Archive by Author

I got my domain back!!!!

15 Apr

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog posts for some great news!

The troll who stole my domain name when I was a few days late renewing it has been defeated! (Ok – not really, he just listed the domain up for auction and I snapped it up. Better than the 500 bucks the a-hole was demanding last year).


We’re back! is back!

Please update your readers accordingly.

Be back in a couple of days with even more depressing PPA posts!

Edited to add:

It may still not be working for everybody – but should be linked up at most within 24-48 hours.

Contact me if you’re having any issues…


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PPA Part 4 – Doctors

13 Apr

“Trust your gut.”

But how will I know if it’s something serious?

“Trust your gut. You know her best.”

(I know her best.)

(Of course I know her best.)

(I also know that I can’t trust my gut.)

So what are the warning signs?

“There aren’t any. Trust your gut.”


My gut tells me that doctors can’t be trusted.

My gut tells me that when doctors say “everything will be fine” nothing is fine and I lose my son.

My gut tells me to be afraid. Always be afraid. Always expect the worst. Always.

If I trusted my gut, I’d never take her to a doctor.

If I trusted my gut, I’d be at the doctor’s office twice a day.

Then there’s the history. She’s registered under my health care plan. Her medical history is my medical history.

5 pregnancies. One premature labor. High-risk pregnancy. No other living children.

So the pediatricians. They know. They know I’m scared. They know I’m anxious. So they don’t take me seriously.

But I’m trying to trust my gut. My baby’s not eating.

“Sometimes babies don’t eat.”

But she screams when she has a bottle in her mouth.

“Don’t overreact.”

I’m not overreacting.

“Here – try this formula”

It’s helping but it’s not enough.

“It is enough (stop being so anxious).”

It’s not enough. Should I take her to a specialist?

“Trust your gut.”

But how do I know that thee pediatricians aren’t right? That I’m not just being anxious?

“Trust your gut.”

But my gut is what makes me scared that it’s not just what I think it is – that it’s something 100 times worse. That even the specialist is wrong.

“The doctors say everything will be fine. The specialist gave her a prescription now. They say everything will be fine. “

Fuck doctors. Doctors are not gods. Doctors can be wrong.

Doctors have been wrong.

Doctors have been so fucking wrong.

“So trust your gut.”

But my gut is even more wrong.

My gut is scared shitless. My heart is scared shitless. My head is scared shitless.

I’m scared shitless.

I’m her mommy. I’m supposed to know. Where does the fear stop and the knowing begin?

PPA Part 3 – Dinner

9 Apr

Bunny is 3 days old. It’s our first night home. We are in pure bliss. The post-labor high hasn’t quite worn off yet. We give her a bath. We take the cutest pictures ever. I can’t stop smiling.

Bunny falls asleep and we order pizza.

Blessed pizza.

I’ve been waiting for pizza for 4 months. It was off limits because of the gestational diabetes. I’ve been wanting this pizza more than anything.

Ok – almost anything.

Blessed carbs.

I have a slice.

Something doesn’t feel right. I feel hot. I run to the bathroom. I bend over the toilet – gagging.

It’s nothing. It’s my hormones acting up. This is supposed to happen around three days postpartum. It’s my body not being used to the junk food. It’s me being tired.

It’s nothing.

Bunny is 4 days old. My milk has come in. The high has worn off. Happiness abounds, but the lack of sleep is starting to reach crisis point.

I make spaghetti.

A few bites in and I can’t stomach it. By the end of dinner I’m once again gagging.

Maybe it’s just too heavy for me.



Bunny is 5 days old.

Sushi. I waited 10 months for sushi.

Gag. Sputter. Gag.


When I was a teenager, my parents used to joke that they knew when I was anxious, because they would hear me cough.

That’s where I used to feel my panic attacks – in my throat. They used to start in my throat.

But not any more. That hasn’t happened for years and years. These days they’re supposed to start with my eyes. With my ears ringing. With a weird buzzing around my head.


Bunny is 6 days old.

I have started a very low dose of a an anti-anxiety med that is safe for breastfeeding. But it’s skittles compared to Does it do the job? Not really. But it helps. It took headphones on at full blast, bunny in another room,  and complete darkness – but I slept for two hours.

Chicken meatballs and rice.


Without thinking – I grab a skittle pill.


Right. This is what this is. My body has decided. This is how I panic now. Again. It’s back in my throat.

The skittle helps and I finish dinner.


New Years Eve. Bunny is 3 months old. We have been to a good friend’s house. Eaten good food, drank good Lambrusco, had an amazing time. Bunny is asleep at her grandparents’ and we are walking distance from our beds.

Shmerson reflects on where we were last year. Announcing my pregnancy to the same people we just celebrated with. Two years ago – pregnant with Nadav, taking it easy. Three years ago – on a break from trying – at a restaurant with friends. Four years ago – planning our wedding – no idea what was to come.

Today. Look at us today.

I realize that there is a baby waiting for us – five minutes away.

A baby. She’s ours. She’s mine.

Gag. Sputter.

I have to stop and catch my breath.

Gag. Retch. Gag.

People walking next to us are starting to stare.

Gag. Gag. Retch.

I lean on a tree. Bend over.


I try to breath deep. I start rummaging through my purse, crying.


Here it is.



I build up the spit in my mouth between gags. Pop the pill and swallow.



PPA Part 2: Cognac

8 Apr

It’s 2am. I’m sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of our living room.

My shirt is pulled down, nursing bra exposed. I don’t really care at this point.

It’s Monday night. Bunny is 5 days old. Practically to the minute. She’s fast asleep in my lap. We just had another failed nursing session. She really likes to fall asleep while eating.

I’ve been doing everything to keep her awake. EVERYTHING. Nothing is helping.

I haven’t slept for 8 days.

8 days. Not a wink. Ok. One wink.

Not for lack of trying.

In the hospital I was riding the oxytocin high. I stared at her face for hours. I would just hold her endlessly. I didn’t care about sleep. Sleep meant she would go to the nursery. Sleep meant I would miss out on a moment with this miracle.

When day 4 came around the hormone crash kicked in.

The bliss was still there.

But reality had re-entered my radar like a mac truck.

I need some sleep.

When we go to bed for the night, I’m too afraid. Her bassinet is right next to me. Yes – the movement monitor is on. But it’s not enough. I stick my hand through the bars and put it on hers. I need to feel her movement. The monitor is not enough.

Shmerson takes her to the living room. Maybe if she’s not in the same room I can block out my constant need  to see her breathing.

I lay in bed, and my body begs to succomb to a few hours of blissful darkness. But as my eyelids droop – I jump up – startled.

Maybe it’s because I still hear her gurgling. The headphones come on. Once again – I drift. Only to jump up second later in a panic.

Something is not letting me sleep. It’s no longer in my control. It’s animalistic. It’s a never ending chemical loop.

I’ve managed to get half an hour total – between 4am and 4:30 am on Sunday night using the following configuration: Bunny is on one cushion on the couch. I’m curled up on the other. One hand on her chest to feel her breathing.

Half and hour of blissful sleep. Until she woke up, and my neck hurt.

Day 5. And it’s 2am. And I know I’m in an endless chemical loop and only one thing will save me: But I can’t. I’m breastfeeding. Failing miserably. But breastfeeding. I’ll be a horrible mother if I can’t feed my child.

I’ll be a horrible mother.

I look at Shmerson and I burst into tears. Not the sad tears. The kind that are tinged with panic. That can spiral into terror at any moment.  He tries to help me gain control.

I just need to sleep. I need to sleep.

I need to sleep.

I go on twitter. He goes on google. We look desperately for a solution. Finally we hit on it – alcohol. I can breastfeed, have a drink, and by the time Bunny feeds again it won’t be a big deal. I’m a lightweight anyway.

I get excited. Yes! Alcohol will do it! Alcohol will make the panic loop stop!

I rouse bunny for another pathetic feeding session – filled with moist towels and foot tickling  - begging her to stay awake.

Back to sleep she goes. My glass of cognac awaits.

A blessed glass of cognac.

I hate cognac.

But this will make the loop stop.

I hand Bunny over to Shmerson and drink the entire glass in a minute flat. Then I head to bed.

My eyes droop – my body longs to succumb to the darkness.

And I jump up with a start.

The loop didn’t stop.

Maybe I’ll be able to get another half an hour on the couch.

If my neck can take it.

PPA Part 1: Empty

7 Apr

Thank you all for your support on my last post. “Coming out” so-to-speak has brought on a renewed barrage of inspiration. This is a first in a series of slightly more abstract posts that have come to me. I’ll get to the practicals later. I’m still in the process of writing these, and it is cathartic. I hope you stick around to read them. 


