The Slow Project: monotasking

{Credit where it is due - I'm hijacking Ellie of petalplum and her Slow Project here}

When I wrote about my attraction to the Slow Food movement a few weeks ago, I came away with a sense of cognitive dissonance.  


I pay plenty of lip service to the slow life -  slow food, slow cloth,  slow fashion,  slow transport. I have chosen to be 'slow' at this stage of life by refusing to juggle multiple roles and responsibilities with the main gig - parenting.

But I'm still an adrenaline junkie, and I love to multitask.

I guess the adrenaline habit is hard to kick. Particularly because our mainstream culture is all about thriving on adrenaline. We're addicted to:

 efficiency

productivity

streamlining

multitasking

 instant gratification

 convenience

I feel that I ought to be 'using my time well' (which means doing more than one thing at a time). I parent, cook, craft, ride the bike, have 'me time', socialise and blog with a sense of urgency, as though I'm lagging behind somehow or going to miss a deadline. I try to do them all simultaneously. I'm always looking for ways to get a bit of blog-post-reading done whilst paying bills via iPhone whilst pushing the boys on the swings whilst chatting to my mother whilst jotting down the shopping list and designing the next quilt. WHY?

There is. No. Deadline.

Furthermore, it seems that multitasking may well be a flawed concept altogether. I like this quote from Carl Honore, author of In Praise Of Slow:

"The latest neuro-scientific research suggests what most of us already suspect: that the human brain is not very good at multitasking. Sure there are a few simple or routine tasks we can perform at the same time, but as soon as you have to engage the brain, you really need to focus on one activity at a time. Much of what passes for multitasking is nothing of the sort: it is sequential toggling between activities.  

Changing attitudes is hard because our culture is marinated in the notion that doing more things at once is somehow deeply modern, efficient and fulfilling. But change is possible."

Anyway, I'm taking action. Well, inaction, more precisely. For the past few weeks I've been monotasking. 

I've stopped checking the phone incessantly. I've stopped switching the TV on for the kids so I can 'get something done', and trying to either get them involved or accept the fact that it is just not going to get done right now (and does it really matter?). I've opted to either read, OR blog, OR sew of an evening, instead of trying to do all three in front of the telly. In fact, it has taken ten days to write this blog post, because I've let myself be interrupted and let go of the artificial, self-imposed deadlines. Does anyone care? No. I'm attempting to redefine my ideas of a successful day... did we get some sun and air? Get appropriately fed and watered? Do something creative? Hang out with some other people? Have a good cuddle? Relate well or at least give it a red-hot go?

That might all sound a bit sickly-sweet and like I should go and polish my earth-mother halo (in a mindful, meditative, living-in-the-present, enjoying-the-journey kind of way).

And frankly, I'm feeling so darned good right now, I just might.

(Insert gratuitous shots of kidlets in 'Hudson', wearing their Dillpickle Beanies)

Weekend re:cap.

I just spent a weekend away from all three of my boys - a first since I became a mother.

It was a great thing to do for my health, physical and mental. Far from being a weird experience, it felt very normal to be 'unencumbered'. Clearly I have retained some sense of self in this whole parenting caper. I didn't feel lost, fraudulent or naked without a toddler attached to my leg or someone calling me 'mummy'. I didn't go giddy with freedom either. But I did take a while to adjust to making decisions without consultation, and performing routine tasks without explanation; apologies to Sonia, my travelling companion, for my running commentary on my every thought and movement!

Of course, I didn't take photos. It was nice to be in the moment rather than observing the moment from behind a camera lens, searching for the blog-worthy. Therefore I have nothing to show you:

...of breathtakingly beautiful Daylesford
...of meeting two of its most fabulous inhabitants, Beck and Kate
...of trudging about town in my gumboots
...of breathing in fresh air at the lake
...of running into numerous Northside Makers
...of good coffees and conversations with my travelling companion
...of saving Tania's bladder from self-combustion at the Maker's Market
...of stitching, reading and reflecting in front of an open fire
...of delicious shared plates and laughter
...of a Sunday full of stitching and fun at the Daylesford Craft Experience.

I do however have three mementos of my weekend escape:
 a finished hexie quilt top
a nice warm handmade cap
and a smile.

...and so she baked.

Next time I write a somewhat heavy, warts-and-all post (and don't worry, it won't be any time soon!), I will try to time it NOT to coincide with two weeks of travelling-husband/sick-smalls/defunct-sewing-machine/torrential-rain-induced blogging coma. I'm now experiencing that kind of awkward-pause, lull-in-conversation feeling, and wondering what to say next. Quite apart from having nothing much to show and tell, I'm also still processing the massive response I received in writing about my post-natal depression. 

To the numerous people who shared their warm, wise, empathetic, thoughtful, insightful, and funny responses, and to those who emailed with personal stories and encouraging words, thank you so much. I'm still working my way through the comments and emails. Spilling my guts on the issues was of course an exercise in catharsis, but I also hoped to connect with others who have had similar experiences, so we can all remember that we are not alone. I'm not. You're not. And doesn't it feel better to know it.

Meanwhile, signs that creativity may yet exist at chez clutterpunk can be spotted, in between the nose- blowing, puddle-jumping and Daddy-shaped-hole-filling.

I've been carrying around these items hopefully:

And lo! Results!

