Baby Squared : parenting and depression

Thankful

Roper — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 13:00:00 GMT

I could offer up a predictable litany of things I'm thankful for -- my family, my friends, my health, my relative financial security, the results of the presidential election, etc. etc. But let's face it: that would be kinda boring. So, I thought I'd mention ten of the stranger and less obvious things that I'm thankful for this year, while attempting to stay within the topic(s) of this blog. In no particular order:

1. I'm thankful that I'm not pregnant. Right now, so many of our friends are having -- or gearing up to have -- their second child. I'm terribly happy for them, but every time I hear the news, I can't help smiling to myself and thinking: thank GOD it ain't me! I never wished or hoped to have twins, but I did always want two children, and now that I've had them both in one fell swoop, I'm really appreciating the efficiency of it. I get tired just thinking about going through the whole newborn-sleepless-nights-constant-nursing thing again, so soon. And I can't imagine having both a toddler and a newborn. Then, I guess I automatically think about what it would be like to have two toddlers and a newborn, since that's what I would have. And that would obviously be a lot crazier. But still. I'm very happy not to be expecting. (Congrats to all of you who are -- I'll bring you a casserole.)

2. I'm thankful that Elsa and Clio are such good sleepers. Except for Clio's occasional nap boycotts and early wake-up spates, the girls really are amazing. They sleep twelve hours every night with little or no night waking, and take a two-hour nap after lunch. This means that we can pretty much count on having an evening to ourselves, get a good night's sleep, and have a bit of a break in the middle of each day. I am very much aware that this won't last, and am therefore very consciously grateful for how somno-rific life is now. (Another reason for #1 on the list.)

3. I'm thankful for PBS's Curious George (and being able to DVR it). I don't know what it is about that little monkey and the enigmatic man with the yellow hat (How old is he? Where does he work? Is he gay? Why the hat?), but that show, like no other, can get the girls to chill out, calm down and laugh in the midst of even their crankiest, whiniest, most exasperating moods. It leaves them much mellower afteward, too. Whatever works, right?

4. I'm thankful that I finally got a permit parking space at work. Because now I don't have to deal with the parking garage and the 10 minute walk from the garage to the office, which is particularly horrible in the dead of winter, when the wind is whipping in off of Boston harbor. And it may sound ridiculous, but even just 15-20 minutes of extra time per day in my jam-packed life feels like a major bonus. That's over an hour per week! The thrill will wear off soon, no doubt -- probably the first time I have to go out and scrape seagull poop and/or ice off my windshield. (The one disadvantage of not parking in a garage.) But for now, I'm enjoying the novelty.

5. I'm thankful for fruit, and the fact that it is somewhat nutritious. Because there are days when it is literally the only non-carb food that I can get Elsa and Clio to eat. Apples, grapes, oranges, bananas, melon, canned peaches, pineapple, pears -- you name it. They will devour it happily. I really need to start getting more creative about hiding vegetables in stuff. Luckily -- inexplicably -- the girls are also quite fond of broccoli, so at least we get some of that into them fairly often. But easily 50% of their food intake, in terms of sheer mass, has got to be fruit. (And Elsa still gets constipated.)

6. I'm thankful for online bill pay, self-scanning and checkout at the supermarket, drive-up ATMs, prescriptions-by-mail, and all the other conveniences of the modern American consumer landscape that actually save time and make life easier. (Hm. I think I just plagiarized a brochure I wrote once for a client at work....)

7. I'm thankful for antidepressants. Even though they have not been as effective for me this year as they have in years past, I still don't know how I would get by without them, or the hope of recovery that they offer. Not that I don't appreciate the value of things like exercise, nutrition, positive thinking, therapy, B vitamins and all the rest in managing depression. But at the end of the day -- fork over the pharmaceuticals.

