A Quiet Whisper ~ Dana

Me, Dad and Derek at Hotel Del Coronado in the 80s.

The days following the loss of a loved one are some of the hardest days that we live in our lifetimes. In the past few days, following the death of my sweet daddy on Saturday, mornings have been the hardest. I wake up and for the briefest of moments, I’ve forgotten. Then I remember.

Monday morning, Jen published a post about her Mother’s Day. I knew she had included something about my weekend, but didn’t know what. Turns out, Jen and her family headed to Hotel Del Coronado for the day. It also turns out that for years when I was a child, my family and I headed to Hotel Del Coronado for our vacations. My dad loved it there. It reminded him of a European hotel, and in those days, was an intimate place with impeccable service, and bellhops and waiters who met you upon check-in and greeted you by name during your stay. Right up dad’s alley.

My dad didn’t really like to sit on the beach for very long, his fair skin burning too easily, but he passed his days there playing tennis, strolling the grounds, and reading on our balcony overlooking the sand and sea.

And last summer, when dad was too weak to take our planned trip to New Orleans, we retreated to the shores of The Del once again. Instead of the Mississippi River, we walked along the Pacific Ocean, hand in hand, talking of everything and nothing all at once.

Whether it was God, fate, Universe, Spirit, or just coincidence that led Jen and her family to Coronado, I don’t know. Maybe it was a quiet whisper from my dad that things will be ok, even though right now it doesn’t feel like things will ever be ok.

But for the rest of my life, I will listen for his whispers, see his hand watching over us, and always remember my sweet dad with a tearful smile.

For You and For Pam and For Me ~ Jen

Dana’s dad, Allen Builteman, passed away on Saturday, May 11, 2013.

Dana might tell the story someday. It’s beautiful. He died peacefully surrounded by the ones who loved him most.

Dana and I had big plans for Mother’s Day on this blog. We have amazing moms. We were going to talk about them.

But then Allen got so sick. And my mom, God bless her, said “Spend the day with your family. We’ll celebrate my Mother’s Day another day”. So I am not going to talk about my mom, Terri, or Dana’s mom, Pam. This week has brought us a little too close to the sacred space of parents, and there just aren’t good or adequate words for us right now. I’ll ask you to pray for them, though. Especially Pam.

When I talked to Dana yesterday morning, she said to me “Have a happy Mother’s Day for me.”

Ok, I thought. I will, dammit. For you and for Pam and for me.

So we went here.

This is Coronado, Ca, one of my favorite beaches in the world. It’s worthless during the month of June and half of July because of gloom. But May can be beautiful.

And this is the world famous Hotel Del Coronado. The Del is over 100 years old and one of the largest all-wooden buildings in California. The lobby is unbelievable. And yes, it is haunted.

The water was Hawaii clear. This is not normal for California. And my legs are not that white. It’s the Instagram.

It never fails that every time we go, Kate will scream “MOM! GOLD!!!” I don’t know what that is in the sand and I am too tired to look it up. But it’s cool.

Lastly, there’s this. I think the Del owns the beach in front of the hotel and they oh-so-nicely put a bar right on the boardwalk. So we got these. Seemed right.

For Allen. For Dana and for Pam and for me. For Terri. For all moms. For all dads. For that sacred space that is our parents. For the love of God.

And for beautiful days at the beach.

Postpartum Anxiety: It’s Not Your Fault. You Will be Ok. ~ Jen

This post comes with a warning. May is Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month. I am going to talk about some dark moments after the birth of my third baby. If you are feeling sad or scared today, you might not want to read this. If you need immediate help, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

This is the most important thing I have ever written. And I am asking you to share it with everyone you know.

Last year, after the birth of my third baby, I had postpartum anxiety/OCD, bad enough that I needed intervention, meds and therapy. It started in my third trimester, but leveled me at four months postpartum, which is prime time for this kind of thing.

Annie hit a growth spurt and wanted to eat every two hours. At first, I was able to fall back asleep at night. Then one night, I didn’t. It happened again the next night, and the next.

After a few days, Annie settled down. I did not.

It was like a switch had been flipped and locked to “ON”. She would go down at 8 and sleep until midnight or 1. I watched her, heart pounding, thoughts racing, songs playing over and over in my head.

I just knew that the moment I fell asleep, she would wake up.

I started having 10 pm meltdowns, pacing and sobbing. I’d eventually tire myself out, and sleep for a while.

I felt like a mirror that had dropped and cracked into a thousand lines.

My primary care doctor was hesitant to prescribe anything because I was nursing. The pediatrician said she would really prefer me to “Try a hot bath and a warm cup of tea”.

