Just A Spoonful of Sugar Near Bedtime Can Turn Your Toddler Demonic

Posted on January 2, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

It was 10 pm and boy did we know where our child was. She was in her room screaming, nay screeching, for more than 45 minutes. We’d put her down about an hour before, but then suddenly it sounded as if some medieval torturer was there in the darkness of her bedroom flaying Sienna’s skin. Elaine was the first to go and check and reported back that Sienna was out of control, repeatedly yelling some word that Elaine couldn’t understand, not just pulling away from my wife’s comforting arms, but tearing herself from her grip and then cowering in the corner of her crib. I went in and she did the same with me, flinging herself out of my arms with a piercing yell as if my hands were balls of fire. She’d then stand up and hiccup some unintelligible word, incomprehensible because she’d reached that panic mode of crying where her breaths were coming so fast that they mixed were her voice.

Finally we understood:. “OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!”

It was just a few hours earlier that Elaine, Sienna, my parents and I sat in an Italian restaurant enjoying good food and good times. It was just a few hours earlier that my parents gave Sienna a little bit of ice cream while Elaine and I looked at each other across the table and telepathically thought:

“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

“Terrible idea, but what can we say?”

“We can say, ‘No!'”

“But they’re grandparents and they just want to spoil Sienna a bit – see that spark of ecstasy in her eyes when she tastes that ice cream, watch her strain the belt of her high chair as she begs for more.”

“She’ll just have a little. It’s ok.”

“Ok. Just a little. Besides, we so rarely give her sugar, and it’s New Year’s Day.”

And that’s how a wee bit of this:

Turned this:

Into this:

We hadn’t realized just how close to bedtime it was. That was mistake number one. We didn’t have the backbone to tell my parents we didn’t want them giving Sienna any sugar. That was mistake number two. Now Elaine, Sienna and I were all paying for it.

Back in her room I kept trying to grab Sienna so we could hold and soothe her, but it was like trying to capture a greased pig. Finally I got a hold of her sleep sack and yanked her out. She squirmed out of my arms and flopped on the floor. Then she got up, took a washcloth, and walked around and around the room “cleaning” things only to suddenly drop it, bend over and screech.

“Do you want a book?” I asked.

“Book!”

I picked up a book, sat down in her rocking chair and pulled her to me. She squealed and wriggled away. Then she told me to get out of the chair. She wanted Mommy in the chair, but still she wouldn’t calm down. No book. Back to walking around with that washcloth only to drop it and howl and stamp her feet. It was like something out of Paranormal Activity.

“Do you want your cow? Your lion? Bert and Ernie?”

“HURTS! HURTS! HURTS! HURTS!”

Elaine and I looked at each other. We were both terrified and I’m so thankful Elaine was there because if I were alone, my anxiety would have taken control and had me bawling.

“What hurts? Your belly? Foot? Head? Hands?”

“HURTS! HURTS! HURTS! HURTS!”

I don’t know how much time passed before Sienna finally crawled into Elaine’s lap and started sucking her thumb. I turned on Sienna’s lightning bug which spreads stars across the ceiling and plays peaceful music.

“Do you want to count the stars?” I asked, and counted out loud.

Soon enough Sienna lay down next to me and joined in. Then she asked for Mommy to lie down too and all three of us looked up at the blue nightscape and counted the stars. Finally Sienna let us put her in her crib and she lay down. She fell asleep well past 11 pm.

Elaine and I, shaken and stirred, retreated to our bedroom. I texted my mom about further limiting Sienna’s sugar intake, especially during the evening. She agreed to follow out instructions. We are, after all, Sienna’s parents. I know grandparents want to spoil their grandkids. I completely get the joy they feel in doing so and I assign my parents zero blame. We’d never experienced anything like what happened last night, so who knew a couple of tiny spoonfuls of ice cream that close to bedtime would be so disastrous.

Don’t be afraid to tell grandparents when we feel they should stop. And never, ever, under any circumstances, give your toddler sugar even remotely close to night-night.