8. I'm thankful that Elsa and Clio are finally past the phase of putting everything in their mouths. Except for crayons, play-doh, rocks....OK. Maybe they're not entirely past that phase. But they're a lot better than they used to be. As a result, we don't have to be constantly moving things out of their reach. It also opens up a new realm of play possibilities. The Bean Box, for example, would not have been possible a few months ago. We still have to keep our cat's food and water dishes up on the kitchen table where the girls can't reach them, but I'm hoping that in the near future we'll be able to get it through their small heads that the kitty's food is not for them, and put the dishes back on the floor. (Because I'm not kooky and eccentric enough to love the idea of cats on the kitchen table.)

9. I'm thankful that my parents agreed to take the girls overnight this Friday. It's going to be Alastair's and my first-ever night together away from the little 'uns. We're staying at a B&B in Camden, Maine -- one of my favorite places in the world -- and have dinner reservations at a restaurant on the harbor that is supposed to be fantastic. Throughout the many years of our relationship pre-children, one of our favorite things to do was walk aimlessly around towns and villages of the "quaint New England" variety: Bar Harbor, Portsmouth, Marblehead, Northampton. I am extremely excited to have a chance to do it again -- although, no doubt, all we'll do the whole time is talk about Elsa and Clio.

10. I'm thankful for you, my readers. For the advice, opinions, questions, support and community that you offer up here. Not to mention your tolerance and appreciation of my somewhat erratic blogging style. Have a safe, happy and otherwise excellent Thanksgiving. See you next week.

The Bean Box, and Other Delights

Roper — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 21:29:00 GMT

Phew. Just made it through an entire weekend -- well, Thursday afternoon through today -- on my own with the girls, temperatures outside in the 20s, without going insane.

Knowing Alastair was going to be away, that the weather was not going to be outdoor-activity-friendly, and that I was fighting a cold and a potential backslide into depression (I won on both fronts -- Yahoo!) I planned out the whole weekend ahead of time. I lined up a trip to our local family network's drop-in playgroup, a playdate, a birthday party, a few hours of sitter time, and a friend over for takeout and a movie one of the evenings. It may sound a little anal and ridiculous, but I've decided that planning really is key to not going nutso over the weekends, especially when the weather sucks, and double-especially when Alastair is away. Structure, structure, structure!

I also created a new indoor "toy" for the gals, inspired by some of the suggestions you offered up in response to one of my posts from last week: the Bean Box. It is, as you might suspect, a box full of dried beans (I know; clever name, right? I'm a writer and stuff.) It's something of a variation on the indoor sandbox idea, except it doesn't take up as much room, and can be put away when playtime is over. Here's what you do: take a shallow box of some sort and put it on the kitchen floor, dump a few bags of dried beans into it (I used chick peas, kidney beans and intriguingly speckled Romas), add bowls, shovels, scoops and other containers, and you've got yourself at least a half hour's worth of toddler-tainment.

(A wine case for all seasons: it has served as toy box, stepping stool for the girls' climbing structure, and now -- the Bean Box.)

Bonus: only minimal parental involvement is required with the Bean Box (tm). I played with the girls for a little while, showing them how to scoop the beans into bowls, pour them from one bowl to another, etc. but they were just as happy to sit and play on their own. I just occasionally intervened when there were getting to be more beans on the floor than in the box.

That's the one drawback of this activity: It's kinda messy. But in a relatively clean way. You just sweep the beans up, along with whatever else is on your kitchen floor, dump 'em back into the box, and go back to your magazine or your cup of coffee or your Facebook account or whatever.

If the box is big enough, your kids can also play "bath" in it, as demonstrated by Elsa, below.

The Bean Box (tm), if nothing else, is pretty sound evidence that I am out of my depression. A few weeks ago, I would never have had the motivation or creative capacity to do even something as basic as this. Or, if I had done it (which I wouldn't have), it would have felt like a miserable and exhausting trial: I have to go to the STORE to buy beans? And then figure out what to put them in? And then...ugh...CLEAN THEM UP? The very thought of it would have nauseated me.

But in reality, I am totally the kind of person who would cheerfully whip up a Bean Box (tm) for her kids, and reap satisfaction from its success, as I am doing now. It's great to feel like that person again.

