I'm Just Scared: Dealing With Generalized Anxiety in Children

     Amani has been suffering from a lot of anxiety lately.  When we first moved into the house it was mostly nightmares and fears about being in a strange place. That has subsided some, but she still tells me she is scared a lot.  I've looked into ways to help her but it's a little tricky. Most books and websites I have looked at are for kids who are very shy, or are overly fearful. Amani is not shy in the least, and she is not really fearful. She is not anxious about anything. We could be driving in the car and she will suddenly say she is scared. She could be sitting on the couch playing pleasantly while I fold laundry, and all of sudden she is saying she's scared.

     Part of it is probably boredome and attention seeking, but I think at least part of it is anxiety. I have had little "anxiety storms" since I was about her age. They would come on the same way that hers seem to- unprompted, especially when I'm sitting quietly- and I said the same thing when I was little; "I'm scared".  Now I call them anxiety storms because they are not anxiety attacks, but I think they are still a manifestation of anxiety.  Anxiety attacks feel like a heart attack and last for around 30 minutes- I guess. I don't think I've ever actually had one. What I call anxiety storms are these little shudders of panic that are very intense for a few seconds, and fade after a minute or so.  I've always had them, but they are way worse now that I am an adult.  I think Amani is getting those, and she will sometimes have them all day, just like I do.

    So I have been looking for ways to help her. Whenever she tells me she is scared, I try to assure her that she is safe and that I sometimes get scared too. Sometimes I suggest taking slow deep breaths, or we turn on some music. At night we play the Indigo Dreams guided meditation from Lori Lite. Personally I like the Indigo Ocean Dreams stories the best, in case you are looking. They have been really helpful, not only to help her get to sleep, but also to have familiar terminology to talk about her feelings: "Remember how the octopus felt when he got mad?": that kind of stuff. 

     Today I saw this list in my Facebook feed. At first, I didn't have much hope for it, because, you know, Facebook forwards are usually pretty obnoxios. I'm glad I looked at this one though. The author suggests a lot of things I am already doing with Amani, but there a few new approaches to try. I think I will ask her to draw what she is upset about (#1). Although I think she just has generalized anxiety, it's possible she is fearful about something and can't explain it.  I also really like the idea of the Widdle Worrier (#35). Amani loves imaginary creatures and I could really see her get into calming a little imaginary creature. Outside of the new techniques, it is nice to see that someone out there can appreciates where I am coming from, and that I am generally on the right track.

If it's not too much trouble

Excuse me, Mom? I couldn't helped that you seem to be looking in another direction for nearly 45 seconds. Is everything okay? You weren't looking at my sibling were you? Because I really need you to help me with this problem I'm pretending to have. I'm hungry and thirsty and I need you to build me a fort. Also, my imaginary machine isn't quite making the right noise. Okay, well, I know those things can wait, but also, I need to go potty, but I seem to have forgotten where it is... 
Wait, where are you taking me?  Play with my toys? Is that a joke? Could there possibly anything more excruciatingly banal that the hundreds of dollars worth of toys and books strewn around this room?  What I really need is whatever it is you just picked up off the floor. 'Carpet lint' you say? Fascinating...
Wait, are you trying to get work done, or are you trying to be a motorcycle? Let me help you by climbing on to your back. Ahh, your right, Yelling is an effective way to relay a message. I'll be right back; I'm going to get my sibling to scream at me. 
So, hey, I was wondering, do you need to me to inexplicably scream "No" at you until I start crying, because that just happens to be my forte. Also, there's something sticky all over the carpet. I've no idea how that happened, but I thought you should know.
Okay, okay...fine. I need to think about my life choices. I'll just climb somewhere high from which I can't get down.....
Mom. For real. I'm going to need your eyes trained on me with laser like precision for a minute/hour/forever... while I...move around the house randomly... Let's make that happen.

