dearest daughters & son

Alternative Anxiety Aids

Dearest Daughters,

If you’re anything like me, you may one day come to struggle with anxiety.

Anxiety is not merely worry. It’s not even elevated or uncontrolled worry. It is another animal altogether.

In my experience, anxiety is what comes from an inability to process and handle stressors; it is what happens when you repress feelings and emotions; it’s a modern malady stemming from your body’s evolutionary fight or flight response that still fancies itself being chased by lions and acts accordingly, undiscerning of first world versus real world problems; it is your body’s way of telling you that shit ain’t right, lady, and you have to step back, take it down a notch and get back to basics.

At first, I felt I needed to combat anxiety, but the truth is, one needs more than anything, to accept it—both as a human condition and in the moment.

Before I was able to see a psychiatrist to get the help I dearly needed (in the form of pscyh meds, of course), I was so desperate. I was in the midst of despair and inner turmoil and willing to try anything to make my pain go away.

The saying goes: desperate times call for desperate measures.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: mindfulness and meditation (via Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living) truly saved my life. It guided and supported me through depression and anxiety, through some very intense feelings, including suicidal thoughts.

In retrospect, it was stupid not to go directly to the emergency room and receive some form of drug that would have quieted my mind and staid me until my appointment with a psychiatrist. (Though, if I recall correctly, I was unwilling and practically unable to unfurl myself from a fetal position, shut into my room. My family would have had to drag me into a hospital at that point. And I would have been confident that the car ride, alone, would kill me.)(I was, using mindfulness techniques, eventually able to quiet my own mind enough to make the walk to my parents house, the fifteen minute drive to the psychiatrist—though I was still a big, hot, trembling, sobbing mess.)

But, on the other hand, without that pervasive sense of desperation, I might not have been willing to try some of the different, sometimes strange, out-there, unconventional ways to address anxiety.

If life isn’t so bad for you (or you don’t think so), the things I recommend, below, may make you chuckle, feel uncomfortable or make you shout out: “that crazy, crystal-toting hippie!” But, trust me, if you are in so deep, like I was, or are just a naturally open person, you’ll know it doesn’t hurt to try something new and different to help oneself.

1. Mindfulness/Yoga/Meditation – there’s the book I recommended, above, by the guru of mindfulness. He has written others. All based in scientific methods and research. See this video for a primer and short practice of mindfulness.

2. Affirmations – the first time I listened to an affirmation it was one about weight-loss that my therapist accidentally sent me. The funny thing is that it didn’t matter. Maybe I didn’t need to repeat after the weight-specific parts, but it’s clear that we all, at base, have the same issues—around loving and caring for oneself, confidence, fear of rejection, perfectionism, etc.—and it was truly an affirming experience that validated many of the thoughts and feelings I never knew I had.

Moreover, listening to affirmations, once you get over your own uncomfortable self-consciousness, can be very relaxing. Not only the soothing voice, but over time, just hearing the music and voice triggers relaxation. Our minds and bodies are undoubtedly connected and there are guided imagery (which I don’t like, but maybe you will) and affirmation programs for almost any condition. Here’s programs for a variety of health concerns from Kaiser-Permanente I like.

3. Rescue Remedy Spray – recommended to my future-sister-in-law by a good friend of hers and then the very next day, my therapist recommended it to me, this herbal mouth spray (and there are a few other kinds and brands at Whole Foods) engages the sense of taste and smell to trigger relaxation. While mindfulness is find and dandy for someone so cerebral like me, often sight, sound and taste work faster, in terms of communicating to your brain to calm the heck down.

My therapist points out, something like this isn’t going to make you feel better three hours from now, but it stops you in the moment, does it’s brain-communication thing, refocuses you. (I’m trying to use this to replace or in conjunction with my urge to take Xanax—you cruel mistress, you—in stressful situations.)

4. Aromatherapy – similar to how the spray, above, works, except it’s all nostril and no tongue. I use the scent of lavender during the day to trigger a sense of calm (like above: redirection, refocusing) and chamomile to trigger sleepy-time relaxation at night. I like The Body Shop’s line, but you can find aromatherapy supplies other places and at Whole Foods or online.

