A Plan for Fighting Writer's Block

I've been avoiding my blog for awhile for a very lame reason.  I can't figure out what I want to say, much less how to say it.  I feel like I should write more often, but every time I make time to try, my screen and I strike up a blank staring contest instead.  (It wins.)  Occasionally, I'll have a flash of inspiration --a funny anecdote, an important topic-- but then nothing gets transmitted from my brain to my fingers.

Perhaps I mentally set the bar too high for myself.  Let's not kid around, I'm a mommy-blogger, not a Pulitzer-worthy journalist.  But I prefer to actually want to read what I write.  How can I ask other people to read something I consider dense, dull, and directionless?

A friend advised me to try writing through my writer's block, saving it, and editing out what I don't like.  Problem is, even after filling a page, I'd read it a few days later and then delete everything I'd written while simultaneously bashing my head against the monitor.  So my new approach is to write about my writing struggles.

This bit has flowed surprisingly well, primarily because I felt no pressure to write this.  I just wanted to test an idea and had nothing to lose...except my writer's block.

"I Am the Face of PPD"

The following is part of a project spearheaded by Grey Rose Studio and Sacred Roots Holistic Community for Women to raise awareness of post-partum depression.

Sitting in a hospital room, alone, I looked out the window and wondered how it had all happened.  I had been here before, well, not here exactly, but a place very similar.  At that time, I was 21, had miscarried 4 months previously, and was so depressed I had convinced myself that  somehow the miscarriage was my fault.  I was suicidal and terrified.  Following the advice of my doctor, I willingly admitted myself to the hospital to get help.  An amazing team of nurses, therapists, and doctors diagnosed and treated me for post-partum depression.

I didn't understand; how could I have post-partum depression?  I hadn't given birth. I lost my baby in the first trimester.  This wasn't possible, or was it?  I was assured that it was.

Several years later, my husband and I were expecting our first baby together.  I told my midwife about my previous pregnancy and resulting hospitlization for post-partum depression.  She recommended putting me on an antidepressant for the last 6 weeks of pregnancy.  Our son was born without any serious complications, and I tried to settle into life as a new mommy.

But then the flashbacks of an assault from 2 years prior started.  I would have entire conversations and not remember them happening at all.  My parents offered to take care of the baby so I could get help again.  One Saturday afternoon, which I don't remember, I had an "episode" and tried to kill myself.  My husband found me, and called 911.  They rushed me to the hospital and admitted me for treatment.  And it was there that I thought over everything that had happened: the miscarriage, my inital diagnosis with PPD, the birth of my son, and then the resurfacing of traumatic memories.

This time the doctors diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, in addition to post-partum depression.  I was released from the hospital in 2 days, and entered an intensive outpatient program for 2 weeks.  My parents kept my son for me for several months until I was finally able to take care of myself again.

My husband was incredibly supportive.  He stayed with me as much as he could, and even got a transfer with his company so he could work from home.  He helped me readjust to being a person first, and then a mom.  He knew that I would never be able to take care of our son, if I didn't take care of myself.  At the time I struggled hard against that line of thinking.  I felt like I had to put the care of my child above everything else.  It has only been after years of therapy and practical experience that I finally understand that he is right.  I can only be the best mom to my children if I am first caring for myself.

It has not been easy, and there are plenty of days that I still struggle, but I now have two happy, healthy boys.  I fight to make time for myself at least once every week.  I am so grateful for the support of my husband and my family, and the kindness of my therapist, who kept me on track the many times when I wanted to give up.  I know my story isn't that uncommon, but while I was going through everything, I felt terribly alone.  I hope that this can help other women, who are experiencing similar struggles, to know that they are not alone, that there is hope, and that they can feel okay again.

New Book, New Year, New Ideas, Right?