Don't call me a liar

     Ugh!  I take it all back.  Months ago I wrote a response to an article regarding medication and the authentic self: it was all a lie.
     Okay, it wasn't a lie exactly; I still stand by what I said about your authentic self being the best version of yourself, even if that means your medicated-self.  And you definitely should look for a medication that makes you good because no one should have to feel drugged just to manage their daily lives.  There are way too many drugs out there that for anyone to have to suffer.  That's what I said and I really do believe it.
     Here's what I didn't say though: finding the right medication sucks.
     Right now I am on 90mg of Cymbalta and my mood is fantastic.  It is completely responsible for pulling me out of depression: a feat which Risperdol, nor Abilify nor Serequil could manage.  But it is not perfect.  Most notably, it gives me a really bad stomach ache about an hour after I take it.  I've tried taking it with food, I've tried taking it at night: nothing works.  So, each day we have a one hour period where I stalk around with the stance, temperament and vocalization pattern of a mountain gorilla, all while LO presumably licks the bottom of the dishwasher or something.
     If I were to follow my own advice I would be harassing my doctor to come up with something that did not force me to channel Animal Planet, and yet, the pattern continues.
     Because I DON'T WANT TO CHANGE MY MEDICATION.....
     Experimenting with medication means wrestling with all kinds of potential side effects including weight gain and mood swings, and headaches, and muscle tension, or insomnia, or exhaustion, ontop of which the darm medication probably will not work as well.  I mean, I have been trying to find the perfect medication since I was ELEVEN and this one works good enough, so...
Ugh.
Whatever.
I mean, if in three years LO begins beating her chest to warn her nursery school classmates that she feels threatened, then I suppose I'll look into what my other options are.

They're all just little grouches

     Just after graduating from college, I worked as a development volunteer for a nonprofit in Kitwe, Zambia that worked with orphans affected by HIV or AIDS. Essentially I was just a token white person that lent legitimacy to the organization, which- tragic as it may be- is a major qualification for a lot of non-profits in developing countries.

Nyuma is the little girl in pigtails all the way to the left.  So cute!

     I loved living in Zambia.  "It was amazing experience", and all the ubiquitous ululation people who have traveled abroad spout: mind expanding, humbling, learning experience..blah, blah.  All true, but not what I want to write about right now.
     What I want to write about is how, now that I am a parent, my perspective on my stay in Zambia is changing, simply because I am learning more and more about kids. Not Zambian kids, or American kids; just kids in general.
   A lot of the most moving exchanges from my time in Zambia occurred between me and my little friend Nyuma.  Nyuma was seven when I worked at Ubumi, and she did not speak very much English, but she was very, very sweet, and just absolutely gorgeous.  So in this particular exchange I had brought a few empty plastic bottles from my apartment for the kids to play with. The Center for the children did not have many toys. so the kids mostly played with blankets, empty cornmeal sacks, oil jugs, and other remnants from the kitchen.  They would arrange them out in the sand into imaginary homes, or roadways, or costumes.  Empty bottles were highly prized commodity.  Most people in Zambia do not buy things that come in a disposable container: most food is purchased unpackaged, they used bar soap; their soda comes in glass bottles; they don't use ketchup or salad dressing.  So plastic bottles were rare, but since I only had one or two bottles and all the children at the Center wanted one, they had to share.

Playing house in the backyard shed.  

     Nyuma was looking lustily at the empty bottle of shampoo that her friends were admiring.  They were passing the between them, taking deep inhalations from the top, and posing like the blonde woman on the front and giggling.
     "Today we must share the bottles, Auntie." Nyuma looked at me wistfully  "But when you go to the U.S., you will send us back bottles each one-one?"
     My heart almost broke.  I thought of all the children back in the States surrounded by toys, and these poor children cheerfully played with garbage, wishing for nothing more than a more a simple plastic bottle they didn't have to share with their friends.
     I must have told that story to a hundred people when I got home.  How sweet and humble the children are.  It was such a testament to the materialism corrupting the United States.
     Yeah.
     Let me show you something....

Call her Oscar.

     You see that?
    You see what she is doing?
     The child has $800 worth of toys and you know what she wants more than anything?  Empty bottles, plastic fruit containers, paper towels.  any empty bottle all her own that she doesn't have to share.
     There may be truth that consumerism is corrupting American society, but that story of Nyuma and her bottles, is nothing more than a testament to how much children around the world just frickin' love trash.  This should seriously effect my purchasing decisions from now on.
     "Yes, I could buy you a super deluxe playhouse, darling, but look, this package came with bubble wrap!"
     "Look, Honey.  I've finished the grocery shopping AND all got all Amani's Christmas gifts!"
     I'm telling you, if it weren't for the raised eyebrows at play dates, our toy box would look a lot different from here on out.