Consider these lessons learned.

Growth

Posted on December 30, 2013 by Lorne Jaffe

I’ve always hated New Year’s Eve. I become way too focused on another year gone, another year closer to death, another year in which I still have not met my warped definition of success. I find it especially hard to concentrate on what I have and instead watch all these people celebrating surviving to see an arbitrary turn on the clock. For years I’ve become more sullen and depressed the closer we get to Dick Clark’s favorite holiday (just as I do my birthday since its “meaning” is in a similar vein). I don’t know how I’m going to do tomorrow. It’s going to be quiet here in our apartment – just Elaine, Sienna and myself. I’ll be with the most important people in my life and I hope I can engross myself in that. Regardless, rather than spend this post being all pessimistic, I want to write about something that happened yesterday, something that made me realize that I have indeed improved mentally since my last nervous breakdown in January 2010. Yesterday I leased a new car.

I know that doesn’t sound like much, but the last time my lease was up I went through one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life. It was early 2011 and we were still living in New Jersey. Knowing it was a little over 3 months before my lease matured, I drove out to my usual Honda dealership (I was on second Civic), walked through the door and stood frozen looking at the bustling showroom and all the salespeople I figured would take advantage of me because I had so little knowledge about real world things like leasing a car and because I didn’t know how to play the game. Anxiety squeezed my heart with an icy grip. Sweat poured down my face. I walked up to the receptionist desk and stammered something unintelligible. Then, shaking, I burst into tears and ran out the door.

In the end my parents wound up having to drive out from Queens to help me thrash out the new lease. I barely spoke during the process. When I did I stuttered. My hands and legs shook. I didn’t wail or anything, but tears formed in my eyes and sometimes silently slid down my cheeks. I sat listening as my parents tried to get me the best deal, my mind black with thoughts and feelings of frailty and failure. I was 37 years old. A 37-year-old man (I still have difficulty considering myself a “man” as I so often feel like a child) who couldn’t take the pressure of signing a new car lease by himself and instead had to rely on his parents.

Flash forward 2 years and 6 months. I’m at a Honda dealership in Queens since we no longer live in Jersey. My father’s with me. This time I do most of the talking and ask most of the questions. The salesperson’s extremely affable and low key which looking back I think helped, but the fact is I I’m able to joke with him about how ludicrous it is that the color “grey” becomes “Urban Titanium.” My father plays the game a bit and gets him down a few bucks a month (“I like round numbers,” my dad says). But really, it’s my deal and it’s hell of a lot better than my last lease. I put less money down. They buy out my remaining payments and any existing car damage. And I’m paying $38 less a month while getting new features like bluetooth, a rear camera, automatic headlight shutoff and of course that cool Urban Titanium exterior. My hands never shake. My eyes remain clear. I smile and laugh. I never stutter…not even once. I feel no anxiety. Zero. I need to acknowledge that and even say so to my father while still at the dealership.

My dad keeps my mom updated the entire time and as we drive home he tells me how proud of me the 2 of them are. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to hearing those words, a phrase I’d craved hearing my whole life. My initial reaction is always to refute compliments because I feel somehow undeserving. But as I think about it, I really have come a long way. Two years and 6 months ago I entered a similar situation and was a wreck completely reliant on my parents to get me through it. This time I was in control of both myself and the negotiation. My dad noted I he felt I didn’t even need him there as all he did was save me about $24 bucks a year. The more I think about it, the more I realize he’s right and the more I realize I’ve grown.

I don’t know what feelings New Year’s Eve will bring, but I do know today I’ll go pick up my new car. I know my mind will try to contradict reality, but I’ll battle because I’ve evolved. I have fact on my side. Zero anxiety while leasing a car? That is clear personal growth.

