Queen of Spain Blog

Some of you are not going to like this post.

I’ve been waiting since Monday for my doctor to prescribe whatever anti-depressant du jour I get to play with. I’ve had much anxiety over the idea of drugs. Do I really need them? Can’t I just control this on my own? Isn’t there another way? But the psychologist told me drugs were part of the plan, at least until my hormones evened out from all this baby having. I figured who am I, the crazy lady, to tell anyone no.

So I’ve spent the past four days waiting for my prescription to be called in, preparing myself to take said drugs. Four days wondering what they will do to me. Four days wondering how they would make me feel. Four days really very unsure I wanted to take them. But again, I’m the crazy one, I didn’t feel I was of sound mind to argue with the doc.

Thursday my doctor called to tell me he won’t be giving me any drugs.

Uh. Ok.

I saw a clinical psychologist. She came highly recommended by my OB and my primary care physician. She’s supposedly the best person to see in town for anything post partum related.

I liked her. We hit it off right away, I felt comfortable at her office, and I was willing to accept that she could not prescribe anything to me and I needed to take her recommendations back to my OB. Pain in the ass…yes. But again here, I’m just doing what I was told.

Dr. S spent most of Monday’s couch time telling me how safe antidepressants are for breastfeeding. How there are several to choose from. Etc. Etc.

My OB called to tell me she’s wrong. He will not prescribe me an antidepressants while I breastfeed. And asked me several questions to determine if I really needed them.

This man delivered both of my children. Saw me through TWO high risk pregnancies and two early labors. He has known me and dealt with my 4am phone calls for years. I trust him.

Apparently there is a very new study out that shows cardiac and developmental problems in the babies getting some antidepressants through their mother’s milk. He, and most other doctors in our area, will no longer prescribe them to a lactating woman. IF I really wanted them, I could see a post partum specialist at UCLA and have myself and the baby monitored. Or I can wean.

Weaning is NOT an option. Unless I am slitting my wrists, driving my kids in a lake crazy, weaning is only going to make me 700 times worse. And they’d have to completely sedate me.

I’m not saying this won’t change. If the psychologist tells me I’m certifiable, and I MUST take drugs NOW or everyone will die, then we’ll get a second opinion. If another qualified person thinks the same, I guess I won’t have a choice.

But as it stands now, the doctor who has known me for years and dealt with thousands of pregnant and post partum women does not think I need drugs. Nor, will he prescribe them. The clincher for him: since my admission and my appointment on Monday I’ve only had one anxiety episode. ONE. I was having several per day. He also mentioned how I just got my period back a few months ago, and it’s still not regular. He feels that needs time to even out. And he described MY symptoms to ME before I even told him what I had been going through. He’s seen this before. Many times. And he doesn’t think the risk of medication is enough to give me a bottle of pills. He also does not recommend weaning.

Right now, I am in love with my OB. I have no idea what Dr. S, psychologist will say about all this. My hope is she says we just need a new plan, and I have to be on top of my yoga and breathing exercises, therapy, etc.

I know many women need drugs to handle this condition. But I firmly felt all along I was not one of those women. But I also felt I was not of sound mind to argue. I’m very, very happy I have a trusted OB who wasn’t quick to just write a prescription and send me on my way.

The Kaiser is quick to remind me this is just the start of a journey. So things may change. But we’re BOTH happy with this turn of events. As is my mother. Everyone is in agreement here. So it’s not like I just strongarmed everyone into letting me handle this drug free.

For the record, just because I’m going drug free doesn’t mean everyone should. Tom Cruise is still a moron.

Oh, and since you were so nice to go read all of that—here…go play MASH. Yes! That 4h grade game.

For the record, I’ll be living in Spain with Matthew McConaughey and our 9 children. I’m an heiress with a pink porche. -thanks daughter of opinion!

Seriously. Peanut hairwatch 2006 continues.
It’s just getting worse.
Which is more unfortunate…the squiggy/old balding lady/receding hairline hair…or the silly bear hat?

I think I’m doing a photo post to avoid the latest and greatest chapter of “Mamma is crazy“-let’s just say the plan of attack has changed and I’m emotionally spent from the rollercoaster. I’ll post about it later.

Right now I’m much more concerned with the state of my daughter’s hair. I have to admit, it totally fits her budding personality. And it matches the inside of her mother’s head.

I really thought you were just fiddling with one of those long, green Starbuck’s straws as you swerved in and out of traffic lanes here in Suburbia.

Once stopped at the red light, and twiddling in front of me, with , what? your knees on the wheels? I thought to myself, wow…she really wants that last bit o’ whipped cream.

And when the light turned red, and you failed to notice, you seemed annoyed and startled all 15 cars behind you had the nerve to honk. We had the nerve to honk.

So when I finally pulled next to you, and saw that in fact you did not have an iced latte…but a KNITTING needle and some sort of doily I flipped you off. Ya, that’s right. I flipped you off. With my children in the car. On the way to nursery school. You brought out the worst in me, but what can I say…I’ve never seen a middle-aged soccer mom/asshat with that much nerve.

It never occurred to me that you too, might be on your way to nursery school.

But, it probably never occurred to you that knitting and driving simultaneously is, oh hell, I’ll say it…dumb. No, wait…not dumb…REALLY FUCKING STUPID.

