A Few Things About Today

• Today, within twenty minutes of waking up, I knew it would be a day spent in the vortex of sick twins. It was tough. 

• Within thirty minutes of waking up, I had decided that the DVD player would probably be on all day. 

• Within forty minutes of waking up, I had decided not to battle about clothes (or, frankly nappies) and left them in their pyjamas all day. 

• Being sick seems to make Pink bossy and demanding, and Blue very sad. To illustrate: Within an hour of waking up, Blue cried and cried because Pink wouldn't let him sit in the toybox with her. Pink seemed quite clear about the fact that Blue was not allowed to sit in the toybox, and told him so in no uncertain terms. She seemed less clear on the fact that she is not allowed to either. 

• He also cried and cried because it was naptime, then because it was time to get up, then because he was still in his pyjamas, then because I changed him out of his pyjamas, then because I put him back in his pyjamas, then because it was time to make dinner, then because it was time to eat dinner, then because dinner was finished. 

• During their putative nap, the doorbell rang. It was a friend from church, needing me to sign something. Defying statistics, she happened to arrive during the 45 minutes I was cramming potato chips into my mouth and watching Alias on DVD. I don't think my day looked to her like it felt to me. 

• I got through the day without once losing my cool at them. I didn't achieve anything else, but I was proud of that.  

• At about 6pm, I was so tired from not-yelling that I fell asleep in front of The Adventures of Spot the Puppy, even though Blue was on my lap and talking to me the entire time. 

• For once, J got home from work at 7pm rather than 8 or 8.30 which meant that he could finish bedtime. It is possible that my frantic texts throughout the day had something to do with that. 

• As soon as he got home, I put on my shoes for the first time, ran out the door and to the supermarket across the road. I dawdled and drew out my errand for much longer than I needed to. I found myself seriously wondering whether yes, I should really get some wok oil or hey, how about an ash removal attachment for my vacuum? In the end I just bought bread and milk. And also maybe some m&ms. 

• I then spent the evening catatonic on the sofa, eating m&ms  with my feet in a foot spa. J gave it to me for Christmas as a joke, but it turns out I really like it. It's very soothing. The instructions say don't add bubbles, but I do it anyway because I'm a risk-taker. The challenge is to get the bubbles up to my knees without turning my lounge floor into a slippery skating rink. 

• On a related note, I really need to get out more. 

• They are sleeping well now, which is a relief. 

• I went in to look at them a second ago, to give me that traditional parental night-time boost. You know, the 'awwwwwww, aren't they lovely, really?' boost that usually comes from watching sleeping children. Unfortunately, this time I just though 'sorry, kids, I still remember how much you annoyed me today'.  I love them, obviously, but.... you know. 

• In eight hours and six minutes, I have to get up and do it all again. Give me strength. And give me calpol. 

I Blame Post-Feminism

At work, recently, I was reading a study about post-natal depression. The researchers did a (very clever) intervention, and found that they were able to reduce the severity and length of PND episodes in post-partum women. They got lots of funding to take it further... to benefit child health. Because after all, post-natal depression is bad for babies.

And that's true, of course, but I couldn't help thinking: isn't post-natal depression also pretty bad for the mothers? Does that not matter?

Not as much as it should. When I was struggling badly a few months ago, I heard some stories from other people that made me incredibly sad. The worst I heard was of a doctor whose patient asked for help because she was struggling with depression and anxiety. When he asked her if she was thinking of harming the children (and she said no) he said "No therapy or meds for you at this stage. Come back if you're thinking about hurting the kids".

Awesome.

That man deserves a giant wedgie, obviously, but sometimes we talk like this ourselves, too. When mothers look at our lives, it's easy to talk as if the only excuse to help ourselves or improve anything is because it ultimately  helps our children. I don't think men talk like this. I think that when a man wants to, say,  go running, he just says that he wants to go running and shuts the door behind him. When a woman wants to go running, she usually has to find some reason why making the time to go running is going to make her a better mother (I'll be a better mother if I get some endorphins; I'll be a better mother if I have some time to myself) before she will let herself lace up her shoes.

I read this article recently (as did every other mother with an internet connection, I think, and if you didn't, FIX THAT NOW) and it made me think about some of this stuff, about how we value ourselves and each other as mothers, as women.

I'm in the thick of young-mothering at the moment. It's hard. There are lots of good bits, but it's hard. It does move fast, and parts of  it are incredibly wonderful, and I can see that there is something special about this time, something that will never come again. I will not always have a child who greets their naked reflection with 'Hello, nipples!' and I will miss that when it is gone. And of course, I already miss this: 

but when children are tiny, they are cute for a reason. If they weren't adorable, we would not put up with their insane demands. We would not let them ruin our lives and then pretend that we don't resent it. (Joking!) (Mostly). 

And people telling us oh enjoy it - enjoy it - enjoy it, it goes so  fast - that tells me that these are the only years of my life worth having. That all that will be left for me in ten years time, or fifteen, is a fading nostalgia for this time, now, when life was worth living.  

What nonsense. 

I think. 