Bunny was born three hours ago. I barely held her. Barely registered her being and they took her to the nursery. That’s what they do. They need to monitor her. She’s a gestational diabetes baby. They need to monitor her.

The nurse that took her at 4am – I asked her to let Shmerson come too. She said he could come, but couldn’t stay. I was upset. I don’t remember how, but somehow someone told her about Nadav. I didn’t want to leave my baby alone. She promised she would hook her up to a heart monitor. Just so I could feel better leaving her without us.

Just so I know they’re making sure she’s breathing. But that’s my job. I need to make sure she’s breathing.

4:15am. Shmerson texts me a picture of this wonder – this miraculous creature who I only got to hold for a few minutes. She’s hooked up to a monitor. They did what I asked.

I send him home to sleep.

5am – I get wheeled into the ward.

“When will I see my baby?”

“Probably around 7am. You should get some sleep”

Yes. Sleep. It’s Thursday morning. I haven’t slept since  Sunday night.


I get to my room.

6am – A nurse helps me out of bed so I can rinse off two days of induction and a hard-fought labor.

“When will I see my baby?”

“The doctor checks them between 6am and 7am – then there’s a shift change. They’ll probably bring her to you around 8am. Get some sleep.”


In my room I stare up at a ceiling and close my eyes.

And I do what I’ve done 100 times before in the last four months – since I felt the first flutter.

I start to count. 10 in an hour. But usually with Bunny I get ten in 15 – 20 minutes. I wait for a kick.

A kick doesn’t come.

I start to panic. I put my hand on my stomach.

Where is she?

She’s here. She’s just not with you. But she’s here.

I start to cry. Is she really? Is she really here?


I jump out of bed. Barefoot. Wearing a half-open gown. Traces of the last 48 hours still all over my body.

I don’t care. I run to the nursery.

The door is locked. The doctor is checking them. The door is locked.

The panic rises. I start to cry. I start to pace back and forth, back and forth in front of the sliding doors. Waiting. Panic tickling my throat.

My hands are on my stomach.

I feel so empty. Where is she? I’m empty.

An eternity later the door opens. A nurse sees me. She sees my distress. Nobody is supposed to come in at this hour.

I cry. I beg. She lets me in. I walk up to the bassinet. Bunny. She’s here. She’s here and breathing and sleeping. She’s here. She’s breathing.

But the nurse says I have to go.

“Can’t I take her with me?”

“We’ll bring her to you at around 8:30.”

“No. I want her now.”

“We need to check her blood sugar again.”

I see the small bandage on the bottom of her foot where they drew her blood. Tears well up again.

“When will you check it?”

“Very soon.”

“Then will you bring her? Please. I can’t wait until 8:30. Please bring her to me.”

The nurse looks at me with pity. With exasperation. With something.

“Ok. Try to get some sleep.”

Sleep. I haven’t slept since Sunday.

I go to my room. 7am.

Sleep? Who can sleep?

7:30am – my amazing, miraculous, beautiful baby girl is wheeled into my room.

I sink into three days of blurry, sleepless, unadulterated bliss.

Clearing the Air

5 Apr

The truth is, dear readers, I have not been honest with you or with myself for the last couple of months.

I have been busy – no doubt. But the truth is that I’ve started at least 10 posts in the last month. And I haven’t been able to bring myself to publish a single one.

And the reason is because I let someone else take away my voice.

These days I have a lot of readers from different places. People find me when browsing through parenting blogs on wordpress, or by finding a couple of my satirical “miscarriages suck monkey balls” posts through google, or through a facebook share, or a tag search.

But the core of this blog started as a part of a small, niche blogging community of women living with infertility and pregnancy loss. Known affectionately as the ALI community (adoption, loss, infertility). I “cut official ties” to that community for my own sanity by no longer participating in blog rolls, link exchanges, awards, and the like. But I am still a loyal reader (and friend) to a lot of women who I found there, and I know that many of you found me through there.

I cut ties because the fact is that that the ALI blogosphere- though an often beautiful community that has saved me more times than I can count, can sometimes be cruel and judgemental. And I no longer wanted to conform to what was “expected of me” through it.

I have once actually quit this blog because of those expectations. I am very happy that I came back, and also very happy that I made the conscious decision to stop conforming to one small circle’s expectations.

That being said – a month and a half ago, I was once again exposed to the cruel and judgemental side of the community, and as a result, I have found myself silenced once again in this space.

And though I was considering doing it again, I don’t want to abandon ship.

This blog has too many loyal followers who I don’t want to abandon. This blog tells a complete story. That story is not over. Not even close. So there’s no reason to end it now. I like it here. I’d like to stay.

So I have decided that rather than keep my silence – I will hit “detonate” on a bridge  that I never wanted burned. So I can clear the air and reclaim my voice.

I don’t like airing dirty laundry in this forum. In fact – I hate it. But in this case, if I want to keep this space safe for me, I have no other choice.

This is about me reclaiming something I was labelled, so I can talk about it and address it without the petty bullshit. This is about me admitting something so I can take this space back.

So I’m going to recount a story here. And unlike the woman I am talking about, I will keep any details that may reveal her identity a secret. Because this is about me, not her. The only way you will know who I am talking about is if you happen to read both of our blogs, and put two and two (and two) together.

I am not mentioning names. I do not want this to become a war. I hate this petty bullshit. If you happen to read us both, and you figure out who I’m talking about, good for you. But please keep it to yourself.

I had a friend. I met her through the blogs. I never met her face to face but after Nadav died, I don’t know how, I don’t know why – she became my wailing wall. She was there for me in a way that nobody else in my life could have been. We talked every day, sometimes twice or three times. I would cry to her over skype at 2am. Often. She was a huge reason that I survived the year following his loss.

When I got pregnant with Bunny I emotionally detached from the world. I didn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t. I was literally in moment-to-moment survival mode. I explained this to her, and at the same time felt like a crappy friend. Especially since she got pregnant shortly after me. But as I slowly got out of the fog, our friendship was slowly rekindled.

This woman and I had our babies at around the same time, through very different paths. We shared experiences and pictures when we could, then one day – we had a fight.

We were both tired. We were both dealing with our own shit. We fell victim to the mommy wars.

I stepped away, giving her space, but clearly leaving the door open for her to come back. Some time had passed but to be perfectly honest – I kind of figured we would both get in the whole parenting groove and then talk it out when we were good and ready. That’s how I usually handle this type of stuff. There are few fights I’ve had that have been deal breakers. Apparently, this woman felt differently.

Then – TWO DAYS after Nadav’s birthday, (TWO DAYS!) this woman published a blog post. In that post, she doesn’t name me. But any person with half a brain who read us both could figure out in a minute who she was talking about. She didn’t go to great lengths to disguise my identity.

I even received several private messages about the post, asking for my side of the story. In fact – that was the way I found out she had posted. I hadn’t opened my blog reader in ages.

My readership is much broader than hers – but we have plenty of the same readers who are a part of the ALI community.

In her post – this woman published one-sided lies about the fight we had. She put words in my mouth which I never said. She claimed I “walked away from the friendship” when she in fact was the one who was abandoning ship by publishing the post. She said things about me that weren’t true and were incredibly hurtful.

But I don’t care about those lies.I didn’t feel the need to address them – especially not here.

What I did – and still do – care about was that this woman betrayed a confidence of mine. Something that I only slightly alluded to on this blog soon after Bunny’s birth, but was not ready to fully share with the world yet, as I was still working through it.

Something that I told her in confidence, which in her blog post she passed on as her own “observation”.

She said it in a condescending, holier-than-thou tone which took away the power of it. She used it as a “reason” that I said all those things she claims I said but were never said (in reality they were perceived and inferred).

In writing out her own agenda, she took away my right to tell you about it myself. Yes – there are a hundreds of you who have never come across her blog. But there are enough of you who have. That know enough to know she was talking about me. That made what she wrote a betrayal of confidence.

And she did it less than two days after Nadav’s birthday.

Exactly at the moment that I was getting ready to share it with you.

I had been planning a long post about it. It was sitting in my drafts, waiting for one last pass before publishing. Instead, I deleted it.

I was so afraid of confirming the link between me and this woman’s post. I didn’t publish because I was afraid it would eventually lead to me having to write something like what I’m writing right now. Instead of that post – the post I needed to publish – I wrote another post in a deliberate attempt to distance myself from the situation. And I have barely written a lick since.

She took away the power of what I wanted to say. And she did it at a time when I was finally ready to “come out” so-to-speak, and unpack my experience here.

She took it away by making it her “observation”, rather than something I admitted to her in confidence. She took it away from me, by not letting me tell you myself.