So we can spend the next few school months not making eye contact with one another. Fine by me. You’re not the kind of bitch I care to associate with anyway.

Vagina. Vagina. Vagina. I just want you to get used to that for a second and get over it, so I can move on.

I don’t know what to do about mine.

As a mother of two very small children I barely have time to get through an entire shower, let alone concern myself with hair maintenance. You remember this effort? And the days I spent with a half-shaven whoo-ha? Well it hasn’t improved and I’m not sure of the best course of action.

I like things neat in that department. Not “awesome,” “cool” neat, but either bald or close-cut neat. It’s well established I have no real time to trim and shave in the shower, but I can’t drop $100 every month for a wax. So that really only leaves self, shower, vagina hair clippin’ time-budgeted in my week. I have to schedule time to trim the jungle that is my whoo-ha.

So now that I’m scheduling crotch clipping time-maybe when the Kaiser can watch the kids on a Sunday or something…do I buy special crotch clipping scissors, or do I use the same ones that open packages of markers and cut wrapping paper? Is there protocol established for this?

And then there is the matter of what to shave. And how much. Am I selfish if I take the 30 minutes to rid the whole thing of hair? Am I, somehow, a better mother for only taking the 5 minutes to do the sides? Is the compromise a landing strip?

…and a big welcome to my mother and other family members to my blog. Enjoy your stay.

Wow. It’s been a hell of a few days around here, huh? And it’s not slowing down…

The cat is out of the bag on my semi-anonymous blogging status. You see, I accepted a position Tuesday that forced me to let my family in on my little spot in cyberspace. And despite the Queen Mother’s insistence she has no desire to read about our fondess for Playboy or my bitching about the inlaws…I expect she’ll show up in the comments sooner rather than later.

Monday I’ll be adding my insight (stop laughing) as a contributing editor over at BlogHer’s new site. As many of you are aware, in my previous life I was a news reporter and it just so happens they need someone with my credentials to weigh in over there a few times a week. If it’s a news story and women are blogging about it-I’ll be making sure you know where to find it.

So make sure you join us on Monday for the big launch!

8pm Count Waffles announces he will sleep in his room. In his bed.
815pm Princess Peanut asleep.
830pm The Kaiser moves toddler bed from master bedroom to nursery.
845pm Storytime in toddler bed underway
9pm Count Waffles announces he no longer wishes to sleep in his own room, in his own bed
915pm Everyone back in Mommy and Daddy’s bed
930pm Count Waffles chatting away. Peanut asleep
10pm Count Waffles visits Daddy downstairs to rock in rocking chair, talk
1045pm Peanut awakes, Count Waffles returns to Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed
11pm Count Waffles asleep, Peanut awake
12am Peanut awake with fever, motrin given
1am Peanut awake with fever
2am Peanut awake with fever, is stripped to diaper
230am Peanut awake with fever, tylenol piggybacked on motrin
315am Peanut asleep
325am Mommy finally asleep
345am Count Waffles awake and announces he’s peed the bed
4am Count Waffles changed, Mommy (who feels pee on her arm) changed, towel laid on pee spot while Peanut and Daddy sleep
415am Count Waffles, Mommy, Peanut, and Daddy asleep
530am Peanut begins coughing but does not wake
6am coughing continues
615am more coughing
630am more coughing
645am Mommy gets out of bed with coughing Peanut to get her elevated, and so as not to wake Count Waffles, Kaiser
7am Mommy blogs with Peanut
715am Mommy wonders about BlogHer in July…anyone going?

No, I haven’t won a fabulous trip to the Bahamas or anything. Just a good dose of…drumroll please…….

Post Partum Panic/Anxiety disorder. with a shot of post traumatic stress disorder (too many years of news reporting)

Treatment: drugs, yoga, walks, education on this “medical condition,” therapy. (note medical condition remains in quotes. i will admit this is a real, medical diagnosis when i’m ready, dammit. my new mantra is: its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a real, medical condition, not a fake, woman problem. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. i can not control this. i can not control this)

Feeling: humbled. Emotionally spent. like a burden. weak for having to go. strong for having gone. tired. Relieved. uncertain. scared. exposed. a little better. a little worse. somewhat humiliated. somewhat encouraged. hopeful.

In need of: reassurance. family time. kaiser time. reassurance. reassurance. a medical degree. a martini. reassurance. lots of books on post partum depression and panic disorder. reassurance.

**editor’s note: It landed in the severe category. we got the cheap co-pay. and that is my silver lining. i didn’t have to crazy it up or anything.

I just spent 40 minutes looking for an “I’m not crazy” top to wear.

I started with a v-neck sweater, but decided the embedded imprint of the rectangle Target “L” tag running under my left boob might not work. Coupled with the hanger mark on the right shoulder, it screamed “not together.”

Then a pink, long sleeve shirt. But upon noticing the stain hovering around the belly button I thought that might be a dead giveaway that I slacked in the laundry department for awhile.

I landed on jeans, a white t-shirt, and a sweater coat I haven’t worn in ages. Add my glasses and I now look like a clinical pyschologist. Or a professor. So I guess the doctor today will just think I’m suffering from delusions of being something I’m not instead of post partum…

Only a crazy person spends this much time trying not to look crazy.