 I hope that I will look back and see, through memory's soft-focussed, gilded  lens, how incredibly privileged I was to mother these two beautiful human beings through their infancy.  But I also hope that, as I am looking back, I will still be mothering these two beautiful human beings. They might not need me to choose their clothes and cut up their toast any more (and please, oh please let them take care of their own bathroom needs eventually) but this, here,  isn't the only way to be a mother. And being a mother isn't the only thing worth doing, either. My life didn't start when I became a mother. It won't end when they leave home. If we had never had children at all, I would still be a person. I love my children, but they aren't what makes me worthy of my space on the

planet. 

(Fellow Christian mothers, I think we have our own specialist version of this kind of thinking. Churches are usually pretty good about valuing motherhood, but I think that sometimes the intense focus on that aspect of what Christian womanhood means can lead to us devaluing a lot of other amazing things that women can (and do) do for God. if we let ourselves believe that THIS IS IT! the time that means something in my life! then we are going to struggle to lead worthwhile, Jesus-focussed lives as our children grow and leave us. Right now, this is my most important Kingdom work. Right now, self-sacrifice and loving like Christ means, most often, changing another nappy with a smile on my face and disciplining my children with consistent love and trying not to scream when they ask me to sing  The Teddy Bear Twist! yet. again. But it won't always be this way.  There will come a time when this job is done and that is okay. That will be a time to find new work, new ways to love other people, new ways to build the Kingdom. It has to be that way.  If we let ourselves believe that intense mothering is the only thing that matters, we are going to waste the next forty years after we have had our turn,  keeping our children's bedrooms like shrines to the time that they were ours rather than saying 'Okay, Lord, what do you need me to do next?')

They aren't what makes me worthy of my space on the planet. Which is just as well. And maybe, whether we enjoy this time or not isn't really the point. And who are the enjoyment police, anyway? No matter how much we enjoy it, or no matter how much time we spend climbing the walls, it's going to end anyway. I think that living, now, knowing that, helps me to keep these sweet and painful days in perspective. There is no amount of enjoying that will stop these days from ending. I cannot wring a day more from this time than I am given, no matter how upbeat my attitude. That's not how time works.

There has to be something else afterwards. I refuse to believe that the next forty years of my life are going to be a wasteland because I won't have toddlers. They are not my only reason for existing. 

So I am trying to learn to refuse to talk as if the only reason to do something I want to do is because it will somehow benefit the toddlers. I think the two are tied together. 

Why do we talk like this, think like this? I don't know about you, but I blame post-feminism*. I think that feminism gave us the idea that our lives should be fulfilling (rather than just the self-sacrifice of motherhood) and then post-feminism told us that we could still get that fulfilment, but that we could get it through motherhood after all. Which, let's be frank, it some pretty serious mis-selling of the whole experience, right? Talking as if motherhood is the only worthwhile (or even the most worthwhile) thing we do reduces mothers to the sum of their mothering, and it reduces childless women to nothing at all. That can't be right. 

This book is very thought-provoking on the subject.  I would like to unpack this a bit more, but I don't want to make this post longer than it already is; I need to go and sit on the sofa for a while and drink some red wine.... (after all, I'm a much better mother if I get a break in the evenings. Ha). 

I think what I'm trying to say is: it's easy to forget that this isn't all there is, that the kids aren't the only people who matter. It's especially easy when we feel guilty about not appreciating this time enough (and we do, obviously, which is why that post resonated with practically the entire western world). 

Kids are nice to have, but we are people too. And that is reason enough to look after ourselves. You, on your own, are enough of a reason to take care of yourself, to go on a date night, to read a book, to occasionally leave your child in bed for a nap for an inappropriately long time while you take a bubble bath. If that self-care somehow helps your kids, that's great. But it's enough to do it for you.

Even saying that, I want to write after all, one of the best things we can teach our children is that the world does not revolve around them! They need to see us having the self-respect to care for ourselves! and maybe that's and true, but it's not the point. And the need I feel to write that is exactly what I'm talking about.

You are reason enough,  tired mother with a teething baby.

You are reason enough, mother whose children have left and gone

You are reason enough, just you, whether you have twelve children or none.

It doesn't have to all be about the kids. 

You are reason enough too. 

*I'm joking! Sort of. I do not have a degree in women's studies. If you do, please don't yell at me in the comments. 

Two Things I've Noticed Recently

I've mentioned before that my children love - no, adore Miffy. In case you haven't met her, Miffy is a rabbit. A small, white rabbit.

Did I mention that Miffy is a white rabbit? Well, she is. Not the peachy, browny, not-actually-white-at-all-but-lets-call-it-white-anyway shade that some of us humans are, but glowing, arctic WHITE.

You know, like a rabbit.

Yeah. So - this is fine with me, obviously. We got series one of Miffy on DVD a while ago, and we loved it. I don't look at the pictures of Miffy and her friends and feeling uncomfortable about race, or worried about what it's doing to my children.  This is partly because actually, Miffy is very diverse programme. It does not only show rabbits interacting; no! Miffy's friends include pigs (pink, of course) bears (brown) and a dog (also brown).  Here are miffy and her friends, circa series one:

So, yes, very diverse. My point is -  I'm not watching Miffy and wondering 'why are all the rabbits white?'. Instead, I am asking more fundamental questions, like 'why is that rabbit talking?' 'why is that rabbit going to school?'  and 'in the wild, wouldn't that dog actually be attacking the rabbit?' 