And now I’m taking it back:

Before Bunny was born, I was scared of postpartum depression. I luckily dodged that bullet.

Instead, I was hit with the train that is postpartum anxiety.

I have been living with it, dealing with it, and trying to come to terms with what that means since Bunny was 4 days old and I had my first panic attack.

It colors all of my decisions. It makes me question myself as a mother. It makes some things a million times harder than they should be.

Postpartum anxiety sucks.

And I have it.

And it was MY RIGHT to keep that information to myself until I was ready to share it and process it. And unpack it. Because this is the space where it should be unpacked. Nowhere else.

And it’s been waiting in a suitcase in a corner because I let somebody take away my voice.

I have no anger toward this woman any more. I already said what I had to say to her in an email, and I have nothing else to say to her.

I’m saddened because of the way she chooses to deal with the people in her life who love her. I am not the first in the line of abandoned friends in her wake. I hope I’m the last, but I doubt it. I truly hope she finds peace and happiness in her life. I told her as much.

I am saddened because she was a friend to me at a time when being a friend to me was an almost insurmountable task. For that I will always be grateful. And I profoundly feel the loss of her friendship. Though now I no longer desire it.

But I refuse to let this drama stop me from expressing myself here. I am not abandoning ship. I am reclaiming my space right here and right now.

So now it’s out in the open air. Please respect my wishes and if you understand who I’m talking about – keep it to yourself.

And let’s move on from this. The air is clear.

I am Mo, and I have postpartum anxiety.

Let’s talk about it, shall we?

Bullets on Bunny – Obvious Costume Edition

22 Mar
  • Thanks everyone for your support on the last post. Basically Bunny’s reflux meds pooped out, and it was a terrible week. We FINALLY got her new meds today and already the difference is palpable. She’s actually eating without any pain. That’s a huge win right now.
  • In general it’s been a week of Murphy’s Law haunting me. From missing trains, to being LATE ALL THE TIME, to making absolutely stupid mistakes out of sheer exhaustion. I get in the car when I’m short on time, it needs gas, I get to a gas station, the pump doesn’t work, I get to where I need to go, I can’t find parking… On and on. ALL WEEK.
  • It was Purim this week (AKA the Jewish Halloween) and Squish said that it made sense that this week was upside-down, considering the costumes Shmerson and I wore on Sunday. She’s probably right:


  • I guess when you start the week as Alice things remain a bit crooked for a while.
  • Bunny being sick brought out ALL THE ANXIETY. Seriously bad. I have a lot to write about this. But not at 2am on a Friday night. I promise to post properly soon. Things have just been nuts.
  • I also somehow managed to fit in apartment hunting this week. Sleep will be welcome this weekend. Alas – we have not found anything yet. But that’s yet another post.
  • So that’s basically it. Alice and the Mad Hatter, reflux getting sorted out (hopefully!), Murphy being a douchenozzle, and no sleep. I just wanted to pop in and give a quick update, and most importantly – share with you the third participant in our family costume:

bunny as bunny


You can tell she’s not feeling her best. But she still played along. It’s her first Purim. Something would have been wrong had I NOT dressed her as a bunny.

Hope you all have an awesome weekend!

The Perfect Storm of Urgh

13 Mar

So. Bunny started day care.

The first day I dropped her off, I literally sat in the car, outside the day care center for AN HOUR AND A HALF crying like a baby. It brought every single anxiety I’ve been feeling to the surface.

I called my brother and he reminded me that my mother not letting us find our independence is a huge reason we’re both a bit messed up.

That thought and a mixture of emotional detachment and got me through week one. It was clear that I was the one who needed adjusting. Bunny seemed to like it there. Shmerson (who did the majority of the dropping-off) commented on how he could hear her do her happy squeal as he was leaving.

Yes, she got home exhausted and I felt like I was completely missing out on her. But I knew it would get better.

They also started giving her solids. I’d done a small introduction to them, and I was totally on board with them taking the reigns.

Then – the tummy trouble started. I won’t go into detail – but it wasn’t pretty.

Then – Bunny literally started screaming just at the sight of a bottle and has been refusing food since Monday.

It was a perfect storm – starting solids, she had just finished cutting her first two teeth, some sort of virus which made her throat hurt, and her reflux is definitely worse.

I took her to the doctor on Tuesday. He said I just had to ride it out. He suggested I talk to the gastro specialist about the new eating issues.

I’ve been home with her ever since. Every bottle is a fight. She’s miserable. I’m miserable.

The gastro specialist got back to me today and I missed his call. Once I managed to call him back he didn’t have time to talk and just said we should switch meds. Though I didn’t get a chance to tell him she’s been crying just at the SIGHT of a bottle. But we’ll make the switch and hope for the best.

But in the meantime, she’s losing weight.


My mistrust of doctors. I’ve been told before that everything would be fine by a doctor then it wasn’t. I no longer believe everything will be fine.

My guilt at putting Bunny in day care.

My incredible anxiety that something bad will happen to her.

And on and on.

Oh – I’m also blaming the day care for making my baby sick.  Even though I know it’s normal and it happens. I just want to pull  her out of there. It’s a perfectly nice place. I just want her home with me.

It’s a perfectly nice place that I no longer trust because my daughter refuses to eat.

It’s a perfectly nice place that gets to enjoy my daughter for the majority of her awake and energetic day. While I do what – effing internet content? Some days it just doesn’t seem to be worth it.

Logically I know she needs to stay. I just don’t know how the hell I’m going to be able to drop her off on Monday without freaking out and/or calling every 3 minutes.

It’s been a miserable couple of days. I’m seriously afraid that the eating issue and other tummy issues are not just a virus and reflux but something worse. I’ve been avoiding Dr. Google like the plague. I’ve been crying. I’ve been worried. I’ve been anxious.

I hate this. Everything is flooding me. I’m completely overwhelmed with anxiety. And I know this is TERRIBLE  for her. I need to fucking let go and relax.

But she’s not eating. And she’s in pain. And she’s paler than usual and I can tell she’s lost weight. And I feel helpless.

I hate this.


1 Mar

9am – Get woken up by Shmerson after working until 2am – reluctantly drag my butt out of bed.

10am – Leave to run errands.

10:30am – Buy Bunny a few new clothes because most of her stuff is very winter, and days are gradually getting warmer.

11:15 am – Buy Bunny her first high chair.

11:45- Buy a blender stick to make baby food.

12:30 – Grocery shopping. Contemplate store bought rice cereal vs homemade.

1:30pm – Arrive home, give Bunny her bottle.

2:00pm – Shmerson starts putting together the high chair.

2:00pm – I finally – a month after she’s outgrown them – pack up all of Bunny’s 0-3 clothes. Decide that while I’m at it I should probably put together her day care bag, because she’s starting in two days.

2:30pm –  stare in wonder at the onesies that Bunny once drowned in and now don’t fit her any more.

4:00pm  - Finish everything. Decide we should take some family pictures.

4:15pm – Send Shmerson to sleep and decide that even though it’s late, we should try out the high chair and our fourth day of our first solid food – sweet potato.

4:30pm – realize this was a huge mistake, because Bunny is grumpy and tired. Give up, clean up.

4:45pm – Give Bunny a teething ring because she’s in pain. Two teeth coming in at the same time. Bunny falls asleep in my arms.

5:15pm – Bottle. We need bigger bottles because she’s starting to need more and when I put in the formula it literally touches the cover. It’s becoming harder to mix.

6:00pm – Bunny’s in pain. Spend an hour keeping her calm.

7:00pm – Let her play. She rolls over twice in her play gym.

8:00pm – Bedtime ritual. I decide to let Shmerson handle it. Don’t know why – but I need a night off.

9:00pm – Shmerson and I eat dinner and watch an oscar nominated movie

1:00am – I’m late with the dream feed because of the movie (that needed to be paused too often).  Bunny wakes up because of it. I feel guilty but let it go – I’m getting better at that.

I give her her bottle, singing her our usual bedtime medley to keep her in sleep mode:

Easy by Faith No More

Ironic by Alanis Morissette

Hey Jude by the Beatles

Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen

and finish off with her favorite – Let it Be.

(Yes I know it’s an eclectic mix)

She polishes off the bottle. I put her in her crib but don’t want to stay. Shmerson goes in and makes sure she falls back asleep.

2:20am : I lose it. My baby girl is six months old this week. She starts day care in two days. She’s growing teeth. She’s learning how to eat solids. Time is speeding by. Too fast. I don’t want day care to start. I remember all the reasons we need to do it. But I don’t want it any more.