T-I-M-E O-U-T

Roper — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 02:30:00 GMT

You're probably all familiar with the need to spell out certain words in front of your toddlers once they pick up that pesky habit of understanding English. Woe to the parent who foolishly utters the word C-O-O-K-I-E without the intent of immediately handing one over to any small child within earshot. And don't mention that you're going to take your kids to the P-L-A-Y-G-R-O-U-N-D unless you intend to go THAT VERY SECOND.

But certain words, you would think, are safe to say aloud -- things that kids aren't interested in, like "credit card," "recycling," or "corkscrew." Or things that pertain to them, but that they don't find particularly appealing and aren't likely to start begging for, like "crib" or "time-out." Right? Well, yes. Except ixnay on that last one in the Baby Squared household.

We've been attempting to institute the practice of giving the girls a "time-out" when they push or hit each other, throw food on the floor, or grab toys away from each other in a patently aggressive manner. We haven't had to do it that many times, and when we have, it has tended to be with Elsa.

Unfortunately, the girls don't quite seem to grasp concept of a time-out. That is to say, they LOVE it. They seem to think it's some kind of cool privilege to get to sit on a chair by the window and do nothing. Which is why, if Alastair and I want to discuss the topic of time-outs in the company of Elsa and Clio, we have to avoid the word itself, lest we are faced with two toddlers whining and begging for a time-out.

Obviously, it doesn't work terribly well as a threat, either. The other day, when Elsa was throwing food onto the floor and I warned her that if she did it again she'd get a time out, she started saying "Time out! Time out!" and pointing over at the time-out chair. What was I supposed to do? Punish her by NOT giving her a time-out? Then, of course, Clio wanted a time-out, too. So, after helping Elsa down from the time-out chair (in spite of her protests) I let Clio sit there too. Clio also wanted her baby to have a time out. "Baby sit? Baby time out?"

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have let them have time-outs for "fun." (Let alone document the incident on film for blogging purposes.) But it was either that or let Elsa sit there and whine and/or continue to fling food, and then risk a Clio meltdown because we didn't let her have a "turn" at timeout. We've been working so hard on the idea of taking turns; how is she supposed to understand that she gets a turn with toys, but she doesn't get a turn at the awesomecool time-out game?

I suppose this is mostly a function of the fact that the girls still find it highly exciting to sit in "grown-up" chairs --- or any chair, for that matter. I'm wondering if it might help to move time-outs to a less appealing, more out-of-the way location. On the floor in the front hall? On the stairs? This would also help solve the problem of the girls bringing each other toys while they're on time-out. (Gates can be closed.) But the challenge, then, is being able to keep an eye on both girls at once. And, ironically, they would be far less likely to actually stay in time-out if it was somewhere they didn't like. See the vicious circle?

And then sometimes I wonder if they're just not ready for time-outs at all. But I feel like we have to start enforcing some kind of consequence for bad behavior, beyond just scolding and explaining, which doesn't seem to have much staying power. Ah well. It's not like they're shoplifting cigarettes or sniffing white-out, or whatever it is the kids are into these days. Hopefully, by the time we get there, we'll have put a little bit of the fear of God into 'em.

Finally, for those of you following the ongoing, not very dramatic saga of this depressive episode I've been having (sorry, couldn't think of a better segue. Something about spelling out S-S-R-I ?) here's the update: I don't want to jinx myself, but I have had two and a half solid days now of feeling darn near like myself. I wouldn't say I'm at 100% yet, but definitely somewhere between 80 and 90%. And God, it's great. It's kind of like being in zero-gravity all of a sudden. Simple, everyday things that were painful to undertake a couple of weeks ago -- making dinner, chatting with co-workers, putting the girls to bed -- seem suddenly, amazingly easy; even pleasant.

And the more serious things that I missed -- having the urge and ability to write (other than here), being able to joke around and be affectionate with Alastair, being able to be a more fully engaged, silly, loving Mom -- feel almost miraculously satisfying. I guess in some weird, backward way, that's a perk of depression? It makes you appreciate just how great life is when you're not depressed (even if not everything your life is great).