5. Gum – this was a real nervous energy buster when I first started driving again. It was just something to do to keep my mind in the present and off of negative, spiraling thoughts. Sort of a mindfulness technique I guess.

6. Running – I’ve written about that before as another way to release anxious energy before it takes over my brain.

7. Keeping it Real – related to all of the above: mindfulness and affirmations and taking action for oneself, I find that the emotional coaching that I and Bel have been doing together has really helped me to “get over” or ride my waves of anxiety until I, recently, find them to be non-existent.

At my first pang of anxiety or wave of adrenaline, I don’t run in fear. We, both, are learning to observe the feeling, name it, determine its root cause and, perhaps, think of a solution. I find, sometimes, that what I thought I was anxious about really wasn’t what I was anxious about. Sometimes, I’m just dehydrated or have a headache. Sometimes, it was something beadle said or something I did.

In addition, learning to let go helps a lot too. Letting go of control, perfection, performance, appearance and sometimes civility. And just saying to myself, “this is me and this is all I am and nothing more” eliminates the pressure and stress that feeds anxiety. Research shows, self-compassion can go a long way.

What, why and how some of these approaches work is beyond me and isn’t really my concern, so long as they keep working!

With all of the above suggestions, what remains super-important, is that you’re taking action to DO something for yourself. Even some studies show that doing something (even in the absence of positive thinking, even if you know or believe it’s a placebo treatment) is better than doing nothing at all.

So, go do something for yourself!

Love,

Pain in My Neck, Literally

Dearest Daughters,

I’ve had a perpetual ache in my neck and shoulders. Probably since my junior year of high school. Maybe, before.

(image source)

That’s where I carry all of my tension, my bad posture, the worries of the world.

During junior year, The Pivotal Year of High School, I piled on the AP classes, took the SATs, applied to colleges. I had perfect attendance. I could not, would not miss a day of school. Even though, I hated school. The forced socialization and ostracization. But, I went every day. Because I could not, would not miss class. I could not, would not fail.

I thought the world might end if I missed a day of school.

I don’t know what happened exactly. Maybe Lola wanted me to skip the day or first period AP Chemistry for some reason, a doctor appointment, or another. Or maybe I just professed my conviction that if I missed a minute of academic instruction, my life would shatter, the world would explode and I’d end up in a van down by the river.

It’s difficult being a perfectionist. The world is very extreme. And volatile. And after I threw my fit about my inability and unwillingness to miss school, Lola said: “That’s it. You’re taking a mental health day and you’re going to see John.” (John was my counselor who I had seen during my freshman year of high school after my Adolescent Rebellion That Shall Not Be Named.)

After that, I think I started missing a lot of school, for my “mental health.” Well, that and the fact that my chemistry teacher stopped coming to school after one of her students from another class tried to poison her by pouring some of the solution from the waste bucket into her coffee. So, it was just as well that my friend, Renee, and I go get breakfast at what you now know as Fat Fish, but what was, at the time, a greasy spoon diner. Sam’s, I think.

So, I gained a little perspective and a vague idea of self-care back then.

Except next came college where I attended wonderful, awesome, amazing lectures for which my public high school had not prepared me. And there was, I dare say it, the stress of living with and amongst women, some dramatic, some immature, some on their period, and all of us figuring out how to interact like grown ups.

Next, you ask?

The quick version, so as not to belabor it: grad-school, marriage, teaching in Watts, one baby, then another, job loss, major life crisis.

My neck and shoulders have been in tense pain for, at least, the past ten years.

Not a day passed where I didn’t bend my head this way and that to pop my neck. Or where I didn’t sit at a stoplight massaging my own shoulders.

Just a couple months ago, I thought to myself: I’m doing all of this yoga and mediation and relaxing and my neck and shoulders STILL hurt. What. The. Heck. Man?

But, then, a few days ago, I was sitting at a stop light and I realized my tension was gone. Where and when it melted away, I know not. But, I leaned my head this way and that, just to check, rubbed my shoulders to see if anything would pop.

And, by golly, it didn’t.