2:30am: Realize I spent most of the day emotionally detached because holy crap  - this is too much at once. I know this is all fun and exciting stuff. But this is it – this is the first time I truly start to let my baby girl grow, and be independent.

This is it. She’s too big. I can’t stay at home with her any more. I need to work. I need a sane schedule. No – WE need a sane schedule.

I’m so excited to see the person she’s growing up to be. But I’m already starting to miss things that just aren’t there any more.

I heard someone say this the other day (will find who and cite it soon):

Joy is grief turned inside out.

Yep. Pretty much.

This was my Friday.

3:30am – I publish this post and wonder how the hell I’ll fall asleep tonight, and how to deal with tomorrow morning’s puffy, cried-out eyes.

Joy is grief turned inside out.


Fighting a Losing Battle

25 Feb

So I don’t know about you guys, but I sometimes get really paranoid about the interwebz.

I make a living literally manipulating people to engage online (don’t worry – I never use my conversion voodoo on you guys) –  so you can say that I’m part of the problem.

But still – I’ve become a bit like one of those crazy old men wearing a tinfoil hat when it comes to what I do with pictures of Bunny. But on the other hand, I never actually stick to my own rules. So really – I’m like a crazy old man wearing a tinfoil hat who takes off that hat when he goes out in public. Or something.

Ok that metaphor totally got away from me. Back to the matter at hand.

So  - it all started with this:

This is Success Kid. He’s a meme. (Say it with me: “Hi Success Kid!”)

25 years from now, when he’s interviewing for the job of a lifetime, someone will run fancy facial recognition software on his picture and realize that this man was once a viral internet sensation. And even if Success Kid (I guess he’d really be “Success Man” at that point) gets that job, he’ll still be the “meme guy” at the office.

This is “Disaster Girl”.

She became a meme because someone happened to take a picture of her when she was making an evil “I may have done this” face with a house on fire in the background and they posted it online because they thought it was funny since it kind of looked like she set that fire.

She did not at any point set that fire.

Yet one day – when she’s up for the job of CEO of a company that manufactures fire trucks, she’ll be totally screwed.

Or if she falls in love with someone who’s got a fire phobia, that would be a huge issue in their relationship.

Or if she gets falsely accused of arson – they can totally use this picture against her.

You get my point.

Even before Bunny was born Shmerson and I were having in-depth discussions about how many pictures of her we should post online, if at all. I have thousands of pageviews a month on this blog, and he’s a mini “twitter celeb” over here – so he has a bunch of followers. We’re not huge online by any stretch – but we both have our own little bubble of followers – more than the average person. And most of them are people we have never met face to face.

Then again – those thousands of people also know our story. They follow us and know what we’ve been through. They supported us through the crap-tastic shitfest that was 2010-2013. They deserve to see the good parts too.

Then there’s facebook. Again – we have an issue there. First off – not all of our friends want to see pictures of the baby all day every day. I know how much that used to annoy the hell out of me, and how many closeted IFers and RPLers are on my friends list? And second -we’re literally creating fodder for her to be humiliated as a teenager. Think about it – would you want all of your baby pictures online for the whole world to see?

I’m not even going into their privacy policies. Those just make my brain hurt.

Then again – she’s our baby, we went through hell to bring her to this world, and we want to shout it from the rooftops.

So Shmerson and I sat down and came up with a set of arbitrary rules in a pathetic attempt to protect Bunny, but yet fulfill our duty as proud parents and show her off.

Here they are, and I assure you they are dumb and most likely useless:


When Bunny was two weeks old, we had only posted 4 pictures of her total. Then both Shmerson and I published a status asking anyone who wants to see pics of Bunny on a regular basis to click the “like” button and they would be added to a privacy setting. Any and all pics we post of Bunny are only visible to those people who “opted in”.

We’ve also asked immediate family and friends to please ask us for permission before posting any pictures of her, and to keep it to a minimum.

We’ve posted 2-3 pictures of her without privacy settings, but most were ones where her face was too small in the frame to be distinguishable.

This blog: 

I only post pictures rarely, and I use a watermark that just obscures her face in a way that it can’t be cropped out. At least I hope it can’t. I’m sure if someone really wants to they could lose the watermark, but it’s a lot of work for anyone looking to steal a random baby identity. So I take comfort in the laziness of identity thieves.  Denial is a wonderful thing.


If Shmerson posts a picture (happens very rarely), he then deletes it no more than an hour after posting.

General Rules:

Never post a picture of Bunny ANYWHERE without both parents’ consent

If it has the potential to be a meme – it never EVER sees the light of the internet in any way. That means no funny faces, no obscene gestures, no weird perspectives.

For example, here are some pictures that have been banned from the internet (and sometimes emailed to very close friends or family warning them that if they publish or share them they will face the fiery wrath of a thousand suns):

Bunny on her stomach, pinky to her mouth, making a very clear “Dr Evil” face.

Bunny looking like she is holding a joint up to her mouth

Bunny giving a “thumbs up”

Bunny looking “thuggishly” grumpy

Bunny giving the finger (there are actually several of those).

The list goes on and on.

We’ve also stopped posting anything where she is not fully clothed.

I’ve been listening a lot to the “Cracked” podcast on my commute to work. It’s really informative and funny. A few episodes ago they had a discussion about internet privacy, and mentioned this one mother who took things just a BIT too far in my opinion. They made a very interesting claim though:

That people that are now in their early twenties, teens, and younger don’t know a world where there is true privacy. “Generation X” still saw a bit of the cold war. Still studied the book “1984″ in school. We take these things seriously.

For “Millennials” these things are trivial – a part of life. Of course every minutia of their lives is recorded online. It’s just the way it is. They don’t see it as a problem or a threat. They take it as just another normal part of life.

Maybe Success Kid and Fire Girl will actually not have any problems getting hired, or finding a good relationship, or getting their depressive disorders acknowledged despite outside perceptions of their over-confidence. Whatever.  Maybe 20 years from now being a meme will be a huge selling point on the job market, and everyone will want to buy you drinks and anti-depressants.

We can’t know. So at least for now, Shmerson and I are making a very feeble attempt at finding some balance. It’s a losing battle, we know. But hey – at least we’re trying.

And on that note – I give you a glance at Bunny, because we’re overdue.

Please don’t make her a meme.


2 Years

20 Feb

He was born and died on a Tuesday

But after a while, I realized that I couldn’t hate all Tuesdays.

He was born and died on the 21st.

But after a while, I realized that I couldn’t hate all of the 21sts.

He was born and died in February.

I still hate all of February.

Last year, on February 21st, we planted an almond tree, and I went in to get my cerclage to keep Bunny safe inside me. The end of one year marked the beginning of a new journey.

This year, on February 21st, we’ll be spending the day looking for a new home for us, so we don’t have to commute so much. So we can truly have the time to enjoy our family. Another new journey begins.

Two years ago, on February 21st, my son died and was born. I guess that too was the beginning of a journey.

I hope every February 21st will be able to mark beginnings and not ends.

Tomorrow will be sad, tomorrow will be happy, tomorrow will be hard. Tomorrow will be mostly about looking forward, not looking back.

So today I want to look back. But not flash back. Look back, with hindsight, with insight.

Look back and thank my son.

Thank you Nadav for teaching me about bravery.

Thank you Nadav for making your parents’ marriage stronger.

Thank you Nadav, for teaching me that I can overcome anything.

Thank you Nadav, for giving me perspective, and making things that once seemed insurmountable now seem trivial.

Thank you Nadav, for setting up the chain of events that eventually led us to your amazing little sister.

Thank you Nadav, for teaching me what it truly means to be a parent. For making me a better parent to her.

Thank you Nadav, for making me take a moment to appreciate every coo, every smile, and yes, even every cry from her.

I think that one day, when she is old enough to understand, when she is old enough to learn about her big brother, she will thank you too.

Thank you Nadav for visiting us and giving us these gifts. I just wish you could have stayed longer.


Tomorrow, please look at the sky, or a pretty flower, or your spouse, or your children, and think of my son. If only just for a moment.

Because he deserves to be remembered.

I would give him more than that if I could.

What’s Left Behind

4 Feb

So – I’ll save you the usual apologies for being gone so long. Until we move and/or get Bunny into daycare, sporadic will just have to do. :-)

This post has been running through my head for a while, though I admit it’s still a jumble. I’m hoping that writing it out will help clarify some things.

What is left when the wreckage of the last 3.5 years is cleared?

I’ve been thinking about that question a lot lately. The last 5(!) months since Bunny was born have been a whirlwind. New job, big decisions, and of course the huge life change that is just having her here. I admit there are still days that I “remember” I’m a mom and freak the fuck out. She is still in a lot of ways an abstract to me. But she’s slowly but surely becoming a little person with her own wants needs and desires, so the abstract is gaining focus.

