Nightmares and Night Terrors

“HELP ME, MOMMY! HELP ME!” As my six year old son screamed this at me, hot tears streaming down his face, looking at me with helplessness on his face, my heart broke. I had never felt so utterly powerless as a mother. My son was experiencing his first night terror and I did not know what to do.

For some reason, I knew he was experiencing a night terror as opposed to a nightmare. Maybe it was three books on sleep training I had read when he was an infant or maybe I just remembered when my younger cousin had them (I had never seen her have one, only heard tales from my mom who heard from my cousin’s dad.)

The following morning, I took to Google to learn more. The website, WebMd.com offered the most useful information. According to WebMd, night terrors usually occur in children ages 3-12 (Talan is 6). The website went on to explain the different sleep stages and said that most night terrors typically occur 90 minutes after a child has fallen asleep. (This little tidbit has proven valuable as I now know to wait at least 90 minutes after Talan goes to sleep before I fall asleep since there’s no point in going to sleep only to be awoken by a screaming child.) WebMd also states that “night terrors are characterized by frequent recurrent episodes of intense crying and fear during sleep, with difficultly arousing the child. Unlike nightmares, most children do not recall a dream after a night terror episode, and they usually do not remember the episode the next morning”.

Everything I continued to read on the internet and from library books has proven that Talan did, indeed, have a night terror that first night and has continued to have them once, sometimes twice, a night. He never remembers having them or what scared him or even that he woke up. Every time he has one, he screams out for me, is crying hot tears and usually pointing on something only he can see, asking for help. A few times he has told me he “couldn’t get it” or mumbled distinct words that didn’t make sense, as if he was missing the nouns in his sentences. The end is always the same though; I walk him back to bed, tuck him in, and he rolls over to go right to sleep.

The whole episode cannot last longer than two minutes (much shorter now that we do not try to wake him or ask him what’s scaring him) and is more jarring and scarring for my husband and me than it is for him. I’m often left shaken, devastated that my son could be so terrified, and helpless, not only because I cannot help him but because I cannot stop them. According to kidshealth.org, a website devoted to children’s health, development and behaviors, a night terror is “a sleep disruption that seems similar to a nightmare, but with a far more dramatic presentation.” The website goes on to say “Though night terrors can be alarming for parents who witness them, they’re not usually cause for concern or a sign of a deeper medical issue.” Thankfully, this is, indeed, the case as Talan never remembers his night terrors. The only evidence of them is his crabbiness, which I can only assume is a result of his waking and disrupted sleep.

I am unsure how long these episodes will last. Apparently, he can keep this up for another 5 years, FIVE YEARS of fitful sleeping, on his part and mine. There’s no way I will survive, although the next year won’t be too difficult as I will be dealing with a newborn and nursing. And even though they only last for a couple of minutes now, WebMd states that some episodes can last for thirty minutes. For his sake, and mine, I hope they stay short and that he can outgrow them relatively soon. At least I can take comfort in the fact that he doesn’t know what’s going on and even though there is apparently no underlying concern or cause for them, it makes me wonder what is scaring him so badly.

I thought when he was bullied in kindergarten that I would never feel as helpless then he started having night terrors. I think it was easier to deal with the bullies as they had faces (and parents to talk to) and we could fight them together (with proper responses such as walking away, no physical altercations). Night terrors are invisible, they are a ghost that is haunting my son, and he cannot fight them and I cannot fight them for him. But the question remains, if he doesn’t remember them do they need to be fought? Do I just hold him, lead him back to bed and act as if nothing happened? Apparently, according to WebMd and the book Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child by Marc Weissbluth, that is exactly what I should do. Apparently, as a mother, that’s the best thing I can do. If I didn’t feel helpless before, I sure do now. 

Becoming a SAHM

Without a doubt being a stay-at-home mom has made me a worse mom.

I was not always a SAHM. I used to work as a paraprofessional at a special needs school (meaning all of our students in the building were in need of special education). I loved my job. And I was good at my job. I felt like I was making a difference and I like to think that I was. Even though I was working with kids who tested my patience every five minutes, who made me want to scream in frustration or who literally physically harmed me, I loved going to work. And it made me a better mom.

I can say without a doubt that working where I was and with the other teachers and paras as well as the students not only made me a better mom but a better woman. Even though they tested my patience, they helped me keep my patience and learned to remain calm even when ignored for an hour or asked the same question all day long. They taught me how to see the world from a child’s perspective again and to smile at the little things and to take pleasure in every good moment because you do not know how frequent those moments will be.

