Crumbs In My Cleavage

Can I get a show of hands? Who among you is a mother who feels richly blessed to be able to stay home full-time with your children? Who feels like it was the best decision you ever made? Who cannot imagine life any other way than being with those little miracles every single day of your life? Who is living her dream?

Great. Now put your stinkin’ hands down.

I’m jealous of you. I’m bowled over, smothered in a ditch, GREEN with envy. I want it to have been my dream to be a wife and mother. I want to go back and re-align all my childhood hopes to be centered around domesticity. I wish could read myself being abbreviated into a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) and not barf a little. But, my deficiency in that arena started a long time ago.

While other little girls were changing tiny, plastic doll diapers and thinking to themselves, “Someday I am going to be the most important person in the entire world to some small humans, and it’s going to be GRAND” I was in my bathroom painstakingly growing cupric sulfate crystals in baby food jars under the sink. I was carefully slicing off pieces of insect wings, mounting them to microscope slides, and cataloging the particular part of which species in my lab journal. I was going to be a SCIENTIST.

Sure, I played with dolls some and assumed I’d get married and have kids. (And, can I get a “What, What” from my single ladies who know how hard this assumption can be – both from a personal and a social perspective?) I am glad I did get married and have kids, but it was not what I dreamed about. At the age of ten, there was almost nothing I was more sure of than becoming a scientist.

And I was one! Did you know that? I was an actual scientist.

Can I bore you for a minute with what I worked on in grad school? (Do yourself a favor and skip this paragraph. I am compelled to write it, but you should not be compelled to read it.) See, we were studying kidney epithelial cells – the kind that die easily when there is a large toxic insult and the kind that will eventually transform to cancer cells if they are given enough smaller, repeated toxic insults. I was looking at one type of protein in those cells – proteins called histones which help nuclear DNA coil up on itself to form the familiar X-shaped rods we know as chromosomal DNA. “My” histone was a variant of the histone H3, called H3.3, and it got modified in a unique way in those kidney cell nuclei when there was an acute toxic insult to the cell. I was working to identify the exact placement of that modification. The ultimate goal would be to attempt to prevent the modification and therefore modulate the consequences of that modification, one consequence being the death of the cell. That was a far-off goal, though, and we were just trying to identify the site of modification – a novel phosphorylation site. When I became pregnant with Jacob and had to cease using radioactive phosphorus in our experiments, we (my lab partners and I) were *this close* to finding this novel site that becomes phosphorylated in response to toxic insult and, interestingly, also during cell reproduction. The site (phosphorylation at Serine 31 on the histone variant H3.3) was finally identified by a group from Rockefeller University and published (You can read the full text here in the Journal of the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science – PNAS – NOT a shabby journal) nearly two years after Jacob was born. I don’t think it’s sour grapes for me to point out that we could easily have identified this novel site before that time… had I not had a baby and decided to settle for a master’s degree. Though there was a group of us working on it, the project was mine, and without me the group’s interest in it waned. I’m proud of the work we did. I hope somehow that our work helped that other group. But, it was disappointing not to finish it.

I warned you to skip that paragraph. But, I wrote it to say: Science is what I had a passion for. Science is what I was really good at. Science is what I had envisioned for myself.

“Myself” is the key word here, though. I, myself, also wanted to have a family. And, after that it wasn’t just myself. At one time I believed I could have had a wonderful family AND a pretty cool career. But, I have grown to believe more strongly that my kids need me with them while they are little. The conviction that this is the right thing for me to do has grown into a belief that they need me with them for those first years of formal schooling. So, I homeschool. Suddenly I find myself one handmade scrapbook and a Mary Kay representative contract away from being the “full package” and floundering about who I am now. I used to be a scientist. Nowadays, I feel more like a scullery maid or a governess.