I've said it in my comments, but I'll say it again here, because I know not everyone reads the comments: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your support, advice and understanding -- silent and otherwise -- as I've struggled through these past weeks. It helps immensely. (And I am so happy to know that I may be helping a few other folks out there, too.)

Rain, rain, go away.

Roper — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 16:09:00 GMT

And please don't come again another day. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep two nearly-two-year-olds occupied when playgrounds, petting zoos and the back yard are off the table? Do you know that with the exception of going to the library (30 minutes' entertainment, tops) or to someone else's house for a playdate (which requires painstaking advance scheduling and hopes that everyone is germ-free) toddler-friendly indoor activities generally require dropping serious amounts of cash?

It was (yet another) mostly rainy weekend here in the Greater Boston Area, and we were challenged accordingly to figure out things to do with the girls to keep them and ourselves from going stir crazy. It went a little something like this:

On Friday morning, we had a legitimate errand: we went on our first official preschool visit. (!!) That was great, and the girls totally dove right in, playing with the toys, climbing in the play area, etc. But all told, it took up about an hour. Legos, Play-doh, crayons and Sesame Street got us through to lunch and naptime. In the afternoon, while I took my requisite depression sufferer's 2-hour nap (my little mid-week mood boost didn't last), Alastair took the girls to our nearest indoor play gym, Together in Motion, along with every other parent in Arlington, Somerville, Cambridge and Medford. He came back looking rather like Wile E. Coyote after a TNT mishap.

On Saturday morning -- still raining -- I suggested we go to the mall. For no other reason than it was somewhere to go. As it turns out, a mall is a good place to go with toddlers. The escalators were a source of endless fascination. There were lots of loud, battery-powered things to play with in the toy store and a play table in the Lego store. We skipped the play area at the food court, which was swarming with kids (we clearly weren't the only parents using the mall as a source of rainy-day entertainment) and wandered down toward Santa's prematurely erected holiday photo/torture compound (I'm pretty sure that's what it's called) where there was a string quartet playing (premature) holiday music. The girls loved that -- they danced and spun around and clapped, looking like wind-up toys.

We also attempted lunch at the mall's Rainforest Cafe. This was against our better judgement, but it just seemed to be going so smoothly -- the girls loved the big fish tanks and all the monkeys and birds and things hanging from the ceiling in the waiting / retail area. We were seated fairly quickly, and there were free crayons, which the girls were totally psyched about. But right after we'd sat down, all hell broke loose, in the form of a simulated "storm." Thunder, lightning, mechanical apes bellowing, birds squawking, pythons hissing. Clio and Elsa totally lost their shit. We carried them out screaming, and retreated upstairs to the brightly-lit, gorilla-free food court, where a rotating billboard sign was all the entertainment they needed: Doggie! (An ad for some new Disney movie) and then a few seconds later, Shoes! A few more seconds -- Doggie!! Shoes! Doggie! Shoes! Who needs animatronic snakes and $12 hamburgers?

I had the girls on my own all afternoon, and we managed to keep ourselves entertained between board books and Curious George and a visit from a friend of mine. But when the sitter arrived at 5:30 so I could go to Alastair's early gig at a local bar, I was out of there like a shot.

We had a plan in place for Sunday: we'd borrowed our friends' passes to the Museum of Science, and planned to spend the morning there, then Alastair would take the girls for the afternoon, when the weather was supposed to improve. The MOS is a great place to bring kids -- the Discovery Center area is a total hands-on, toddler and kid-friendly smorgasbord of fine and gross motor skill fun. Other areas of the museum have live animals, tons of interactive exhibits, etc. Again, crowded, and expensive if you don't have a membership (or a friend's membership to bogart). Also, definitely a two-parent activity if you've got twins. (Like so many things.)