Last month, Shmerson and I re-watched the first two seasons of “Sherlock” (don’t be so impressed, it’s only six episodes), in preparation for the new season. While watching it, I realized that I remembered NOTHING. Not one single thing about this show, which I knew that I loved and I always categorized as brilliant. When I mentioned this to Shmerson, I noted: “We must have watched it while I was drugged up.”

I don’t think I hid this here, but I don’t think I discussed it much either: After losing Nadav I spent the better part of six months HEAVILY medicated. My pregnancy with Bunny I spent on very strong anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds, which meant I was mostly emotionally detached from everything that entire time (and it wasn’t just the meds, it was also a defense mechanism). I credit that medication with saving my sanity and my life. But it does mean that there’s a good year or so of my life that passed in a complete haze.  I started taking anti-depressants for the first time in December of 2010 – over 3 years ago – which generally numbed my feelings. I am now only taking to deal with my anxiety disorder, and I’m on a very small dose. For the first time in 3 years – I’m no longer in a haze or emotionally detached due to medication.

It gets more complicated: My first miscarriage happened just two months after our wedding. From that point on, I was a woman on a mission. I abandoned literally EVERYTHING in pursuit of a baby. In June of 2010, had you asked – I would have said that my greatest ambition was to direct feature films. I had already gotten a development grant and I was getting closer and closer to that goal. If you would have told me then that I’d abandon it all to accommodate a string of high-risk pregnancies, and then become a content manager at a start-up and actually ENJOY it I would have thought that the notion was absurd.

My first loss turned everything upside down for me, and the world has only really begun to straighten up now. There were moments during the last 3.5 years that I *thought* I had things figured out. I “made decisions” regarding my future. I “pushed on”. In hindsight – those moments were a total crock.

I spent 6 months thinking I wanted to be a teacher. I spent a year and a half teaching.

I do NOT want to be a teacher.

I went back to school to get BA level psych credits so that I could do a Master’s in Art Therapy.

I do NOT want to be an art therapist.

I also don’t think I want to be a filmmaker, though that option hasn’t completely been taken off the table. 10 years of pursuing it and 2 degrees keep it perpetually on the table.

I love my job – but I’m also not sure I want to be doing that for the rest of my life.

But this is not just about career choices.

Out of the last 3.5 years, I spent 84 weeks of them pregnant. That’s almost 20 months. Practically two years.

I spent the remainder either attempting to get pregnant or grieving a lost pregnancy, or both at the same time.

(For the sake of this argument, I’m not counting of course the 5 months I have now spent raising Bunny).

That time basically demolished me completely. Giving birth to Bunny only cleared the wreckage, and of course, I can’t rely on her to rebuild. This is about me.

I need to figure out who I am now. That’s kind of a huge deal.

The last 3.5 years have called almost all of my assumptions about myself into question. Parts of my personality that I was CONVINCED were inherent to it are now absolutely gone.

A small example: I was absolutely 100% convinced that I will always be a person who struggles to diet. Gestational diabetes changed that. I have been consistently shedding pounds since giving birth and I’m now 5 pounds less than I was before getting pregnant with Bunny. I have a good 20 to go before I reach my ideal weight, but I’m getting there, and it’s not even CLOSE to being a struggle. Patience and willpower? Ha! Small potatoes compared to the hell of a high-risk pregnancy.

Any free headspace I have these days is dedicated to two things:

1) Figuring out who I am

2) Making an effort to fix the things I don’t like about myself.

There are very few things I know about myself now. This is what I’ve managed to figure out so far:

I know I both love and am terrified by being a mother.

I know I love my husband.*

I know that I have a strong survival instinct, and I am incredibly stubborn.

I know I’m good at my job.

I know I’m a good writer (prose mostly, ok at scripts, suck at  poetry).

I know I don’t trust doctors.

I know that generally, people tend to like me when they  meet me.

I know that I have absolutely NO fashion sense, nor do I have an interest in developing one.

I know I have some serious self-esteem issues

I know that purple is my favorite color, Faith No More is my favorite band, my favorite books are the Harry Potter series, the Hunger Games trilogy, and the odd one out – “The Music of Chance” by Paul Auster. I’m a 90′s pop culture junkie and I love (modern) Dr. Who and (not-so-modern) Monty Python movies.

I know I’m a good cook, though I’m no longer sure what my favorite food is. It used to be lobster. I think it may now be french fries. Or maybe fresh-baked white bread with butter.

I know I’m a good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good daughter, and a good sister. Though in my weakest moments I question all of that.

If you’re counting, that’s basically 12 things. Everything else is up in the air.

Wait – I know one more thing: That whatever I figure out about who I am, I want Bunny to be proud of that person. I know I need to lead by example.

The wreckage has cleared – it’s time to rebuild.

* Last night Shmerson and I had a bit of a mini-fight. It ended with me explaining all of this to him. He told me: “I don’t know what you’re going to be either, but I can’t wait to find out, because I know it’ll be amazing.” I love him so fucking much.

Bullets on Bunny (see what I did there?): Holy Day Care Shortage Batman! Edition

21 Jan
  • Seriously guys – I have NO TIME. I’m really sorry for the disappearing act. I just got hired as a full-time employee rather than an outside contractor by the company I’ve been working for for the past year (yay!), and it’s awesome – but it’s not doing wonders for my work load, to say the least.
  • Which brings me to day care. Holy crap. Seriously. First of all, practically every place we’ve contacted doesn’t have any openings until September (!) which is of no help at all, considering there’s a slight chance we may not even be living here anymore in September. We’ve found ONE place that we visited on Friday, but I admit I’m having a bit of a freak out over it. How will I know if something there isn’t right? How will I know she’s being taken care of properly? Is it even possible for me to like anything that involves me not being with Bunny 24/7? We’re not planning on starting until March. But still – OMG this is too soon. We’re only going to do half days for now but I still am having a really hard time wrapping my head around it.
  • Plus – this shit’s expensive! So now I’m going to feel all sorts of pressure to “justify” the expense. I admit, it feels weird sending Bunny to day care when I work at home three days a week. I also know that it’s the best solution for my sanity. I need those few hours to GET SHIT DONE. I need a haircut. I need new glasses. We need to find a new apartment closer to work. And most importantly – I need to not be working until 1-2am every night.  It’s just hard no matter which way I look at it. The only upside is that I still have a month and a half to process it all. That is – assuming we actually decide this is the right place for Bunny. If that doesn’t happen – then we’re totally screwed. At least in the short term until we move. If we ever find the time to find a new place. Sigh.
  • I admit, I’ve been having a shitty week. One of Shmerson’s Twitter followers is in the process of losing her twins at 22 weeks. She reached out and I’ve been doing my best to support her, and I’m REALLY glad I can be there for her. Being able to help like this gives losing Nadav some meaning. But it’s making me think about him. A lot. Exactly a month from today will be two years. In a lot of ways it still feels so raw. This week he’s especially at the forefront of my thoughts.
  • On top of that, Bunny’s having a bit of a tough time. Some digestive issues (no poop talk, I promise), and I think her first tooth may be coming in because she’s been visibly in pain. I hate seeing that so much. I feel so helpless sometimes when I don’t know how to help her.
  • All of this is making me even more sleep deprived, which I think is kind of amplifying it all.
  • Ok, I didn’t mean to get whiny. Generally things are AMAZING. The new job has given me a real sense of stability after being a freelancer for so long, and I have this amazing little person in my life who makes me endlessly happy. We just need to take some steps to lighten the load on me a bit. We’ll get there in the end. Things are never perfect. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that everything is temporary – both good and bad.
  • So I’ll try to spend this week focusing on the good. (And attempting to ignore the copious amounts of caffeine I’ve been consuming. )
  • And enjoying every moment of my amazing little girl.


Hope all of you out there in bloggy-land are doing well! How are you all? Tell me in the comments!


Truly Equal?

7 Jan

Oh my, dear lovies. I know I don’t come here nearly as often as I should. Going back to work has been a total clusterfuck. For reals.

Luckily, the holiday means that things are just now starting to gear up again, so miraculously, it is Monday at 11pm my time, Shmerson is asleep (long night with a fussy Bunny), Bunny is (thank FSM!) asleep. Dishes are done. Bottles are sterilized, and I for once have an empty inbox.

Miracles do happen.

A lot of posts have been brewing for quite some time now. But I think it’s time I pull this one out.

Let’s talk a little about marriage and equality, shall we?

Not marriage equality – though I’m all about that! The other stuff. The man-woman-in-a-post-feminist-world stuff.