Please don’t think I’m ungrateful. I’m grateful! I’m grateful! I’m grateful that staying home is an option for me, and I’m grateful that I get to BE with my children. I really am. For all the joking about moms who are more contented with this life, I really, really respect you. My mom was like you, and I have benefited from it my whole life. She’s so like this that her greatest joy in life is now her grandchildren. (There she is on the birthday of my niece, Kate.)

And, I respect all the hard-working mamas and papas. I respect those of you who have to work to stay sane or to stay out of debt or are single moms or dads. So much respect.

But, allow me to mourn the loss of my other life. Allow me to reach out to another set of SAHMs (bluuaaaargh). To those of you who are doing this for your family but you’re gritting your teeth and you’re drowning a little in that identity. I want to encourage you. We’re in this together. You’re still mostly sane, and you’re doing what you said you would do. And, if that scale ever tips way over from “this is hard, but I’m still glad I’m doing it” to “I hate my life, and I need to go back to work right now” I will still respect you. I will still respect me.

In the meantime, let’s ride this thing out.

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I’m a chronic insomniac. I’m not sure I’ve ever gone for more than a year on what would be considered a “regular” sleep pattern. My sleep problems go back a long way – since I was 11 years old.

It was not too long after we had moved from Atlanta to Memphis. I remember perfectly the house we lived in, one of those small ranch style houses situated in a city with no ranches. I even remember the very first night it began. I remember feeling unnaturally anxious about going to bed. As I remember it, my dad was home but my mom was away. It was a rarity, since my dad was a pilot it was much more usual for him to be gone and mom to be home.

I don’t know if it was the change in routine that did it. I think there was a part of me that was just waiting for the insomniac to be born. And, right there at that particular space in my prepubescent brain on that particular day with that particular change in routine, it sprouted.

The next few months really cemented the disease. Over that time, I became aware of its personality while my parents became fatigued with my behavior. At first I dealt with it as any child would: I woke my parents to let them know I couldn’t sleep. What I meant, though – what any child means – when I said, “I can’t sleep,” was, “I am anxious and upset. Can you solve this for me?” The short answer was, “no.” But, they certainly tried. Like most children who wake up sacred or who can’t go to sleep, I wanted to sleep with them. And, they would let me for a while. And, I could sleep when I was with them – when I could hear them breathing. But, I think most parents think it’s not best for a child to depend on sleeping with a parent, so after a few nights, they’d make me stay in my own bed.

As the months wore on, I began to realize the issue was that I could not stand to be the only one awake in the house. It was as if I could not relax and drift off unless I knew everyone was alive and well while I slept. Once they were all quietly snoring, I was in charge – responsible for their well-being. If I were not right next to them, I could not be sure they were still alive. And, I could not go to sleep. I hated it. So, I would try to find ways around it. I began going to sleep earlier and earlier in the day – sometimes as early as 5:00 – trying to give myself so much time to fall asleep that I couldn’t possibly be awake at 10:30 when the house would finally get quiet. It didn’t work. So, I went back to waking my parents. This time, though, I wasn’t looking for a solution.

By then I knew no one could really do anything to help me. And, I knew I could not sleep right next to the people I loved for the rest of my life. So, the key was to fall asleep before they did. When I couldn’t fall asleep before they ever got in bed, I’d wait a few hours. Then, I’d wake them and go back to my bed and try to will myself to sleep in the short time it would take for them to fall back asleep. After a few more hours, I couldn’t stand it, and I’d wake them up again. It must have been infuriating for them. Which is why they eventually started punishing me for getting out of bed. They were at their wits’ end. Who could blame them? Some nights, I’d wait really late, when they couldn’t possibly be waiting up to see if I got out of bed, and I’d make a pallet on the floor outside the door of their room. I’d lay there with my softy (my blanket) and breath in the cool air that came out from under the door and imagine it was their breath. Sometimes I could sleep like that.

After about a year, I gave up. I just let myself stay awake all night for about four nights straight. On the fifth day, I drifted through the day, euphoric, knowing my body couldn’t hold out for a fifth night without sleep. I’d sleep a full 10 hours about every five days.

