At the second session of my new weekly yoga class last week, I used the phrase "calm before the storm" to describe my state of mind at that moment when we went around the studio introducing ourselves before practice. With my MIL coming to town to watch Rowan for a few days, followed by our whirlwind trip to California, and later my transatlantic journey to Germany, I really did feel strangely mellow that night at yoga. Little did I know just how true that overused cliché would become two days later at the start of teething, take two.
Teething, man. WOW. When Rowan got his first two bottom teeth a couple months ago, I really didn't think the experience was as nightmarish as I'd heard it could be. I preempted imminent pain with a steady stream of teething tablets, drops and Tylenol for a few days, and suddenly, two adorable (and surprisingly razor sharp!) pearly whites popped through, and we were no worse for the wear. What was all this fuss about teething? Teething's a piece of cake.
Oh, ha. HA. Rowan came down with Mysterious Pitiful Baby Syndrome on Saturday, and all day long, he was whiny and clingy and clearly in need of a nap, but not at all interested in napping, despite our best efforts to facilitate at least one short snooze-a-roo before Roth's mom arrived later that afternoon. We'd been bragging to grandma that Rowan had been such a delightful baby lately, but he was decidedly the opposite of delightful on Saturday, and I should've realized we were headed into the mother of all teething-induced tempests.
Saturday night was awful. It felt like we had regressed all the way back to the days of newborn haze, what with wakeups every other hour. The difference now, though, is that we couldn't use any of our old tricks to soothe him. Gone are the days of swaddling and jiggling and shooshing the baby back to sleep. Clearly, he was in some kind of pain, coupled with congestion, possibly a result of teething, and he wanted nothing to do with cuddling or rocking, as he'd arch and kick and push us away when we'd try to make him feel better. The only thing that would eventually work, and only temporarily, was to nurse him.
So, fine. Nurse away, you say. Whatever works, right? Except that I have been trying to eliminate middle-of-the-night feedings because a.) he's not a newborn anymore and doesn't need to eat every other hour, b.) I refuse to let my nipples become pacifiers, and c.) I'm earnestly trying to prepare Roth, Rowan and myself for when I'm in Germany two weeks from now, when I can't be there to whip out my boob and make it all better. This is a prime example of the kind of frustration Roth frequently feels because he can't breastfeed. This is a prime example of the kind of frustration I frequently feel because I'm the only one who CAN breastfeed.
Roth and I haven't seen eye to eye on this issue AT ALL. In the middle of the night, when the baby is upset and crying, we tend to push and pull at each other, neither one of us wanting to give in. I'm tired. He's tired. Something's gotta give. And usually it's me who gives in and just nurses the baby already. Because IT WORKS. But is it the right thing to do? Is it becoming a crutch from which there is no recovery? Some parenting experts think so, but the middle of the night after two wakeups when the baby is inconsolable is not the time to mention that, I've found. It does no good to argue in the heat of the moment, and yet we do. A LOT.
The last three nights have not been my finest as a mother. Rowan is teething, he's hurting, he can't comprehend that the throbbing pain he feels in his mouth is fleeting, that it won't last forever, and I have not been as sympathetic and comforting as I should. I've arched and kicked and pushed, too, putting my own selfish needs ahead of my son's. I've whined about and protested every single teething-related wakeup, because I'm tired, yes, but mostly because I'm stubborn. I've been clinging to this wonk-eyed idea that, by now, nine-and-a-half months into this gig, things should be back to normal, back to the way they were before we decided to have a baby. I should be sleeping more. I should be able to do all the things I want to do, when I want to do them.
Wait, who is the baby in this situation?
I've not wanted to admit to myself, to Roth, to my mom, to anyone, that I have not been dealing well with my emotions. I feel anger raging up inside of my chest more often than not, and it's not healthy -- for me, Roth or Rowan. Roth and my mom have expressed concern because they know me too well. They know my patterns, my tendencies, and they want to help. I think I want their help, but I don't know how to take it. Roth came up with an elaborate plan so I could nap on Sunday, never mind that he didn't get much sleep the night before, either, and he and his mom took the baby on a really long walk, leaving me alone in the house with nothing to do but sleep. Yes, I was able to lay down and close my eyes for a bit, which was nice, but did it really change anything? I keep pushing back that a nap here and a nap there doesn't erase the sleep deficit I've accrued over the last year. But that's not really the issue, and I know it.
I'm having a hard time seeing beyond the Right Now. Roth keeps reminding me that Rowan will not always be nine-and-a-half months old. He will not always be teething. He will not always wake up in the night. He will not always look for me in a room when he's upset because I'm the one who can almost always calm him down. At the same time, though, we comment on how big he's getting, but really, he's still so small. When he stands against my legs, and I look down on him, I remember that thing my mom said a lot during his first two weeks, that he'll never again be this little. When I try to remember these last nine months, the details are blurry. The days, weeks, months have whirred by at breakneck speed. And yet, I've managed to gnash my own teeth through every single stage, not really enjoying the ups, but most certainly wallowing in the downs.
Yesterday I had an unbiased heart-to-heart talk with a male co-worker about what's been going on the last few days. He's married to someone who shares some similar traits as me, and in some ways, he's pretty easy-going like Roth, too, so he gets me. (I think.) He suggested that whenever I feel myself getting angry or frustrated to count to 10 and take some deep breaths. He recognized that he was severely simplifying my situation by offering up Relaxation for Dummies-type techniques, but it couldn't hurt to try.
(He also reminded me that "this too shall pass." Clichés are cliché for a reason.)
Simple as these techniques may be, that's exactly why I decided to take this series of yoga classes, to give myself an opportunity to just breathe. To give myself a tiny break. When I came home from the first class, I was disappointed that I was thrust right back into my life, with Roth waiting for me to get home so I could nurse the baby to sleep. Whatever zen I'd achieved earlier that night all but dissolved a few hours later when the baby woke up wet and upset. After the second class, I came home to a darkened living room, baby in bed, quite the opposite scene from the previous week, and again, I was disappointed. Roth had done everything in his power to help me maintain calm, and I was irritated because I wasn't ready to go to bed. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. God, that's gotta be a frustrating way to live.
I also lamented to my boss yesterday that I was tired and overwhelmed by my home life, and she summed up my situation pretty succinctly. "Sounds like there's not a lot of joy right now." Yes! But no, that's not true. Not at all. There IS joy in my life, my life is overflowing with joy (even when said joy is protesting bedtime), but I'm just getting in the way of it.
I've got to get out of my own way.* But how?
*Expression borrowed lovingly from Angella. |