Lovely Poem by Walt Whitman

There Was a Child Went Forth

poem from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman

There was a child went forth every day,

and the first object he look'd upon that object he became

and that object became part of him for a day, 

or a certain part of the day,

or for many years, 

or for stretching cycles of years.

We feed the cat first

I just read this article on Babble about second kids getting the shaft.  As my mother's second child, I really don't feel that this is true, but as the mother, I can totally see it happening.  So, I am being proactive and in treating both my children equally by being as lazy as humanly possible with my first child.

It's cool.  She needs the fiber.

Observe:

• Almost all LO's clothes come from consignment shops or Goodwill.
• I consider eight hours a fine amount of time to wear a diaper.
• The 5 second rule for dropped pacifiers has been extended to a five day rule, as long as I pick off all visible dirt before putting it in her mouth.  Not that it matters because ....
• LO considers the carpet in our living room an all you can eat buffet.
• We have two baby books.  Both are completely blank that way all the children can share them.

Any confessions about your "forward thinking" in treating your children equally?

My Father the Star Wrangler

     So this week is national Schizophrenia awareness week. This hits particularly close to home foe me because, as a lot of people are well aware, my father is schizophrenic. For those of you who were not aware, that my father is schizophrenic, well, happy Schizophrenia Awareness Week. Consider your self aware.
 That's probably what one does for Schizophrenia Awareness, right? Become aware of someone who is schizophrenic, and maybe send them a basket of cheeses and cured meats? That's what I send my dad for Christmas and he really likes it.
     I can give you his address.
    Oh. Erik just pointed out that it is Schizophrenia Awareness, not Schizophrenia Appreciation Week.
    Guess I better make with the aware-i-fying.

      The whole awareness thing is good. It's relatively new, and it is good to be able to mention to people that there are schizophrenics out there who are not homeless or in prison. When we were kids, we were not allowed to tell anyone about my father's illness, which was fine with me, because I really had no idea what anyone was talking about when they said my dad was sick. He did not seem sick. I suppose he did things that I didn't understand, but adults were always doing things that I did not understand, and I never troubled my self with comparing adults inexplicable behaviors. My dad did talk to himself, but so did I; I still do actually, so there was nothing even remotely strange about that.      On the contrary. I have fond memories of falling asleep to the sounds of my mother working at her sewing machine and my father quietly mumbling to himself, and feeling as though everything was right with the world.

     I do remember the first time I was aware that my father was having a break down. My mother had gone to a family wedding in Texas and we children were left with my father, who was behaving in a very silly manner, shouting at the TV, marching around the house singing, praying at the top of his lungs. I wasn't scared. On the contrary, I think all of us kids were very excited to see my dad in such a fervor. We shouted along with him, danced in parade behind him and happily acted as a sounding board for some of his more precarious ideas.
     "What about this apple, Doll? You think this is good for eating?"
     "No Dad, that's a ceramic apple." I remember giggling, "You can't eat that."
      "No? That's not a good idea?" I laughed. I knew he was genuinely asking me, and I was delighted to be able to care for my father who very often was stoic and intimidating. "No, you can't eat that. Do you want a real apple?"
     I remember my father's face lighting up and him grinning ear to ear. "Yeah, that'd be great!"
     I was so happy to be helping, that my father's illness was more an opportunity to play and be close to him, than anything I ever would have considered a disorder. In fact, it feels strange even now to think of it that way.
      "My father's schizophrenia is a disorder."
      Yeah. That seems weird.

      As an adult, I have come to understand what schizophrenia is indeed a disorder. I know that it can be a terrifying disorder that can torture both the patient and their family. My father's path through his mental illness has been horrific at times, as it has been for my other loved ones who suffer from a similar disorders. I don't mean to make light of any of their suffering. Right now my father is working to promote awareness of the humanity of the schizophrenic. Isn't it sad that we need to remind people that though schizophrenics may behave a bit differently than the majority of society, they are still human? But it's true. Too often when we see a homeless person speaking fervently on the street, or when we hear of disturbed people committing crimes for what are clearly delusional motivations, we forget that these people are humans who are not only disabled, but who are suffering. We need to have sympathy for them.
(The sound gets better in the video after a minute or two)

Did you watch it?  Isn't my dad awesome?  Don't you want to watch the whole talk now.
Ah, then my job here is done.
Thanks Dad!  I love you!

