Milestone: first sentence

Solanne spoke her very first full verbal sentence today: "No! don do dat!" (No! Don't do that!).

It is a familiar phrase in our household, most often used by Maïa when her sister does something aggravating. I hadn't realised how prevalent it really was until the sentence flew forth from Solanne's mouth, with Maïa's intonation and all.

Maïa's first sentence was "Maïa stairs self." That ushered in (or confirmed) Maïa's independent spirit. Solanne's first sentence, I believe, also reveals something important about her personality: she won't let anyone walk all over her. Both independence and strength are fantastic qualities in people; they're just difficult qualities to deal with in one's young children.

One of those days

Yesterday was one of those days. Those days when everything seems to go wrong, that is filled with frustration and general hair-pulling anger.

One of those days when Solanne wakes up at 5 am (again; yes, I said again). When Solanne wakes up, Maïa is up.

One of those days when the children are tired, so the children are cranky.

One of those days when I can't get either of them dressed to go out because neither one will put or keep on her coat or boots or hat or mitts.

One of those days when I almost lost my temper on more than one occasion (perhaps 7 or 8 times?).

One of those days when Solanne explicitely asks for a clementine three different times, and each time, just after I have peeled yet another one, she refuses even one segment.

One of those days when I know I have half a dozen calls to make, but I can't seem to recall what they were about; in any case, I wouldn't have been able make them!

One of those days when Solanne refuses to be carried up the stairs and Maïa insists on being carried up (I didn't give in to either).

One of those days that is redeemed at the very end by a beautiful display of sisterly love. When I just couldn't take it anymore - couldn't handle Solanne's whining to get up on the couch, only to insist on getting back down - Maïa pushes her sister up onto the armchair, climbs up beside her, and reads her a story.

Yep, just one of those days.

Outing

Here it is: I have suffered from post-partum depression twice. There. It's out there now. Up until now, I had told only a few close friends and a couple of family members. Now the world can know.

First, I would like to say that I have recovered. PPD leaves its scars and it brings all kinds of things to the surface, and I have learned that I have to deal with them, but the depression is gone. So why bother talking about it now? There are a number of reasons, but my first is that I no longer want to be part of the conspiracy of silence around this disease. And I hope that my readers know (or will by the end of this entry) that PPD is truly a disease like any other; it just happens to affect the mind (and the soul) instead of the body.

My story
Within days of Maïa's birth, I believe I started to suffer from PPD. At the time, I thought it was the "baby blues" I was told to look out for: tears at anything, general malaise, and a feeling of being overwhelmed. But the babies blues are supposed to go away within a few days. My feelings of sadness and ineptitude persisted for months. Some days I would cry and cry. What had I got myself into? How could I take care of this baby? Everything that she did or didn't do (like cry or fail to breastfeed correctly) was my fault. I had failed as a mother and as a person. And to make matters worse, this was supposed to be the happiest time in my life: I had a beautiful newborn daughter. So why did I feel so terrible?

What I was worried about is completely inconsequential: there are thousands and millions of moms who go through far worse things in the first months of motherhood and never become depressed. It is not about the situation. It's about predisposition.

I was exhausted and depressed. How depressed? I was actually contemplating - planning, really - to leave. I had a plan mapped out in my mind. I was going to pack a bag, leave when Derek was just about to come home (so as not to leave Maïa alone more than a few minutes), and hop on a bus and just go. I didn't know where I was going, but what was important was that I was going to go. I figured they would both be better off without me. Obviously, I never got to that point, but I understand those who leave (including those who commit suicide).

I went completely undiagnosed. I was afraid. Afraid to be called crazy. Afraid that people would think less of me if I was depressed. Afraid that I was admitting that I really had failed somehow. Afraid that... I'm not sure. I don't know that I ever really put it into words. Derek practically begged me to call the support group, but I refused. I was strong enough to get through it. Truth is, I wasn't. And that's ok. But I didn't realise that at the time. So Derek, my mom, and some friends with babies Maïa's age pulled me through, just by being there. Derek carried me in a way I can't even begin to describe.

