For my Dad

 When he first started

wearing the yellow suit

I walked

across the street

and far behind

my dad 

because 

I 

was

mortified 

My dad was 

attracting attention 

in the way every

teenager wants 

to avoid

In the stadium

he yelled

"Down the middle!!!" 

for every 

offensive play

turning heads in the stands around us

and that

made me want to melt 

into my seat 

too

It took me years 

to appreciate his confidence

to find joy in the joy 

he spread 

as 

the man in the yellow suit

but before he wore that suit

back in my soccer days

on the sidelines

Dad yelled 

"BOOT IT, EMMY!

BOOT IT!" 

always the same cheer

no matter what

he was my biggest fan

When he loved something

he really loved it

he would rhapsodize 

about

a particularly sweet apple

saying

"it's like candy"

and 

I doubt he'd have called himself 

an "animal person" 

but

he loved our cat Chili

and our dog Max

doting on them

scratching behind their ears

rubbing their bellies

and

when they leaned into his hand

he'd say

"you know which side your bread's buttered on"

Those animals 

devoted 

themselves to him

and he to them

He was a 

"gentleman 

and a scholar" with two PhDs

in Hawaiian shirts

and bandanas around his neck

his Martin guitar in hand 

and a pen and pencil in his shirt pocket

and in the Michigan winters

grey and frigid for days

and days

Dad delighted in the cold

and marked his arrivals home 

by saying "Ho ho ho!" 

and 

"I've gotta cold pee!"

The words swirling 

in my head

are

"where do you go when you go"

because

I can't believe 

I won't hear these words 

repeated for as long as i can remember

from his mouth

anymore

I would roll my eyes

and sigh

"Oh dad"

but 

I'll miss them

I'll miss his

optimism

his energy

his morning greetings

his ridiculous nicknames 

his style

his love

he said

"how can I miss you if you don't go away"

and i'm 

always

going

to

miss

him 

but I'm going to try 

to delight

to rhapsodize

to devote myself

like he did

to love

like he did

Written in May 2021

My Postpartum Anxiety Story

I didn’t sleep for the first four days of my son's life. It's not that I wasn't exhausted. It's not that I didn't have the opportunity for small naps. It's not that I didn't have lots of support with the baby. I was incapable of sleeping because I was filled with anxiety.

I stared at Arlo's chest rising and falling from my hospital bed for the entire first night of his existence. Though I hadn't slept much the night before my scheduled C-section, I wouldn’t let my eyes close for longer than ten minutes because I was afraid he would stop breathing and that I wouldn’t know until it was too late. The second night was the same thing. I wanted to sleep, I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t. I felt that I needed to be vigilant, to protect my son; my mama bear instinct was in overdrive.

When we brought Arlo home on the third day of his life, everything was set up and ready for us to settle in and get cozy as a family of three. John and I could finally lay down our weary bodies in our own bed and rest. But I couldn’t close my eyes. I couldn't lay down. I stared at my son in the bassinet, fear coursing through my body, intrusive thoughts pummeling my brain. I felt certain that the swaddle would swallow him, stop him from breathing. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I needed to monitor him every single minute. I stood at the edge of the bed, sobbing and hunched over in pain from the surgery, but too afraid to lay down and give into the sleep that my body desperately needed.

The next morning was Arlo's first doctor appointment outside of the hospital. This was Arlo's fourth day of life and my fourth straight day of being awake. Arlo was in the midst of cluster feeding, nursing every hour, but I couldn’t have slept even if there had been an opportunity. I was too scared to lay him in the bassinet, which felt like a death trap, so I held him through the night.

When we got to the appointment, the lactation consultant was astounded by how badly my nipples had been damaged during the first days of breastfeeding. At this point, I was in too much of a fog to realize how much pain I was in, from the nipple trauma to my C-section wound. I was in too much of a fog to understand that I was in the throes of a severe anxious breakdown. 