Unfortunately, our museum visit was cut short on account of my mental health, or lack thereof. My doctor recently prescribed another drug to help "boost" the effect of the antidepressants I take, since the increased dose doesn't seem to be working, and I had taken the first one the night before. All day, I was like a zombie. Seriously, I felt like I'd been lobotomized. I was going through the motions of normal life, but it was like I was controlling a video-game version of myself. I had no inner monologue, no desire or motivation to do anything. I was also drowsy and slightly dizzy. It seems crazy that one pill could have such an effect, and maybe it's something that would have lessened over time, but I would rather look at other options before willingly taking the undead route.

Anyway.

I will end this rather rambly post (I think I've still got a bit of a zombie hangover today) with a plea to you, my ever-wise and helpful readers: what do YOU do with your toddler-ish kids when it's rainy / cold / etc.? Low-cost and Boston-area-specific ideas are particularly appreciated, but all are welcome -- even novel at-home activities. Things that one parent alone can handle with twins are also particularly helpful. And while you're at it, how about solving the global financial crisis? Thanks!

Here we are now, entertain us. (Inside.)

I like these guys. They're funny guys!

Roper — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 21:15:00 GMT

First person to get the title reference gets a big, virtual high-five. (No Googling allowed!)

In this post, however, I'm referring to Elsa and Clio, who -- as I was reminded yesterday -- are two very funny little girls. Exasperating at times, yes. But also extremely entertaining. Clio seems to actively try to be silly, with funny faces and noises and goofy antics. Her humor tends toward the absurdist. Last night at dinner, for example, she decided it was very funny to pretend she was asleep.

Elsa doesn't work the comedy angle quite as intentionally as Clio (though she thinks Clio is a riot); she just does things that happen to make us laugh. Example: in the past few days, she has discovered how to use her eyebrows. So now she periodically makes this absurd frowning, glaring face that makes her look like a cross between Bonnie Blue Butler and Sam the Eagle. (I'm just full of outdated pop culture references today, aren't I?) She hasn't yet started connecting the expression with anger or sulkiness. She just does it randomly, as she did several times last night during dinner:

The other funny thing they're doing is adding the suffix "-bama" (as in O) to other people's names. When we ask Clio, "Who's the president?" (yeah, yeah, president-elect) she will usually say "Brock-o-bama." But then she'll frequently launch into "Mommy-bama, Daddy-bama, Sessa-bama, Kio-bama..." Just goes to show what a good campaigner Obama was, I suppose. Even toddlers got the message that the election wasn't about him. It was about all of us!

They have also learned the word "funny," so now when we laugh at something they do or say, they'll often say "funny! funny!" When they're a little older, we'll explain to them that a good comedian doesn't point out her own jokes. But for now, we'll let it slide. It's just good to see that our kids appear to be as appreciative of silliness and humor as their parents are. Laughter has always been a big part of Alastair's and my relationship, and I hope that it will always be a big part of how our little nuclear family relates, too. (With the understanding, of course, that for several years in their teens, the girls will probably think that NOTHING we say is funny.)

Yesterday was really the first time in several weeks that I was truly, genuinely able to enjoy and appreciate the girls' company; to laugh and be playful with them. Not that I haven't remembered throughout this spell of depression that they are sweet and fun and all the rest. But one of the symptoms of depression -- and it's a big one for me -- is not being able to take pleasure in the things that your normally do. I might know in my rational mind that something pleasurable or fun is happening, but I don't really feel it the way I normally would. At the same time, I'm painfully aware of this fact, and it makes me sad and frustrated and annoyed. I have missed my girls these past weeks.

It's hard to explain what it's like to someone who hasn't experienced clinical depression, but imagine walking around all day inside a cube made of thick, dirty glass. (With leg holes, I guess....?) You can sort of see your life out there, and you can sort of do the things you need to do, but everything is muted and dark and dull. And you're tired. Because this cube you're wearing is really fucking heavy and cumbersome, and there's not quite enough air to breathe inside it. But no matter how hard you bang your fists against the glass, it will not break or even crack. You are trapped inside. (A better writer might come up with a lovelier metaphor -- a bell jar, perhaps -- but I'm sticking to my big goddamned dirty glass cube.)