I recovered from that first bout of PPD. How, I'm not entirely sure. Part of it had to do with me going back to work when she was about 8 months old. Part of it was due to the fact that I was starting to get more sleep. Part of it had to do with time. None of it had anything to do with what I did or willed to have happen.

When I got pregnant with Solanne, there were two things I vowed to do: get professional help with breastfeeding if it wasn't working and get professional help if I started feeling the PPD returning.

For the first two months of Solanne's life, I was floating on a cloud. I was so happy. Every night, when we went to bed, I would turn to Derek and say, "I'm just so happy." And I really was. Our family was complete; we had two very healthy little girls; Solanne was feeding well and gaining beautifully. I was tired, but I was happy.

Then just two days before Christmas, my mom had her accident. I believe that was my trigger. It was an emotionally trying time. It was also very time-consuming for me: I had to take care of my mom's financial affairs, pack up her house and sell it, look for an apartment for her, and take care of countless other details, besides looking after my toddler and little baby. It was rough. And one day, I found myself crying and crying, inconsolably. Then I knew it was back. And Derek saw it, and he told me that I had to call the support group. But the next day, I was ok. And I was ok for about a week. And then it happened again. And again I was ok the next day. But my sad days began to come closer and closer together. And I started feeling overwhelmed. At my worst, I couldn't even contemplate going out to the store (a block from our home) to pick up milk. There was no way that I could get out the door with the two of them. The anxiety was palpable.

I also had some serious anger issues. I might even call it rage. If Solanne didn't sleep at least half an hour at a time (which was rare, even when she was only a few months old), I would become furious. I knew she would be cranky because she hadn't slept enough, and I really needed some time with Maïa and some time to myself, too. There were times that I flew into a rage - in another room, away from the kids. My anger felt out of control. I knew I would never hurt the kids, but it still scared me.

So I called a support group called M.O.M.S. I started attending the support group that very week. There, I found all the resources I needed.

Some things you might not know about PPD
Post-partum depression, also known as post-partum mood disorder or ppd and anxiety, affects between 15 and 20 percent of new moms, including adoptive mothers. The symptoms are many: deep sadness, guilt (a big one), anxiety, panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive behaviour, intrusive thoughts, feelings of failure and ineptitude, isolation, and many more.

PPD must not be confused with post-partum psychosis, which is an illness that causes a small number of women to hallucinate and hear voices. In some rare cases, women harm themselves and/or their children. THIS IS NOT PPD. And PPD cannot suddenly become post-partum psychosis. PPP manifests itself within days of the child's birth; if correctly diagnosed and treated, the mother can make a full recovery.

PPD can occur up to one year after the birth of the child (and in rare cases, a little later).

PPD can last weeks or months, and in some cases, years.

PPD is a real disease, and it is treatable.

Those who have a personal of family history of depression are more likely to develop PPD.

Lack of a support system (or the perception thereof) can be a contributing factor to the development or persistence of PPD.

Although there are no definite causes of PPD, major life changes or occurrences can trigger the onset of PPD.

My recovery
My recovery began the moment I sought help. That was literally my biggest hurdle, given that I am terrible at asking for help and admitting that I need it. The group leader at M.O.M.S. strongly suggested that I see my doctor immediately, and she told me about the Ottawa Community Care Access Centre. I asked my doctor for a referral to the OCCAC; I got a call from them within an hour of returning home from the appointment.

Within days, I was assigned a respite care-giver who came to our home three mornings per week. Her name was Amanda, and she was a soft-spoken young woman who became part of our family. Her role was to give me time to myself so that I could do what I needed to get better. For the most part, that meant sleep. So sleep I did for those three hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. The sleep and the time away from my girls gave me the energy I needed to enjoy them again, at least more than I was enjoying them. But the anxiety was still high.

I had a counselor from the VON visit me once a week. Heather was so wise and so kind, and she helped me see so many things about myself, things I had hidden from everyone, even myself. We dug up a lot of things, she and I. Some beautiful, some frightful. And I am still sorting through the artifacts. And I will continue to sort through them for years to come, I think.