During the appointment, as the lactation consultant listed off the many steps I needed to take to both heal my wounds and help get Arlo's weight up, I started to tank. "Tank" is perhaps a strange word to use in this situation, but I can’t think of a better one. While John held Arlo, listened diligently, and took notes on the feeding plan being laid out, I stopped being able to hear the conversation. Instead, I was becoming more and more certain that I wasn't able to take care of Arlo. I wanted to “go away." I felt I had to go away. That it would be best for Arlo and me and John. It’s hard to describe exactly what I was thinking. I didn’t want to die, but I wanted to be gone; though it broke my heart to imagine leaving my son, I was convinced that it was the only option.

The pediatrician took Arlo, commenting on how beautiful and healthy he was. But I wasn't happy. I didn't feel pride. All I felt was fear. I stood next to her while she examined Arlo. I finally said, "I don't think I can do this." I wasn’t crying. I felt empty and foreign, completely not myself. She looked at me with kindness and said that what I was feeling was completely normal but that I could always reach out to my OB and ask for help if I didn't feel better soon. I said, "I don’t think this is normal. I don’t think I can be his mom." She glanced at John and looked back at me. She said, "I think you should call your OB when you get in the car." And that’s what I did.

We went straight from the pediatrician to the OB office. I had waited in the "waiting womb" so many times, each time more excited to hear my baby's heartbeat, or to see him on the ultrasound, or to talk about the plans for my birth. But this time, horrendous thoughts were coursing through my mind. I had told John in the car that I wanted him and my mom to take care of Arlo. That I knew they would be wonderful caretakers for him. That I needed to be gone. I told him then that I didn’t want to die. But I wanted to go away. Where? I didn’t know. I still don’t know.

Because it was an emergency visit, we had to wait for an excruciatingly long time to see my OB. After half an hour, I felt the panic beginning to rise. I left the waiting room and found a nurse. I told her that I needed to be put into a private room. I knew the crash was coming. She quickly led us to an exam room. I started to sob the instant the door shut. John led me to the chair as Arlo slept in his carseat.

I told John through blinding tears that I was afraid of my thoughts. That I wanted to disappear and that I was sorry and that I couldn’t do it and then I loved him and I loved Arlo but that I was so scared. He held me through it all. At some point, he got Arlo out of the carseat and handed him to me. I held him on my chest. It was clear that oxytocin, the love hormone, was flowing between us. Though a bit of fog lifted, I couldn't stop the tears. I knew I needed help.

When my OB came in, she wrapped me in a bear hug and sat on the floor in front of me. I could hardly string a sentence together. I just kept repeating, "Do not send me home. I am not okay. I can’t go back home like this. Please, please do not send me home." And she listened. I didn't need to explain my intrusive thought processes, I didn't need to give any details. She listened, she saw the fear in John's eyes, and she knew that I was not the same bubbly woman who had been thrilled to meet her baby four days ago.

My OB said that she knows a psychiatrist who specializes in postpartum anxiety and depression and that she was going to get in touch with her to ask for advice and come right back. I was so relieved to be taken seriously, to know that help was coming. Within minutes, she had called the psychiatrist, made a plan with her, and returned to talk it over with John and me. She said she was putting me back on the labor and delivery ward and that I would spend the night there. She would order the anxiety medication that the psychiatrist had recommended and I would have an appointment with her tomorrow after getting some sleep. I wouldn’t be separated from Arlo or from my husband. I was going to get the help I needed.

A nurse put me in a wheelchair and I held Arlo tight. She wheeled me from the OB office through a maze of hallways and elevators, John behind us, to the labor and delivery ward that we had left not 24 hours before. They put us in a room and my mom took a taxi over to the hospital. I laid in the bed and sobbed. I was terrified, relieved, and exhausted. I remember repeating through tears: "I can't do this" and "I'm so sorry."

The rest of the day is a total blur. I was given a large dose of Ativan and a small dose of Zoloft. I dozed in and out. John, who was not only completely sleep deprived but also frightened for his wife, sprung into action. He asked for a pump and helped me express milk for Arlo so that he and my mom could bottle feed the baby and I could rest.