So let’s start with this: Anybody who reads this blog knows I have a very happy marriage. You also know that Shmerson and I have been through the ringer more or less since the moment we got married.

I admit – having gone through all the shit we’d gone through – I thought we were made of steel.

Nothing like a baby to make you think twice.

Don’t worry guys – spoiler alert: We ARE made of steel. But it took a while to circle around back to it.

Let’s break it down like this:

This month marks six years since Shmerson and I got together.

Up until Bunny was born we had exactly 4 big fights.

Yep. Four.

Since Bunny’s birth we’ve had… I think it’s been 7 but I may be off by one or two in either direction. For us, relatively speaking, that may as well be a million.

Man – a baby changes things.

The thing is each of those fights has been exactly the same: I feel overwhelmed. Shmerson doesn’t help. I get pissed off. Shmerson gets pissed off because he feels like he is helping, and what the hell am I so angry about? I explain that I don’t only need practical, physical help. I need him to be more active and present. He kind of gets it. Then it happens again and we realize that he only kind of got it, and I’m being unfair and unclear. And on and on it goes.

It was starting to feel like a never ending cycle. I’m going to unpack that cycle for you guys, in the hopes that it helps someone out there. I’m going to go into some mundane detail, but bear with me. This has a point.

The fact is, that I spend more time at home and with Bunny. I work at home 3 days a week. Shmerson doesn’t. That makes me the “primary caregiver” for all intents and purposes.

That also makes my life very very VERY hard. I work a full time job. My day starts at 7am, and most nights ends at 2am, with interrupted sleep because even though she generally sleeps through the night now, Bunny still has her moments.

The thing is, it’s nonstop. 5 hours of sleep (on a good night) after NO TIME to do anything. Ever. When I’m not taking care of Bunny, I’m working. Or running errands. Or taking care of dinner. Or working. Or working.

Yeah – I work a lot. But I kind of have to. It’s a full time job. I have NO TIME during the week. NONE.

This is a sucky situation. Nothing can be done about it at the moment because Shmerson has a 4 hour commute every day, and Bunny is still too young (and it’s way too winter) to go to day care. I know I will have an easier time once she goes half days to day care, so I’m powering through till March. But I am spent in every sense of the word.

When Shmerson comes home in the evening we split things very evenly. He gets home, spends a bit of time with Bunny and then we both give her her bath. That’s quality family time. Then he dresses her and puts her down for the night while I get dinner ready. We have dinner, and put something on the TV for an hour while Shmerson does dishes, sterilizes bottles, and takes out the dog. I usually spend this time answering emails and working. Four nights a week I take night duty – which basically means giving Bunny her dream feed and waking up to her in the middle of the night as needed, and Shmerson gets the other three nights. Weekends we try to give each other time to unwind. I usually do the shopping because it gives me some time to decompress, while Shmerson takes care of laundry and other household chores, pays bills and watches Bunny. I almost always have to catch up on some missed work. On Saturdays, he lets me sleep late, and I let him get in some afternoon naps.

So really – we’re as even as we can get right now in terms of housework and taking care of Bunny. I have to do more just because I’m home more. But Shmerson really tries to make up as much as he can on the weekends. We’re planning on moving closer to where we both work to make it easier on both of us – but that’s still far away (we need to find time to house hunt. Not going to happen until Bunny is in day care).

So in the middle of the week I’m spent. But it’s as even as it can get for the time being when it comes to the workload.

But for months, I felt like everything was on my shoulders. Everything.

Shmerson and I truly do strive for an equal partnership. But when it came to raising Bunny, there were two factors impeding this:

1) I’m a very pro-active person who likes making quick decisions, and Shmerson is generally non-confrontational and doesn’t like to argue.

2) I carried Bunny and gave birth to her.

Look – I know how that second one looks. I know that’s a wonderful thing that I should be and I am very grateful for. But when it comes to equality – it’s a huge issue.

Here’s how it breaks down: I carried her, which makes Shmerson have to “work” a little differently than me to connect to her. He connects beautifully. He’s an amazing father. But it’s a different experience, and it makes him feel “less than” me. It also fucks with his confidence when it comes to dealing with her. He’s not “less than” at all. He just feels that way because he didn’t carry her. Does that make sense?

Add to that the fact that – let’s be honest – I make most of our decisions. It’s not that Shmerson doesn’t participate. I just “drive” more. And Shmerson really likes it that way. He’s very much a “go with the flow” kind of guy. It’s a win-win. I get to be a control freak, he gets to enjoy the ride. No harm, no foul

Here’s the problem: Now there’s a third person in this equation. A whole life which WE – not I but WE are responsible for. If I’m doing the driving, and Shmerson isn’t even looking at a map, it’s on my head if we get lost.

And that’s the kicker. That’s a whole lot of weight on my shoulders alone.

Health. Education. Well-Being.

Sleep training. Feeding. Medical decisions. Watching out for developmental milestones. Vaccination schedules. Deciding what we have for dinner. Figuring out what to do with the dog when the neighbors complain. I was doing it ALL.

And it was killing me. The pressure. I felt like it was on me wholly. That Shmerson was along for the ride. Not ever driving. Not ever giving directions.

So the first fight – we realized that he was insecure. At that point I backed off and made sure to leave him alone and let him take care of Bunny as he saw fit, so he understood that I trusted him. He acknowledged my lack of time and was more respectful with taking Bunny off of my hands when he got home from work so I could have a bit more time.

Second fight – we realized that there was just more stuff that I knew. In the no time that I had I was doing research. Reading up on what to do and when. Talking to people. Shmerson didn’t know where to start on that one. So I told him to go read a couple of books to get up to speed. He started reading.

Third fight – we realized that I was making all of the decisions, and not allowing Shmerson his opinion. I started discussing things more with him, and he started coming to the table armed with information so that our discussions were informed and didn’t end with “do your research and you’ll know I’m right”.

Fourth fight – I was still making all of the decisions, though now there was informed discussion. Shmerson was more informed, but he still wasn’t “getting it.”

Fifth fight – I finally managed to put into words what he wasn’t “getting.” The fact that apart from being the primary caregiver, things were all on me. That I not only needed him to make decisions with me and to get informed, I sometimes needed him to be the one to start the conversation. To come to me before I came to him. To be active in the process of raising our daughter. He needed to initiate conversations sometimes. Make decisions without being asked (or sometimes begged) to.

The next morning, when I walked into the kitchen, I found salmon thawing by the sink.

Shmerson had decided what we were having for dinner. Without me having to ask him to decide.

I wanted to cry I was so happy. It was one less thing to worry about that day. And that’s a HUGE deal.

But there were still a couple more fights to come. We wanted to be truly equal parents. That’s effing hard when one of us is the one home more often. The one with more confidence. And let’s be honest -a complete effing control freak.

I needed to learn to let go and he needed to learn to take control. Things that are completely against our natures.

Then last night – I had my trumpets of triumph moment. I finally felt like we made it to the other side.

Bunny has been acting “off” for a couple of weeks. She’s going through a major developmental leap and is becoming way more aware of herself and her surroundings. I also think she’s started teething early because she wants to CHEW ALL THE THINGS all the time. The last week or so, sleep during the day has become a battle. She won’t go down for naps, and by the time bed time rolls around, things are insane. We’ve been using the Baby Whisperer method but no matter what I’ve tried – nap time is a nightmare.

So I’ve been at the end of my rope. Putting her down for a nap, and getting her to sleep in general has been on the verge of traumatic for me for more than a week now. It’s just effing hard. I know we’ll get past it. But it’s hard.

Last night, at 4am, Bunny decided it was time to wake up and play. She’s usually a champion sleeper at night. Last night it was a freaking circus.

It was my night, so for over an hour I tried to get her back to sleep. At 5:20 am I woke Shmerson up and told him that I need to sleep so I’m doing the worst thing ever and bringing Bunny into bed with us because I’m spent.

Then Bunny decided she didn’t like being in bed with us either and started to cry. At this point I was mechanically patting her on the back and literally begging her to sleep. That’s when Shmerson took the reins.

He grabbed Bunny and ordered me to sleep. He took her to her room and spent the next HOUR AND A HALF getting her back to sleep. By the time she was asleep it was time for him to leave for work. But I got 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep after that, and woke up to a happy Bunny. We both got to sleep late.

And when I walked in the kitchen, there was chicken thawing by the sink.

At that moment, I understood that we made it. We were equal. Finally, Shmerson took the wheel when I was too tired to drive. And I didn’t even have to ask. He just did it.

And I knew I was no longer alone.