I would come home from work exhausted, scratched, bitten, and, sometimes, in tears. But then I would see my kids, see their happy faces and be rejuvenated. I would play with them, laugh with them, and know that I was blessed to have these moments with them. I had been away from them all day and could not wait to hear every last detail of what they had done and accomplished while we were apart. We had a few precious hours together before they had to go to bed and we relished every second. I loved it and even though I felt a tiny bit of mother’s guilt for being away from them all day, I knew it was the best for me and for them.

Then I became a stay-at-home mom and everything changed.

If you are a parent, you know how ridiculously expensive daycare costs are, especially for newborns. Once I became pregnant, Matt and I knew that we would be unable to afford a newborn and a toddler in daycare. Unfortunately, I was unable to finish the remainder of the school year as a para as I had horrible morning sickness. May 1 began my adventure as a stay-at-home mom. And at first it was not that bad. The fact that I still did not feel well was a hindrance but I only had Lucy to take care and as far as two year olds go, she was easy (at least at that time). We would walk Talan to school every morning then pick him up at 2:45. It was great and I thought that I could easily adapt to being at home.

Then summer came and with it the end of patience. Having both kids at home, constantly, seven days a week has made me a horrible mother. I no longer cherish every moment together because I know that for the foreseeable future, every moment will be spent together. I no longer have patience for my children or their constant bickering or their constant questions or their loud voices or backtalk. Instead of running towards my kids to embrace, I’m (metaphorically) running away from them and hoping they turn towards their dad instead.

I’m sure not all stay-at-home moms are like me. I’m sure there are women (and men) out there who love staying home with their children. They love being there for every milestone and hiccup. They love being able to attend all of their kids’ activities and to volunteer whenever necessary. I, however, am not one of those parents.

I need to get out of the house every morning. I need adult interaction. I need to have conversations that revolve around politics, the environment and actual news as opposed to conversations dealing with Daniel Tiger and Sophia the First. I need a purpose other than changing my daughter’s diaper and listening to my son explain The Avengers to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love and adore my children. I would do anything for them and I truly admire parents who chose to stay at home and care for them without going insane. The thing for me is, it was not a choice. I was forced into staying at home. I would love to be able to afford to stay at home and only work on a part-time basis or a volunteer basis but I would still send my kids to daycare. Lucy loved her daycare and still asks if she can go back. The interaction with her peers did wonders for her and her attitude. She learned more at her Montessori preschool then I have or will be able to teach her. She did well being away from me for eight hours every day. It was good for both of us as we each had more patience for the other.

Every time I hear myself yell at my kids or feel my sanity run away, I envy working parents. I envy them their chance to escape from imaginary play, boogers, “why”s, and the lot. I envy them their chance to be excited when they see their kids at the end of the day and have their kids be excited to see them.

My hope is that things will be better when Talan goes to first grade this Fall. That will give me roughly three and a half months with Lucy before the baby comes. Then, once again, all Hell will surely break loose. 

Why We Stayed Home

Why We Stayed Home

This morning my six year old son greeted me with the question, “Do we have to go anywhere today?” He asked matter-of-factly and with only a hint of a whine. It made me pause.

As a stay-at-home-mom with a 2 ½ year old daughter and a 6 year old son, I assume I need to have something planned for every day of the week. After all, my son is home all day, every day during the summer. I figured he needed to do something every day, get out of the house, interact with people who are not me. If I kept him and his sister home, wouldn’t they get bored? Wouldn’t they destroy my house? Wouldn’t they destroy each other? Wouldn’t they destroy my sanity?

At my son’s request, we did nothing yesterday. The only place we went was to visit my mother-in-law at her work because we had to drop something off. The kids didn’t even get out of the car. Talan, my son, didn’t even change out of his pajamas and I’m fairly certain he didn’t put shoes on at any point. After a late breakfast, we colored together. Then we headed outside where my daughter “watered” the plants, trees and sidewalk. My son and I made an entire city out of chalk for his Spider-Man figurines to use. We had a relaxing lunch followed by naps. When they woke up, we headed back outside for my chalk drawing. By the time my husband came home, we were covered in chalk and smiles. It was one of the best days we had had all summer long.

Was I wrong? Do I really need to have something planned for every day?

