Her new thing is identifying red lights and green lights. Do you know how many stoplights there are in Studio City? Neither do I, but Sadie is helping to remedy this by helpfully pointing out each one of them.
We've been to the Americana at Brand three times since the holiday season began, and I think we could go every day for the rest of her life and she wouldn't get tired of it. Yesterday morning we met Amy and Narinder, Melanie and Dave for a really nice brunch, because I've been promising myself that I'd start inviting people out for more brunch dates. Afterwards we walked around the Americana, which is what it would look like if Christmas vomited on the lovechild of the Bellagio and Bedford Falls. Narinder got Sadie a balloon shaped like a dinosaur, and there are no words to describe what her mood was like the rest of the day. "Euphoric" comes close.
Okay, now I'm getting into the groove. I was dealing with a lot of anxiety for awhile over the pushing incidents at school, and Sadie's reaction to them. Which was, namely, to not want to be touched in any way by other kids whether it was pushes, hugs or random trips and falls. This is a problem, you know, because toddlers are all about invading the personal space of other people. When I sit and watch the other kids at school I notice little skirmishes happening constantly. Two kids will begin to argue over a toy, and it escalates incredibly quickly. From "Mine!" it goes to "MINE MINE MINE!" and then suddenly someone is smacking someone else. Sometimes there aren't even words first. The teachers intervene, the kids are pulled apart, and not one minute later the whole thing is forgotten and one is playing with the precious toy while the other is elbow deep in play dough.
Except with Sadie, it isn't like that. A kid pulls a toy from her hand, and she stares after them, crestfallen, but doesn't react. A kid pushes her aside on their way to the slide and she reels back in fear, sometimes yelling, "Be careful!" or other times, just bursts into tears.
At least, that's what was happening. Today we went to the Coop, and sat in the bouncy house. I had to be in there with her -- she wouldn't go inside by herself. But as we sat in there, kids came in and kids came out, and they cannonballed into each other at high velocities, and none of it seemed to bother her too much. That all changed, of course, the minute I tried to get out of the bouncy house without her -- she wouldn't have it, and stared at me with tear-filled blue eyes: "Mommy in the bounce house? Come in? MOMMY COME IN THE BOUNCE HOUSE." I'm hoping that means this storm might be passing.
Another nice thing happened, and that was that another of the moms at school chatted with me for awhile about what it's like having a sensitive kid. Her son, Sadie's classmate, is the youngest of four boys and one of the sweetest and most easygoing kids I've ever met. (Footnote: I haven't met many. Kids, that is.) Hearing her refer to Sadie as "sensitive" in such an off-handed way put it into sort of a nice, relaxing perspective. She has four boys, so she would know. Of course, shortly afterwards it put me into a panic. MY CHILD IS SENSITIVE, AND THIS UNIVERSE IS SO HARSH AND UNFORGIVING, HOW WILL SHE COPE??
Aaaanyway. One of the reasons why this post is so incoherent is because Scott has been gone for about ten days now, and he returns tomorrow, and the re-entry is always a little rocky so to be honest, I'm of mixed emotions about it. Here's how Sadie's and my states of mind tend to swing when we're living alone together for more than a week at a time:
DAY 1: Life is normal. Whee!
DAY 2: Hey -- where did Daddy go? I get suspicious looks and some serious attitude from my kid.
DAY 3: Sadie switches from grumpy to extremely clingy, on the off-chance that I, like her other parent, might become prone to long, unpredictable absences.
DAY 4: Okay, now we've settled into a groove. I get adventurous and do a bunch of laundry and cook meals for the following week. We spend the evening giggling.
DAY 5: My back's starting to hurt, and I could really use a full night's sleep.
DAY 6: SO. TIRED.
DAY 7: Sadie is convinced Daddy is never coming home, and when he calls over FaceTime she tends to busy herself with something else. I've crashed out at 9pm the past three nights after drinking too much wine.
DAY 8: When Ana shows up to take Sadie after four days of absence, Sadie is thrilled and I want to hurl myself into her arms and sob with relief. Then I spend the morning in the bedroom in front of the computer, quietly freaking about all the work that hasn't been done and the fact although I did laundry four days ago, I've neglected to actually put it away and now the hamper is already half full again.
DAY 9: Renewed commitment to the task at hand. It's her and me, together in this cold, cold world. (Oh -- and two dogs who need constant attention but haven't been walked in a week). We're both up to the task. We won't cry. We won't back down. We're tough. Invincible.
DAY 10: Oh hey, Daddy's home!
One month later: lather, rinse, repeat.