Along comes series two, and a new character called Melanie. I'm sure the series creators had the best of intentions, but - how can I explain this? I photographed my TV so I could show you what I mean:

Yeah. Now I'm feeling uncomfortable about race. Epic fail, Miffy, epic fail.

*******************

And speaking of pointless, borderline-offensive tokenism: what's up with nappy packaging? What I'm about to describe may be a UK-only thing, (well, obviously in other parts of the world you don't call them nappies at all, but you know what I mean). Or it might be old news to you. But anyway. Here's what newborn nappy packaging looks like over here (this is every brand I could find):

Notice anything? Yeah, all those newborns are white. Here's one exception: 

A very cute kid of indeterminate ethnicity

However. Once you move into the bigger sizes, there are brown kids all over the packets. For example (this is only a sample; there are still white kids in these sizes too, of course)

  But only on the big sizes. It seems to me like all the brown kids are on the big sizes. This can. not. possibly. be a coincidence.  My guess is this: the newborn sizes are the stage where mothers are developing brand loyalty. Those first few sizes, people are still open to switching brands. But after a year or two, who wants to be still thinking about what brand of nappy to put their kid in? Not me, that's for sure. We picked our favourite (which also happens to be the cheapest, which is also not a coincidence) about a year and a half ago. I do not think about what brand to buy now, I just buy it. There could be a big sign saying 'Now with added BPA!' on the package and I would still buy that brand. 

My point is, I don't think it really makes any kind of difference, marketing-wise, what picture the brand puts on the big sizes. So, yeah, when I look at all the white kids on the newborn sizes and then the kids who look like mine on the big sizes, it feels to me like they are saying: We will totally put brown kids on our packets, because we are super-inclusive like that. Just - you know, not at the point in the market where people are developing preferences that result in three years of brand loyalty. 

Did that conversation really happen in marketing departments all across the land? I guess it did.

Am I imagining this? I don't think so. I don't think I'm imagining this.

And then I thought about it, and remembered why I noticed it in the first place. When I was buying tiny nappies, I was looking, (subconsciously at first, then consciously), for a package with children that looked like my own children. I would have bought that brand, if it had existed. And I guess the white mothers mothers with white children want the same thing. And I guess the market says that there are more white children out there than brown children (that's definitely true in the UK).


We are all drawn to children who look like our children, even when - perhaps especially when - we are spending our money. Is that wrong?

I don't think it's wrong. Is it wrong that marketing departments just want to give us what we want? I'm not sure. That's much more complicated.

But it's probably worth noticing, whatever our market power is, whatever colour we are, whatever colour our kids are.

Please Forgive My Nerdiness

I'm in denial about the fact that 2011 is over. I'm still trying to tick off December tasks, to finish up a few things that fell  under the bus that was my life at the end of last year. Bloggingly, I have three (THREE!) book reviews that I am determined to get written and up here by the end of 2011. Yeah, in the past. That self-imposed deadline isn't working out very well for me, as you can see. They are great books. I can't wait to write about them, I just haven't done it yet. (I'm also finishing up the first draft of my own book, which I am definitely going to get done by Christmas 2011, no matter what. Definitely. Oh, hang on....). 

But January is going better than imaginary December. I'm trying to get all of the typical new-year-y type things done, the things that involve being both more (organised) and less (lazy). I haven't skipped a run yet. Aaaaand... I sorted out my computer desktop. I know that sounds like a total non-achievement, but it's been hanging over me for the longest time and in the end it only took about an hour and a half. And now, nerdily, I'm going to share the process with you in case anybody else wants to do something similar. I'm sure I'm not the first person to think of this idea for visually organising a desktop, but I haven't seen it anywhere else so I thought I might as well share it. If you weren't into this kind of thing at least a little bit, you wouldn't have worked out how to read this blog, right? 

Here is my computer desktop as it has looked for longer than I care to remember. It was a good reason not to do any work on the computer. Please note the horrible background (what was I thinking?) and the six million icons for programmes I have never actually heard of, let alone used.  Hello, I'm talking to you, blackberry update utility. I do not own a blackberry. I have never owned a blackberry. 

So. I went to flickr and searched for 'graphic'. On the first search, I found this fabulous picture that is free to reuse (and modify) under creative commons licensing. I downloaded it (by going to view all sizes > download large size). Then I went to picnik.com, opened the file and labelled the bubbles with the categories I wanted using the text tool: 

I then saved the modified file to my computer, opened it up, right-clicked and chose 'set as desktop background'.  (If any of you want to use / modify this file - please do - just click and download. It's creative commons, like I said. Let me know if the uploaded resolution here is too low). 

I've done a similar thing for work, keeping the 'programs' label, but using the other bubbles for the different bits of my job (because otherwise, everything for work would just go in 'boring stuff'. Amiright?)  

Then I did the very unpleasant - but surprisingly quick - task of sorting through all my icons. I deleted a lot of stuff (anybody else have a desktop full of blank word documents, all called 'Doc 1'? What is wrong with me?) I also created a new folder in the 'boring stuff' area called 'I have no idea what this is' and I have to admit, I shoved a lot of things in there. I will probably never need to actually open that folder, but the mystery shortcuts are still there if I ever need them. I don't have to see them, and I don't have to deal with deleter's remorse. Perfect.  