I also attended a support group that met once a week on Wednesday evenings. There, I met a single mom with a 9-year-old, a 7-year-old, and newborn; an older new mom whose baby had some serious health concerns; a teenage mom who was going through serious issues with her partner; a new mom whose baby was picture-perfect and slept through the night at two months of age. We all had different stories, but our experiences were surprisingly similar. We all felt sad. We all felt anxiety. Mostly, we all felt guilt. I learned that guilt is the biggest and most difficult of the symptoms to overcome.

I learned that recovery is a roller-coaster. At first, there are nothing but bad days. Then there are good days here and there. But the bad days coming off the good days are a horrible crash and feel devastating. Soon, however, the good days come closer and closer together. And the bad days are fewer and fewer, yet still unbelievably scary. Scary because it feels like you're in a free-fall into the deep hole all over again. And because you feel like you're going to have to do all the work all over again to get to where you were. In reality, there is less work to get back up there, but it's hard to see from the vantage point of down. To this day, if I have a bad day (the washer breaks down and Solanne gets an ear infection in the same day, for example), I feel uncommonly anxious. I think, Here we go again. I'm getting depressed again. I know, of course, that that isn't the case. But the feeling is there.

I attended the support group from March to June, and then we moved to Montreal. Over the summer, things got considerably better. Mostly, I had Derek around, and parenting à deux is so much easier. Solanne started to sleep more. Things were looking up. But there was a day in October when everything seemed to be going wrong, and I had to call Derek. I told him that I couldn't do it. He had to come home. And he did. It turns out that it was an aberration on the radar, but it felt like my world was falling apart again. I was still fragile - am still fragile. But I'm a tough cookie, and luckily I can be reasonable about it now.

Derek
When Derek and I started getting serious, I warned him that I had suffered from depression before and that although I am a generally happy person, it was likely that I would suffer from it again. He looked at me and told me that he would be with me through everything, including depression.

He has kept his word and has given me more support than I could ever have imagined. He was the one who pushed me to get help. He read the pamphlets, the websites, the books. He did everything he possibly could to help out: he skipped classes on my really bad days so he could be home to take care of the kids; he cleaned the house and cooked meals; he took on Solanne's night wakings (the non-hunger induced ones) and let me sleep peacefully and uninterrupted on the couch; he took on many of the responsibilities of my mom's affairs; he left home late in the morning and returned early in the afternoon, even when that meant that he would have to pull some all-nighters to catch up. (And despite all this, Derek finished his thesis on time and with major accolades and top marks.)

Derek has carried me through these two very difficult periods in my life. There are so many images of romantic love out there, about flowers and diamonds and poetry, but to me, the most romantic thing I have ever received is the support of my husband through those very trying times.

One last word
As part of my mission to get the word out about PPD, I would appreciate it if you, as my reader, would post in the comments section any experience you may have had with PPD. You may sign in as "anonymous" if you like. But I think it would be helpful for those who have experienced PPD themselves or whose wives or mothers have, or those who have suffered depression first-hand or otherwise, might write a word or two about it. Just get it out there. It's time that we end the cycle of shame and begin to speak honestly about this disease.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for commenting.
Cristina

Maïa: story-teller

Our dear Maïa, as all children are wont to do, immitates the adults in her life. She does this quite effective and convincingly, I might add. One of her teachers is Pakistani, and Maïa has adopted some of her speech mannerisms: "She likes that, mmm?" It's pretty funny. Another behaviour she has adopted is her teacher's story-telling.

Maïa has been interested in "reading" stories to others almost since she could speak in full sentences. When she started preschool and saw her teacher reading books to a group of children, Maïa began sitting us in front of her and holding the book up to read it to us (a very different posture from that of sitting in one's lap). This week, she has added a very important component to the reading: the Prelude. We assume that the teachers recite it before beginning to read a story to the children. And seeing a three-year old do it is pretty entertaining. It is Derek's favourite thing to listen to. He has asked Maïa to read to him at least three times per evening in the past few days. Here's what the Prelude sounds like (there are actions to go along with it):

Hands up.
Hands down.
Hands up.
Hands down.
Touch your head.
Shoulders.
Knees.
Toes.
Eyes, ears, mouth, nose.
And then you zip-zip-zip-zip-zip and turn the key.
Throw it in the back.
And then you put on your looking glasses.
And open your listening ears.
And you be quiet. Shh.
Are you ready?