Where's Claire Huxtable when you need her?

Recently Kelly Kapowski has been giving me a lot of parenting advice.
     Like tonight, we are on the first night of implementing the Ferber method with LO, and Kelly is all "I don't know; she's just a baby.  You've come this far without getting more than two consecutive hours of sleep.  you can go a few more months.  She's just a scared, and wants to be with you."
     And then Jesse chimes in, "She needs to learn to fall asleep by herself.  This is important for both of you!  Be a strong, responsible parent"
     Don't give me that look.
     Oh, like you don't have nineties heartthrob giving you parenting advice.
     You know what I have to say to that?  Liar: that's what I have to say to that, because everybody has the cast of Saved by The Bell in their head, and don't even try to deny it.  Well, maybe not the entire cast of Saved by the Bell, but that's not the point.  The point is that everybody has those little archetypes that they measure themselves against running through their head.  The shoulder angel metaphor didn't come from no where.
     Fine, you may think I am just sleep deprived now, but sooner or later, you are going to realize that the one voice in your head that is telling you to pack a lunch is really Mrs. Cunningham from Happy Days, and you'll be all like, OOOOHHHHH.....

     Anyway, whenever Kelly becomes the dominant voice in my head, I start thinking I need a boost of confidence.  For being head cheerleader at Bayside, Kelly was not really all that self assured.

Oh my God, I watch too much television.

     Anyway, it seems to me that a major component of depression is self doubt; well, it is a major component of   my personality, and I have always chalked it up to depression, so let's just go with that.  For example, I just spent about eight minutes, reading and rereading that last sentence because I couldn't be sure that self doubt was a symptom of depression.  I ended up looking it up.  It is.
     Or with this Ferber thing.  It's a method of teaching your baby to sleep without your help but allowing them to cry themselves to sleep at night and only checking on them at gradually increasing intervals.  It's hard to implement for any parent, but we are completely at the end of our rope.  LO hasn't been sleeping for more than three hours consecutively since December. My depression has come back, my husband has started sleeping on the couch, and I am a zombie during the day.  I know letting her learn to sleep on her own is best for both of us, but I haven't been able to commit to anything, because I am constantly seeking reassurance.  I have read five different books on sleep, seen three different specialists for help, (all who tell me she is perfectly healthy and I don't "need to worry".  Super helpful.), I have read forums, and asked friends, but I keep second guessing, and postponing my decision util I am "sure" about what to do.
     Meanwhile, there is a very high likelihood that I may fall asleep at the wheel and drive us both off a cliff.
     Or just send her "perfectly healthy" little butt to a Russian orphanage for sleep training.
     I've got to start listening to myself more, because honestly, I know her better than any one.  I gotta pull myself together and go with what I believe is best without second guessing myself all the time.  Of course, I don't know how to do that exactly.....

Baby: Queen of the Night

     I do not even know.  This kid thing man; the benefits are seriously debatable.  I love my daughter; she is amazing and cute and awesome: but the mom thing, possibly not my gig.  First of all, it is HARD.  Like hella hard.  Harder than anything I could have imagined doing in a way I could have never imagined it.  Now, apparently my child is not a piece of cake: she has reflux, so partially-digested milk regularly jettisons out of her mouth like a lawn sprinkler. She is six months and wakes up every two hours, when a lot of babies sleep through the night at 3 months.  She doesn't nap for longer than 20 minutes.  She doesn't cry as much as some babies, but she definitely cries and, MOTHEROFGOD, when this child cries it is as though she is summoning demons of darkness.

 And I am so tired.

     Before having a baby I was already kind of pathologically tired.  I have, on more than one occasion, fallen asleep while talking to someone... in person.  Not even kidding.  I used to have to pull over to the side of the road during the hour and a half drive to and from college because I would literally pinching myself to stay awake.  And its not as though I am don't sleep if given the opportunity.  I could easily sleep any span from 5-17 hours a day, and still need a nap.  So, generally speaking, I am very used to being in need of sleep.  That is kind of the space I live: Sleepyville.  I am the mayor.  Naturally therefore, my child is Wakey Wakerstein from Fussy-facelandia.  As result, I stumble through my life, confused, cranky and covered in grime, like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead that accidentally ended up on the Muppet Babies.