So now, my desktop looks like this: 

and I have to say, I love it. Totally worth the time. Also - easy to maintain because any rogue icons in the top left hand corner will be immediately obvious. So, please forgive my geeky need to share, but this is currently ranking up there with our dinosaur sandwich cutter as my number one favourite thing, and where can I share my geekery if not the internet? 

So. That's all I have to say about that. Book reviews coming very soon. The End. 

And So It Begins

Just before Christmas, this happened:

And I took a picture of it, because I couldn't believe that they were actually playing together. Playing together! I planned to post this picture here with the caption 'It's a Christmas miracle!' because I was pretty sure it was never going to happen again. (I did a similar post in July and that did turn out to be a totally isolated incident).

But before I could post it, this happened:  

She voluntarily climbed up to join him in tooting out tunes on the auroscopes from their new toy medical kits - which they think are kazoos. Again, I ran for the camera thinking it was a one-off. 

But then - then - their medical kits also came with stethoscopes, and shortly after this picture was taken they started running up to each other and shouting 'chestandback! Chestandback!'  as a signal for the other twin to lift their shirt and submit to an examination.  And then they kept on doing it. Taking turns. And now, it suddenly seems that they get it. They have finally worked out that the other twin is a playmate, not just a competitor. We went to the park, and this is what happened: 

She's pushing him in one of the doll strollers....

Then she is kissing him. Yes, it's true, she's actually KISSING HIM... (okay, I prompted, but she did it)

Then he said 'Blue turn! Blue turn!' and they happily swapped places and he pushed her for a while. 

At first, I wondered if I was imagining it. Am I just perceiving things to be better due to the effects of the brain medicine? J says no, no, no - things are definitely changing, and his neurochemistry is unaltered so I guess his assessment is reliable. There is still a bit of squabbling, but that's not the only way they relate any more. This morning when Pink started yelling, I knew that she had probably fallen over before I even turned around. A few weeks ago I would have just assumed that Blue had bitten her.

It really seems like a corner has been turned. They sing together. They play together with their new teaset (Pink calls the teapot the pee-potty, cracking me up every single time), they cooperate to build towers.  It. Is. Absolutely. Incredible. 

Yeah, it is THIS good. 

This morning,  I had fed them their breakfast, then I decided to see if I could do the cleanup right away, without waiting for them to be asleep or otherwise restrained. It's never been a good idea, because if I left them alone they would attack each other, but I thought - no, I think they can do it! Today is a great day to try! and I decided to empty the dishwasher while they played with toys in the next room.  As I scraped and stacked and put away, I spent quite a long time just consciously dwelling on how happy this was making me. Mark the little things, right? It went a bit like this: 

This is probably the first time ever that they have really played together for this long... it's so great.... my life is so wonderful.... I can't believe how awesome my kids are...... it's fantastic that they can finally amuse themselves....I would never, ever have believed that they could turn this corner but they have.... hey, now I've finished the dishwasher and I can start on the sandwiches..... man, life is so good today.... I can't believe they aren't pulling my knees and whining.....oh, here they both come, peeping around the door to check in and say 'hello mummy' .... hello my honeys, mummy loves you!.... this is awesome, my children are so well behaved AND so well attached.... I wonder what they're doing over there, probably posting duplo people into the toybox.... it's so cute that they do that.... I love that their new affection for each other has opened so many new doors for them into creative and cooperative play.... maybe I should open a home daycare, I am clearly such an awesome mother....Oh, I can't resist, I have to go and see what my smart adorable children are up to: 

And then I found out the downside of the sudden appearance of Team Twin in our house: 

They were drawing on the walls, of course.  

Resolutions

I do not generally do resolutions, and if I did I certainly wouldn't write about them here. I do not generally do a word of the year, or goals, or in fact anything that might in any way be construed as inspirational. This is not that kind of blog, people! You know that by now, right? If I'm honest, I think it's probably because I've always thought that goals = something that might not be achieved = one more chance to fail = more than my poor, frail psyche can handle. 

That's probably really stupid. Failure is part of life. Failure is fine. Failure is better than not trying. Also, opening myself up to the possibility of failing also gives me the option of succeeding, right?  (I'm sorry if that sounds inspirational. I didn't do it on purpose, and I promise not to do it again). 

I didn't give 2011 a word when it started, but as it ends I'm going to award it one in retrospect - survival. I'm really glad that I did survive it, but I want 2012 to be better than that. So, here goes. I'm setting some goals for the coming year. I'm only doing two, because the secret to success is low standards I'd rather finish two things than start six.  (These are non-spiritual things. I want to set some God-focused goals too, but I need to do more thinking about that first and I'm not sure that this blog is the right place to seek accountability in that area of my life). So, my two goals. First: 

In 2012, I am going to finish my book.  

That's kind of a predictable goal for me. I've been working on it for ages (more than a year now, which sort of kills me to think about) and with lots more steady work, I can get this done. It needs to happen. Barring major illnesses or accidents, I think it will happen.  In fact, it's kind of a cop-out because I would be doing this whether or not I called it a goal. 