Her complacency lulled my husband Shea, but I knew I was in trouble. It was hard to ask for help in the first place, and it seemed that no one was listening. I felt so alone.

Then this day happened:

I had not slept more than two hours together for a week, and the previous night, not at all. I was in a place where the fear of not sleeping actually powered me through the day. It was the third day of Shea’s new job, so even though he was worried, he had to go. My parents were in Europe. My girlfriends were here, but I had lost the ability to communicate.

I took my kids to the mall. My phone rang, but I ignored it. I sat at the playground, holding the baby, thinking that my kids were the only ones who loved me. They were all I needed.

On the way home, I thought about driving right on through and disappearing. That would show everyone who was against me, which was clearly everyone.

But then a jolt of fear ran through me that even if I ran, I would still not sleep.

I thought I cannot live like this.

Then I thought I cannot leave my babies alone.

And far, far, far away from this being a reason to live, I suddenly understood how it is that a woman kills her children before she kills herself.

She cannot live like this anymore. And she will not leave her babies alone.

It never went beyond that flash of understanding. But the fact that the path from here to there looked like level ground was terrifying.

I came home, said a prayer and sent an email to my friends. One of them said “Call your OB”. Dr. Selinger told me to come immediately. She held the baby. She gave me a prescription for Zoloft, assured me that it is ok for nursing moms and told me to call Postpartum Support International (PSI). She said none of this was my fault, and I was going to be ok.

The first lady I spoke to at PSI spent 45 minutes on the phone with me while I sobbed, telling me none of this was my fault, and I was going to be ok.

One of their therapists called me on a Saturday—she talked to me for an hour, told me that none of this was my fault, and I was going to be ok.

She gave me the name of a counselor skilled at handling post partum issues. Lisa returned my phone call that same day, Saturday. She too told me none of this was my fault, and I was going to be ok.

Lisa is trained to deal with postpartum issues. She helped me see how much my family history of anxiety and OCD, and my thyroid issues, played a role in what happened to me. It really wasn’t my fault.

And now I am ok. I am more than ok. If I ruled the world, everyone would take Zoloft. I didn’t realize how much of my life was affected by anxiety until it eased.

Shea went into counseling as well—something suggested by the folks at PSI, where they have an entire section dedicated to helping the husbands. What we went through was traumatic, and our marriage and trust in each other needed some healing.

I really believe that after calling your OB/GYN, PSI is the most important phone call a mother, husband or family member can make. They will help you. They helped my cousin, in Canada. She called because she knew I was not right, but she didn’t know what to do. They told her what she could do. This organization is phenomenal. They are saving lives.

I’m not ashamed that I was broken, or of those very dark and scary feelings I had. No one should be ashamed.

May is Postpartum Depression/Anxiety Awareness Month. Postpartum depression and anxiety affects over a million women a year, almost 20% of those who get pregnant. It can happen to anyone, across cultural, socio-economic and educational demographics.

If a pregnant or post-partum woman tells you that she is hurting or sick, listen to her. She is asking for help AND warning you. Don’t hope that she will help herself. She probably can’t.

Not all counselors are created equal. PSI can find you someone skilled at handling PPD/PPA. I believe this is really important. Lisa knew how to help me.

If it is happening to you or someone you love, call this number: 1.800.944.4773 (US and Canada).

Visit this website: www.postpartum.net.

Email support@postpartum.net

Tell your OB/GYN.

It’s not your fault.

You will be ok.

<div align="center"><a href="http://postpartum.net/Join-Us/Maternal-Mental-Health-Awareness-Month-Blog-Hop.aspx" title="PSI Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month Blog Hop"><img src="http://unexpectedblessing.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/psi-blog-hop-badge.png?w=104" alt="PSI Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month Blog Hop" style="border:none;" /></a></div>

Natural All-Purpose Cleaner ~ Dana

After I started making my own laundry detergent, the homemade, all-natural bug bit me. I researched basic kitchen and bathroom cleaners and found that the chemicals used for the production of non-natural cleaning products include neurotoxins, carcinogens, heavy metals, and depressants. They are great at cleaning up messes, but can also cause respiratory problems, allergic reactions, cancers, trigger asthmatic attacks, and reproductive problems (GrabGreenHome.com). Ew. I don’t want that stuff in my home, around my kids, and touching our food.

An easy non-toxic cleaner I use every day is this simple all-purpose cleaner from wellnessmama.com. It’s a great kitchen cleaner, bathroom cleaner, and can it even disinfect toys after the kids have been sick. And unlike its commercial counterparts, you do not have to rinse it off of the countertop. That little-known nugget is in the fine print on most cleaners. Yikes.

