Confessions of a Former Sanctimommy

 

I was watching some internet drama unfold regarding the use of puffy winter coats on children in car seats when it hit me. I used to be a sanctimommy. "Your child's life is never worth risking," an earnest commenter implored. "Take the coat off!!" I think that the hallmark of a sanctimommy is that she believes that parenting is a "one size fits all" endeavor. And she clings doggedly to this belief, usually with science on her side, for a very practical reason: It sucks doing things the hard way.

Breastfeeding? Hard. Keeping your kid extended rear-facing? Annoying (the car seat--the seat of the ACTUAL car--is caked with snow and dirt). Taking their coat on and off in the car, making sure the car is preheated, and tucking a blanket around your little one to make sure she isn't miserable for the 5-minute trip to the local grocery store? Ridiculously inconvenient. Cloth diapers? A much bigger pain than disposables. So sanctimommies are ready to challenge ANYONE who suggests that the easier way might actually be okay and still result in safe, happy, and intelligent children. Because they don't want to think that all that extra effort, inconvenience, and sometimes pain (lookin' at you, breastfeeding) was inconsequential. So I get it. Really. Because I was there.

And so, in a show of either pure bravery or incredible stupidity, I am posting a photo of my child in a car seat, on the Internet. No one will like this. First, everyone will check to make sure that the chest straps are buckled at armpit level. Some will think, "She's 3 and still rear-facing?! Way to be overprotective, helicopter mom." Others will think, "Poor thing, her legs look so uncomfortable! Won't they break in a crash?" On the opposite end of the spectrum, moms will be shaking their heads sadly and saying, "That child isn't safe to be strapped in a fluffy coat. That could be a fatal mistake, and it's someone's responsibility to tell her mom." But really, it's not the safety of some anonymous child they are concerned about. They are concerned with validating their own parenting methods. They want to believe that doing things the hard way is the best way.

So I am here to tell you that I absolutely agree that puffy winter coats may prevent the car seat straps from being adequately tightened, which could be dangerous in a crash when the coat compacts. But I have also found that it is JUST NOT VIABLE to be able to keep the car warmed up every time (What if you've been shopping in the mall and it's -20 degrees out? Are you going to let your car warm up unattended in the parking lot for 10+ minutes while you wait inside?). Furthermore, I have found that by unzipping the coat, I can take away a lot of the extra bulk (but not all of it, of course) underneath the straps. I also keep in mind where I live--a small city of 60,000 with a low speed limit, where it will only take you 15 minutes to drive from one end of the city to the other. If I were driving on the highway to Calgary? Sure, I'd take her jacket off! If I lived in Jacksonville, Florida? That kid would never wear a puffy coat in the car, because traffic is insane and it takes you approximately 4 hours to get anywhere in the city. Plus, it's not like they're exactly freezing their butts off down there.

I breastfed, and I can tell you that it's really risk vs. benefit. I'm not sure whether it was the best choice for us. It made bonding difficult in the beginning. Q stopped gaining weight when I developed hypothyroidism when she was 4 months old. She began biting at 10 months, so that I developed an aversion to feeding. I made it to a year. In the end? I probably would've been just as well off formula feeding. Studies show very clearly the physical benefits of breastfeeding. They also show very clearly the invaluable benefits of a loving, bonding relationship with the mother, and how the mother's mental health effects the baby enormously.

I'm sure there's still some sanctimommy in me. It's a hard thing to shake. You want to believe that all your effort is worth it--that you picked the RIGHT way, and that your child will have an advantage because of it. But we're all in this together. And just the fact that you are concerned about whether you are raising them the "right" way, is a pretty good sign that you already are.