Tonight, Shmerson came home to an early dinner and a calm Bunny (it was a miraculous day today. Naps were had). I let him go to bed early and I’m taking the dream feed even though it’s his night. I also took a break from my inbox to walk the dog and sterilize the bottles, so he could get a bit more sleep.

Because he got only 3 hours of sleep last night. And I got to sleep in.

Tonight – it was my turn to drive.

And that’s ok because I know he’ll be back at the wheel when I need him to be.

I know we’ll still have hiccups. This is a huge learning process. But I think we’re finally starting to hit a balance. We’ll never be 100% equal – things will always sway back and forth because it’s life, and that’s how life works. But the weight is now starting to be on two pairs of shoulders instead of one.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

Havaya Metakenet Redux

23 Dec

Quietly and without much fanfare, two important milestones for this blog have gone unacknowledged. A couple of months ago I published my 450th post (interestingly enough, it was my official “one month” post). I am now (slowly) crawling toward post 500.

A week ago was my three year blogaversary.

On December 16th, 2010 – just a bit after midnight (so really – exactly one year and one week ago today) I published my first post (for savvy readers, you will notice it has a very similar title to the post announcing Bunny’s birth. This wasn’t by accident).  I had no readers. I had  no idea there were other blogs out there. I had just taken my first ever, and after months of hell trying to come to terms with two miscarriages and battling depression and panic attacks, I found some clarity. I found the drive to write again.

Little did I know what I had in store for me. What those three years would bring, and the world and people they would expose me to.

I admit, even though I was broken when I wrote my first post, I still didn’t think it could get any worse. Then it did. Then once again I didn’t think it could get any worse.

And it did again.

And then I broke into a million pieces and it was this space that kept me together. But also this space that kept me remembering things I didn’t want to remember any more.

So I denied. I podcasted. I ran away.

But then I came back. I came back here because no matter what, this space chronicles and honors the most difficult journey I have ever taken in my life. And I choose to continue to chronicle it. Because the journey doesn’t end with a baby.

When you lose so much, you cannot be magically fixed.

These past few weeks have been insane. Going back to work and trying to get back to living has been a challenge. I have been in a cocoon for so long it’s been a hard road to get to know myself again. And that road is just beginning. I am slowly reclaiming my body. I am slowly coming out of the hard shell I built around myself. Slowly. Slowly.

I won’t lie to you, it’s been hard. But it’s also been amazing. It has been – finally – one Havaya Metakenet after another. If you don’t feel like going back and reading that post – havaya metakenet is a Hebrew phrase meaning “restorative experience”. I’ve been longing for them since the moment I lost my first pregnancy (that particular post was written when this blog was about 4 months old). And I’ve been striving for them since the moment Bunny was born.

I’m not sure if it’s the end of the year, the fatigue, the transitions, or all of the above that have made me count the restorative experiences that I have had in the past few months. Lately, instead of flashing back to the most awful day of my life, I have been flashing back to the most wonderful day. That in itself is a restorative experience. It’s not that I no longer remember. I remember him. I think of him. I love him completely. But Shmerson and I told ourselves long ago that he would not want us to always be sad. So I think he would be happy that he is remembered more often now in his little sister’s gaze. Not in his mother’s trauma.

Today, while striving for a new restorative experience, I realized how many of these experiences I have already had in the past 3.5 months. It has all been so overwhelming, but today, I counted them.

  • My daughter, just out of the womb, being laid on my stomach as we waited for the cord to finish pulsing. I couldn’t see her. I had yet to see her. But I felt her breathing. I had my hand on her back. I could feel her –  tangible and present. It was the happiest moment of my life up until that point.
  • A few hours later, laying in recovery, trying out of habit to count kicks. Understanding that there were no more kicks to be counted. Getting up out of bed frantically and running to the nursery, to beg them to finish their tests so that I could finally have my daughter. Standing outside the nursery at 6am, sobbing. Waiting for them to open the door. Stepping in, being lead to my daughter. Looking at her properly for the first time. Taking her in. Understanding that she is living, she is breathing, she is real. She is mine. Well – at least trying to understand it. I don’t think I fully understand it even today.
  • Every day. Every song I sing to her as I put her to sleep or as we play. Every time she follows me across the room with her eyes. Every time she gives me one of her amazing smiles. She is so generous with those smiles. Every time we have a “conversation” with her coos. She is an open, loving, warm, happy, generous little person. I cannot believe I actually had a part in making her. She amazes me every. Single. Day.

bunny with a bunny

Nadav was born and died about a month before Purim (for those who don’t know – that’s the holiday where us Jews dress up and eat candy).

I was still broken. Shmerson had just started a new job. They encouraged employees to dress up. I still could barely get my butt out of the house. But I was determined to help him with a costume. We dressed him up like Dr. Who. I even made a homemade sonic screwdriver. I stayed at home that day. Happy that some fun was had. Broken that it was had without my son. I don’t know why those two days of making that costume stick out so much in my memory. But I feel those days. The ever-present pain, wanting to break through a facade I was putting on. Trying to be happy. Trying to live, to honor him. Barely able to do it, yet doing it ferociously.

Purim is still about 3 months away. Today I started a pinterest board. I want Shmerson to dress up as Dr. Who again. I want to be the Tardis. I want Bunny to be a little Dalek.

To add another restorative experience to the list.

With the hopes of adding many more to come.

To all of my wonderful readers out there, who have stuck it out for three long years, or who have just now found me, thank you for being here. Thank you for your patience as I navigate my way through this strange new world. I hope your 2014 is full of restorative experiences.

I’m striving to make mine chock full of them.

At Least 10%

13 Dec

Updated to add – what I write about below is my opinion about what is right for ME. Each mom is entitled to her own choices. Let’s remember that in the comments section, please.

Ok bear with me here. I have to rant. So much so that even though both Bunny and I are sick, I told Shmerson he’s on his own for a little while because momma’s gotta blog.

I’ll try my best to keep it organized, but I apologize in advance if this is a little all over the place.

A couple of weeks ago I stopped speaking with a person who I considered a very close friend. We stopped speaking because I had the audacity to suggest to her that she stop breastfeeding, or at least give up some responsibility to her husband so she can get some sleep.

She told me that this was encouraging her to “be neglectful”.


Today, a person who I’ve been friends with for 17 (!) years posted an article on FB about women who are proud formula feeders and in the post, she said how selfish they are for doing it. She mentioned this didn’t count for women who tried and failed feeding. Yet still, I felt like she was attacking me. You know why?

Because there’s a very good chance, that if we manage to make it to baby number 2, I will feed for no more than a month and then purposefully quit, even if it’s going well.

Yep. That’s right. I will give my baby the very important immunizations he or she will need, and then I will stop and give them formula.

You know what else? Since the day Bunny was born, I have not missed a single shower. There are also three nights a week in which I get a good 8 hour stretch of sleep.

Go ahead. Tell me I’m a bad mom. Tell me I’m neglectful. I fucking dare you. I dare you to challenge me about not loving my child enough because I have the audacity to hand over some responsibility to my husband. To go back to work. To choose to bottle feed, because that way I am not tied to a pump or to the house, and I can take my when I need to and go back to work more easily.

And sleep through the night every once in a while.

That does not make me a bad mother. In fact, I think it makes me a fucking amazing mother.

I am painfully aware of the fact that I am the most prominent female figure in my daughter’s life. I am her primary role model. She can choose to be inspired by me, or she can choose to do everything possible to be different from me.

I can’t help but look at the relationship I have with my mother, and make the decision that I will do EVERYTHING different with my child.

My mother stayed at home. My mother gave my brother and I all of herself. Literally. Everything.

So much so that now, at the age of 64, my mother has nothing except us. She lives for us and through us.

So much so that when I am sad or upset, her reaction, before comforting me, is to say “you’re killing me.” That’s right folks – I can’t go to my mother for comfort when I’m hurting without worrying that I’m hurting her in the process.

True story.

And you know what? That is a horrible, horrible thing that is incredibly unfair to me and my brother, and puts way too much pressure on us.

My mother is an incredibly talented interior designer. She let that go to give everything to us. To this day she will skip meals if I so much as hint that I need her for a few hours. She will not sleep. She will skip doctor’s appointments. She will neglect herself to take care of me, my brother, and our children.

I hate it. I hate it so much that most of the time I avoid asking her for help if I know she has other things going on, because I don’t want her to neglect her own needs.

I’m not saying I’m not grateful. I love my mother more than anything. She is an amazing woman. But you know what the happiest times I had with her were?

The two years that she worked outside the home.

I never questioned my mother’s love for me when she worked. It made our quality time much more quality. And I admired her. She was making a good living, and rocking at her job. I learned to cook so I could help her with meals and found that I had a knack for it, which I nurture to this day. She carried herself differently. It was awesome.

