Saudades
(Texto em português abaixo)
From the moment your cancer metastasized in 2020, I’d been preparing for our physical goodbyes. I let our hugs linger for longer when we were lucky enough to be together, I took every chance to go on a walk with you, I hoarded everything with your signature scent (Vetiver by Guerlain), I cherished every WhatsApp message (even the ones I didn’t agree with). Not one day or exchange was taken for granted. I started preparing for what life might feel like without your expansive presence, your loud laughter, your reassuring tone. At the very end, it felt unfair for me to have to adjust to a life without you physically in it. I wanted to yell - I DIDN’T ASK FOR ANY OF THIS, I DO NOT WANT IT, NO, THANKS - but instead, I resigned to the sobering reality that you would no longer be here. That is it, and that is all there is. For a hyper-prepared, anxiety-prone person such as myself, just like you were, it was quite the lesson to realize that there are things in life you can’t prepare for, not really.
I am grateful to have spent weeks by your side at the hospital. It didn't matter that my heart would break into a thousand pieces every day. At night, I’d try to mend it together, knowing full well that it would shatter again the moment I saw you laying on the hospital bed the following morning. I am so thankful to have held your hand as you passed on, exactly one year ago. Witnessing your dying moment, the moment the suffering stopped, the moment you looked up and found comfort, the moment your breathing calmed down and eventually stopped. Witnessing my hero meet his end on this Earth in what was ultimately a calm, warm, intimate, and sobering moment - it made me question my fear of death and showed me that, without a doubt, there is an afterlife and in it you had met your loved ones, my ancestors, and you would finally be at ease again. I am grateful to have witnessed all of it. You were, and are, my mentor until the very end.
I think of everything I’d lived for 33 years, every mundane moment filled by the reassurance that you were a few steps or a phone call away. When I didn’t want to go to school in the morning, you were there. When I graduated high school, college, Masters - you were there. When I got married, you were there. When I had one baby, then two - you were there. When my heart was broken, you were there. How was I supposed to go on without you here?
This past year I ran a marathon, moved countries, and fulfilled one of our greatest dreams. This whole time I have trusted your teachings, even if I wondered if you’d agree with some of my decisions (while also knowing that, even if you could, you wouldn’t give me your opinion unless it was solicited). Thank you for teaching me to trust and to honor my choices with the bravery and the confidence that only those with the support of someone like you for a father could fathom. Now I know that you are still here.
My love for you, like your love for me, knows no boundaries of time or space or presence or circumstance - it just exists, forever strong and supported by gratitude to have had you as my greatest supporter for 34 years and counting. Onwards and upwards. Obrigada pai.
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Desde o momento em que o seu câncer voltou em 2020, me preparei para nossas despedidas físicas. Deixei nossos abraços durarem mais quando tínhamos a sorte de estarmos juntos, aproveitei todas as oportunidades de passear com você, guardei tudo com seu perfume característico (Vetiver da Guerlain), valorizei cada mensagem de WhatsApp (mesmo aquelas com as quais não concordei). Nem um dia ou troca foi em vão. Comecei a me preparar para como seria a vida sem sua presença expansiva, sua risada alta, seu tom tranquilizador. No final, pareceu-me injusto ter que me adaptar a uma vida sem você fisicamente. Eu queria gritar - NÃO PEDI NADA DISSO, NÃO QUERO, NÃO, OBRIGADA - mas em vez disso, me resignei à dura realidade de que você não estaria mais aqui. É isso, e isso é tudo que há. Para uma pessoa hiper preparada e propensa à ansiedade como eu, assim como você, foi uma grande lição perceber que há coisas na vida para as quais você não pode se preparar.
Sou grata por ter passado suas últimas semanas ao seu lado no hospital. Não importava que meu coração se partisse em mil pedaços todos os dias. À noite, eu tentava consertá-lo, sabendo muito bem que ele iria se partir novamente no momento em que eu visse você deitado na cama do hospital na manhã seguinte. Sou muito grata por ter segurado sua mão quando você faleceu, exatamente um ano atrás. Testemunhar o momento da sua morte, o momento em que o sofrimento parou, o momento em que você olhou para cima e encontrou conforto, o momento em que sua respiração se acalmou e finalmente parou. Testemunhar meu herói encontrar seu fim nessa Terra no que foi, enfim, um momento calmo, caloroso, íntimo e sóbrio - isso me fez questionar meu medo da morte e me mostrou que, sem dúvida, existe uma vida após a morte e nela você encontrou seus entes queridos, meus antepassados, e você finalmente estava em paz novamente. Sou grata por ter testemunhado tudo isso. Você foi e é meu mentor até o fim.
Penso em tudo que vivi durante 33 anos, cada momento mundano preenchido pela garantia de que você estava a poucos passos ou a um telefonema de distância. Quando eu não queria ir para a escola de manhã, você estava lá. Quando me formei no ensino médio, na faculdade, no mestrado - você estava lá. Quando me casei, você estava lá. Quando eu tive um filho, depois outro, você estava lá. Quando meu coração estava partido, você estava lá. Como eu deveria continuar sem você aqui?