Our minds, bodies and souls are so intertwined. I think that’s what makes us human.

Well, I’ve never seen an elephant rubbing her shoulders, stressed about her life on the African savannah or in the Oakland Zoo enclosure.

And I was in such a tangle, Dearest Daughters. Such a tangle.

I’m glad, for now at least, to be untangled, unwound, un-pained.

And it was nothing I did, exactly. It was more what I didn't do, what I didn't worry about, what I did differently when faced with stress.

Why it took me this long to figure out how to relieve my pain (or let it dissolve, rather) and why it took a mental-emotional-physical break down? I know not.

But, it did.

And for my neck's sake. And, more and more, I’m glad it did.

Love,

My new project

"Love after Love"

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

- Derek Walcott

More on poem and Jon Kabat-Zinn's Science of Mindfulness can be found here.

In full disclosure...

I was all set to publish the post below about identifying the positive parts of my life on Thursday morning. But, after another panic attack at home on Wednesday afternoon, a rough and hopeless couple of days followed, so I never posted it.

Today, I'm out of bed, finally got to a therapy session and my babies are back to visit me for a few hours (they've been under the care of a village of friends of family while beadle stayed home to support me). (I couldn't bear to hear their voices or cries for me through the bedroom door; it worsened my anxiety and a sent me spiralling into inescapable thoughts and feelings.) But, they're here now. And cuddling. And puzzling. And I'm coping.

Heavy sighs and continued prayers.

Also: will take a short blogging hiatus.

Thanks for all the love and support. I am very very truly blessed to be loved by so many and to have the "troops" that rushed to our aid over the past two days.

In the meantime, here's the thing I wrote before, a reminder that there will be a whole lot of ups and downs, steps forwards and backwards, just plain good days and bad days, and it's all part of the process.

Dearest Daughters,

One thing about depression/anxiety is that it causes you to fixate on things. My thing, in particular, involves what I feel to be the inevitable, worst-possible, most-out-of-control outcome on all of planet earth: having a panic attack, in a crowded public space, far from my home, while two unpredictable children are under my care.

That's about 78% of what I think about. The other 22% of the time, I think about how stupid that is and how it sucks to be me. And you, because you have me as a mother.

Oh what a self-fullfilling prophecy! And self-perpetuating too.

I've got an equation for how this feels (right now). It's very mathematical:

(anxiety = depression = more anxiety = more depression) x infinity = the rest of my life

If only we could fuel vehicles on the fear that drives me!? (Hold on a sec, I'm calling a venture capital company right now...)

(They didn't go for it.)

So, you can see why a lot of what I write here focuses on the negative, on the parts that need healing, on the worst of the worst.

It's not only that I'm being transparent and vulnerable, it's also that I'd be able to look back on what I've written here and think, "that was some serious shit and I lived to tell of it."

I'd like to be able to laugh, nay, to scoff at my fears. Not in a belittling way, but in an I-conquered-that way--I climbed that mountain or trudged through that valley and whatnot.

So, in full disclosure, I must also, for the record, attest that while I've probably experienced my emotionally worst day EVER in life so far, there have been many things that go right and that are in my control every single day.

Here's a non-exhaustive list:

- I built a sandbox!

- And have done work on the yard, got a patio set, so we can spend endless hours soaking up Vitamin D.

- I have no problem going to familiar places without Xanax, even with one or both of my Dearest Daughters (depending on the day, of course), i.e. the doctor's office, dropping and picking up your daddy from work, dropping you off with Auntie Jonelle or Auntie Dina, stopping at the pharmacy, getting ice cream at the McDonald's dive-thru, going to church (both of them, actually), going to Lola and Lolopop's house.

Our successful trip to CVS. That may or may not be a bag of M&Ms that Danjo is waving.

- I'm able to run errands by myself (sometimes assisted by Xanax, sometimes not).

- I went to see The Avengers.

- I've been shopping (in stores with walls and bright lights and choices) with Lola a couple of times.

- While driving, I sit calmly in line at stoplights (almost) everyday without wishing I had a monster truck to drive over all the waiting cars.