I keep doing this thing, where I think out paragraphs of conversation in my head and don't say any of it.  But I think maybe I should say them out loud, b/c it's important to get out what's going on in my mind.  Otherwise I just occasionally say things that seem to everyone else to be completely random and/or crazy, when in actuality if I said everything I had been thinking up to that point, it wouldn't seem so totally out of line.  I might make sense.
I'm considering picking up my blog again, the one about being a soccer mom, but I'm not entirely sure that's practical.  Lately, it seems I'm increasingly concerned with the practical.  How much does this cost?  Is it really worth that?  Can I really spend time doing that without feeling like it's a waste?  I don't know why the sudden obsession with practicality.  It's like I have to justify everything I do or, in many cases, don't do, now that I have another child.
My husband thinks I'm starved for human contact, and perhaps this is true.  I'm a stay-at-home mom.  I don't have a job any more, at least not a paying one that takes me out of the house.  I have 2 little boys, a 4 year old and a 3 month old.  They are my job.  And I love being home with them.
But I would be lying if I said I didn't miss my old job.  And I also miss contributing financially.  My husband's income keeps us from being hungry and part of his job keeps a roof over our heads.  Some days I stress about feeding us for 4 days with only $45, keeping in mind that a big chunk of that money has to go towards buying gas.  I'm not saying this b/c I want charity or pity.  I want to be able to work.  But I can't work outside the house right now, not with the way things are with the boys.  Maybe in a few years...in other words, an eternity.
I've been offered an opportunity for on-the-job training.  A company will teach me a skill, while paying me a stipend, as long as I agree to work for them for 2 years.  Only a few problems with this:  2 hour commute (each way), and I have no interest in the subject matter.  If they were going to teach me to appraise art, or offer me photojournalism assignments, I'd be thrilled and say yes without any hesitation.  On the other hand, it would be steady pay and get me out of the house.  But I fear I would be bored out of my mind.  Not that there'd be any difference from my current state of mind.  Everything sounds inane and uninteresting.  I don't want to do this or that or anything I can think of, but I also don't want to do nothing at all.
So I'm thinking of starting an intensive workout regimen.  Something that requires no real equipment and costs no money.  I had considered P90X but don't have $200 to buy the DVDs.  Also everyone in my life thought it was crazy.  And that forced me to reexamine my motivations.  Well, #1 is body image, which has completely evaporated thanks to pregnancy and a C-section and breast feeding.  Also my husband finds my best friend very attractive and she is built NOTHING like me physically.  So even though he tells me he thinks I'm beautiful and sexy and I know he has no intention of cheating on me, I can't help but think if I was built like her, maybe what he says would be true.
This isn't to say that my husband is a bad man.  In fact, I believe he is a wonderful man, a great father, a hard worker, and I know he loves me and our boys more than anyone else in the world.  Which is why what I said in the previous paragraph is so incongruous to me.  I struggle with this on a daily basis and try to reconcile it with the man I know.  Mostly I just can't do it, so I start to take myself apart, piece by piece.  And I realise just how terribly insecure I am.  I want to be super mom...correction, supermodel mom.  Perfect hair, perfect makeup, flawless style, chic yet functional, incredibly organized, health-conscious, thrifty, crafty, environmentally aware, spotless house, well-behaved kids who are socially conscious and compassionate, and yet thoroughly well-adjusted, playful, inquisitive boys.  If I ever achieve all that, I believe I should be eligible for a Nobel Prize of some sort or at the very least a book deal.

Not the best day

The monster that I birthed is sick with a nasty cold, so he can't go to school.  But of course he's feeling well enough to wreak havoc on me and the house.  I can't go to work b/c he's home sick, so I attempted to make things go well today, but they did not.  Perhaps I should have tried harder.  Maybe setting up a painting table and drawing with markers wasn't enough.  I probably should have broken out the clay and potter's wheel too.  (Okay, that's not fair.  We don't have either of those things.)  But I do feel like I made an effort today, and it didn't matter.  It seems like no matter how hard I try to keep things neat, to entertain him, to run the house, it's never quite enough.  And as far as he's concerned, I cannot entertain him, but he and I still expect me to do so.

Working with Oliver

My son was diagnosed with autism about a year ago.  At the time he was already part of a state-sponsored program, receiving in-home therapy from a speech pathologist, an occupational therapist, and a special educator.  His diagnosis didn't change much in the way of his treatment, aside from adding another educator and increasing the frequency of the home visits. After over a year in the program, Oliver has made tremendous progress.  His speech is still delayed, but is becoming more clear, appropriate, and frequent.  He initiates social interaction, tries to make jokes, and is more flexible when faced with unexpected changes.  I'm increadibly proud of him and his accomplishments.

That is why I get so aggravated by the casual manner in which people react to his changes.  Things like, "I knew he'd talk when he was ready," or "He's just lazy" or "You are too easy on him" are so dismissive of all the months of hard work put in by Oliver, his therapists, and Zak and me.  We have been proactive in seeking treatment and doing everything we could to make it as effective as possible.  We don't just work with him on his letters or his numbers, we've taught him how to sign, to communicate with pictures, and now to finally speak.  We work with him on his manners, being considerate of others and their feelings, and appropriate social interactions.  For parents with a typically developing child, these tasks may be part of their routine too, but I don't really know.  I only know what it's like to be Oliver's mom.