If you’ve made the laundry soap that we posted last week, you already have a couple of the ingredients.

In a spray bottle, mix:

1 tsp borax

1/2 tsp washing soda

1 tsp liquid castile soap

Essential oils – I use 4 drops lemon (antiseptic), 4 drops lavender (antiseptic and anti-viral), and 10 drops orange (antiseptic)

Add 2 cups of warm water. Distilled is best, but any water that has been boiled will work. Cover bottle and shake well. Use as needed.

The essential oils can be purchased at most health food stores, like Clarks Nutrition or Sprouts here in Southern California. Sometimes if I’m not going to make it to one of these stores for a while, I order the oils on Amazon.com, too.

One thing that I am discovering with most of my homemade cleaners is that I need a bit more elbow grease when using them than when I clean with chemical cleaners. And that makes sense, doesn’t it? So by using it, you’ll be healthier and your arms will be toned.

For tougher jobs like the stovetop and microwave, I keep a spray bottle filled with half distilled or boiled water and half white vinegar. The acidity of the vinegar breaks down grease better than the all-purpose cleaner. And don’t worry; the vinegar smell doesn’t last long. I promise.

A Good Mammoth ~ Jen

The other night Gabriel was reading to me. It was a “free read” night and he had picked a Step up to Reading version of Ice Age 3.

We’re on the bed, and I’m trying to nurse Annie, who is treating me like a free refill bar at a fast food restaurant. I’m listening-ish. He reads that Manny, the Mammoth dad, and his teenage daughter Peaches, don’t really get along. Peaches yells at her dad “You can’t control my life!” Manny yells back “I’m your dad! It’s my job to control your life!”

Yikes. This needs a clarification, I think as I wrestle Annie to the floor and send her off to Dada.

But before I can say a word, Gabriel says “I think they are both wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Peaches is wrong” he tells me. “If she’s going to live with her dad, she has to follow his rules.”

“Yes.”

“And Manny is wrong. It’s not his job to control her life.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s his job to raise her to be a good mammoth.”

Oh man.

We don’t have teenagers yet. The closest thing we have is my friend’s nine year old. But they are coming, a giant clump of kids who will go through puberty within five years of each other, God help us.

I was not an easy teenager. I was smart and mouthy. Some would call me deceptive, but I would say that I ran excellent public relations campaigns. My parents were on a need to know basis. They needed to know about my excellent grades, outstanding athletic accomplishments, stellar babysitting reviews. What I did on Saturday night was my affair.

My father says if there is any justice in the world (when he says it you can hear the italics, I promise), I will get what I gave times three.

I survived with a clean record and all my limbs intact for one good reason: my parents did a good job. They laid a solid foundation of values and fear—you need both to parent effectively, in my opinion. When good sense didn’t stop me from being a dumbass, fear of the consequences usually did. Or at least prompted me to have a back up plan.

Because my parents were not playing around. I once got put on restriction an entire semester for being the designated driver. I argued this was unfair based on the fact that I was being the responsible one. They argued that we were all 16 and if they had their way we’d be locked up in a convent, so I should shut my mouth while I was ahead.

I understand a bit now how hard it is to raise good kids. Sometimes, every fiber of my being wants to raise safe kids in pretty cages. I’ve seen parents try to control their children into safe adulthood by anticipating every pitfall and negotiating every hardship.

But I know what that looks like at age 16—kids who are champion whiners, have no initiative and no ability to solve their own problems. If I had a dime for every time my dad told one of us to “use your head”, I’d be a rich woman, but that was much better than “I’ll do it for you”.

One of the most famous stories in our family goes like this: when my brother was in high school, he got a flat tire on the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic. He managed to get the truck off the freeway, but it was so old the spare tire was long gone. He called my dad to get some help. My dad listened to him and said “Call AAA and have it towed. I’m busy.” Click.

How many parents would have the guts to do this today? Strand your 17 year old? Not really stranded, because he had a AAA card in his wallet. But he had to handle the whole thing himself, which he did. To this day, when one of us hits a place where we don’t know what to do next, someone will yell “Call AAA and have it towed!”

As much as we give my dad a hard time, he was right about making us figure it out. And now, here we all are, successful adults.

So I’m going to try to remember: At some point it won’t be my job to control, negotiate and anticipate anymore. As they get older, it’s my job to teach them to do these things for themselves. I want them to go out in the world and be happy, contributing, moral adults.

I want them to be good mammoths.

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