Then my dad pressured her to quit and she did (they are very old fashioned that way).

And again – it was all about us. She lost herself.

I do not want that to be my daughter and I. I want my daughter to see a woman who is not afraid to take care of herself. Who rocks at her job. Who has a life independent of hers. I want her to feel free to live her life for herself – not for me – because I have a life of my own. I want her to always feel free to ask me to help her, and to know that I will not forget to also help myself.

I think anyone who has read this blog and who knows how hard I fought to bring my daughter in this world would not think for a moment to question my undying, eternal love for this little person who has entered my life after 3.5 years of hell.

Anyone who knows how I didn’t leave the house for 6 months just to keep her safely inside me. Anyone who knows that I ate the same food every single day for three months to keep my blood sugar levels perfectly balanced so as not to hurt her. Anyone who sees my face fill with pure unbridled joy at the moment I see her after being away for more than a few minutes.

But if you look at the cold hard facts of my parenting style, there are women out there who would actually call me neglectful.

Because I bottle feed.

Because I let my husband wake up for feeds 3 nights out of the week.

Because I take the time to shower.

Because I work outside the home two days a week – and yes – sometimes even stay later than planned because I’m rocking it and being really productive, and that’s important.

Because when Monty Python announced their reunion shows I didn’t think twice and I bought two tickets, knowing full well that it would mean leaving a nine month old baby with her grandparents for a few days while her father and I go to London. Because seriously – it’s Monty Fucking Python. Will I miss her? Of course I will! But she won’t remember those few days, and then when she gets older I will have an uber-cool story to tell her the first time we sit down together and watch “The Holy Grail”.

Totally worth it.

Do I miss my daughter when I’m out? Of course.  Do I sometimes think I could do a “better” job at certain things than her father or her grandparents can when it comes to taking care of her? Yes. I admit I do. But I let them do it anyway, because I realize that sometimes I need a break.

But does that make me a bad mother? Hell to the fucking no. I’m an amazing mother. I know there are times I don’t feel like I am, but when I look at things objectively, I fucking rock. I spent six months in hell to keep her safely inside me. I fought through doctors and bureaucracy for 2 months to get proper treatment for her reflux. When I spend quality time with her, she has my full attention. I never pick up a phone or look at a screen during those times. I stimulate her and educate her and encourage her and love her unconditionally. And tell her that and show her that at every opportunity that I can.

But I also love her enough to live my own life. To understand my limitations. To understand that giving her 100% of myself is doing her a disservice. I need to keep 10% for me, and sometimes even more. Because that’s the kind of woman I want her to be.

And I am her role model.

I am not her slave.

I am her mother. And I love her more than anything in the world.

And as time passes I realize one thing more and more:

Loving her – also means loving myself.

Still Here

7 Dec

Holy crap it’s been forever!

So I finally did get a new computer – but I got it exactly 2 days before going back to work, and since then it’s been complete chaos.

I always thought working at home would be easier than working outside the house. Man was I wrong. It’s sooo hard.

Shmerson spends 12-13 hours a day out of the house so it’s down to me to cook dinner and take care of day-to-day household stuff. Plus taking care of Bunny, PLUS working a full time job. I spend two half days in the office during the week, and the grandmas babysit. I actually manage to get stuff done, but then of course it’s hell being away from Bunny. Shmerson does what he can but there’s only so much, since he’s out of the house for so many hours each day.

We’re gently transitioning Bunny’s sleep routine so hopefully things will be on a bit more of a set schedule, but I’m not sure that will be enough.

I feel like I have one too many balls in the air.

We’ll be putting Bunny in day care (half days) when she hits six months and I hope that will ease things, but I really don’t want to do it before that. It’s winter, so day care at this point will basically mean taking care of a sick baby most of the time. Plus I just feel like it’s too soon.

So right now I feel like I’m not being enough of anything. Not enough of a mom, not enough of a wife, not enough at my job.

This is so so hard.

If any work-at-home moms have any advice I would really appreciate it. I feel like I’m drowning.

Bunny is amazing. We’re getting the reflux under control finally and she is so mellow and just a complete joy. I enjoy every moment I spend with her. The problem is that right now she’s spending more time in the play gym than she is with her mom. I hate it.

Anybody have a life vest out there?

Solicited Advice

7 Nov

Ok all, since my computer is now officially dead, there are only going to be short posts for the time being, even though I have a lot to say,

Bunny is nearing the end of the so-called “fourth trimester”. She just turned two months old and is becoming more aware of her surroundings.

The best piece of advice I got before she was born was that the first three months are pure survival mode. That they are truly a fourth trimester, because the babies spend most of their energy growing and adjusting to life outside.
That as long as they’re eating, sleeping, and pooping, you’re in good shape.

Just knowing that has done wonders for my sanity.

But now the clock is ticking. We’re coming up on scary stuff like sleep routines, education, emotional development, and introducing solids (while hopefully dealing with Bunny’s eating issues).

So allow me to be honest about this: I feel clueless, yet the thought of doing hours of research online or reading up on “methods” kind of goes against my instincts.
Every good thing I’ve learned about being a parent has come from observing others, learning from their mistakes when they’re willing to share them (or when they’re just glaringly obvious), and adopting the things that are right for me. So far that has been more worthwhile than reading 100 books.

For example- we keep a loud household. When Bunny is asleep, we talk in regular tones, let the dog bark, watch tv at a regular volume, etc.
I learned that little trick while marveling at how a good friend’s 4-month-old slept soundly throughout a very long very loud dog barking session.

I think implementing things solely based on theories and books is counter intuitive, and doesn’t work for the day to day business of raising a child.

So- here’s where you come in. Sometimes I whine to myself about the fact that most of you dear readers started this journey toward parenthood with me or after me, and have long since lapped me.
Sometimes that makes me a bit sad.
But this time instead of feeling like I’m running behind, I’m going to use this to my advantage!

Though unsolicited advice is hated by all mothers, I think solicited advice is invaluable. So here’s your chance: what are the things you wish you would have known going into parenting at this crucial stage? What are your words of wisdom about eating, sleeping, bonding and educating? Do you have little tricks that you learned along the way? Are there books that are actually useful that won’t make me feel annoyed or inadequate?

You don’t need to write a novel, though go right ahead if you feel like it! I’m sure each of you have one or two things you swear by. Just like I currently swear by the “loud house” and “fourth trimester” philosophies, and that would be the advice I would give an expectant mother, if asked.

So have at it ladies! Educate me.

The Painting

6 Nov

There’s a painting I made a bit after Nadav died. It’s full of abstract shapes and colors, and resonates a sort of calm chaos that’s hard to describe. I hid his name amongst the shapes, masking it, so it’s there, but only I can see it. I don’t tell anyone where it is. It’s for me and him. The painting is for him.
It hangs in our living room, right above the spot I like to sit on the couch. Where I bring my legs up and lean Bunny on them to look in her eyes. Where I sing to her and feed her. Where I comfort her when she cries.

We hung it there before she was born, just because it fit there best amongst the rest of the paintings in the space. There was no other reason.

Now that she is older;
She’s started to recognize shapes and colors.
She makes eye contact with me and smiles.

Sometimes I lift her up and try to get her to look me in the eye, and give me a smile. I find her looking right above me, where the picture hangs.

Then after looking for a while, she looks down again. She finds my eyes, I kiss her and she smiles.
And I smile back.
I’m glad she likes the colors and shapes. I’m glad it hangs where it hangs.

Mother’s Intuition My Ass

4 Nov

So Bunny’s doctor decided to let us try a new formula, this time lactose free for sensitive stomachs, until we get in to see a gastro specialist next week. Mind you, this is the fifth one we’ve tried.
So we try it. 4 feedings now and each one has been a battle. She screams and chokes and cries until I coax the contents of the bottle in. She hates it and it’s obviously not helping her reflux, but things are “flowing” again, and her tummy seems to hurt less.
Of course today is the pediatrician’s day off, so calling him is not an option.
So what the eff am I supposed to do now? Go back to the old formula that she ate like a champ but clogged up the pipes, or stick with the new one which is a nightmare to get her to eat, and makes her gag, but at least she’s digesting it well?
Everybody keeps on telling me that I’m her mother and I know best. How the eff am I supposed to know what to do in this situation?
Go one way and she suffers.
Go the other and she suffers, only differently.

And of course because I can’t make a decision, and because I’m giving her formula in the first place and not breastfeeding I feel like a crappy mom.

Apparently my maternal instincts either suck, or maybe, just maybe, I’m not a freaking doctor so how the eff am I supposed to know what to do?

Urgh. Just… Urgh.


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