- I'm taking care of myself, asking for what I need (including asking my husband to stay home. BIG DEAL.), trying not to feel overwhelmed by options, pracitioners, insurance hurdles.

- I haven't lost all civility. But, maybe because I'm taking more intentional care of myself (or maybe it's the drugs), I've unabashedly stood-up for myself, said no, been forthwith, set limits on several recent occasions when I might have otherwise spent time being too polite or accomodating to my own detriment.

- My closet and shoes are organized. It might feel obsessive at times and it's TBD whether it's emotionally productive, but there are benefits to controlling the parts of my environment that I can: I can see our bedroom floor!

- On the other hand, I'm letting go of things that I used to feel compelled to control. For example, your daddy's been doing the grocery shopping and he basically gets some version of the right thing. And I deal with it. And it costs less overall anyway, because he's better at sticking to the list.

- I've completed many, many, many puzzles!

Here I am, trying to be gentle and kind and encouraging to myself. Whew, now that that's done, I'll head back to my corner. Feel free to join me, my always-and-forever-even-if-Mommy's-not-all-there, Dearest Daughters

Love,

P.S. And also, I wrote this just in case one of the People sees me in public and thinks: "Isn't she, like, supposed to be crazy and vomitting or something? Hurry! Run! Fast!" Yeah, you don't have to do that. And you can talk to me too, if you want. I'm not that kind of zombie.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Mommy Panics

Dearest Daughters,

This is hard.

And a really new thing. New, like, baby chick new. Like, two days ago new. Well, my realization is new, but the history of what I'm about to tell you is at least as old as me.

This moment is very fresh and some would advise against publishing my un-vetted, un-in-retrospect feelings on the Internet. But, I thought, maybe someone out there can sympathize or tell me it'll be okay or give me some tips? I also thought: but, I don't want my in-laws or my sister or my aunts and uncles to know!

Ultimately, that thought compelled me to share this. Because, I present so much of our lives on this website; it was my original premise to be transparent, to share the good and the bad of parenthood, of being a family, of your beloved mommy; so it would be just plain wrong to act as if today was no different from yesterday.

Basically, I have anxiety issues. And, currently, am developing a self-diagnosed panic disorder. It's so melodramatic! But, I'm highly self-aware so, I both laugh and cry to think of it! LOL! Waaaah!

Well, there's lots that I can say and will continue to say, background and foreshadowing and a whole story that was and is and will continue to be.

For now, suffice it to say, I've endured two panic attacks in one week. (All on our sunny, happy vacation! Which, I do not mislead, was thoroughly happy and sunny in-between the panic attacks.) And that was the beginning of the end.

This is a stream-of-consciousness email I wrote to Lolopop this morning, so sorry if it doesn't all make sense or you're missing some background info, but here goes:

Thanks, Daddy.

I'm going to my PCP on Wednesday, hopefully to get a referral to talk to a psychiatrist or psychotherapist or whomever. I plan to insist on it.

Not sure if it's a curse or a blessing, but it's really been the past year that I've started to realize my "suddenly not feeling good" is related to my anxiety levels and are basically panic attacks. And I'm starting to recognize my triggers, primarily travel, crowds, social situations I have pre-existing dread about and being in places where I feel trapped. This is on top of whatever general stress, worry and anxiety I have in my day-to-day life, which I tend to discount, given that I live a pretty blessed life. But, it's become a vicious cycle, fueled by not taking care of myself, not eating often enough, not drinking enough water, ignoring headaches or other minor ailments, not exercising or having time to de-stress, drinking too much coffee (damn you, Keurig!), trying to do much for too many.

I think back to incidents as a child that I'd characterize as panic attacks, and to times in college, just getting on the airplane to leave that I thought I wouldn't make it. But, I always did. It's with the addition of children, of these little dependent creatures, that my anxiety has increased, that I've had more frequent and stronger, more uncontrollable panic attacks.