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Monday, December 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Dark Demons
I've been thinking back on my past a lot recently. When I look at my baby girl's face, so constantly full of joy, with her little gap-toothed grin and the way her cheeks take over her entire face when she smiles, it reminds me that one of my greatest worries is that she will struggle with the darkness that I suffered when I was a kid.
I suffered two especially devastating periods of depression in my life. The first began around age 14 and lasted through my junior year of high school. I constantly thought of suicide. I screamed and fought with my parents and then had sobbing breakdowns in my room. I thought of my own head as being a black, dark and unsettled place. I sat alone and wallowed in my misery often. If I were that kid now, with the attention that has been brought to teen depression and the medication that is now available, I think I'd be able to speak up and to help myself. But back then, I stayed silent.
The second bout occurred in the second semester of my sophomore year of college. It was motivated by several things, including the end of a romantic relationship and my perceived loss of several of my best friends. I wrapped myself in a cocoon of self-pity and misery. I told everyone that I was so over college, when in reality I was so depressed that I couldn't even begin to see a way out of it. (On the upside, I wrote some of the best poetry of my life.) Eventually I chose to drop out of school, making a decision that for better or worse has influenced the course of my life.
I know that depression is hereditary, but also that it is shadowy and unpredictable. It can skip over one sibling and strike another. And because depression is something that we so often hold inside, it can be difficult to tell how badly someone is suffering. My parents always made themselves available to me, and in many ways we've had an open and honest relationship with each other. But when I was a teenager, something inside of me kept me from telling them what I was truly going through. Through my own pride, I never felt like asking for help was an option.
This is what scares me about having a daughter. I've always been a private person who finds it difficult to talk frankly about what I'm feeling, especially if those feelings are ugly and complicated. Will she be similar? Will she learn how to paste on a pretty, smiling face when inside she's hurting terribly? Will she feel obligated to feign happiness in order to make others happy?
It wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to cope with my depression, but I did eventually learn. And these days when I start worrying about her, I remind myself that there are ways around it. What I will teach her first and foremost is that wallowing in self-pity is pointless. Sure, we all do it -- moping and being moody is practically required when you're a teenager. But I want to teach her that there are things we can do to mitigate the misery. Like going outside and being active, even if it's the last thing we feel like. Or spending time with other people, when we'd rather be alone. Most of all I want to teach her that some days, life just feels blue and when it does, it just does . And on those days you've got to just ride the wave. Hide under your covers, write furious poetry, eat some chocolate, cry and feel bad. Because eventually it will pass, and the blackness will diminish, and you will feel okay again.
I suffered two especially devastating periods of depression in my life. The first began around age 14 and lasted through my junior year of high school. I constantly thought of suicide. I screamed and fought with my parents and then had sobbing breakdowns in my room. I thought of my own head as being a black, dark and unsettled place. I sat alone and wallowed in my misery often. If I were that kid now, with the attention that has been brought to teen depression and the medication that is now available, I think I'd be able to speak up and to help myself. But back then, I stayed silent.
The second bout occurred in the second semester of my sophomore year of college. It was motivated by several things, including the end of a romantic relationship and my perceived loss of several of my best friends. I wrapped myself in a cocoon of self-pity and misery. I told everyone that I was so over college, when in reality I was so depressed that I couldn't even begin to see a way out of it. (On the upside, I wrote some of the best poetry of my life.) Eventually I chose to drop out of school, making a decision that for better or worse has influenced the course of my life.
I know that depression is hereditary, but also that it is shadowy and unpredictable. It can skip over one sibling and strike another. And because depression is something that we so often hold inside, it can be difficult to tell how badly someone is suffering. My parents always made themselves available to me, and in many ways we've had an open and honest relationship with each other. But when I was a teenager, something inside of me kept me from telling them what I was truly going through. Through my own pride, I never felt like asking for help was an option.
This is what scares me about having a daughter. I've always been a private person who finds it difficult to talk frankly about what I'm feeling, especially if those feelings are ugly and complicated. Will she be similar? Will she learn how to paste on a pretty, smiling face when inside she's hurting terribly? Will she feel obligated to feign happiness in order to make others happy?
It wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to cope with my depression, but I did eventually learn. And these days when I start worrying about her, I remind myself that there are ways around it. What I will teach her first and foremost is that wallowing in self-pity is pointless. Sure, we all do it -- moping and being moody is practically required when you're a teenager. But I want to teach her that there are things we can do to mitigate the misery. Like going outside and being active, even if it's the last thing we feel like. Or spending time with other people, when we'd rather be alone. Most of all I want to teach her that some days, life just feels blue and when it does, it just does . And on those days you've got to just ride the wave. Hide under your covers, write furious poetry, eat some chocolate, cry and feel bad. Because eventually it will pass, and the blackness will diminish, and you will feel okay again.
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