Anyway, yesterday I felt better than I had in quite a while. I happen to think it was because I had an acupuncture treatment the night before. Got the ole Liver Qi moving. As a result, I felt motivated enough to take a run, which I think further lifted my mood. All those endorphins and whatnot. I am not out of the woods yet, and I fear there may be more not-so-great days before I can fully step out of the dark, step into the light. But even one afternoon of feeling relatively normal and being capable of delighting in my children's company is a great relief.

Of Church-hopping and Child-ignoring

Roper — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 20:15:00 GMT

A while back, I wrote about how we might have found a Unitarian Universalist congregation that we'd like to join. My background is Protestant, and Alastair is from a mixed marriage, Jewish and Protestant, and neither of us are particulary religious, but we like the idea of being a part of a spiritual community of some sort -- particularly for the girls' sake. We dig the vibe and values of the UU church, and Alastair has started getting more involved with the UU world through his music.

Unfortunately, we've become disenchanted with the church where we were testing the waters, and have started to shop around. This is the beauty of living in the Boston area -- there is a UU church in pretty much every town. Yesterday, we visited a new congregation, which we really liked. But since we're talking religion, can I make a confession? Easily 50% of my motivation for wanting to go to church these days is the free childcare. (If Unitarians believed in hell, I'm sure I would be headed there.)

Of course, this weekend I was definitely in the mood for some spiritual solace, too. The latest battle with the big D rages on unabated. Friday, I could literally barely get out of bed for most of the day. That is a new low for me -- the less said about it, the better. Saturday was not quite as bad, and by Sunday, I was obviously feeling functional enough to get out the door and go to a brand new church where I would (egad) have to make eye contact with people I didn't know. I was weepy during the service, but I attribute only half of that to depression, and half to the fact that the whole service focused on Obama's victory. Even the minister was getting choked up while reading excerpts from his election night speech.

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it was a beautiful thing to be able to drop the girls off in the church nursery -- for FREE! -- and relax and reflect for the next hour, knowing they were just steps away, in good hands. The nursery was full of toys, lots of other little kids and toddlers, and a few wonderful volunteers, most moms themselves, who welcomed the girls warmly and effectively distracted them as we left.

As we walked up the stairs to the sanctuary, I said to Alastair, "Maybe we should just forget the service and go get some brunch." He said, "We should figure out what time all the different churches in a five mile radius have their services and stagger it so we just go from church to church all morning." I said we should think about going to a synagogue, too, so we'd get a break on Saturday mornings as well.

All of which leads to the issue which, I suppose, is at the heart of this post: the strange contradiction of how much fun it is to be with our girls and yet, how difficult and tiring it can be, and what a relief it is to have a break.

I think the demands of looking after and entertaining the girls are, in part, why the weekends have been harder for me during this recent bout of depression. Monday through Thursday, I work the majority of the time, and just watch the girls on Wednesday afternoon. Thursday afternoon, the sitter comes. But Friday through Sunday, there's no structure and no sitter. It's just us and them and a whole lotta time to fill. Not to mention the many little weekend chores we need to get done. Add in rain or cold, and it's even harder.

We're going to try to add a little more structure in the coming months, as the weather deteriorates -- we're about to register for swim lessons, and I'm going to look into library storytimes, etc. Maybe a music class, if we can find one that's not too pricey. I'd even consider having the sitter come every Saturday or Sunday afternoon, but aside from the expense, I'd honestly just feel too guilty about it.

Is this just a twin parent thing? Or just a depressed twin parent thing? Do other folks out there simultaneously love and dread spending extended stretches of time with their toddlers? (And/or exploit religious institutions as a means of relief?) I never knew I could enjoy being a parent so much and at the same time so strongly crave time for myself. How on earth do you stay-at-home moms out there do it?

Fancy hairdos courtesy of Adriana, our regular sitter. Third child (Marlie) courtesy of Megan and Charlie.