The whole thing went on for, probably, 18 months or more. My parents finally took me to a psychologist, who told them to let me sleep on their floor as long as I wanted to. I know they were skeptical. What parent doesn’t worry that if you let your kids sleep in your room, they’re going to want to sleep in there forever? But, on the advice of the doctor, they did it. And guess what? In less than three months, I didn’t even want to sleep on their floor anymore. I wanted to sleep in my own bed. And, I did.

I think back on it now, and I still really feel it. I can conjure up the exact anxiety I used to feel. I can hear the songs I’d listen to on the radio trying to soothe myself to sleep – songs I can’t stand to listen to now. And, to this day, the theme song from MASH still relaxes me, because on the nights when my mom was not too tired to turn on the TV in her room and watch MASH, I knew I had about 30 extra minutes to fall asleep before everyone else did.


That’s my sleeping baby Jacob. He’s 7 now. I am telling you all about my childhood insomnia, because Jacob has been waking up scared, unable to go back to sleep and asking to sleep in our room. It’s gone on for about a week, and now he’s asking for us to wake him and transfer him to our room as soon as we go to bed. We’ve been doing that for a few days. Apparently, tonight Jeremiah told Jacob he wanted him to stay in his bed all night. “He was unreasonably anxious about it, ” Jeremiah reported, “But, what if this becomes a habit, and he’s sleeping in our room for years?” Jeremiah is a good parent, and it’s a natural fear he has. But, the natural response, in my case, wasn’t the right one. I insisted Jeremiah not challenge him on this – that he let Jacob sleep in our room for as long as he needs to. I promised that Jacob would not be sleeping in our room when he was eight years old. I know it, because I know that our giving in to his needs right now will build a confidence in him that will allow him to go back to his bed in time. I know it, because I lived it. “I still remember how it felt, ” I said quietly to Jeremiah as he walked into our bedroom.

And then I burst into tears as I thought to myself, “Maybe this is why I went through that: to understand how to save Jacob from it.”

I think every parent is afraid of the damage her child will sustain in life. We know we pass along some problematic biology to our kids. I am sure I passed along my natural propensity toward sleeplessness. Worse than the bad biology, though, we worry that somehow we will lay our negative experiences in childhood onto our children. But, what if it happens the other way around? What if, understanding the biology and knowing, from experience, what exacerbates it, we are able to save our child a little pain? To me, that makes all the pain in the world worthwhile.

If you have a child with sleep problems, remember my story. If I can save multiple children that pain, it’s even more worth it.

Good night, friends. And, sleep well. :-)

**Please note: There are clearly some details in this post about which I am not correct. See the comments section for details. My intent with this post was to give my own perspective on sleep problems in children. Anyone who feels as if I misrepresented them, please accept my sincere apologies.**

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I have to tell you all something. It’s about my day. It’s been bad. Allow me to expound:

The day started out badly. Jeremiah woke up pretty angry with me. We fought it out for a few hours, but he won. Bottom line: he was right, and I was wrong. It’s not that simple, of course. It never is. But, in this one, enclosed happening… I was wholly wrong.

So, he went off to work late, and I was left with the three boys, Jacob, Stone, and Jackson. I had not planned our family’s Thanksgiving dinner yet, and I knew I would have to go to the grocery store. On the day before Thanksgiving. With three little kids in tow.

No, no! That’s not how the day got bad! Truly. It’s so much worse than that.

Sorry. Had to pause to change another disaster diaper and then laugh maniacally. Oh, but you aren’t reading this in real-time as I type it, so I guess the pause didn’t affect you. Moving on.

Anyway, Stone’s dad was working from home and said he could keep the older boys while Jackson and I went to the grocery store. What you may not know is that Jackson has had a stomach virus for about four days. The sickness escalated today. It “escalated” in the grocery store. I heard it, so I was able to get him to the ladies restroom pretty quickly, but I used every wet wipe I had and just threw away his shorts in the process.