And here's where I wish that we knew each other in real life - not just because you are awesome (which you are) and incredibly good-looking (also true) but because I would like to see you crease up with laughter when I tell you my second goal: 

In 2012, I am going to run 5km. 

I told my sister in law this today, and she screeched with amusement and said you? and I wasn't offended at all, I just said I know, isn't it crazy? and she said crazy? It's insane! and then we had a good chortle about it. I've never been particularly big, but I was always the slowest kid in my class at school, until I moved schools and met a girl called Anna and then for a while I was the second slowest.  And these days, I have the kind of carefully honed body that comes from spending all my spare time writing a book. Oh, and also eating a lot of carbohydrates and butter. 

I sort of feel like I can't do it.  And then I think why not? I've got two legs and two lungs, just like everybody else. (Well, you know, most people). There's no reason I shouldn't be able to do this. I'm doing a couch to 5K programme (although I've done a four runs now, starting in placebo week, and I would argue that couch is a bit of a misnomer) and there is no reason why I shouldn't be able to achieve this. I just have to do it. Sure, there is a 0.00001% chance of me being attacked by a serial killer on the river path, or a 0.0000001% chance of me having a serious asthmatic episode (you know, because I had a really bad one when I was FOUR) but I think there's about a 100% chance that I'm going to die of heart disease in my fifties if I don't start taking better care of my body. I have always had lots of reasons why I couldn't do something like this, and now I'm sick of it. I'm going to do it. 

I guess it's just that running - or any kind of concerted exercise - is an intensely un-Claudia-like thing to be doing. It's hard work, and I'm not good at it, so where's the fun? I run like a toddler, arms and legs swinging wildly in all directions. When I went to buy running shoes, I was wearing a denim miniskirt and bright pink tights and I didn't realise it was the kind of place where they videotape you running on a treadmill in order to sell you the most expensive right shoes. Oh, the shame. I suspect they put me on youtube as soon as I left - the videoed rear view of my denim-clad self jogging while my skirt flapped above my neon thighs was nearly enough to make me quit before I started. I am not a Running Person.  

But the weird thing is that sometimes I dream about running.  In my dreams, I run like I am flying. I spring off the ball of my foot and leap into the air, effortless momentum carrying me forward and up and forward and up until I am airborne, almost floating, before I arc downwards and land on my other foot and spring up again, feeling the wind on my face and the joy of forward motion.  In my dreams, I run like I was born to do it. I want to feel like that in real life, even if only a little bit, even if me running never looks like that to anybody else. Even if it's not what I think of as me.

So that's my goals. One goal that is me being me, and another one that is me being not-me. In some ways, I'm much more excited about the second. And since - I'll admit it - the combination of new year and new brain medicine is making me feel inspired, I'm going to pass it on, unapologetically and totally without cynicism (for once) and ask you - what would you do in 2012 that would be like the you that you already are? What could you do in 2012 that would be a surprising, unnatural version of you? 

Whatever you do do, I want to wish you a happy 2012. 

Placebo Day Brain Wants To Say Thank You (And Merry Christmas)

So, I went to the doctor.  Thing is, I already had an appointment booked about something totally different. Part of me had been thinking 'you should just tell the doctor up what you really want help with' but I was pretty sure I was going to chicken out.  But then, but then I got so many thoughtful, kind, wise words from so many people in comments and emails I thought I'm going to ask for help. 

I should probably back up a little bit and say that, over here, we don't really have therapists like the US. Antidepressants are prescribed by GPs (family doctors) and they are also the people who refer to psychologists if necessary - as a totally separate thing. It's not a great system, because a GP's appointment is only ten minutes long and they are usually in a rush. It's not really enough time for - well, anything. What can I say. I love free healthcare, obviously, but there are lots of things about the NHS that aren't great. This is one of them. Anyway. 

I went to the doctor. And the sooner I forget about that appointment, the happier I will be. First of all - I cried. Immediately. As in, I opened my mouth to say 'I need to ask you for some help' and I bawled like a child. And then everything I said after that was sort of incoherent. He asked me about what was making life feel difficult, and I told him about the children, and stress at work, and the fact that I always struggle with Winter but this year I have felt like February came in October and won't leave. I've seen this guy a few times before and he's been really good, and I guess that maybe, if I heard myself say those things I would probably think that those actual things were the problem.  So, anyway, he said that I should go to 'talking therapies' and believe me, I am in favour of evidence-based psychological counselling, but the leaflet he gave me just looked like ... nothing. An advice service, sort of. I said I'm not sure that this is what I really need. And I said how will this service help me? and he said well, they might be able to give you tips for coping with stressful situations at work. And he also said well, I don't really like prescribing medication for depression. Medication won't make your problems go away.. 

And for a moment, I just sat there. My worst fear about seeing  a doctor was actually that I would screw up all my courage to do it, and then nothing would change. I feared that he would say you know what, Claudia, your life actually is pretty stressful and I guess you're just going to have to suck it up. And I couldn't believe that I was sitting there and that was actually happening.  Not in so many words, but I knew that I needed more help than just tips for coping with stressful situations at work. But I nearly just said okay and walked out, because, well, what else was I going to do? And then, I suddenly realised NO FREAKING WAY AM I LEAVING THIS BUILDING WITHOUT ANY DRUGS. 