O The Places My Mind Goes – Part 2

Posted on December 22, 2013 by Lorne Jaffe

The first part of this blog entry sapped most of my energy, but it was worth it. I received a ton of encouragement from friends, family and fellow dad bloggers urging me to remember that I’m not alone in feeling depressed, anxious and overwhelmed, nor am I the only one whose brain can go from stressing over writing a blog to suicidal thoughts in a matter of seconds. I greatly appreciate all the kind words written about my last post. It reminded me that I started this blog about raising my daughter while battling depression/anxiety for the reasons many of you proclaimed – to comfort those with similar issues, to show they’re not solitary entities. I’ll do my best with this second part. I hope it’s up to par.

Sometime after 5 am I fell into a restless sleep, the type of fitful doze where you hover between wakefulness and dreaming. My alarm went off at 8 (I’m lucky in that Sienna is so quiet in the morning that I honestly have no idea when she wakes up). I hit the snooze button a few times because I wasn’t ready to deal with the day – having to put on a brave face while playing with and teaching a rambunctious toddler; fighting over meals; trying to write a blog about what I’d gone through the previous night. One thing I did know – there was no way I was stepping outside my apartment door. When I did finally get out of bed around 8:30, I struggled down the hall to the kitchen, lower body leaden, head filled with helium, stomach churning, an invisible anvil squashing my chest. Shell-shocked, I moved like something out of The Walking Dead. Suicide? Do I still hate myself that much?

I gave Sienna breakfast, but had nothing myself. The meal was nearly silent on my part unlike most days when I sing her favorites whether it be “C is for Cookie” or the theme from “The Golden Girls” (no idea why, but she loves it). After breakfast I set Sienna down in her playpen so I could shower and do the dishes just as I do every morning. I got the shakes in the shower but recovered. We spent the morning playing with cars and stuffed animals, me watching the clock, begging for the seconds, minutes, hours to pass so I could put her down for a nap and perhaps conk out myself.

I peeked at FB a bit, but couldn’t deal with the pressure. At one point I wrote this: “Very depressed. Doing my best trying to hold it together for Sienna. My brain went to horrible, self-loathing places last night. Some things I haven’t thought about in a long time. Scary. Have purposely stayed off FB but feel guilty for not checking and ‘liking’ things people post or reading other dad bloggers’ words (which is really what set this off to begin with because I couldn’t write myself and became anxious). UGH!” I then shut the computer.

I was supposed to have a phone session with my therapist, but I couldn’t talk. I knew that between Sienna’s running around and my inability to form complete sentences, it would be a waste of time. I texted my therapist and asked if we could postpone saying I’d gone to terrible places the night before and had had an anxiety attack. She urged me to talk, but I apologized relentlessly and claimed i just wanted to sleep. Here are the texts that followed:

Therapist: No need to apologize – breathe and remember you feel like this right now – it won’t last. Just a feeling, it doesn’t define you. Reread some of your blogs (I didn’t follow her advice – the “feeling” was too powerful)

Me: Having trouble writing again. Last night thought of suicide and it scared me. Realized I can’t ever do that now because of Sienna. I have no idea why I thought of that. Looking at people’s houses and knowing I’ll never be able to give that to Sienna. Brain went all over the place. I’m so tired

Therapist: Never say never. You never know what you can accomplish when u get out of your way – and if you ask Sienna which she would prefer – a father who showers her with love and affirmation though he’s not a millionaire or an emotionally abusive millionaire father who would she choose

Me: I know, but still not good enough (my warped view of success impeded rationality as it so often does).

Therapist: That’s your self-hatred and mental issues. It’s not and never will be Sienna’s truth. Would you rather have had a loving father and less material stuff. Stop listening to your illness. It lies and is a huge waste of time and life

Me: I just need to sleep (my illness continued to rule me)

My mom texted me to say she’d read my FB post and asked if I needed help. I mentioned I’d appreciate it if she’d give Sienna dinner – just the thought of putting together a meal and getting her to eat was too much for me to bear. My mom agreed to come over even though she had a cold leaving me to imagine Sienna getting sick as my punishment for being so pathetic.

I don’t remember much of the afternoon. I’m sure I followed Sienna around whenever she grabbed my hand and commanded me to sit so she could show me something or we could play. I struggled to smile. I kissed and hugged her when I could gather the strength to do so. I couldn’t wait to put her to bed.