When Matt and I moved our family to Minnesota, we were overjoyed at all the new opportunities our kids would have. Having previously lived in western North Dakota where the only excitement for kids was parks, we couldn’t wait to expose them to all kinds of new things---zoos, museums, concerts, festivals, etc. In my haste to make sure my kids experienced all the opportunities I didn’t, I forgot how awesome my own childhood was. While I may not have had splash pads to go to or lakes or museums, I had a wonderful time riding my bike around town with my friends. We loved to play backyard baseball or cops and robbers (a Ziploc baggie of Oreos was our treasure and my brother used to yell at me for eating them instead of protecting them from the “robbers”). We made our own fun and had a blast. Why couldn’t my kids do the same?

The answer is, of course my kids could. They proved they could when they asked to stay home. And my kids, just like myself, need breaks from time-to-time. Some days are best spent at home, doing nothing but relaxing and hanging out. However, I still believe that if we spent the majority of our days at home, my house would get destroyed and my two kids would not get along as well as they do now. Kids need to get outside, need interaction with each other, and, most importantly, need to be kept busy.

We will continue to visit the zoo once a week as well as the library and go to parks and splash pads. We will also make sure to spend time running errands so that they know the entire summer does not revolve around them. Some days we will spend at home playing or even cleaning the house.

Of course, all kids are different. What works for my family may not work for yours. But I think a blend of activities and imaginary play is just what this family needs. 

Mom-ing with Depression & Anxiety

Ever since I can remember, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. I was diagnosed with it at age 10 but I am positive I had them before then, maybe they were not as well developed or as acute but I am sure they were there.

As I matured and grew up, I handled my depression and anxiety on a variety of levels. I went through denying it, not taking my medicine to where I am now, compliant and accepting of my disease and doing everything in my power to handle it correctly. Still, living with depression and anxiety is hard, one of the hardest things I have ever done, and parenting with depression and anxiety is hands down the hardest thing I have ever done.

If you are not familiar with the diseases, let me break it down for you. I have chemical depression, meaning my depression is not or was not caused by an event (i.e. a death or tragedy) but rather by my brain's inability to make enough serotonin and to properly re-uptake the correct dosage of chemicals. Thankfully, modern medicine allows me to take a pill (the size of an elephant tranquilizer) that gives me enough serotonin to function on a daily level.  But here's a secret few people know...while the pills make me enough serotonin, they do not "cure" the mental illness. I take my pills religiously yet I still struggle with my depression and moods on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Add my anxiety to it and it is no wonder some days I do not want to get out of my bed.

Being a mom, I want the best for my kids and I want to be here for kids, for everything. Unfortunately, my mental illness makes that very difficult. Most days I can handle my diseases with the practice and ease of someone who has lived with them for 20 years. Other days, it cripples me. And on those days I feel as if I am not only failing as a woman but as a wife and mother.

My depression does not always come in the same form but at some point I will start crying over what I would normally view as silly things (such as a Johnson & Johnson commercial). I also take it to the other extreme and have zero tolerance for anything---like whining or back talk or not doing exactly what I want without me having said anything. But the worst is when I am not feeling anything. That's when I know the depression has really got it's talons in me. When I do not feel anything, I know it is bad. I know it is bad and I know that I am suffering from depression yet there is little I can do. I lie in bed, knowing I am being strangled by the mental illness, I know I am ignoring my children and husband, I know I have responsibilities I am shirking yet there I lie. The problem with having depression AND anxiety is that I do not simply lie in bed under a metaphorical grey cloud but rather I lie in bed having panic attacks over what I am ignoring.  Sometimes my crippling anxiety is a good thing as my anxiety over takes my depression, forcing me to get up and take care of myself and my family. Other times my depression wins and I am too exhausted-mentally, physically, emotionally-to do anything.

Being a parent is hard. Being a person with mental illness is hard. Put those two together and it makes daily life complicated, difficult, and very trying for everyone in my life. I always feel bad when I surface from my depression tsunami. My husband steps up and take cares of the kids along with the household chores for which I am grateful yet it does not relieve me of the guilt I feel for slipping down the slope of sadness. (Wow, that was a lot of alliteration.)