We went back to Stone’s house to get the older boys, and as I was carrying Jackson out, I felt something warm on my arm. Yep. But, what was there to do? I just set him into his car seat and decided to change him when we got home.

But, we had to make a pit stop, because it was lunch time. I chose McDonald’s, because it is EASY. Just shut your brain up about the health ramifications, ok? Jackson was *really* excited once I told the boys we were headed to McDonald’s…

Oh, joy! Jackson just poured my old coffee down his front and onto the floor. Wow. Cleaning up coffee is so much more pleasant than cleaning up poo or vomit.

Anyway, Jackson had been chanting, “Dah-nolds, Dah-nolds” until we got to the order window. At that point, he leaned forward and yelled, in his…

Oh, he just poured water all over the papers on the counter here next to me. OK, it’s annoying even though it isn’t poo.

So, he leaned forward and yelled in his kind of monstery scream-whisper, “Fries! Buuurrrger! Jooooss!” I wish you could hear it. It’s a funny voice. But even more funny: when I pulled around to the guy who took our money, I was already giggling, but I nearly lost it when I saw his name tag. It read, “Ronald”. Bwa hahahahaha. Shouldn’t every person who works at McDonald’s have to wear a “Ronald” name tag? Poor Ronald. Our money-taker, not the clown.

Anyway, by the time we got home, Jackson had fallen asleep in his own diarrhea, which of course meant he would probably not go down for a nap later. I had three hungry boys, one boy who needed an immediate bath, a dirty car seat, and frozen groceries. I planned my attack. When we hit the house, I got the older boys eating. Then, I got Jackson out of the car and into the tub. After bathing, drying, and dressing him, I got Jackson started on his lunch. Then, I unloaded the groceries. But, I didn’t get them into the freezer/fridge, because Jackson was squirming again.

So, I changed Jackson’s diaper, and then I made a mistake. Stupidly, before putting away the groceries, I went into my bedroom to put on more comfortable clothes and to use the lavatory. I was undressed and rounding the corner from the bathroom when I heard Jackson screaming. As I rushed to my door, I yelled to Jacob, “WHAT HAPPENED?!” and Jacob yelled back the ever-classic, “HE FELL!” Right as I reached the doorway to my bedroom, Jackson toddled around the corner, crying and retching in alternating jags. I tried to catch some of the sick by pushing some dirty clothes under the relentless stream, but it still got IN my hair dryer, all over a bag I have from Harrod’s, and all over the bottom shelf of my night stand. So, I just stripped him right there, and put him back into the bathtub. Cleaned, dried, dressed again.

Ok, then I HAD to get the frozens in the freezer. And, I did. Then, I set to work cleaning up the vomit. About two minutes into this process, Jackson came around the corner again, whining. And, then I heard it. The worst poo event of my entire life. I heard it … and then I smelt it … and then I saw it … seeping out of the foot of his footed pajamas and onto me and the carpet as I scooped him up and took him to the changing table. I will spare you the details. (Too late, you say?) But, about 20 minutes later, we were both bathed, dried, and dressed.

I decided I’d better get some anti-diarrhea medicine in him, stat. So, I got out the Pepto. Jackson took one look at the stuff and shook his head. I begged and pleaded and finally held him down by force and squirted the stuff in his mouth. He only spit out about half, and I was happy with that. So, I let him go to the LEGO room while I set to work to finish cleaning up the vomit and, now, the diarrhea all over the floor.

All this time, the older boys have been entertaining themselves, but they were getting increasingly annoyed with Jackson’s whining. About halfway through my clean-up job, I heard Jacob and Jackson having a scuffle. I caught the end of it, as Jacob was, out of frustration and a desire to get Jackson away from the thing Jackson was trying to get, shoving Jackson into the wall. Jackson’s head made contact, and he started screaming.

“oh no oh no oh no,” my head starts racing. “he’s going to vomit up the Pepto.”