     Being so tired is trying on any one's mental faculties, but having depression and no sleep is just killer.   I would not say I am suicidal, but dark thoughts have definitely come back in full force.   There have been times when I believed that LO would be better off without me.  I often feel trapped, like she is a shackle that I have placed upon myself that will imprison me the rest of my life.

     I don't understand: I don't understand how moms do it.  How have we survived as a species?  How was it that the first mom did not just leave her screeching, gooey parasites by the side of the road?  Where does the strength to carry on come from? 

From her I suppose.  Because she is cute, and funny and she needs me.  Plus, you know, God forbid she beckon her demons.

A Child's Cry For Help

"So, LO, I was thinking I might go to the hardware store. How about it?"
" Nonononnonono.  That won't be happening."
"That's cool, I'll just go down and check out the Nordic trak in the basement; see if we can't get that going."
"Your kidding right? That's the most disquieting idea I've ever heard. I'm not sure how long it will take me to recover from this; I'm going to need a moment..."
"Fine. Know what? I'll just jump in the shower for 5 minutes. Be right back."
"ARE YOU INSANE?! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US BOTH?! SOMEONE, CALL SOCIAL SERVICES! THIS WOMAN IS CLEARLY SET ON PLACING US IN MORTAL PERIL!"
"So, another afternoon of sitting on the couch, bouncing then, huh?"
"Ah, yes, that will be just fine....a little gentler please...."

When it comes to boobs or money: take the money

I have been pretty fortunate to have never had trouble in the boob department; my boobs and I have pretty much always got along.  Now that I have a child, our amicable relationship continues, despite my occasional jealously that LO obviously likes them better than me.  Seriously, the child will look at me with daggers in her eyes, as though she resents my never giving her and my boobs any alone time.  "You're always trying to come between us!"

Insecurities aside, I am really lucky not to have encountered a lot of the problems women face when trying to breastfeed.  For a lot of my friends, and for so many women, breastfeeding is horrendous, if not just impossible.  Every book, movie, Oprah episode and health professional pounds pregnant ladies with the idea that breastfeeding is the crucial element in nuriting your child, leaving a lot of women despondent when they find out that breastfeeding is not exactly as it is portrayed in the La Leche Manual.  Tons of women who face difficulties either biologically or logistically end up feeling like bad moms.

Turns out, it may all be for naught.

Within the past year  scientist have found that all the benefits of breastfeeding may not be so much a result of breast milk, as it is a corollary to all the benefits of being upper middle class.  Women who are breastfeeding generally are upper class chicks who can afford breast pumps and such, or who can afford to stay home with their child.  These same moms also can afford good prenatal care, and can more easily provide good nutrition for their children once they are born.  So scientist now suggest that the ability to provide quality care for children throughout their childhood may be more important than mere breast milk during infancy; good to know for my friends who have such trouble breastfeeding.

On the other hand, an Australian study found that children who breastfeed past six months of age have better mental health than their bottle-fed counter parts.   Now, granted, I didn't actually read the study, but the but this seems fishy to me. We already know that moms who breastfeed are middle upper class moms.  The Reuters article that covered the study even noted that "The mothers who breastfed for less than six months were younger, less educated, poorer, and more stressed, and were also more likely to be smokers, than the moms who breastfed for longer. They were also more likely to suffer from postpartum depression, and their babies were more likely to have growth problems."  It seems pretty obvious to me that what the children are benefiting from is not the extended breastfeeding, but the greater access to a happier, healthier mom.

Is it just me, or could the scientist perhaps trying to conjure up an easy solution to a greater social problem?  Maybe instead of doctors and social services all pushing breastfeeding down moms' throats, making thousands of moms feel guilty and inadequate, perhaps we as a community should be taking that energy and pressing politicians for better support for families of all income levels.

Coming to terms with bowel movements

You know what's funny?  I actually feel as though I am letting people down if I don't publish to my blog regularly; as if I have this huge readership that wonders where I am if I don't update regularly, when in reality, I am pretty sure I have only one reader (Love you, Mom!).
So the battle with new mommy-hood continues.  The thing about little tiny babies, (well one of the things of many things) is that you really can't set them down...ever.  LO, like all babies, demands to be held a minimum of 24 hours a day, which which I suppose is fair, given that is what she was taught to expect while growing in the womb.  Considering that since being born she has to deal with the trauma of things like changes in temperature and bowel movements, she figures the least we can do as parents is parade her around the house like royalty.  Fortunately, I have gotten pretty adept at doing things one handed and with my feet and LO has gotten to the point where she will tolerate being in the moby wrap for almost an hour before the vomits over the both of us.  Hooray for progress!