The only thing that matters when I get depressed is that I recover, that I pull myself out of it. I have to constantly remind myself that my life is not my life anymore, it is my husband's life, my son's life, my daughter's life. I cannot stay in bed all day. They need me and I sure as Hell need them. I can lie in bed for an extra hour or until noon on the bad days but I have to get out of bed. I have to quell the depression and anxiety because I have other people to care about.

It is hard. Every day is hard and some days are near impossible. But I still manage, some days I manage better than others but I still manage. I still get out of bed. And the days that I jump out of bed, the days that are beyond wonderful, those days keep me going. Those days keep me from staying in bed on the bad days. For other mothers and fathers out there struggling with mental illness, remember the good days. Remember this is not just your fight anymore. Remember that the bad days do not last. And remember that you are strong, you have made it this far and you will make it farther. Just get out of bed. Go hug your kids. And know you are not alone.

Why I Hate My Body

Every day there is an article somewhere criticizing some woman's body. And every day there is an article somewhere written by a celebrity defending her body and/or her post-partum body. Here's my take, I hate my body and without realizing it, my body image issues affect my children more than they affect me. Why? I'm so glad you asked...

I have had body issues since fourth grade. FOURTH GRADE, that puts me at nine years old. A nine year old (in 1994) should only be concerned with Lisa Frank merchandise and four square rules. She should NOT be concerned with her body. I thought I was fat (I was chubby but not obese). Kids are cruel, at all ages sadly. I remember being in fifth or sixth grade and a boy asking if the reason I wore jeans with an elastic waistband was so that they would still fit me after lunch. My brother was extremely skinny which didn't help matters because he, too, mocked me frequently. I don't blame him, he was my older brother and would have found some reason to mock me. At least he teased me for something I could control...teasing me about the size of my nose or personality would have been awful.

Obviously it didn't get better from there. Middle school saw me becoming bulimic and anorexic. I didn't care what it was doing to my teeth or how it would effect my body long term (yes I was knowledgeable), all I cared about was being thin.This problem went with me to high school and, of course, college. I gained the Freshman Fifteen, basically through a diet of beer and cereal, and really hated how I looked. I was no longer a nice size 8 but a size 12 and couldn't handle looking myself in the mirror.

The thing with my eating disorder was that it was strictly about eating. I wanted to be skinny but didn't want to work out. I hate working out. HATE IT. I watch people run and lift and think there must be something clinically wrong with them. How can a person enjoy running until they can't breathe? It baffled me then and it baffles me today. The only kind of exercise I have ever enjoyed is dance. I love to dance, like ballet and jazz. I also love to swim. Swimming I get because it's not hard on the body and for some reason, it never seems like exercise. Either way, if I'm ever chased by a bear, I will probably end up dying after running for five minutes.

So I ate unhealthy. When I was in rehab, I was a size 5/6 and eating less than 500 calories per day. That's per day. People have eaten entire meals worth more than 500 calories. My diet was 20 almonds and three pieces of cherry licorice. Clearly, I was not healthy. BUT I was skinny and that's all that mattered.

As I grew up with my disorder, I obviously never saw anything wrong with it. It's my body and I could do with it what I wanted. Now that I'm a mom, things have changed. Suddenly, my body issues aren't just MINE, they are my kids' as well. Every time I look in a mirror and make a disgusted face, my kids see that. When I turn sideways and try to suck in my gut, my kids see that. When I eat unhealthy, my kids see that. And what happens when kids see you doing something? They imitate you, good or bad, they don't care because they just want to be like you.

As a parent, you are never alone in anything. There is always someone watching you, learning from you. Kids truly learn from what you do, not what you say. No matter how often I tell my kids to love themselves, love their bodies, eat healthy and exercise, it won't mean a thing if I don't live what I preach.

My kids are the best thing that every happened to me for a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is their ability to show me how I truly am. Every time Lucy imitates me, I see myself through her eyes. I do not want my daughter or son to grow up with body issues and the main step I can take to prevent them from low self esteem is to have high self esteem for me. By loving myself, by accepting myself, I can show them how to love and accept themselves.

There are many things I still want to teach my kids. One thing, one priority is to teach them to love themselves, that they are wonderful just the way they are. I also want them to be healthy (doesn't every parent?). In order for them to be healthy, I need them to eat right and exercise. While my kids are picky eaters, my son more than my daughter, they still manage to eat healthy. They eat healthy because now I eat healthy. They exercise daily (mainly they do cardio as they run away from me when I'm telling them to brush their teeth and get dressed) and they see me exercise (not daily, I haven't changed that much and when I do exercise I sure as hell am not running). The best thing I can do to ensure my kids are healthy is to keep myself healthy. And now I'm doing that. But never by running. Ugh.