It was odd, but it wasn't until that moment that I realised that was what I really wanted. I knew, deep down, that something wasn't functioning properly. I always get Seasonal Affective Disorder through Winter, so I'm familiar with that feeling of a chemical lowness that feels absolutely real until April suddenly comes and suddenly, everything looks different. And I knew it felt the same (but much worse), like my brain wasn't processing enough of something, or too much of something, and that it wasn't anything that I could really fix on my own. I should have realised earlier, but I didn't. 

So, empowered by all your support, and support from friends through email and a few conversations, I shook my head at him and said No. That's not the problem. I could quit my job tomorrow and I would still feel like this. It's not really the situations in my life that are the problem, it's that I'm not coping properly with those situations. Something is wrong in my head. And I decided that I was going to sit on that chair until he would either write me a prescription or at least agree to discuss it further.

He wrote me the prescription. 

It's a super-low dose of antidepressant, and who knows, it might not be The Answer for me, but I feel a hundred times better for having done something concrete to help myself, and not just accepting that I feel awful because I am awful. And also, at the risk of pre-empting myself, I have to admit that I already feel fantastic. I can't quite explain it. I can't quite describe it, except to say that about four hours after taking the first dose, I felt like the sun came out from behind a cloud.  I would think that I'm imagining it, except that a friend said that this particular drug helped her immediately, too. Most likely, it's just the placebo effect, but if that is the case I think everybody should be taking placebos All! The! Time! 

Placebo Day Brain is a fantastic companion. I took her shopping, and she did a great job of finishing off my Christmas gifts. Then we played happily with the children. Then we bought a pair of running shoes (more on that, perhaps, another day). Then, after the children were in bed, we went and got Christmas groceries and we didn't get stressed or unhappy about any of it. When we got home at 10pm, rather than just unpacking as quickly as possible, the two of us saw the pantry and said 'who can stand having such a messy pantry? Let's clean this thing, stat!, and we did. 

And then the next day (today) I cooked two huge meals and was patient with the kids and I looked at all the twinkling lights and listened to some carols and thought oh, isn't this the most wonderful time of year? 

In short, Placebo Day Brain can kick Bad Day Brain's butt. 

I know it's Christmas eve. I should really be wrapping my presents (in the grey paper, heh) but I wanted to write this and say a huge, words-fail-me thank you for all the support that you gave me about this. (I haven't replied to emails yet, I will get to it, I promise!) I really hope that I won't be the only person who benefits from all the wisdom you left in the comments section- I can't tell you what a huge help it was to me. You made me feel like I wasn't crazy. You made me feel like I should reach out and ask for help, and if I hadn't read what everyone wrote, I think I would have just taken that stupid leaflet and spent most of Christmas crying. I don't think that the help I asked for is what everyone would need, but I know there are others of you who are feeling like I am and I want to tell you that it's possible, it's okay, it's worth it to do whatever you need to do to say HELP. Please. If you need it, do it. Go back and read what everyone else wrote and I hope it will give you courage like it did for me. 

And for the rest of you, I this time I actually want to say: 

Oh, and I just had another look at the wrapping paper, and I've decided it's fine. Grey? Meh, no. I'm pretty sure it's silver.

Tis The Season To Be (Not) Jolly

I bought wrapping paper and ribbon for Christmas. They seemed like a good choices at the time but when I brought them home I looked at them and asked myself - when did grey and black become appropriate colours for Christmas wrapping? Merry Christmas, kids. Your gifts were chosen by Bram Stoker. 

At least I bought some wrapping; I wasn't entirely sure that was going to happen. Lately, things have been not so good around here. I've talked recently about some of the reasons I've been finding life hard, and they're all legitimate reasons, but I've reached a point where it's not really about the reasons any more. Its hard raising kids, I tell myself, and yes of course it is but I'm pretty sure it's not as hard as I've been finding it. The last six months or so things have been sliding downwards - in my mind, I mean - and I think I've finally reached a point where I need to acknowledge that I'm depressed okay, not quite ready to use the D-word yet I don't feel like myself any more. I'm doing what I absolutely have to do, but I can't face doing anything else. Worse - I don't even want to do anything else.I can't be bothered. I just want to make it to the end of the day, and then I want to go to sleep. Not every day. But enough. If Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch is a 10, and Sylvia Plath in 1963 is a zero, at the moment I'm probably averaging about a four. I've mentioned this to a few people and they always ask me if I'm going to hurt myself or the kids and the answer is no. That's not what I'm trying to say at all.  But everything feels grey. Life is like driving a car through fog. It's possible, but it's hard work and nothing is in focus. 

It's an impossible thing, trying to think rationally about your own mind. I've found it so, anyway. Especially when things alter slowly - like they have for me-  it doesn't feel possible to separate out how the world seems from how the world is. How can I possibly know if my perceptions are skewed? What I mean is: I don't feel like I'm looking through a grey filter. I just feel like the world is grey.  And I assume that everyone else sees it as grey too. I don't feel depressed; I just feel like the world is an immensely difficult place to live. 