That night, our nurse offered to take Arlo's bassinet back to her station with a bottle so that John could also get some sleep. Whenever I think of this nurse, my eyes well up with tears. I cannot picture her face or remember her name, though she took care of us for 12 hours...I was so out of it. But I'll never forget her; she was our angel.

It is amazing what a couple of hours of solid uninterrupted sleep will do for you. I woke up in the morning with clear eyes. I wasn’t anywhere near normal, but I was better, and I felt ready to go home and take care of my son and myself. We left the hospital and went home for a few short hours.

The postpartum depression and anxiety specialist that my OB had contacted works in an outpatient therapeutic clinic. We had an appointment with her that same day. She thought it would be best for me to enroll in a half-day outpatient program for two weeks. The program included group therapy, appointments with her to help monitor my medications, one-on-ones with a social worker, and daily check-ins with a nurse. I would be able to pump whenever I needed. I would have some time away from Arlo to allow the hyper-vigilance I was still struggling with to lessen. I would learn some coping techniques and focus on myself.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be separated from Arlo. I didn’t think that I needed to be in such an intense program. I cried when John dropped me off on the first day and through my entire intake appointment that morning. But each group support meeting, each appointment with my psychiatrist, each session with the social worker helped me feel more positive and ready to be Arlo’s mom.

It’s been almost six months since Arlo was born. I’m still on Zoloft and starting to wean off of it. I am in therapy with a social worker trained in postpartum depression and anxiety twice a month. While my anxiety is much improved, it is not gone. I don’t expect it to go away; I had it before Arlo was born and I know I’ll have it for the rest of my life. In fact, I anticipated that I would have a hard time after my baby arrived. But try as I might, I could not prepare myself for the worst anxious breakdown I've ever experienced. I never expected, after spending two years trying to conceive and nine months waiting to meet my baby, that the fourth day of my son's life would be my darkest day on this planet.

I am incredibly grateful for the team of women and for John who listened to me, believed me, responded to me, and helped me climb out from that dark and scary place. To the lactation consultant and Arlo's pediatrician, my OB and the nurses in her office, my psychiatrist, my social worker, and that wonderful nurse: thank you for taking care of me. To my mother: thank you for holding me and telling me over and over again that I would be okay. And to John, who watched me crumble before his very eyes, afraid that I would leave him forever: thank you for staying strong when I couldn't.

Throughout this experience, it was never lost on me that I had access to all of the mental health care that I needed because of my privilege; I did not need to worry about the bills I was racking up during the extra hospital stay, the outpatient program, and the extra visits with my therapist. Because my husband is employed, I was able focus on getting better and let our insurance cover whatever costs I incurred. This experience has led me to support Medicare For All with even more vigor; health care should not be tied to employment...it is a right and should be guaranteed for all.

Lastly, postpartum anxiety is not as openly discussed as is postpartum depression. Yet it is real, it is terrifying, and it comes in all shapes and sizes. You are not alone if you experience intrusive thoughts about your baby that scare you. Don't be afraid to ask for help. And if you are brushed off or told that it's "the baby blues," or "you're just tired," seek the support you need from someone who will listen. 

I will listen. Thank you for listening to me. 

An Ode to Baby Poop

Sometimes yellow

Sometimes green

What do all these colors mean?

Down the legs

Up the back

Heads up, it's a poop attack!

Poop at night

Poop in the morning

Poop any time without warning

Smiley poops

Surprise sharts

So much poop it's off the charts

Diaper changes

Outfits too

Every day there's so much poo

An Ode to Teeth

a loose tooth

a wiggly tooth

a hanging-by-a-string tooth

a look-at-my-tooth tooth

an about-to-fall-out tooth

a tooth-behind-a-tooth tooth

a big tooth next to a baby tooth

a big tooth next to no tooth

a two-front-teeth-less grin

holding up the just-lost tooth 

a bloody, tooth-less smile

a special necklace holding the tooth

worn with tooth-less pride 

dreams of the tooth fairy

a dollar for a tooth

or sometimes - 

a where'd-it-go? tooth
a did-I-swallow-it? tooth

...and a will-the-tooth-fairy-accept-a-note? tooth