Life's Hardest Questions

Before I had kids, I used to ponder tough questions like: how can people be racist, how does a fax machine work, did OJ really kill Nicole, why is Congress being paid for doing nothing, can love exist without hate. You know, semi-intelligent thoughts. Since I now have two kids and stay at home, my intellectual level has dropped dramatically. The questions that I now ponder on a daily basis are, well, mind bending but not in an intellectual way. So here they are...the questions that plague parents such as myself.

Why do Daniel Tiger and his father wear sweaters and converse shoes but no pants?

How come Mickey's Clubhouse has to disappear? Are they worried about burglars? Where do they go when they aren't in the Clubhouse?

How dumb is the Man in the Yellow hat?

Why the trains on Sodor need engineers? Can't they steer themselves?

Why is Candance, Phineas and Ferb's sister, bald in the front?

Why does Dora's monkey, Boots, wear boots?

Why do the PJ Masks kids fight crime at night? When do they sleep? Aren't their parents checking on them, wondering where they are?

Now, are these questions important? Ah hell no. But when you are invaded by cartoons everyday, they start to make you think. Mainly, are the people who created these high?

Help. Basically help. I need more intellectual conversations or I may start finding answers to my questions above and when that happens, I'll know I have completely lost it.

How to Raise Children

When I was younger, I often played with dolls as did most kids my age. And by play with dolls I mean I changed their outfits, strolled them in my Fisher Price stroller then left them in the middle of the room for my parents to trip over. Clearly, I was training to be a spectacular mother.

The thing about parenting is you can never be prepared. You can take classes before your baby is born, you can take classes from "experts" on children's behavior while your kid is growing but none of it truly prepares you for being a parent. I talk with my friends who are parents, my aunts and mom and receive plenty of advice-some good some not-yet I still have no clue what I am doing as a mother.

Every day life is hard for kids. It's hard for everyone. I think it's harder for parents because we see our children struggle with daily life and we don't know how to explain it to them because we ourselves don't understand it. My oldest is six years old and still blissfully unaware of most of life's cruelty. I was spared trying to tell him about the Orlando shootings because it wasn't news on Nick Jr. or PBS. I was further more spared having to explain to him about the Dallas police shootings. But what happens when he does ask? What will I say? Or am I being a negligent mom because I haven't mentioned the previous news stories to him? What is the right way?

I dread the day my son asks me why people of other races are treated differently because other than telling him, "Well, some people are simply assholes." I don't know how to answer. In his eyes, everyone is the same, they are simply judged on whether or not they will play with him. It makes no difference what race someone is, their religious affiliation, their political affiliation, their income...really none of it matters as long as you want to play. He'll even teach you all about Star Wars and Ninja Turtles if you aren't fortunate enough to know EVERYTHING about them. I love his innocence and I think that that is what makes me hesitate to shatter is bubble.

As parents, none of us really know what we're doing. As a woman, I barely know what I'm doing. I'm trying to do my best. I love my kids, I teach my kids, I try to show them what is right and what is wrong. But I struggle to teach them about how others' view right and wrong. How can I tell them I know what's right or what is best when clearly these people who are shooting others and hating others believe that they are right and what they are doing is good?

One day, sooner than I would like, my son is going to come to me and ask why other people hate certain people or why someone got shot because of their race or why some other kid called someone a racial slur, and I won't have any good answer. All I will be able to tell him is that race doesn't matter to us and it shouldn't matter to anyone but unfortunately, some people are filled with hate and anger and they cannot control it. All I will be able to tell him is that I think those people are wrong and that no one should be judged by things they cannot control. All I will be able to tell him is that we should accept and celebrate other's differences. And, hopefully, I will be able to show him through my own actions that none of that matters; all that matters is how someone treats others and still, we should be kind to those people. I will hopefully be able to show him that love trumps hate and that what this world, now more than ever, needs is love. I will hopefully be able to show him that the only enemy we face is hate.

No, I do not know if my way is the best way but I do know that I am trying my best. I am trying to make my children into adults who will better the world. I'm going to mess up, I'm going to make mistakes but hopefully my children will know that I love them, that I try and that while I may not know everything, at least I know how to love and accept others.