Wave bye-bye to baby signs

Today, we witnessed the death of Baby Signs. Well, the beginning of the end of them, anyhow. While Solanne has a verbal vocabulary of about 35 words (and growing every day), she was still keen on learning new signs for new things (her sign vocab is upwards of 50 words, easily). But today, when Derek introduced a raccoon to her in a book and said "raccoon" while making the sign, Solanne didn't do the sign. She simply said, "waco." She was not remotely interested in the sign.

For a few weeks now, Solanne has replaced or supplemented her baby signs with words: chien, ta (cat), bye-bye, cor (encore/again), lait, car, toto (auto), to mention a few.

This, of course, is the goal of baby signs: to act as a communications bridge between pre-verbal and verbal life. And it has certainly done that and continues to do so for us everyday. And now we are moving into verbal life, which is in itself very exciting. Yet it's a milestone that is difficult to watch (perhaps all milestones are hard for me). My baby is very obviously becoming a little kid, and she so desperately wants to be a big girl, like her sister.

And this is it. Within a year, our household will be babyless. I see our friends who have, as recently as a couple of weeks ago, welcomed new little ones into their families, and I remember holding my girls when they were just born, how tiny they were, how helpless they were, how soft they were. And I wondered at their beauty and their newness and the miracle of their very existence. I breathed in their smell - the smell that only hour-old babies can have. I rubbed their downy heads with my chin as I held them on my chest. I listening in shock and confusion as they cried, not knowing what they wanted exactly. Somehow, even that was magic.

Now, they are not so tiny, but still quite small, on the human scale. I still wonder at their beauty, and I believe I always will for they are still my miracles. I appreciate the moments I can hold them for more than a nanosecond, and I breathe them in wholly and completely. I listen in absolute delight as Maïa tells me her stories and fabulations and as Solanne cries out with great exuberance at the ta she sees in the book. And I realise that these moments, too, are sheer magic.

Clicky: a biography

Clicky is an American Paint Horse, a breed that is known for its natural intelligence and willing disposition. Unusual for the American breed, Clicky was born in China on the Douglas Ranch. From there, he was lovingly crated and shipped to North America. He landed safely at a ranch in Alberta, where Grandma B spotted him and promptly bought him for her future grandchild. This was in the spring of 2002.

Clicky waited quite patiently for the new little person who would be his owner. For months, he sat in his stall (a box) full of other animals, including a panda and an alligator! Within months of his owner's arrival, Clicky was retrieved from his stall and put on display for the small child, Maïa. She paid very little attention to him, preferring a doll named Choley and a handful of other animals.

When the child began to learn Baby Signs, the little horse, who was still unnamed, got his chance. In a scene reminiscent of the naming of the animals by Adam in Genesis, the child's parents paraded all the animals before the child to teach her signs and sounds to identify each one. The "sign" for horse was the clicking of the tongue. The child delighted in the feeling of her tongue in her mouth when she "said" horse. Soon, it was one of her favourite words to say. It was not long before the child would ask for her horse, and sometimes even call him herself, with her little tongue sounds.

As the child grew and learned conventional, verbal language, her parents believed it was time that the little horse have a name that was more than a sound effect. The choice was obvious: the onomatopeic name of Clicky was inaugurated.

By the time the child had reached the age of 13 months, Clicky was her friend of choice. He was her playmate and her bedmate. Nana taught the child how to make him drink from her hand. Dad taught her how to make him gallop. Clicky went everywhere the child went. This was the beginning of the special friendship between child and horse.

Clicky was officially baptised into exclusive friendship with the child on holiday in Cuba. There, he began his relatively short journey to looking quite loved and weathered. He got sand in his fur, pineapple juice in his mane, drippings from chicken on his hooves, and vomit from head to hoof. He was hand-scrubbed at least four times in the space of a week, and he experienced a frightening yet exhilirating ride in the washing machine upon his return home. His mane was never the same again: he looked like a young Elvis with his large, black pompadour.

