I also thought, I know who I am. In a way, I have always been a mother. My friends used to call me “the mom of the group,” because I’m the kind of person who put a blanket over my friend when I found her sleeping on her couch. I’m the kind of person who tells my friends to call me if they need a sober ride, even in the middle of the night. I’m the kind of person who cried when I dropped off my sisters at elementary school shortly after getting my driver’s license. Even though I knew my mom had been dropping them off for years, and they were more than capable of walking twenty feet by themselves to get into the school.

Still, being “the mom of the group” is different from being a mom.

No matter how focused you used to be on the needs of the people around you, it cannot compare to the focus you have on the needs of your child. You know your child’s needs before they do – literally, because a baby does not yet have the cognitive ability to recognize or understand when they need something.

You have an invisible tether to your child, so that no matter how far away you may be, you feel their presence. You know when your child wakes up from their nap, even before there’s an audible noise on the baby monitor.

Your entire perspective of the world shifts. You see the world through your child’s eyes. Birds and squirrels used to just be part of the scenery, but now they are magical creatures whose graceful movements cause you to smile.

Your own mother becomes more human. This is what she went through? These are the kinds of thoughts that went through her head? The way I feel about my baby – this unbreakable, inexplicable bond – this is how she felt about me?

(Here’s a little insight to my main character in Finding ‘Ohana: Cinnamin is figuring out motherhood. Is she a mother, even though she did not give birth to her son? How can she be a mother without a role model, without her own mother in her life? How could Cinnamin’s mother abandon her, if she felt the same way for Cinnamin as Cinnamin feels for her son?)

When I was a kid, people told me, “You’ll understand when you have kids.” Well, I’m an empathetic person. I thought I already understood.

I was so wrong.

Because no matter how you try, you cannot put motherhood into words. Some things just have to be experienced.

1.2

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

This is the third blog post I’ve started in the last week, and it’s taken me three days to finish it.

The first one I started never got posted because I decided the writing was terrible, and no one should ever be subjected to reading it. Besides, what kind of writing blog would this be if the writing I posted was terrible? Of course, then I starting thinking that maybe it’s not just the writing that’s terrible, maybe it’s the writer. And that’s always a fun road to travel down.

The second one I started never got posted because I just couldn’t find the motivation. I left my laptop open and went to bed for an hour or two before finally coming back out of the bedroom for dinner.

 

So why have I been so depressed lately that I can’t even get a couple short paragraphs posted to my blog? Postpartum depression.

There was a problem with my medication refill and I went almost a week without it. It hasn’t been as bad as it was during the first six weeks after the birth, but I could tell that my head wasn’t right. (These were the words I used when my husband found me lying in bed, staring into space).

Like all forms of depression, and mental illness in general, PPD is kind of taboo in our culture. “Woah, don’t tell me you’re depressed! That’s a little too personal.” The problem with this is that people don’t know how to handle it when it happens, either to themselves or to someone they know.

Since I’ve always struggled with depression, I expected to experience PPD, and I paid attention when I found information and resources on it.

Yes, it is still taboo to talk about postpartum depression (and all mental illness), but there are people out there who are trying to minimize that taboo so that those who need support can get it. Hopefully this blog post will add to that.

Today I’d like to share a beautiful story I stumbled upon during the third trimester of my pregnancy. The truthfulness in the writing, along with a few similarities to my own situation, made me feel more prepared. Of course, nothing can fully prepare you for postpartum depression. As much as I told myself that it was hormones and chemical imbalances that made me feel the way I did, I just could not shake it on my own.

Still, this story helped. Maybe because I felt connected to the mothers in it, knowing that there are so many more like us out there going through similar things. Maybe because it was cathartic to read someone else having a sympathetic point of view. Maybe because the end showed the light at the end of the tunnel, even though during my worst days that tunnel seemed so long that I could not even see the end in the distance.

In any case, it’s a beautiful story. I wholeheartedly recommend reading it, even if you’ve never experienced depression, or known anyone who has (that you know of, at least). And if you have your own story, share it! Here in the comments, and anywhere else that will let you. You never know who might benefit from it.

 

CHANNEL B

BY 

November 9th, 2012

ChannelB_Daly_2

For the first few months after my son was born, I called him The Baby, or sometimes just Him with a capital H, huge proper nouns to illustrate how completely he took over my life. Is he eating, not eating? Pooping, not pooping? What color is the poop, how long ago was the poop, did I mark the poop on the spreadsheet? I had spreadsheets. I had stuff — white noise CDs and magnetic blocks and this super high-tech video monitor with a remote wireless screen and night vision, which made The Baby glow electric green in the dark like he was a CIA target. It was a little unnerving, actually. It had two frequencies, an A channel and a B channel, in case you had two kids in separate rooms, and what’s interesting about this is that one of my neighbors must have owned this same monitor, because on channel A, I saw my baby, and on channel B, I saw someone else’s.