Tears

Roper — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 03:30:00 GMT

On Monday afternoon, when we got back from our weekend in New York, I made the stupid (STUPID!) mistake of taking the girls to the grocery store with me. My mood had been plummeting steadily all day, to my disappointment (I'd felt much better the day before), and neither of the girls had slept much on the drive up. Given these two things, I really should have known better. Even Alastair thought maybe it was too much for me to handle, given how I was feeling. ("Are you sure you'll be OK?") But we needed milk and bread and bananas, and it was something to pass the time until dinner, and I thought maybe getting out and doing something would kick my depressed ass back into gear. So off we went.

We'd barely made it halfway through the produce section when Clio started whining and crying to get out of the cart, then yelling for milk or water or juice (which I STUPIDLY hadn't brought). Then she started screaming for a cookie. Elsa, meanwhile, kept wriggling out of the seatbelt (it was one of those shopping carts shaped like a little car) and standing up with half her body out the front window like some kind of hyperactive labrador retriever.

I was the picture of a stressed-out mom. I looked bad, I felt horrid. I could sense people looking at us, maybe in pity, maybe annoyance, maybe some in smiling, "how cute they are, but what a handful" sympathy. I wouldn't know -- I kept my eyes straight ahead, kept my head down, and told myself to just get everything on the list and get out and go home. And then what? Unload the groceries, keep the girls entertained for another hour and a half, make them dinner, get them to bed, make our dinner, unpack....(These sound like simple enough things to do, but when I am depressed, something as simple as brushing my teeth feels akin to pushing a boulder up a hill.) I half wished I'd collapse right there in the cereal aisle and wake up in a sanitorium -- maybe out in the Berkshires somewhere; the kind where they used to send ladies suffering from "nervous exhaustion." Birds singing. Clean white sheets. A rocking chair....

But I didn't collapse. At my wits' end, I tore open a package of Fig Newtons and handed them to Elsa and Clio at regular intervals until I got up to the checkout. At the bank branch up at the front of the store, there was a long line of people -- immigrants, day laborers, people who clearly struggled to make ends meet -- waiting to cash checks. Young men, mothers with kids, old people. Again, I could see them, from the corner of my eye, smiling with kindness and amusement at the spectacle of us -- this harried young woman wearing an Obama button, and this adorable, miserable pair of toddlers. And though it's not who I am, and not what I would normally do, I rolled right past them toward the exits -- grim-faced, fast, angry, not acknowledging a single smile. Stressed-out yuppie bitch. Like she's got it so bad?

The girls whined and cried all the way home, and when I got inside I wailed to Alastair to please come down and get the groceries out of the car and put them away. He looked at me and said "what's wrong?" and I broke down sobbing. "It was awful," I said. As if I'd just survived a war, not a trip to Stop & Shop.

The girls were confused. "Mommy's sad," Alastair explained to them. I sat down in our big, creaky recliner and and Elsa crawled up into my lap. She grinned and giggled and smacked her little hand just a little too hard (that's Elsa love) against my wet cheek. "Mommy sad," she said.

* * *

Today, while the girls napped, I watched online election coverage videos on YouTube, iReport and others. Highlights from Obama's victory speech and McCain's gracious concession. College students on campuses around the country rushing out into the streets. People in cities -- black people, white people, young people, old people -- dancing and shouting. I had a bit of a champagne hangover (still do) and was tired, not having gotten enough sleep last night. (I woke up too early, like a kid on Christmas morning, and couldn't fall back asleep.) I probably should have snuck in a nap while the girls were sleeping, but I couldn't. I wanted to -- and still want to --keep reveling in the glory and possibility and excitement of what happened last night.

The girls woke up while I was mid-video, and I ignored them a little longer than I probably should have. In an interesting reversal of roles, Elsa was the one champing at the bit to get out of her crib and enjoy the rest of the afternoon, while Clio was acting sleepy and sulky. I let her chill there for a little while longer, and brought Elsa into my office, where we watched the rest of the video I'd been looking at: the crowd in Grant Park, erupting upon hearing the news that Obama was the projected winner.