What are you on and where can I get some: mommy hormones and me

Okay, so that last post was not the happiest I have ever written, but I am compelled to be honest about my transition into motherhood.  I feel as though one of the primary problems setting moms up to for discouragement and frustration during early motherhood is very few people talk about what it is really like to be a mom.
Think about it: no commercial uses the slogan, "Used by ambivalent mothers everywhere".  (Although I really feel that is a missed opportunity; I would totally buy whatever it was they were selling.)
Also, TV moms have this comical, zany birth, which the most ridiculous element of which is how short it is (labor the first time often takes DAYS), and at the end of which they are smiley and out of breath and gently moist with sweat, but beaming and over joyed at their new baby.  Jackasses.  I mean, who gives birth like that?
Also...why do I trust TV so much?
But it's not just TV.  Naomi Wolf, a prominent feminist who wrote a book that was intended to reveal the darker side of motherhood, actually described her child as "queenly", even as "glowing", upon the child's expulsion from the womb.  I can promise you, I did not see my child as queenly, or glowing, nor did my heart sing with our loving bond when they placed her on my chest.  Mostly I was relieved to be done with the labor, and honestly only vaguely aware of what else was happening.
I know there are moms who are attached to their babies right away and just float on clouds immediately after their babies are born, but I feel like those of us who don't experience that face a double whammy: first having a new baby but no hormonal high, and then the second blow of feeling guilty because the mom does not instantly bond with the small bodily fluid production unit that has taken over their home, time, and mind space.
There are a few moms out there that describe more of an experience I can relate to. Anne Lamont wrote a great book about dealing with being a single mom. I also liked this article from a mom honestly describing the time it took to really feel a bond with her twins.
The truth is though, most of the time it's really hard to express anything other than bliss when talking about your baby without fear that someone will call social services.  That's I left in my bummer of a post. To hell with June Cleaver!  She is over represented.  Someone needs to speak up from the disenchanted mommies group, so the negative-nelly blog post stays.

New little roommate

After nine long months, we now have a new little roommate.  She's very cute, and cuddly, but I have to say, being a mom, from the very beginning, is not exactly what I expected.
I mean, of course, the best laid plans go awry, and frankly, we should planned our plan B way more carefully.  Neither my husband or I had ever been in the hospital before, and we were completely unfamiliar with area hospitals, so when all of a sudden I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia and had rush to the hospital, we had no idea what we were in for.  While I am grateful for everything the hospital did, the process of becoming a mother for me was no where near the empowering, mother-goddess experience that I had somehow come to expect.  The stay before and after labor was degrading at best.  The labor was traumatic: NOTHING like what I was taught to expect from what I had read or heard about.  There was no rush of overwhelming motherly love; our baby did not have a halo or seem dreamlike in her debut.  Other than sheer exhaustion and relief at the labor being over, I was mostly struck at how similar she looked to a very tiny, wet, old man who had just lost a boxing match.

yeah...still super cute

As we drove home from the hospital after our five day stay, I honestly considered that guy from Alien lucky.  Granted, that guy didn't have anesthesia, but after the thing emerged from him, it ran away; no one slapped a bow on it and asked him to breastfeed.  No one tells you about the blood, and the pain after the birth.  The crying- and oh God there is SOOO much crying- and sleepless nights are not so funny or cute when you are actually going through it.
And now... well... she is still super cute, and she is kind of getting more fun, but caring for a newborn is really hard.  It's hard to write about, though.  There is so much pressure to only express bliss and joy at the arrival of your newborn, that I feel like expressing any kind of ambivalence or frustration makes me a pariah, or at minimum suffering from postpartum depression.  But I can't be the only woman who feels this way.  I find it very hard to believe that all woman give birth and meet the challenge with unendling love and patience.

Excited does not cover it..