I have completed my towers of ugly, ugly hexagons, with hearty thanks to scrap donations from blogging legends, Cam of CurlyPops and Jodie of RicRac. Now the fun begins, designing the layout of my cot-sized 2" hexagon charm quilt. I've totally embraced the concept of an quilty eyesore that will be loathed by my family for generations, and am eager to get those horrendous scraps pieced side-by-side in the most aesthetically distressing way possible.


Bringing me far more pride is my first loaf of artisan bread from these gurus (spied first at Bountifully). So, so tasty, and satisfying to make. And did you see the bit about FIVE MINUTES? 

Anyway. Awkward silence broken. Blogging resumed. Children improving. Beloved's return approaching. Hexagons towering. Grandparents visiting. Bread baking. New sewing machine awaiting. 

Life is GOOD.

On being a Medicated Mother

It's strange. Not usually one to be lost for words, I have found myself over the last few months writing numerous posts around what I guess I would call 'domestic' themes - parenting issues, meal planning, sustainability, trying to find balance, ethical eating, blah blah blah - and not being able to follow through on any of them. I've been drawn to some thought-provoking posts along similar themes on other blogs, and wanted to join in the conversations, but my own thoughts are still sitting there in Blogger draft, fragmented and incoherent, much like the piles of hexagons awaiting me on the craft table. 

Well I think I've identified the cause of my writer's block. It's my desire to be genuine, and my need to make clear (before I spout any opinions about being a stay-at-home mother) that there is something I haven't mentioned here much which nonetheless exerts a large influence over how I think and act.

You see, I'm a Medicated Mother.

It was only a matter of weeks after the birth of my first child that we started wondering about post-natal depression. It was hard to identify, given that we were in the throes of new parenthood with a babe who wasn't feeding or sleeping at all well. How could we differentiate depression from a 'normal' reaction to the universally massive paradigm shift that is first-time parenthood? 

But as the weeks went by, it became increasingly clear. Never a clucky woman, I'd expected to find motherhood challenging on all sorts of levels. I'd assumed that in having a child, I would be forced to grapple with my inherent selfishness and desire for independence, and that I would at times feel stifled, resentful, bored. Perhaps I would even struggle to love my child. I was not expecting to embrace motherhood with ease or be a natural, earth-mother type. I had therefore given myself permission to go slowly, to feel the tensions, to learn to adapt, and thought in doing so that I was depression-proofing myself.

I think this is partly why I was blindsided by PND. Because for me PND had nothing to do with these things. 

I adored my baby boy, absolutely and utterly. I was ready to do anything for him. And yet, I was in the grip of what felt like a physical and mental breakdown. An overwhelming sense of fear and doom. Physical waves of panic. Inability to do the most simple daily tasks - I couldn't understand how I could possibly feed myself or wash the dishes AND look after this child. Constant negative thoughts, ruminations and obsessions, particularly about my baby boy's feeding and sleeping patterns. Extreme lack of confidence in my abilities (would I ever find it easy to change a nappy? Put my babe down for a nap? Breastfeed in public? Dress myself again?). Insomnia, lying in bed with my heart pounding and mind racing even when my baby was actually sleeping. Paranoia that my husband would leave me. 

William, 4 weeks old

We tried to find the right help but hit brick walls all over the place. It was about eight weeks in when an acquaintance, a kind, firm, ex-maternal health nurse, visited. After listening to everything that I had been thinking, feeling and doing, she said 'my dear, you're really not well. And you don't have to feel this way.' It was then that I started to accept the possibility that what I was experiencing was not just some personal weakness and failing that I had to overcome by myself, but an illness that needed intervention.

The good news? I got intervention in the form of a month-long hospital stay with my baby boy. During our time I settled onto anti-anxiety medication, worked on our mother-baby routines and relationship, and learned many useful strategies - including crafting! - for counteracting and dissipating anxious thoughts and feelings. I responded incredibly well, and incredibly quickly, to medication and care.

My husband will testify that I left that hospital a different person, and barely looked back. The person who came out was far more optimistic, open to new things, and lighter-of-spirit than the one who had gone in. We have often reflected that my PND has been something of a blessing in disguise for our family, forcing us to face head-on some of the big issues surrounding parenthood and its effects on the marriage relationship. Much personal growth came out of the horror - I learned to enjoy my own company, to lower expectations, to be adaptable, to find and create meaning in the small things. I continued on the medication through the gestation and birth of our second son, and experienced no traces of PND.

Justin, Charlie (1 week old), William, Gina

A few months ago I made the mistake of stopping my anti-anxiety medication for a while. I had been taking it for three years straight, and wondered whether it was necessary any more. I guess for a long time I have felt so very normal, and quite distant from that labelled woman of three years ago, the one with PND, the one who went loopy. It was a heavy disappointment to recognise after a month of 'normalcy' that the signs of anxiety were beginning to manifest and spiral all over again, albeit in a more gradual way. 

Although it brought back some feelings of shame and inadequacy, I have chosen to embrace the medication once again. I have certainly grown a heck of a lot in self-understanding and new ways of thinking these last three years, but clearly not enough to dig myself up from the mire of depression without assistance. Whatever broke three years back remains, to some degree, broken. And while this is a blow to my pride, that I cannot cure myself, life with small children is no time to be letting pride get in the way of feeling well.  

Medication does not make me the mother that I am. It does not manipulate my actions or predetermine my reactions. Instead, it gives me the ability to choose; to choose a life-affirming, problem-solving, less self-critical approach to motherhood. Without it, I am swamped by uncontrollable sensations and feel incapable of those choices. In choosing medication, I choose Choice.

I am a Medicated Mother. And I'm ok.