And at that moment, just as if I thought it into being, he spewed his pink sickness all over me and the kitchen floor. I was so far gone, I could only think how thankful I was that it happened in the kitchen. But, Jackson was still sad and angry with Jacob, so I ordered Jacob to come and comfort Jackson and to apologize. Jacob’s efforts were half-hearted, at best. So, I scolded him. That’s when Jacob lost it, told me he hated living in this house, and ran to his room. Later, when Jacob emerged from his room, I heard him tell Stone, “Jackson’s only job around here is stinkin’ up the place.”

So, we got all cleaned up again. And, I finally got the carpet cleaner sprinkles down on the carpet (I found another spot of vomit in the living room just now – not even sure when that happened), and I got the soiled clothing and sheets and towels rinsed into the washer.

The final injury is almost too small to mention, but I’m this far in, so what the hey! Jeremiah and Jacob have been building Jeremiah’s latest ultimate LEGO creation: a battle-ready Winnebago. Jeremiah has specifically asked me to monitor even the older boys’ play with this item and not to let Jackson even touch it. But, of course, Jacob and Stone had left the Winnebago-tank out on the LEGO table, and I found Jackson playing with it. Poor, sick baby. I calmly warned him that I was going to have to take it away, but he got upset. As I almost had it pried from his grasping fingers, he made one final, flailing attempt, in his grief, to destroy the thing. He was successful in ripping off one of the “secret” doors. I was able to put it back together properly. I think. I guess we won’t know until Jeremiah gets home.

Oh, look! My burger. I had forgotten all about it. Mmmmmm… cold burger.

So, that’s about it. I only typed it all out for therapy. So, if you’re still reading, thanks. The thing is, while this day was particularly difficult, the truth is that a LOT of my days are almost this difficult. It’s just the nature of staying home with kids. And, I guess the best you can do is try to learn something (For example, that if vomit gets INSIDE your hair dryer, just throw it away and buy a new one, because it will forever smell like vomit when you try to dry your hair.) and try to enjoy your children, and try to make them feel loved. Because, the real, honest-to-goodness truth of it all is this: I would live this day over and over and over again for the rest of my life if it meant I could have an unbreakable promise that no serious harm would ever come to my children. I know it doesn’t work that way, but it gives me perspective. And, after a day like today, I could use as much perspective as I can get.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! :-)

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Your love has me reeling. I’ve gotten so much of it from so many of you lately:
 