 It's only recently I've started to think: I don't think everyone else around me is experiencing things the same way that I am. At first, I just assumed that they were all wrong. (Anybody who knows me in real life will not find that reaction surprising). Or - as a Christian I just assume that probably I should just be praying more, or complaining less, or quoting to myself the verse about rejoicing always. But now - I'm not so sure. I'm starting to think there's something wrong in my head. I can't tell you how much I hate that thought. 

I just want to crawl out of my own skin, but I dont' think that's an option.  So, after talking to my sister last week (thanks, L), I did an online diagnostic thing instead. The questions were things like 'do you feel constantly overwhelmed? Have you exhibited any of the following behaviours: social withdrawal, irritability, stopped doing things you enjoy? And so on and so on. And I'm reading it all going well of course! Doesn't everybody? Then I clicked enter and it told me: If your score is above 3 you may be depressed. Your score is 24. 

Okay then.   

I know I should probably speak to a doctor about it, but the thing is - I don't want to.  On a good day, I don't feel like I need any help. And on a bad day, I don't feel like I deserve any help. Good day brain tells me - You aren't overwhelmed and miserable, Claudia, you're fine. Bad day brain tells me - Of course you are overwhelmed, Claudia, it's because you're lazy. Of course you are miserable, Claudia, it's because you're an awful person. I don't like bad day brain, but bad day brain is getting a lot of airtime at the moment. Bad day brain thinks that she is the only show in town. 

Since this is largely a blog about my kids, I need to say that I don't really think this is about the kids. If it was, I would at least know what to do with it. I could put a label on it - post adoption depression - and maybe make some progress and get past it. I want to be past it. But this? I think it's just me, independent of them.  I've been frantically googling anaemia and hormonal imbalances and all kinds of other ailments that I wouldn't really wish on myself, hoping to find an answer to why I feel this way that I can live with. Because hey, if I feel miserable because I have a malfunctioning thyroid, I will happily take thyroid medication. Same goes for how willing I would be to discuss my (totally fictional) anaemia with the world. But I have much, much more resistance to the idea of taking any medicine that is just for my mind. I suspect antidepressants would probably help but I'm frightened of them. More to the point, I'm frightened of needing them. 

I know that is probably stupid. 

Partly - cards on the table, here - it's because I think we would eventually like another kid. Or two. Not right now -oh, please, please, please not now, I can't can barely manage what I have - but I don't want to burn that bridge.  And I have no idea what U.K. social services would think about antidepressants -  I don't think they would be impressed. I'm frightened that me doing this now would mean that we never, ever get to have another child. I don't want another child at the moment, and can't imagine wanting another child, but I also know that I probably won't feel this way forever. I don't want to look back in, say, 2013 and hate 2011 Claudia for trying to take care of herself. 2011 Claudia doesn't need any more hate; she's doing a pretty good job on herself already. 

Okay, also: I'm frightened of what other people - people I work with, for example, would think if they found out just how poorly I was coping, and I feel like taking antidepressants would be admitting that I can't cope. What little common sense I have left tells me that this is stupid. Mostly because - actually, nobody cares. I don't care what medication other people take, why should they care about mine? But part of what my brain is doing to me at the moment is telling me horrible things about myself, and making me believe that everyone I know thinks those things about me too.  Not suicidal bad things, I hasten to add, just averagely bad things like wow, did you hear about how she can't even cope with two small children and a part time job? What a loser. (Shut up, bad day brain). 

Also - I'm just ashamed of feeling like this. I'm ashamed of how poorly I'm managing at the moment. I don't want this to be real, so I want to pretend it's not happening.  I don't want to click 'publish' on this, because I don't want to admit that I am struggling this much. Maybe it's the questions about whether I'm going to do something drastic that make me feel like there is something horribly, terribly wrong about this. Depression is an illness, apparently, like asthma is an illness, but when I say I have asthma nobody wonders whether I need to have my children removed. (Stop being such a drama queen, Claudia. There's nothing wrong with you that a good kick up the backside wouldn't fix). (Thanks for the input, bad day brain). I don't need to have my children removed; I just want to make that clear. And the fact that I'm assuming people want to remove my children, that people would assume this makes me an unfit mother - yep. That's bad day brain again. I think. Even though it just feels like hard logic. I feel like it says something about who I am, something that I wish it didn't say. But I think that's why I will click publish- because I know I shouldn't be ashamed. Even though I am. 

I want to pretend that my relentless negativity is actually a perfectly logical reaction to an impossible world. But the world isnt' impossible, is it? It's nearly Christmas. There are lights twinkling (not in MY house, obviously) and I have adorable toddlers and surely I should be enjoying this time of year? Everyone else seems happy about it all. And okay, even if 50% of them are faking, that's still a lot of happy that I'm not feeling. Realising that my perceptions are probably off is making me question myself more than I can explain. Maybe all of my perceptions are wrong. Maybe Justin Bieber is actually a really talented guy. How would I know? How would I know???? 

Why am I telling you this? Probably  because I don't know what I think about all this yet, and as EM Forster said - how will I know what I think until I see what I write? Although - hang on, just re-read it, and I still don't know what I think. 

Have you been through anything like this? Do you know what I mean? 

Ummmm.... and Merry Christmas, I guess. 

The Cost

Of finally having a long talk on the phone with my sister.

Totally, totally worth it.