We had to learn how to teach him, how to communicate with him.  He's working on processing the world the way typical people do, but it's still a challenge.  He's not unintelligent by any means.  His problem solving skills are downright uncanny.  He thinks outside the box and finds ways to acheive goals in a manner different from the accepted norm.  But he still struggles with some sensory issues and inappropriate reactions.  It's taken me some time to realise that his tantrums are now normal.  He gets upset when he is told no, but his recovery time is much faster.  He no longer hits or reacts violently when extremely upset.  He just cries and crumples to the floor, very similarly to the other toddler meltdowns I've witnessed in the grocery store or the library.

I don't know if Oliver's initial diagnosis was wrong.  At the time, it seemed to fit the way he reacted to the world.  And I don't know if early intervention will have the same results for every child with autism.  But I do know that thanks to his teachers, therapists, and the strategies they have given us,  we have formed a fantastic team to facilitate Oliver's growth and development. 

He doesn not act like the same child from a year ago.  He used to be unable to sit and play for longer than 30 seconds.  He ate crayons instead of drawing with them.  He had no concept of pretend play, was intolerant of changes in routine and attempts to redirect him.  He could say "hi" and "bye" occasionally but not when prompted.  Now he plays with his trains for hours on end.  He sits at a table and draws or colors, scribbles on a chalkboard, and is learning to write his name.  He can put together a puzzle with multiple pieces, match colors and objects, and respond correctly to questions.  He can speak in five word sentences and engage in a conversation.  What he says is not always clear, but he is more patient and tries to find other appropriate ways of getting his point accross.  He follows directions and can be redirected to a different task when necessary. 

All of this did not happen overnight.  It took a lot of patience and understanding on our part, a willingness to learn how his mind processed the world around him.  It took a lot of patience (a virtue uncommon in most 2 year olds) and perserverance on his part as well.  He stuck with the work, became more tolerant, and thrived in his environment.  He continues to work hard, losing patience soem days, but for the most part, he keeps at it.  His language is developing and becoming clearer.  We have started working on goals for typically developing preschoolers like counting, identifying letters, colors, and objects, and potty-training.  We hope to start him in preschool in January.

If you see Oliver one day, please remember that he is the way he is because we all worked hard to get there.  He didn't just wake up one day and decide to talk, or suddenly become a 3 year old with an insane work ethic.  It was a gradual process that has changed our lives forever.

(Mis)Adventures in Gnocchi

After weeks of drooling over a recipe, I finally settled in to make gnocchi for the first time.  Of course I decided to make it for company, and the recipe only yielded servings for 2-3 people as a main course.  So I made 3 batches of it, albeit unintentionally.  I had intended only to make 2 batches, but ran into some problems when it came time to pick potatoes.

You see the recipe called for 2lbs of potatoes.  I had purchased a 5lb bag, and figured I could just use most of the bag and leave 2 or 3 out.  However, the recipe really calls for 3 cups of potatoes, but you don't measure them til after you microwaved, baked, peeled (while hot), riced, and spread on a cookie sheet to cool.  If you have more than 3 cups, you're supposed to discard the remains. 

I emptied my bag of potatoes into the sink and discovered my first of many potato hurdles.  These suckers were enormous!  If I kept out 2 or 3, I'd probably only have 3lbs of potatoes, and for my purposes I needed 4 (or so I thought).  I considered using them all, but decided against that as I really didn't need the extra pound.  I'd finally settled on 7, when I realised that my microwave would only hold 4 potatoes at a time, and tossing in 3 potatoes could really screw up the cook times.  So I used all the potatoes save 1, which I scrubbed and set aside for a baked potato for my husband some time in the near future.

Having microwaved and baked said spuds, I got down to peeling them with a paring knife.  It was surprisingly easy, with the exception of the scalding steam each potato emitted as its peel fell off.  But the recipe said peel when hot to allow release of steam and prevent a build up of moisture within the potato.  So I peeled and scalded, peeled and scalded, until they were all done.  Of course this brought me to the ricing stage.