• There’s Michelle, who spent hours with me after Wednesday night church a few weeks ago, listening to me and allowing me to listen to her. Telling me things I know she doesn’t always easily share.
• There’s Spencer, who finally broke down and opened a Facebook account, partly because I asked her to and partly because I agreed to read a book she loves and partly (I suspect) because she really always wanted a Facebook account. ;-)
• There’s Holly. Always Holly. But, this month she’s been particularly loving, with both words and gifts. What in this big world would I do without Holly, my soul mate?
• There’s Carol, who posted a song on my Facebook profile this morning that was meant to lift me up, and it did. And, then I cried for hours.
• There are my parents, who have been loving me, worrying about me, and bailing me out since 1977.
• There’s my brother, who has been calling me more lately – I think not only to get information but also because he wants to check on me. I think he’s trying to understand me better.
• There’s Jeff, who has known me for such a short time and yet has invested hours of time listening to me.
• There’s Kristin, who is the closest I have come to having a “Holly” who actually lives in the same town as me since I moved to Austin. And, if that sounds like a lame compliment, you don’t get it. I know Kristin knows what it really means.
• There’s George, who has somehow put up with my shenanigans long enough and given me back what I needed just enough that I honestly feel like I can finally relax. It only happened this week.
• There’s Stewart, who is always in the background and only very rarely these days in the foreground, but somehow it doesn’t matter, because he’s always there. And, I know it.
• There’s John. John would always have been on this list, but this last month… John knows I wouldn’t have made it without him. I don’t even have words.
• There’s Kim, who sticks. She’s a sticker. She’ so faithful, so easily counted on, so steady. Always there to listen, have fun, and give some of the best advice anyone in my life has ever given me.
• There’s Mary, who keeps checking in, who is calm always, who won’t pull punches with me, and who won’t put up with the drama but will help me pull myself out of it. She’s a rock, and she doesn’t even always know it.
• There’s Jack, who, in his quiet way, has made me feel so interesting. I get the impression Jack doesn’t think too many people are all that interesting. I consider it a compliment.
• There’s Craig, whom I have never met in person, but who has given me some of my most valued feedback on Facebook and on my blog. I really do get so happy when Craig posts on my page.
• There’s Mayra, who has given me the best compliments in the last week and whose quality of being exudes from her. No wonder Sonya loves her so much.
• There’s Deanna, who checks in on me, even though I know she doesn’t really have the time and even though we haven’t been able to spend as much time together as usual.
• There are Megan, Mabeth, Sunni, Angela, Gretchen, Rachel, Kereshmeh, Jenny, Hilary, Sarah, Julie, Becca, Juliana, Neely, Barb, Serena, Judy, Angela, Katelyn, Norman, Lindsay, Carrie, Cindy, Chrystal, Sonya, Heather, Amanda, Jinny, Saudah, Lita, Alicia, Molly and the umpteen other people, known and strangers who have told me, basically, that I ROCK this blue.
• There are all of you who ever post on my FB page. You have no idea how it brightens my day.
• There’s Susan, who keeps wanting to know and love me even though I know I am hard for her to know and love sometimes.
• There’s my cousin, Jenny, who has commiserated with me over the life of the house mom. It has been both hilarious and meaningful to me.
• There are all of you who put up with, nay encourage!, my obsessive need to share, share, share, SHARE!
• There’s Jacob, who, nevermind all of the bazillion wonderful things about him that give me a reason to live every single day, says the most hilarious and insightful things. It keeps me going.
• There’s Jackson, who smiles at me. Sigh. I will never get over that smile.
• And, there is my husband, who is working from home today so that I can do things like write this post, and play on Facebook, and pay bills, and sob in my bed in between my usual duties. There is my husband, who for eleven years of marriage has endured my multiple neuroses and, poor, wonderful slob, loved me for them. There is my husband who is, this minute, fixing our bathtub for the second time in a year. There is my husband, who today has talked me into calling it quits on my little ‘experiment’ of trying not to take the Lexapro.

You see, I was afraid the Lexapro was contributing to the crippling anxiety I have been feeling for the past couple of months. I was afraid it was making me not sleep. I was afraid it was making me manic. It has always made me feel nauseated – just a little – but ALL day long. It has always made sex a little more difficult – not enough to make me want to stop, mind you – just enough to be annoying. It has always made me more hungry than I should be and helped me gain and retain weight. It has always been a little round white blot on my brain – something I hate to need. Something I DO NOT WANT to need.
 
You would think, wouldn’t you, with all this love and acceptance swirling around me, with all of YOU being the wonderful yous you be, that I wouldn’t need that stupid pill! But. I do. Because without it, I cannot be the person you all think I am and who you all seem to love. I cannot be a good mother, a good wife, a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister. Without it, I cannot be these things, because without it, I spend too much time thinking about stopping being any of these things. Permanently.
 
I just swallowed the stupid thing. I know you are relieved. So am I, really.
 
I don’t know in the way we typically think of knowing – scientifically – what happens when we die. You all know, though, that I have my faith about what happens. What you may not know is that I don’t have a view of heaven that you might think is traditional for a non-denominational Christian. I don’t picture gates of pearls and streets of gold and harps and lyres and such. I don’t picture anything at all. I have a vague notion of just being in the presence of God with nothing to distract me from the joy of being IN HIM – not even good stuff to distract me. Just God. I don’t know much of anything else about heaven. But, I do know I won’t need Lexapro.
 
Until then, I will take the blasted pill.
 

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