Elsa clapped her hands and grinned and yelled "yay! yay!" And I told her yes -- yay! -- something really exciting has happened. And someday you'll understand just how exciting it is. But it also occurred to me that Elsa and Clio, and millions of other children like them, may never really comprehend the jubilation and relief that most of our country -- and the world -- experienced last night. They won't have lived through the fear and division of the Bush era. The first American president they'll know and remember, for the rest of their lives, will be an African American man. They'll think it's the norm. They'll think, "why was it such a big deal?" And that, in some ways, is a beautiful thing.

I've been getting teary and emotional all day, and watching the videos this afternoon was no exception. I cried as I held Elsa on my lap. Smiled and laughed and cried and rocked. When I am depressed, I feel it strongly and unpleasantly in my chest -- a tightness, a pressure. A frequent need to take a big breath and sigh. Today, I was able to co-opt that feeling for something good. I was able to assign it fullness and joy.

When Elsa looked up and saw that I was crying this afternoon, she put her little palm (splat!) against my face again, and said, "Mommy sad?"

No, I told her, grinning like I haven't grinned in several weeks. Mommy's very, very happy.

A Hometown Halloween

Roper — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 00:07:00 GMT

Alastair's hometown, that is, here in the leafy loveliness of Westchester county. We came down for the weekend, specifically for the unveiling of Alastair's grandmother's grave monument. She died around this time last year, and it's a (very nice, I think) Jewish tradition to visit the stone a year later. We said some words and prayers, and then the girls thought it would be fun to pick up the stones that we placed on Great Grandma's grave and move them to the other, neighboring graves and back again, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

That night, we took the girls out for their first official trick-or-treating experience. Like last weekend, at the Halloween party, Clio refused to wear her tutu, so we had one ballerina and one modern dancer -- or perhaps she was a ballerina in rehearsal. More power to her, I say. And so, we set out into the lovely, suburban twilight, our family of four (Mommy had had a low day, but managed to rally) plus Abu and dogs, Aki and Niko.

The girls got the hang of things pretty quickly. Though they have never actually eaten candy before (I don't think) let alone seen it in packaged form, they seemed to "get" that the brightly colored stuff people were offering to them from doorways was a good thing, and happily stashed it in their trick or treating receptacles. We couldn't get them to say "trick or treat" but they did say "please" and "thank you." (Not necessarily in that order.) Several times, our party girl, Elsa, shouted "yay!" while Clio took a more taciturn, business-like approach to the whole affair.

We attempted a pre-emptively nostalgic, "someday we'll look back at this and....something" photo in front of an Obama lawn sign at one of the houses we visited, but like most attempts at posed photos with the girls, it failed gloriously. This shot was my favorite on account of the Skittles and Peanut M&Ms in mid-fall. And the girls' utter oblivion to the import of this moment in American history.

A funny thing about Obama, though -- the name, not the man. It has become one of the girls' favorite words of late. I have Obama buttons on a couple of my jackets, which they point to and proclaim "Obama," but they've also taken to saying "Obama" randomly on various occasions. A couple of times this weekend, when frightened by Niko -- the more boisterous of the grandparents' two golden retrievers -- Clio has called out "Obama! Obama! Obama!" Like she's trying to summon him, Beetlejuice-like, to rescue her. Strange. And then again....

When we got home, the girls instinctively, without any parental prompting, did the traditional dumping of candy onto the floor to take inventory. We let them each have a little bit of chocolate after dinner, then promptly appropriated their haul as our own. (I don't expect we'll be able to pull this off next year.)

It's been a sweet weekend Elsa and Clio-wise, and a restorative one for moi, too. It's nice to have both the girls and ourselves taken good care of by Alastair's parents, and to not have anything pressing to do but rest, look after the girls, read, etc. I went into the city on Saturday for lunch with a friend, then walked from Union Square back up to Grand Central, soaking up the energetic, pre-election, Autumn-in-New-York vibe. I'm feeling a little more like myself today, which is a great relief -- though it may only be temporary. Two steps forward, one step back, and all that. But I am optimistic. Thanks again for all your comments on my last post. Your support and understanding mean the world. And to all of the fabulous women out there living with and battling depression, keep up the good fight -- we can win it.