Was I asleep when my mom rang the bell at 5:30? Was Sienna still in her crib talking to herself in the dark? I can’t recollect. I sat on the couch staring into space while my mom fed my daughter eggplant rollatini. She brought me a salad which I eventually ate, the first food I’d had all day. My mom tried to get me to talk, but I couldn’t. I mumbled. I spoke in short sentences. I didn’t mention suicide despite the flashing neon sign in my mind.

After dinner my mom stayed with us. I went to change the cat litter and it was like a perfect storm. We have one of those cat litter boxes that you roll over to get the clumps out, but it picked this time, THIS TIME, to fall apart leading to urine-infused litter spilling all over the kitchen floor. IMMEDIATE hyperventilating. Facial tic going like crazy. Sienna kept coming into the kitchen and I stuttered, “Sie-Sie-Sienna ou-ou-out!” I cleaned up the mess on the verge of both tears and my second panic attack in less than 15 hours. My mom hugged me when I finished cleaning. Did I hug her back? I don’t think so. I think I was like a rag doll.

Back to the couch. Sienna picked up ribbons and Mardi Gras-type beads and wanted me to spin and shake them. She climbed on my lap. Minky, the intuitive black, long-haired puffball, curled up next to me and purred. I kissed Sienna’s head while petting Minky, his purr rumbling against my thigh. I still had that 100-yard stare, but my mom observed something else and later wrote in an email:

“After you threw away the cat litter and barely made it back to the couch, your beautiful, wonderful daughter took one look at you and with all the love in her heart climbed in to your lap and cuddled with you. And while fighting through your embarrassment of having her see you this way (yes, I saw that too) she held firm and would not let her daddy go. Tell the world how you both looked at each other and ever so slowly she was able to calm you down (with a little help from a purring Minky) until the softness showed in your face and you were able to begin to play with her. She only had her daddy in her eyes and I watched as the two of you played with the ribbons over and over again and pure glee showed in Sienna’s face and smiles came in to your face. It was a beautiful moment between father and daughter. She was there for you all the way and while you were not free of all the anxiety and panic she helped you hold it together. And because of her you fight on. You were given the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love yesterday while you were most vulnerable. That is what it is all about. How amazing that a 21 month old has such a gift. That is the perk of being able to share these moments with her. That is something the world and all the stay at home dads need to know.”

I wish I remember things in this manner. I remember Sienna in my lap. I remember Minky. I remember playing with ribbons. I don’t remember my face softening or my brain unlocking or an ease coming over me. All I have are my mom’s words and that is why I included them here as a reminder. She’s right. The unequivocal father-daughter bond must have been there allowing me to keep fighting despite my extreme fears and vulnerability. And though the events my mom witnessed are foggy in my mind as is my collapsing into Elaine’s arms when she got home and my nightmarish confession about my suicidal thoughts, I CLEARLY remember the following morning when I had my phone therapy session and Sienna, a toddler bursting with energy, sat on my lap for 20+ minutes as my tears dripped in her hair and Minky, intuitive Minky, curled up next to me and purred.

Days have passed and I feel much better. I don’t know when exactly I crossed the line into feeling better, but I do know the words of encouragement from fellow dad bloggers after I posted part 1, the emails and phone calls from friends and family, and the unburdening in therapy (I think I spent most of the time crying and repeating my usual “I don’t understand” and “I’m trying so hard” and “When will it stop?” refrains as my therapist pointed out how much I’d accomplished over the past few years – I have difficulty remembering), did help.