And if I could see someone else’s, then someone else could see mine.

We live in a third-floor walk-up in Uptown surrounded by other third-floor walk-ups. Jumping onto a neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal isn’t much of a stretch, so perhaps the fact that I could toggle between babies shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was. It was huge. I was obsessed. On one hand, it was totally creepy—stalking, even—but on the other? It was sort of magical, like walkie-talkies and CB radios when you’re a kid: connecting with someone across the void, adding your voice to the collective unconscious, feeling less alone in this crazy world, and who knows who might be listening?

Who knows who’s in that Uptown condo on channel B?

A baby, to be sure, but it wasn’t the baby I was obsessed with.

It was the mother.

My imagination went wild when I thought of the mother. Did she sit there, watching my kid in the dark? Did she question his bedtime? Wonder where I got his pajamas? How might she react if I left a sign in his crib that read: STOP LOOKING AT MY BABY, YOU DIRTY VOYEUR!

Or this one: YAY NEW FRIENDS! DO YOU WANT TO MEET UP AT THE PARK?
 Or the truth: I AM TERRIFIED. I AM SO TERRIFIED THAT SOMETIMES I CAN’T EVEN BREATHE.

 ***

Any winter in Chicago is a force to be reckoned with, but 2008 was particularly awful. The Baby was born three weeks early, middle of the night, middle of a snowstorm. My poor husband had to dig out our buried car, shovel the alley, and navigate Lakeshore Drive through a whiteout blizzard, and that relentless, pounding snow stayed through January, February, March, and into April. I’d taken those months off from work, and my husband, a web designer, had picked up extra projects to cover the difference, so for the most part, The Baby and I were alone in our tiny Uptown condo, beyond which, in my mind, was the ice planet of Hoth. Remember Planet Hoth? From The Empire Strikes Back? Luke almost freezes to death, but Han Solo pushes him inside a dead tauntaun for body warmth? That Hoth.

I joke about it now, but here’s the truth: I was scared to go outside. The Baby might freeze. I was scared to fall asleep. He might suffocate. I was scared he wasn’t eating, wasn’t latching, wasn’t gaining, wasn’t doing what the books had said he would do, and every morning, when I looked in the mirror, I wondered who that girl was looking back. We all have things about ourselves that we know to be true, and suddenly, I couldn’t remember any of them. I was unbrushed, unwashed, wearing the same yoga pants and empire-waist shirt every day. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t feed my kid. At the time, my understanding of postpartum depression was primarily shaped by Brooke Shields’s memoir Down Came the Rain: crippling depression, suicidal thoughts. But since what I was experiencing seemed heavy, but not that heavy; dark, but not really that dark; scary, but not, you know, like that—it didn’t occur to me to ask for help. I mean, I wasn’t going to hurt my kid. I wasn’t going to hurt myself. Right?

Now, four years later, I know that the symptoms and intensity of PPD are as varied as the flowers in a greenhouse. I wish I’d told someone. I didn’t need to feel that alone: just me in the frozen Chicago winter with my tiny, fragile baby. And channel B. Whenever The Baby would fall asleep, I’d stare at his Day-Glo body on the monitor, making sure he wasn’t choking—or levitating or exploding or whatever horrible thing I’d imagine—and then, assured of his safety, I’d flip the channel to see how that other mother was doing. I bet her kid was eating. I bet shechanged clothes occasionally. I bet, for her, snow wasn’t a terrifying apocalypse but rather a Hallmark-like sprinkling of picturesque flakes—”Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” if you will. And yes, I know, it was completely intrusive and unethical and above all, ridiculous. Why was I comparing myself to this woman? I never even saw her! Mostly, there was just an empty crib. Sometimes there was a baby, wiggling and doing baby things, but the mother was a total nonentity. Until one night, I flipped over to channel B and heard crying. Not from the baby—he was fast asleep, an angel—but somewhere in his room, a woman was sobbing: heavy, gaspy, gulpy sobs.

They went on. They went on and on. I shouldn’t have listened. But it was the first time since my son was born that I didn’t feel alone.