I knew before I started that I hadn't a ricer, but I did a little research and found I could use a sieve and get the same effect.  So I brought out my little metal mesh sieve and began pressing potato through it.  Contrary to what I thought (and every indication I'd gotten beforehand), passing a potato through a sieve is not a simple or easy task.  It's actually quite labor-intensive as is evident by my now broken (and possibly unfixable) sieve.  While the mesh was separating from the handle, I tried valiantly to continue as I had no back-up plan, and consequently gave myself several pricks and slices with thin metal thread.  Thankfully I will not be playing with lemons anytime soon.

With my ricer substitute now in ruins, I was at a loss.  I decided to step out of my kitchen for a break, and then discovered the disaster that my living room had become.  My 3 year old son had climbed up and gotten down my stationary organizer and strewn its contents all over the floor.  I really hadn't realised til I was picking up and reorganizing my stationary that I have quite a lot of it.  And the cards had to be rematched to their envelopes (and of course they aren't a standard size).  I finally cleaned up that mess, settled my son on the couch for a nap, and decided to tackle the potato problem with a grater.

Just for the record, grating cooked potatoes is a very messy experience and gets particularly sticky once the gluten forms its nice little molecular chains.  But I pressed on (pun absolutely intended!) and finally triumphed over the ricing fiasco.  By this point, the potatoes were mostly cool, very likely well past the 10 minute cooling allocated by the recipe, so I rushed right on to the measuring.  That's when I discovered that I had 9 cups of potatoes.  In case you don't remember, I really only needed 6.  How I ended up with what my recipe said would amount to 2 batches of gnocchi (by following its initial potato measuring system) I haven't the foggiest.  Nevertheless, there I was with enough to make 3 batches of gnocchi.

So I mixed the first batch and rolled out the dough as described.  The only hitch at this point was getting nice, even ridges in the gnocchi, which the recipe promised would help hold the sauce.  It said to roll the gnocchi onto a fork.  There was even a picture of how to do it.  But it didn't work!  My gnocchi ended up turning into noodles following the recipe's guidelines.  At this point, I figured I'd made enough adjustments independently, so I threw caution (what was left of it) to the wind and pressed instead of rolled.  And I must say, by the last 3 pieces of the final batch, I had it down to an art.

Thankfully, all my efforts were not for naught.  It was received to rave reviews by friends and family alike.  Needless to say, it will be some time (possibly years) before I attempt this recipe again.

Regression

When you have a child with autism, the little victories are hugely gratifying.  By the same token, the little outbursts seem humongous, and you begin to doubt that anything you are doing is making a difference.  Some days are wonderful, but those other days...well, they make you want to throw in the towel, especially when there are a bunch of them strung together.  And you catch yourself praying that this tantrum will be the last one of the day, of the week.  But you know it's not.  

If he starts with a tantrum in the morning over breakfast, every meal or snack will be a battle.  And God help you if you want to get him dressed and out the door.  Oh he'll agree to go out, but of course will refuse to put on shoes and a coat.  And once he's crossed the threshold, good luck catching him.  Then there are the screaming fits in the middle of the grocery store, when he hits you and you try to calmly restrain him but he gets even angrier and bites you.  And you know that he's overwhelmed and stressed and having a bad day, but everyone around you is giving you that look:  the one that makes you feel like you're wearing the scarlet letter of parenthood - the bad mother who can't control her child, the one who's obviously taught her child that it's okay to act like this in public, who must hit her child otherwise how would he know how to do it.  And you want to just have a meltdown right there with your child, because you're both so confused and frustrated.

But you keep going, finding the strength somewhere, to cross the items off your list, check out, and load everything into the car.  He's still crying and you still want to join him, but you get yourselves home again, and let him run off some of his seemingly boundless energy.  As soon as you call him to come in, he takes off in the other direction.  You finally coax him in the house with the promise of Thomas and Cheerios, and he comes running to you.  For a split second, you feel a surge of hope, that he's running up to give you a hug.  But no, he just runs around you, shouting, "Thomas!  Thomas!  Watch Thomas, please?"  And you're so grateful to hear him talk, to request something so clearly, that you just scoop him up and cover him with kisses while you put Thomas on for him to watch.

He settles in on the couch, and you curl up with a book next to him, while he watches Thomas.  He sings with the songs, and jumps up when Thomas comes on screen.  But after awhile he becomes so enthralled with the story, that he calms down and scoots over to you.  And he lays his head on your arm and absently pats your hand.  And that's when you realise that everything is going to be fine.