Since that time, Clicky has been dropped in rain puddles, mud, snow, sand, gravel, dirt, pavement, and even a toilet. He has been vomitted on at least half a dozen times. He has spent a night outside, alone, far from home, after being dropped and forgotten. His fur is stained a greyish beige; his mane is permanently dreadlocked; he has lost weight; he is hardly ever able to stand on his own anymore; his eyes are so scratched up that he has severe cateracts. But through the magic of a child's love, Clicky is more beautiful and more precious today than he has ever been.

Clicky goes everywhere with the child: when she eats, he watches her lovingly from his official meal-time perch on the refrigerator; when she goes to bed, he is mashed up underneath her; when she goes to daycare, he goes along; he has even been known to join her on trips to the bathroom (hence the toilet incident).

Interesting facts about Clicky
Clicky has a sister named Zip (who belongs to the child's younger sister) and a cousin named Noireau.

Clicky's middle name is Sky (given to him by the child, when she was two).

Despite his skinny-ness and tired legs, Clicky can jump more than four times his height (about the height of the child's upstretched arms).

Clicky has been immortalised in a sweater knitted by Nana.

Clicky is surprisingly photogenic: do not believe the apparent cleanliness of his demeanour captured in the picture above.

Clicky sometimes speaks in a very high-pitched voice, but mostly he neighs (his neighing sounds like laughter).

Clicky likes to sleep in unexpected places. The parents have been known to crawl into bed late at night only to find the little horse curled up, deep beneath their covers.

Clicky is very influencial: he has convinced the child that she herself is a horse (she has been known to click or neigh in response to questions posed to her). Yet Clicky has never been reprimanded for this misdeed: his charisma does not allow for others to hold a grudge.

Clicky is a beloved member of the family now; life without him would be unthinkable.

News flash

Maïa can wiggle her ears.

Reasons to smile: number 283

Because a faëry detective is on the case.

The gym

The best thing about having children is the chance we get to see the world in entirely new and unexpected ways.

Over the course of the past few evenings, Derek and I have been busy emptying out our office. That may not sound like a lot of work, but when you consider that we have a few hundred books in our bookcases and that the closet was full of binders and sewing projects, it was no mean feat. It involved countless trips from the office (at the back of the house) to our bedroom (at the front of our house) with armfulls of books, binders, blankets, etc.

Why were we doing this? We decided, for a number of reasons, to trade our bedroom and our office; so our office will be at the front of the house, in a very bright spot, and our bedroom will be at the back, in the smaller of the two rooms. The old-office-cum-new-bedroom needs a paint job, hence the emptying out of the room. And yes, we just moved in eight months ago. And yes, we may just qualify for redecorating/renovating junky status.

After supper, Maïa headed to the empty room and suggested to Solanne, "Let's run in the gym!" And that's just what they did: they ran around in their own little gym.

Spring?

In this part of the world, one looks for any signs of spring and graciously accepts whatever may be interpreted as a sign of the end of winter. It doesn't matter that there are still heaps of snow outside, and it doesn't matter that the temperature hasn't been above zero since the January thaw, and it doesn't matter that the equinox is still a few weeks away. Spring is still in the air - for today.

The first sign I have found (or grasped at!) is that the sun now streams into our livingroom window for about 5 minutes at noontime. That's an exciting one given that we haven't seen it in there since October! The second one is more real for me: the warm feeling of the sun on my face. In the dead of winter, no matter how sunny it may be, the sun never feels warm. In fact, if it's sunny out, you can bet that it's at least minus ten, and there is often a windchill. There is no feeling the sun, only seeing its bright glare.

But this morning, it was different. It's still cold out, but the sun was kind as it caressed my cheeks and nose, offering its promise of hot July days. Even the slight breeze was gentle, if still cool. There may still be weeks and weeks of snow ahead, but the warmth of the sun and the continuing tilting of the earth toward it have promised a return to light, to warmth, to life.

I can't wait to run through the sprinklers with Maïa and Solanne.