 ***

What finally changed things was this: spring. Birds! Green things! Grilling on the porch! Frozen blender drinks! Short skirts! Outdoor seating! SPF! Lemonade! Which you can get any time of year, but it tastes better in the sunshine! Sunshine! My God, how desperately I’d needed it! I’d wager most Chicagoans feel this way in spring, but for me, May 2008 was a godsend, a great, mammoth hand reaching down out of the clouds and pulling me to my feet.

That May, The Baby became Caleb, smiling, laughing, responding, four months old and learning about the world outside my lap. I’d strap him in a backpack and walk through Uptown—Broadway to Argyle, down to the beach and back up Montrose—finding magic in everyday things. Plastic grocery bags? Amazing. Tapping a glass with a spoon? Kick-ass! Water in a dish? Fun for hours! One morning he reached for a yellow street-cleaning sign stapled to a tree, and all at once I saw yellow as if I’d been blind to it for years: Brake lights! Parking lanes! Flowers in the neighbors’ yard! Taxis! More taxis!

And in that moment, we passed a woman with a stroller. She was pretty, early thirties, wearing yoga pants and a yellow empire-waist shirt. She looked nice. And tired. And interesting, like there were all sorts of secret things about her that were set on pause for the time being. She looked like how I saw myself. We nodded at each other in solidarity. This, I had newly discovered, is the way moms do it: acknowledging the fact that even though you don’t know each other, you’re still a part of this great cosmic team. And then you check out each other’s kids. Hers was grabbing his toes in the stroller—so sweet. So adorable. So… familiar, and not in that All Babies Are Alike sort of way. I looked closer: yes, I knew this kid, and suddenly I saw him not face-to-face on Lawrence Avenue, but electric green on a tiny, hand-held screen.

I looked back at the mother. “You know—“ I started, then stopped, ’cause, really, what would I have said? STOP LOOKING AT MY BABY? YOU WANT TO MEET UP AT THE PARK? How’s about the truth: YOU HELPED SAVE ME.

“Your baby is beautiful,” she said.

“So’s yours,” I said.

We stood there.

We stood there long past what is appropriate for strangers. I like to think it’s because she was thinking the same thing I was. That maybe she, too, had flipped channels in the middle of the night, trying to connect with someone across the void or feel less alone in this crazy world. Maybe she’d overheard me crying in Caleb’s bedroom, months ago when everything still seemed so cold, so impossible.

“How are you?” I asked her. I wasn’t just saying it. I really, really wanted to know.

She smiled. “I’m getting better.”

“Me too,” I said. “I’m getting better.”

It was something about myself that I knew was true.

***

Rumpus original art by Annie Daly.

A Writer’s Responsibility

The main thing I decided to change in this most recent revision of Finding ‘Ohana is the way that Naali dies. This actually happens to be one of the changes that my creative writing professor, Susan Palwick, recommended when she read the short story that was the beginning of my Finding ‘Ohana journey.

“Very few women die in childbirth today,” she told me. “It would be much more believable if you had her die in a car accident or because of a brain aneurysm.”

At the time, I was not ready to make that change. I was a young and inexperienced writer, and I wanted the drama. So I added a heart condition to Naali’s character and left it at that.

In the past two years or so I’ve become interested in natural childbirth, and my original cause of death for Naali started bothering me more and more.

As much as popular culture would have us believe otherwise, labor and birth are not scary. Or rather, they don’t have to be. Many women grow up seeing horror stories of labor in the media, and therefore approach their own birth experience from a standpoint of fear.

Fear then disrupts the woman’s ability to manage her pain. The pain becomes overwhelming, and adds to the fear, causing a cycle that is difficult to overcome.

But if we can approach labor and birth knowing that it is a natural and beautiful process, we can manage our pain on our own, without medication, and rise above it.

 

My own labor and birth three and a half months ago only solidified my believe that natural labor is not scary. I knew how to manage my pain. I swayed, I sang, I leaned on my husband and listened to him telling me that I was strong.

There were things about my son’s birth that I certainly wish had been different. But they all happened once we got to the hospital, once we had medical interventions. The part of my labor that was natural, when I was at home with my husband and my midwife, was exactly as it should be.

 

I hold very strongly to the belief that as writers, we have a responsibility to present our readers with positive messages. Actually, this is true of all artists. We cannot in good conscience produce art that will perpetuate negative ideas. We need to constantly analyze our own work to ensure that whatever messages it has are ones that we can wholeheartedly support.

I do not want to add one more negative birth story to the world. My novel will no longer include a character dying in childbirth. Finding ‘Ohana is not about birth, it’s about death and mourning, identity, family. So as much as I would love to include a positive birth story, it will have to wait for a future work. For now, at least this novel will only reflect beliefs that I am proud to hold.