So, this realization is what's driving me crazy. I understand and can explain and intellectualize my anxiety, but I can't help it. While in retrospect I can see what triggered my recent panic attacks, in the moment I didn't know they were going to happen. It was unexpected, I thought everything was fine. And then I'm consumed by a rush of adrenaline, heart-racing, nausea and (yay!) diarrhea. Then, it's a snowball, a monster, I'd even go so far to say that it feels like a demon takes over and I can't control it. And I want to. And the anxiety about throwing up, about how to get out of the bathroom, let alone the HUGE Los Angeles Zoo (!), about beadle and the girls and their health and happiness, about my inability to take care of them, let alone myself; it all just builds and builds and I can't stop it.

Beadle's being good and supportive, as I talk and talk and talk about it. And I sound so sane when I talk, but I feel like a crazy person inside. I'm just living in fear of when another panic attack will happen. Especially since beadle is leaving for a week. I can hardly look at the girls without starting to feel sick with anxiety that I'll have a panic attack and be unable to care for them. I'm afraid to leave the house, my stomach turns when I think about standing in line to buy groceries.

Each night, since Saturday, I think: I just need to go to bed, to end this day, to reset and in the morning it will be better. This morning has been fine so far, but all we've done is dropped beadle off at BART. I have plans this afternoon to drop the girls off with Dina and go grocery shopping and I'm sure I'll be fine. But, this little demon looms in the back of my mind. I just keep trying to distract myself, to play with play dough and keep talking to the girls, to read something on my iPhone when my thoughts start to turn. But, even that feels strained, I know I'm just tricking myself and I feel a little fake, like I'm just numbing my senses, taking my glasses off, trying to concentrate on nothing at all while trying to concentrate on something specific.

I know, in general, what I need to do. I took some time to do some breathing and yoga last night. I took Maribel to the doctor yesterday, because I had to and I was focused enough on the task at hand to not even think about having a panic attack, until we were sitting in the waiting room and the downward spiral of "what ifs" and "where's the bathroom" and "what do I do with Maribel?" began. But, we were called into the office, I distracted myself with my phone and we made it home fine, my heart racing nonetheless. Beadle was home so I made us take a walk to McDonald's to get ice cream, but I couldn't go in, for fear of the smells and people. I didn't even feel like eating ice cream!!!

It's just the thought of a panic attack that gets my heart racing, so I feel paralyzed, I don't even want to enter that territory. And I feel so so so so mentally ill. Like, literally. I'm a crazy person right now, my brain is eating itself.

Beadle said, "you're just over-thinking it." To which, I replied, "that's exactly the point."

I'm pretty sure that over-thinking and excessive worrying are in my genetic code. So, I accept that my anxiety is a pre-existing condition and that I need to be intentional about, going forward, trying to maintain a general anxiety level 3 or 4, rather than the 7 or so at which I usually operate.

So, again: take care of myself, physically, emotionally, etc.

But, it's the meantime that worries me.

Maybe another day without incident, another night's sleep and I'll stop worrying about panicking?

Or, just give me the drugs for now!!! I'll talk coping mechanisms and guided imagery and general de-stressing-counseling and exercise later!

Can't wait until you guys get home! To give me big hugs and let me cry and tell me everything will be okay.

Love,
Lauren

Have I Told You Tuesday: Considering My Part in Patriarchy

Dearest Daughters,

I've written before about my lake of shame, particularly around nudity. About how to properly pick your nose. About how I will raise you girls to be critical of media and popular society. About our genetic inability (or ability as the case may be) to defecate.

We have a song slash dance that we call "The Naked Baby" wherein we wiggle around and sing the words "naked baby, naked baby, naked baby" whenever one of you girls is caught with your pants down, your shirt off or both. It's not a make-fun-of-your-naked-body dance; it's definitely a celebration dance; a liberation-from-the-bonds-of-clothing-the-trappings-of-life dance.

Recently, I was helping Babybel get dressed in the morning.

I peeled her shirt off over her head and arms extended to the sky. This is the point at which our Naked Baby soundtrack would ordinarily play.

Instead, Babybel wiggled her body. Not in a silly, fist-pumping, maraca-shaking wiggle, but in a slow, hip-side-to-side wiggle, as she slid her hands along her sides from her waist to her hips.

"I'm skinny," you said, "like my cousin."