I don’t know when I’m going to suffer another panic attack. With depression you’re never out of the woods. There are so many triggers and dangerous thoughts that zip through my brain each and every second that anything can set me off at any time. Some suggested this most recent attack could be seasonal, and I think that played a role. I do tend to get depressed the closer it gets to New Year’s and my birthday in February; it doesn’t help that my next birthday will be my 40th making the insane, absurd expectations and definitions I’ve created for myself regarding “success” (job, money) glare even more – pessimism abounds as another year comes and goes without me gaining that house, elite job status, book deal, million dollar retirement fund. But I do know that I have people that care about me (I still struggle to understand why – I wish I could just accept it) and I have blogs, my own words, to read and reread as proof that I’m gradually moving down the right path. I know I’m going to face blog anxiety again. I can’t avoid it. But I also know there are fellow dad bloggers out there who support me even though we’ve never met. David Stanley, a member of the group, told me Dad Bloggers was a safe place. I hope he’s right.

Most of all I have my little family – an incredible wife, a brilliant, funny, beautiful little girl who gives me “the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love” and our two cats, one of which always knows when I’m hurting. And as my mom so aptly wrote: that’s what it’s all about.

My Sienna

O The Places My Mind Goes – Part 1

Posted on December 19, 2013 by Lorne Jaffe

I need to write this in two parts. The night before and the following day. I can’t do both at once. Too difficult.

Two nights ago I awake from a nightmare sometime after 3 am. No idea what it was about, but it doesn’t matter. I’d been anxious all day about my blog. I hadn’t blogged in more than a week. Slew of ideas, but couldn’t write anything. At the top of my list was writing about how I conquered anxiety for a day by taking Sienna out to the Long Island Children’s Museum, but I too anxious to write it. Ironic.

Anyway, it’s 3-something am. First thought is about the blog. Check FB just because I was awake. Scroll through my feed and find links posted in Dad Bloggers. Chest begins hurting. I’m not good enough. These guys are so much better than me. They keep pumping out words, heartfelt, poetic words. I’ll never be a real writer.

I see pics of decorated houses. I’ll never own a home. Sienna will never have a backyard in which to play, to build snowmen like in the pics I’m looking at. I’ll never own a barbecue. I’m a failure. I was supposed to be something! I was supposed to have a prestigious job and money! I was supposed to be a success! Friends from grade school have houses! Friends from grade school are rich! You’re going to be 40 in a couple of months and you’ve done NOTHING job-wise!

Note: I’m yelling at myself to SHUT UP! THIS IS WHERE YOU GO! YOU HAVE AN AMAZING WIFE AND DAUGHTER! YOU’RE BETTER OFF THAN SO MANY OTHERS!

Note: Rationality is out the window because my chest feels like cement.

Sudden thought shoots out of the darkness and scares the hell out of me: I can’t kill myself because of Elaine and Sienna. I can’t do that to them.

Note: It’s literally been seconds since I went from blog anxiety to suicide.

I’m shaking. Wake Elaine up. Wake her up and tell her what’s going on. Ask her to hold you, calm you. I can’t. She needs to sleep so she can work tomorrow.

Note: She’s gonna smack me when she reads this

Instead I post this on FB: “Fighting to prevent a full-blown panic attack. Feeling severely depressed. Chest feels like it’s being crushed. Don’t understand it…fell asleep feeling a little better and then woke up at 3-something only to fall apart.”

Note: Facebook has a give and take relationship with me. I’ve found a lot of support on Facebook, especially during my first months with Sienna, many times from people I hadn’t seen in decades. At the same time the pictures and posts can make me feel weak, depressed, envious and stupid. Sometimes I consider quitting FB, but I keep trying to be rational about it. It doesn’t always work.

Why hasn’t anyone responded to my post? It’s been seconds and no one’s written! Where the hell did the suicide thought come from?

Note: I’ve been suicidal a number of times throughout my life, but I’ve never had a plan (outside of downing a bottle of sleeping pills) or written a note. I never had the courage to go through with it (and yes, though it’s a selfish act, it does take bravery to actually do it, imo). At best I’d imagine I was like Huck Finn, watching his own funeral. At worst I imagined holding the bottle of pills. I hadn’t thought about offing myself since long before Elaine got pregnant. Probably three years. The shocking thought of suicide terrified me and plunged me deep into the darkness.