Why Writing a Book Is Like A Dysfunctional Relationship

As you all know, I'm in the middle of trying to write a memoir about our adoption. It's pretty much killing me.  So, since it's on my mind, here is the sum of all my fears: 

Why Writing A Book Is Like A Dysfunctional Relationship: 
Stage 1: Infatuation
The idea hits you like a hurricane and suddenly you can't think of anything else. On the train: thinking about the book you're going to write. In a cafe: scribbling notes for your book. On holiday: disappearing for the chance to be alone with the delicious possibility of your book.  You write down ideas for titles. You doodle cover designs. You feel smug and self-satisfied about how wonderful your book is going to be.  At this point, everybody else's books look like pale, undernourished, sad little things. Your book will be so much better than that. You feel like this. But about a book.

Stage 2: Gifts

Getting started properly is harder than it looked. You buy - and read - books written by writers who are writing books about how to write a book. This is not procrastination, it is an investment. Then you size up the task ahead of you. This is the point at which it becomes clear that an ordinary set of writing tools will simply not be sufficient to do justice to the beauty that is your book.  If it were a woman, you would buy her diamonds, but instead you buy scrivener and set up dropbox and those who have truly been bitten badly make excuses to buy new laptops [not me, by the way. Obsessive, yes, but not financially irresponsible]. Then you set up your dropbox folders and fire up scrivener and actually start to... write.

Stage 3: Comfortable Togetherness

This is working pretty well. The words are flowing, the ideas are coming. When there is spare time, you spend it together. You love being with Book, and you're pretty sure that Book feels the same way about you. The word count goes up.

Stage 4: Faint Disillusionment

The only thing is.... some of this is seeming a little repetitive. And the structure is not really as clear as it should be. It seems that there are about three thousand words on what actually happened to you, and ninety-seven thousand words about how  that made you feel. Can that really be right? Better check again. Just as well scrivener has such an advanced word-count function. Okay, it is right. You give some of it to your husband to read. He says he likes it, but he doesn't ask for any more and he doesn't laugh at the parts you were pretty sure were funny.  Also - this just feels like a , colossal, unbearable amount of work. Your mother suggests, gently, that your time might be better spent elsewhere. 

Stage 6: It's Not You, It's Me

Suddenly, spending time with Book doesn't seem quite so appealing,.  There's nothing wrong with the book, you tell yourself, it's just that you are really really busy. You have other demands on your time. You have an actual life, remember? And friends. And work. And other commitments. Sheesh, if only Book could stop being so self-centred and see that your entire life isn't about writing it, then it would see that you have got Stuff going on.  It would give you a break. It would stop nagging. You are committed to the relationship, but you've got a lot on your plate, okay? OKAY?

Stage 7: Actually, it IS You, Please Stop Ruining My Life

And then, you realise that no, all that was lies, the real problem is that you hate your manuscript. It's boring, it's wordy, it's self-indulgent and you don't even like the main character which is a giant bummer because the main character is, well, you. You contemplate all the hours you have poured into it, all the emotional energy, and shake your fist at the stupidity that made you start it. It all seems like such a waste. You write procrastinatory blog posts like this one. The only silver lining is - at least nobody got to read it. At least nobody else knows how bad it is.   At this point, everybody else's books look like works of genius. All of those pages, and all with those nice little numbers at the bottom!  You seethe with envy and wish you had had a different idea. In short, you think that probably, life would be better without Book. You wish you had taken up crochet instead.

Stage 8: We Can Work It Out

But the thing is, you really don't want to live without Book. You slink back and apologise. You make plans for how things will be different this time. You will be more realistic, and not expect Book to meet all your emotional needs. 

Stage 9: Isolation

Having other people around just makes things complicated. Your mother suggests, more forcefully this time, that you are throwing good effort after bad but you tell her that Book is wonderful, really, and when the two of you are alone, nobody could be better company.  If the rest of the world doesn't understand the love you have for each other, well, that's fine. FINE. You and Book will make it on your own. 

Stage 10: Trying to Leave

The first draft is nearly done. Suddenly, you start to fantasise about how it will be when this thing is finished. You will have your old life back! All those hobbies, all that housework, all that time to watch reality TV. You whisper as much to Book, and Book whispers back - how will you know when you are really finished? Sure, it feels like the editing is done, but how would you know for sure? You don't want to push it out there too soon. People will laugh at you! The comma placement leaves a lot to be desired. There are too many adverbs. Okay, you decide, you really can't be parted from Book now. This whole thing needs a major re-think. 

Stage 11: Until Death Us Do Part

You decide to rewrite the whole thing in future tense. Would that make it seem more edgy? Perhaps you will change it around so that the main character (you) speaks in Latin and has psychokinetic powers.   Maybe it would be better if you stared at the end, or in the middle, or wrote the whole thing in verse.  There are so many ways this could be so good, you tell yourself; it's just not quite there yet. You no longer have any plans to actually finish. All your friends have forgotten what you look like. Your husband can no longer remember your name. You realise that you and Book are in this thing alone, together, forever and ever, amen, until your heart stops beating and Book's non-existent pages start to crumble. This isn't quite how you pictured your life, but here you are. So you fire up the computer, and shut the door, and make another pot of tea. And you massage your bony, ancient fingers and 

Keep 

On

Typing. 

Because really, what else is there to do?