You didn't say this in a factual or scientific way, but maybe I'm reading into it. There was an element of gloating as you sing-song-spoke, "I'm skiiiiny, I'm skiiiiny." It felt heavy. Like there was more meaning in those words than there should be for a three-year-old. Or maybe for the older cousin you copied the words and suggestive movements from.

I wanted to argue, to neutralize the word, to take away any element of value your little brain was sorting out. I wanted to yell: "NO YOU ARE NOT!"

I stumbled, sounding like Lola, who sounds like an English language learner, even though she's not, "What is skinny!? It's not skinny. You beautiful! The way God made you."

You're argumentative, so you told me, "No, I'm skinny." This was more matter-of-fact.

I didn't want to argue with or engage with the idea of you being skinny; I didn't want to give it any attention or value. I replied again, "you are beautiful the way that God made you."

And you finished getting your clothes on.

But, me, being me, I couldn't stop thinking about this minor moment in our lives and what it meant for the battle ahead; the battle against society, against peers, against sexism and patriarchy. But, more importantly, the battle against myself and my own perceptions about my body and actions towards it.

"You'll just have to model good values about your body, Lauren," your Ninang/Auntie Katherine told me, talking me off the ledge as good friends do. "She's going to get messages and images and values from society and older kids; you can't avoid that."

The following day, with out even looking for an answer, a Facebook friend posted: "Mom I'm Fat:" One Mother's Inspired Response to her 7 Year Old" (h/t @revlkb). Naked dancing as a tool for embracing our bodies, affirmed. But also, the realization of how much our own body image as grown women affects our children's attitudes.

It's hard for me to remember a time in my childhood when Lola was not "dieting" or "going back on a diet... on Monday." It's hard for me to remember a time when she and I got out and did "healthy" and active things together.

And posted a couple of days later by the same Facebook friend, also a mother of two daughters, another depressing, but then hopeful testament of the effect of media on our nation's girls:

I will say that it's not just mothers and media that affect our self-esteem and perceptions.

I really had no consciousness about my body until I was in middle school. I got boobs and started my period when I was twelve, but I was still trying to fit my petite, but changing body into children's clothing. I had just gotten a new dress. I tried it on and showed Lolopop. It was a tight sheath dress in a funky 1960s color combination: an orange and brown and green tweed-looking print. It was probably tighter than what Lolopop wanted to see on his maturing baby girl. And I can see now that he meant no harm.

He patted my tummy, a part of my body I had never considered. It was a little girl's tummy, round and perfect, the way your tummies should be. He remarked that the dress was too small for me.

Instead of telling me that he liked my new dress or that I was beautiful, he chose to remark on how the dress fit. I went to my room, stared down at my tummy and thought, "I'm fat."

I never stopped thinking that until I honestly was fat. When I did gain weight in college, unaware and unabashed at the time, just buying bigger jeans to keep up with my eating and drinking habits, I looked back on photos from middle and high school. And I thought, "I can't believe I wasted all that time thinking I was fat." I was a skinny, awkward twig. But, I recall days when I told myself I wasn't going to eat. (That never worked, really, but I thought I should counteract my hearty appetite.) I recall pinching my belly to measure my tummy fat. I read teen magazines, trying to copy the workouts, the chair lunges and sit-ups to get that "Beach Bikini Ready Body!"

I joined Weight Watchers with my mom the summer before my senior year of college. And, yes, it was a diet program, but I learned about portion control and about making healthy choices. And I lost weight.

Almost a decade and two pregnancies later, I know how to maintain my body weight without much conscious effort. It's not something I am constantly talking about or obsessing over. But, your dad will attest that I've complained to him off and on about this wobbly bit or another, fishing for that deeply-seeded childhood affirmation that I'm beautiful just the way I am. The battle against myself.

And it's like God and the universe and my Internet friends were all in cahoots after that morning you told me you were skinny. Preparing me for whatever lies ahead.

Ashley Judd wrote this about patriarchy and women's role in it. I won't summarize here, but I really recommend reading it and taking time to consider things you think and say not only about your own body, but about those of strangers.