I drop my phone. I’m shaking, I cling to Elaine hoping she’ll wake up, but I still can’t allow myself to actually awaken her. She needs her sleep. I’m hyperventilating. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!

I get out of bed and dizzily walk down the hall. Go into Sienna’s room and watch her. No. I’ll wake her up. Can’t do that. Find Minky. I need Minky.

“Minky,” I whisper, voice hitching. “Minky.”

I find the puffball in the closet. I grab and hold him so tightly he squeaks. Take him back to the bedroom. Concentrate on his purring. I take Minky to the bedroom. I carefully place him on the bed and get under the covers. He climbs onto my aching chest. His purr is like a chainsaw. He noses my face. Licks my hand. I gently stroke him, feeling the softness of his fur. I scratch him behind his ears. Over and over I pet him.

FAILURE! How can you think of suicide?? How could you do that to your family? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!

I’m depressed. I’m shivering. I pet Minky for more than an hour and use all my power to concentrate on what’s right in front of me. It’s past 5 am. I want to see if anyone’s responded to my status update. I don’t check. Just pet Minky. Elaine’s still asleep. Finally I join her.

Santa Delivered My Daughter!

Posted on December 11, 2013 by Lorne Jaffe

Yes, Santa Claus delivered Sienna in March of 2012. It seems that during his off-time, Santa doesn’t hang out at the North Pole, but instead works as on OB off Lexington Ave under the alias of “Dr. Frederick Gonzalez” and delivers babies at NYU Hospital. He goes fairly incognito, choosing to employ an unassuming grey mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. It makes sense Santa would forgo the bushy snow-white beard, hair and poofy eyebrows when away from the Pole, not to mention the iconic red suit. The beard and suit are probably really annoying during New York City summers, itchy and sweaty. Plus think about all the people who’d ask him for autographs and want special appearances if he actually looked and dressed like Santa. I’m sure he’s thrilled that so many lookalikes are out there. Takes the pressure off. However, that eye twinkle and bellowing laugh gave him away. Don’t believe me? I have the picture to prove it:

Newborn Sienna and Santa Clau…er, “Dr. Frederick Gonzalez”

I know you think I’m being ridiculous, but it makes sense that Santa would spend his off-season delivering high-risk babies (Elaine has a heart condition) to parents of all races and religions. Really, can you think of anything more rewarding?

I can tell you from experience that Santa has a very calming demeanor. Whenever my anxiety disorder would pop up (facial twitch, slight stutter, etc.), he’d soothe me by saying I was exhibiting the same reactions that any soon-to-be dad does. He’s also quite a straight-shooter, that Santa Claus. When one of Sienna’s sonograms showed that she’d developed a cystic hygroma (a nodule on the back of the neck), he told us that there was a 50-50 possibility she might have chromosomal abnormalities and serious medical problems, but he also said to be strong, and though it was one of the worst weeks of our lives, we did indeed cling to each other and thankfully the nodule disappeared. When we next saw Santa, the twinkle was back. Miracle off Lexington Avenue? And when it was time for Elaine’s scheduled c-section, Santa did an amazing job – joking, but professional, always making us feel as comfortable as possible.

So what of Mrs. Claus and the elves and the reindeer? Well, its already been established that Rudolph now plays in Reindeer Games so I have no doubt he and his brethren spend their off-time doing just that. I think the elves make pilgrimages to the Island of Misfit Toys as a means of contrition in between their bi-annual visits to Hermey’s dentist office. The rest of the time they’re playing with all sorts of new technological marvels that they’ll unleash on the world each holiday season. And Mrs. Claus? I can attest that Santa wears a thick gold wedding ring so I assume Mrs. Claus is also in New York, probably doing positive work like volunteering at soup kitchens.

It all makes sense. Why stay at the frozen North Pole when you can bring so much joy to people all year round? So if you’re looking for a wonderful OB, be sure to look up Santa Claus…I mean Dr. Frederick Gonzalez.

Just don’t expect him to be available Christmas Eve.