I am fairly certain that my child is hosting a rave in utero.
It is so surreal.  I can actually see little bumps and jitters moving around my belly.  My new favorite hobby is sitting on my couch for 45 minutes at a time just watching her shake her groove thing around my belly.  So crazy.
So, I guess that means I am bonding, right?  People always ask me if I am excited, and talk about the baby like she is a person already and I never know what to say.  I mean, of course I am excited...I guess.  It just doesn't seem like the right word; it's not like I am going on a first date or meeting my favorite celebrity.  Eager, yes- I mean, I've been pregnant for two years now or something, right? 
Am I obsessed with her: redoubtably, but I think that anyone would become somewhat overly aware of a presence in their life that saps all their energy, shrinks all their clothes, and disrupts their sleep.
Am I happy about it?  Oof, too simplistic a word.  I am not happy about giving birth, I am not really looking forward to leaving work, being isolated at home, and the drop in status that I will assume as a SAHM (obviously it is not a justified drop in status, but it is a drop in status nevertheless)?  I am really not looking forward to that.
But yeah, I think I am looking forward to being a mom.
I do not necessarily love my little girl yet as a person; she is very little more to me at this point that a feeling of overly aggressive, possibly sentient gas.  And I am not really into picking out clothes or doing hair, although, that does sound pretty fun.  And its more than the fun of having a little kid in your house; I ADORE children; I live and breath them, but I know enough about them to not really look forward to having a tiny, hysterical, incontinent roommate.
Right now my little one is a little more than a promise; an expectation, but a really neat one.  I am looking forward to being responsible for her, for her to depend entirely on me, and to bonding with her as she grows.  I look forward to the changes within myself that come that I have heard people talk about as they became parents.  I am of course terrified of the loss of my selfish, shallow self, that can luxuriate with her husband and sleep in late, but when I think about it, superficial happy people are annoying.  I look forward to growing out of  my selfishness, and into one of those ferocious lioness mothers, who have their own lives but know that when the rubber hits the road, nothing is more important than her child.  The baby stuff sounds fun, but that ferocious, deep, kind of love and responsibility that alters all your perspective on the rest of the world, that sounds pretty cool.
I hope it is really like that.  I am not making this up, right?

A version of Hush Little Baby with less consumerism

You may have heard this before, but when I heard an old roommate singing it to her little girl, I just thought it was so sweet.  I finally got around to looking up the full lyrics; I almost began to cry.

Hush little baby don't say a word,
Mama's gonna show you a hummingbird

If that hummingbird won't fly
Mama's gonna show you the evening sky

When the night time shadows fall
Mama's gonna hear the crickets call

As their song drifts from afar
Mama's gonna show you a shooting star

As that star drops out of view
Mama's gonna read a book with you

When that story has been read
Mama's gonna get your warm bedspread

If that quilt begins to wear
Mama's gonna find your teddy bear

If that teddy bear won't hug
Mama's gonna catch you a lightening bug
 
If that lightening bug won't glow
Mama's gonna find you an old banjo

If that banjo's out of tune
Mama's gonna show you the harvest moon

While that moon drifts from the sky
Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby

I am seriously going to need to talk to the people at casting.

     Ugh, this is getting ridiculous.  I am not old; there is no reason I should be rapidly careening towards that stage of life wherein the majority of my time is spent complaining about health ailments or concocting conspiracy theories about the medical community. How is it that I find myself engaging in rhetoric fit for Gandpa Simpson?     It just seems like doctors were more trustworthy when I...well....trusted them more.  When I was a little kid I had this pediatrician who was so composed, collected, and spoke with such certainty that I suspect he got all his information directly from God.  He had steel colored hair, and these patient calm blue eyes; it was like he walked out of a Norman Rockwell painting.  If the man had told me that drinking Draino was my best course of action, I would have immediately done it, and I am sure that it would have worked.
     Then I grew up, as all of us do, and was confronted with the wonders of the college medical clinics, wherein any and all conditions are treated with condoms.
     Since leaving college, my doctor appointments more or less resemble episodes of House: no one knows anything, so they just going to shove things into me at random until I start bleeding anally.
     I didn't want this; I want a sane medical history where people in lab coats make sound, infallible diagnoses in calm, resonant voices, and give simple and effective treatments.  Does that happen anywhere?  Because if so, why can't I be on THAT show?  Why do I have to be on the show where medical staff shrugs their shoulders and wave their arms to the rhythm of set to the calliope music?