Another friend posted these on Pinterest:

Source: thegoldengleam.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: amightygirl.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

And just a couple days ago, these wise words from, okay, not a woman, but a man who taught and continues to teach children a lot about loving themselves:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

So no one gets butt-hurt, Lola often says something similar when she preaches. Something to the effect of praying for children to make good choices and also for the adults whom they watch to model making good choices.

Parenthood is a double-edge sword, in that my salience in your life is both a blessing and a weighty responsibility.

God, help me!? ME! Your mommy. Make good choices. About my body, my actions and my words.

Love,

A Mother's Guilt

Dearest Danjo,

On Saint Patrick's Day in the year Two Thousand and Twelve, you were bit by a dog. In the face.

Words can not express the feeling of and amount of guilt that consumed me this weekend. The playback of the scene, the images that fill my mind of your pain and tears, the sound of your screaming, the feeling of panic and helplessness, of your arms reaching out to me from your car seat as we drove to the ER. You calling my name over and over.

I should stop here to say two things.

One. You were calm and talking and back to yourself by the time we got to the ER. The doctor checked you out and you really are FINE. You're face is healing and your love of/lack of inhibition near furry animals remains unchanged.

Two. I know. I know. It wasn't my fault. Intellectually, I know that I cannot blame myself. I know there were so many factors, dog and human. I'm not spending my time replaying the scene to determine what could have been different. What's done is done. And Daddy and my family and everyone I know can tell me it wasn't my fault, but as I write this now, my eyes well with tears, thinking about the pain you experienced. And how my choices led up to it.

It was me who invited a rescue dog into our home.

I blame myself.

My naivete. I've never been given reason to consider how dangerous a dog can be. With the exception of one family dog, I've never personally known a large dog or, for that matter, any rescue dog that has been anything but sweet. The stories? Oh! That won't be me. Not my child.

My trusting personality. I trusted the woman, a stranger, who brought the dog. I trusted the dog.

My nonchalant parenting. I let you eat dirt. I'm not overly cautious. I'm not a helicopter mom. Or I wasn't on Saturday.

I should have done the impossible. I should have known. I should have been wary. I should have frozen time and thrown my body in front of yours. Thrown my arm up when you turned a corner, surprising the dog, the fear-biter who lunged at your tiny body.

I know what you and the People are thinking. There may be a share of I-Told-You-So-ers and What-a-Bad-Way-To-Learn-a-Lesson-ers. But, for the most part, People will say I'm being too hard on myself.

But, can you blame me?

It's my job to protect you. And I didn't. I couldn't.

I wish I could rewind time. That I never called the rescue organization. That I never wanted a dog in the first place. That I didn't put my desires before your well-being.

I suppose I'm being a little dramatical, so I'll stop. Soon.

But, until Saturday, I've never experienced the weight of this guilt, a mother's guilt. Because, I'm basically a perfect mother. Duh.

But, this feeling is so immense. So overwhelming. My sadness and sorrow. The aftertaste of adrenaline and fear. The tension that remains in my body, my hackles up, my inability to relax, to not feel physically sick at the thought of what happened.

And I can't speak for tomorrow or Friday or next year, but right now, in this moment, I cannot forgive myself.

I love you so much.

And I'm sorry your modelling career is ruined. I guess you'll have to use your brains.

Love you no matter what,

I give it a minute.

Dearest Daughters,

We all know Bel has curly whirly twisty twirly hair, as we like to call it.

That stuff is the BEST. It almost always looks good. Or, at the very least, makes an impression. Tangled, slept on or freshly washed, your hair always gives pause to passersby.

Danjo's hair is wavy. Your curls hang whereas Bel's curls spring.

Because Bel has such tightly curled hair, it stays out of her face for the most part, which is my main priority in the hair-maintenance department.

I think braids and pig tails and fancy 'dos are cute and all, but I'm a low maintainence person myself. If I don't HAVE to DO anything to my hair, let alone yours, I won't.

Alas, my days of letting our hair(s) roam free were numbered.

Danjo's not so curly hair, coupled with--count them--one, two, three cowlicks means that you perpetually have hair in your face.