The One About My Anxiety

Anxiety, like so may invisible illnesses, does not announce itself with fanfare and pomp. There is no melting down in the grocery store—kneeling down, squeezing shut your eyes, and cradling your head in your hands. I may, in fact, blend into my surroundings even more than usual, because I am quick and I am quiet. I am concentrated on my list of groceries as if my life depended on it. I have prioritized them according to how long I am able to last in the store. Get the bananas and milk first. Find the unsweetened applesauce if you're not having a panic attack. Browse through the pajama pants for a desperately needed pair (my old ones are literally falling off me) only if you are having exceptional mental stamina. The list is long and daunting, but my fridge is empty. I don't feel like eating anything, but I have a 3-year-old daughter who I am obligated to nourish.

If depression is a monotony of grays, anxiety is a cacophony of loud colors and sharp edges. It's too many stimuli hitting your senses at once. That's why it's safer to stay home, and why the aisles and aisles of thousands of cans and jars and bags pound against my senses like a steadily thrumming rain.

At home, I change into the smallest pair of pants in my closet. Then I roll them at the waist, twice. My t-shirts keep slipping off my shoulder. I look in the mirror and observe that I am finally the same size as I was when I got married. I wish I was happy about it. But the rapid weight loss frightens me, and I am more concentrated on the hollow look in my eyes. I avoid the scale. I start buying higher fat everything—2% milk, 11% Greek yogurt, chocolate-covered almonds. I'm counting calories, trying in vain to reach 2,000. But I'm lucky to reach 1,500, and on bad days, I can't break 1,000. It is a terrifying thing, to be repulsed by food. It is a problem with which I am utterly unfamiliar. It makes me feel sub-human. The thought keeps running across my mind: “I am a shell.”

I am steeling myself for sundown, which comes around 4:30pm, these days. For the next 4 hours, I will fight wave after wave of panic attack. I feel physically ill, though the symptoms are floating and take new forms each day. Sometimes nausea, sometimes stabbing back pain, sometimes disorientation. Every evening, I confront my mortality anew. This is it. Something is really wrong. There is some horrible infection they haven't found. I go to the emergency room to have them test me. The triage nurse is sympathetic and takes me and my mother-in-law to a quiet, out-of-the-way room with a leather couch to remove me from the over-stimulation of the waiting room. We wait for an hour, two hours. A very kind counselor talks to me, then the doctor comes in and tells me to take the full dose of my medication and to start seeing a therapist immediately. They never find an infection, though my heart rate is notably elevated.

My house is immaculate. The hamper never overflows. I begin to wash all my dishes by hand, because it is one of the only things that calms me. It gives me a purpose, if only for 10 minutes at a time. I try to save my household chores for the evening so that I have something to keep me occupied. The more cluttered my mind is, the cleaner my house.

The healing comes slowly. It is always two steps forward and one step back. The new medication makes me dizzy when I stand up, and it makes my vision blurry at night. It also gives me trouble sleeping. I see two therapists, and I begin meditating. I start doing a 15-minute exercise video every day to build my strength back up. I buy energy shakes to pack in more calories, but I dislike the aftertaste. My mother flies up from Florida to be with me. Sometimes I find temporary relief from my stinging back in the shower, so I take one or two showers every evening. I dry off with an already-damp towel. I beg God every night to help me through this. I write out passages of scripture by hand.

And it IS getting better. At its worst, my anxiety was a 10. Now it is probably a 5. I still have a long road ahead of me. I have had to deconstruct what I thought was my real self in order to build a new self—someone whose self-worth is innate and does not lie in responsibilities, motherhood, or whether she is loved. I am worthy just by virtue of being me. I am worthy no matter who is around. I am worthy whether or not I can help someone. I am learning to look my anxiety in the face and to pay attention to all the parts of my body that are affected. All feelings are okay. My anxiety is not bad or something to push away. It is what I am feeling right now, and acceptance of it has ultimately been the linchpin of decreasing its intensity.

I have learned more in these past two months than I have in many years put together, and I have struggled with questions and feelings of unworthiness that I had no idea even existed in the peripheral. And one day, one day, I might be able to help someone who is going through the same thing.