I've tried to ignore it, but now it's getting in your food, sticking to boogers INSIDE your nose and making my pet peeve reflex flare.

I've tried the clip thing to no avail. You pull those things out of your hair faster than I can put them in. A rubber band lasts about ten seconds.

Want to place a bet on how long this will last?

Anyone out there have any fine-baby-three-cowlick-in-the-face-hair taming tricks to share?

Love,

Dear Poopers, Part I: Pooping in Your Genes

Dearest Daughters,

Don't let anyone tell you different. There are two types of people in this world.

(Pooper #1 in a corner of the hospital room on the day Pooper #2 was born.)

Those for whom pooping is easy. And those for whom it is not.

The former, the type that poops all the time, that can't sit through the dessert course without having to excuse him or herself, the type that makes pooping seem so, well, natural, you'd think they would have a healthy appreciation of poop jokes and would want for nothing else than to discuss poop all day.

You would be SO wrong.

They give little thought to their poop, the bastards.

By now, you can guess which type of person I am.

I am that latter. The type of person that has always had trouble pooping. And, therefore, always hated pooping.

And yet, I am obsessed with poop. I talk about it all the time. Because pooping is this elusive skill that I was born without.

I mean, I am physically able to poop. I'm not some sort of mutant human anomaly. Aside from the fact that I like to talk about poop.

Let's just put it this way. When I was having post-partum pooping difficulties akin to giving birth yet AGAIN, Lola told me, sorry, honey, you're just a "little asshole."

I've had doctors and aesthetician and next door neighbors tell me that I need to poop more. To drink more water, to eat more fiber. That I should be pooping three times a day. Not only does that sound like an obscene amount of time to spend in the bathroom, but it also sounds unpleasant and, frankly, impossible. Trust me, I've tried it all.

Some of us are just born this way. Ahem, Babybel. (So sorry about that, BTW. Nothing like seeing your child in pain and knowing it's ALL MY FAULT.)

And some of us are born, like Daddy and Danjo, pooping four times a day. And I envy them, their poopy alone time in the bathroom or behind a piece of furniture, respectively.

Do you know how much reading I could get done if only I pooped more frequently? That New Yorker subscription would finally pay off. And I would be SO well read.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. Each of us is born with certain genetic traits. And we are stuck with whatever bowel movements or sleeping habits or general temperament our parents have given us.

Pooping is in your genes.

It's a general life lesson really. You are who you are. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Each of us is born different, with different set of skills, abilities and struggles.

Some of us are really good at science and painting, but struggle with music and pooping. For example.

And those who are great at pooping, maybe have a hard time with math and fine motor skills. For example.

I'm just saying.

(Also, one word: coffee.)

Love,

Dear Poopers, I have so much to tell you.

Dearest Daughters,

I've alluded to, mentioned and profanitized poop on many an occassion.

But, I think the time has come to stop tip-toeing around the subject. To stop prevaricating about the bush, as Grommit says. To stop circumlocuting, if you'll permit me to use my 2001 SAT vocabulary. Bam! I just did. How you like me now?!

So.

Poop.

Actually, I have so much to say, that I'm not sure where to start. I think I'll have to write a series of letters to you about poop, entitled Dear Poopers.

I know what you're thinking, it's so cliche for a mom to talk about poop. And I'm in total agreement.

But, when God gives you a gift. Wrapped up in Pampers or training unders though it may be, it would be wrong NOT to share it.

And anyway. I don't plan on talking about what color it was and how many times a day you did it. Or the difference between breast milk, formula, solid food and meat-eater poop.

That would be so mundane. And I know you've come to expect nothing less than Profound from me.

For serious. I have important things to talk about, people! DD Readers, feel free to contribute to the fecal matter at hand or let me know if there's any pressing topic you'd like me to discuss. So far this is what I'm working on:

• Dear Poopers, Part I: Pooping in Your Genes
• Dear Poopers, Part II: A Work of Art
• Dear Poopers, Part III: What a Relief
  

I know, right!? You can hardly wait! Your psyched. You're brimming with excitement.

I can tell. You have that "look" on your face.

Don't hold back, that can lead to constipation.

Love,