Nesse ano que se passou eu corri uma maratona, mudei de país e realizei um dos nossos maiores sonhos. Durante todo esse tempo confiei em seus ensinamentos, mesmo que me perguntasse se você concordaria com algumas das minhas decisões (embora também soubesse que, mesmo que pudesse, você não me daria sua opinião a menos que fosse solicitada). Obrigada por me ensinar a confiar e a honrar minhas escolhas, com a coragem e a confiança que somente aqueles com o apoio de alguém como você como pai pode ter. Agora eu sei que você ainda está aqui.
Meu amor por você, assim como o seu amor por mim, não conhece limites de tempo, espaço, presença ou circunstância - ele simplesmente existe, sempre forte e sustentado pela gratidão por ter tido você como meu maior apoiador por 34 e muitos mais anos. Seguimos em frente. Obrigada, pai.
Parenting and the pandemic
Last night, once the kids were finally in bed (S recently discovered that he can climb out of his crib! Exciting!), I just wanted to crawl into the fetal position - which is what I did. I had nothing left to give. As I curled up on my couch, all I could think was that I couldn’t do this anymore. Not for another day. Another week. Another month. I would’ve called it quits then and there; but, of course, that was never a real option.
I know for a fact that I’m not alone in the way that I am feeling, and yet it feels so lonely. I lost it again this afternoon, just like I have every day lately. Snapping doesn’t surprise me any longer; it just makes me incredibly sad in its aftermath. Inevitably, there comes a time in the day when I can’t stand the yelling any longer. I can’t explain to S again that he can’t watch TV right now. I can’t explain once again that I’m trying to work, or that I’m trying to study. I can’t deal with wrestling with my kids to get their clothes on to go out for some fresh air; only to come back to another wrestle to get them clean.
Full disclosure: My husband and I are incredibly lucky in the sense that we’ve had help all this time. My (fairy) godmother came to Germany with us back in January, and got stranded here due to Covid-19. She goes above and beyond to support us, and yet…
I am still the mother. I am still a mother who is starting a new career. I am still a mother while working part-time, and I am still a mother while studying full-time. I prioritize my kids (and I always will), but I’ve been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for the past 3+ years. I had just started to feel like my own person again when the lockdown hit. And, to be frank, I refuse to let that feeling go - but juggling everything is proving to be near impossible.
This pandemic is taking its toll on so many aspects of our lives; personally, it’s taking the biggest hit at my parenting skills. I started off optimistic - at first, day care centers were supposed to reopen in 5 weeks. I was excited to have breakfast with the kids every day without having to rush out the door. I looked forward to doing yoga with S in the afternoon. I looked forward to the quiet moments nursing L before putting her down for her nap. It was scary, but I really thought we could make it work. Fast forward two months, I’m not so sure that we can.
But again, of course, “not making it” is not a real option. At what cost, though?
I’ve been reading about the toll that this pandemic has had (and will continue to have) on mental health. I personally haven’t had mental health issues in the past (other than a lingering hint of anxiety). I am, by all standards, a healthy individual. I am happily married. I have a roof over my head. I love living where I live. My kids are healthy. I am so, so grateful. Yet, I too am losing it.
By this point I’ve given up on reading the news. If it isn’t about the day care centers reopening at least partially, I’m not interested. I was livid when I heard that playgrounds would reopen before the day care did. How exactly does that help working parents (someone still has to take the kids and watch them)? Let’s also talk about what a brilliant idea it is to mix different groups of kids every day. Every time I pass by the one near our place, it’s packed. Day cares are still closed. I am still losing it.
Tell me I’m not the only one who isn’t quite a model for positive parenting these days. It is so hard to admit that you’re failing as a parent, but can we be honest for a second? We could all benefit from knowing that we are not alone in this; now more than ever. We’ve gone from having bad days to having bad weeks (months?). And as of yet, there is no light at the end of the tunnel, which for me is by far hardest part of this whole ordeal.
Yes, former generations had it rougher and many, many, many people still do - but we are all allowed to feel shitty every once in a while. And, to be frank, this is the worst I’ve felt in as long as I can remember.
Bottom line is: I absolutely love my kids unconditionally, but I need a break and I won’t find it in my weekend glass of wine. Make no mistake when you see happy pictures of my kids on social media (or anyone’s kids, I’m confidently assuming). The struggle, my friends, is extremely real.
If you have any proven coping methods, do send them my way. Let us virtually lean on each other. I know this will pass, but until it does, I guess we just have to our best not to lose our minds - one day at a time.
Back to business as usual
Hi there, how are you? It’s been a while since I last updated this blog, and a whole lot has happened since then.
Firstly, I had a few people from literally around the world approach me to say they read and like and take inspiration from what I write. And let me tell you, hearing this has got to be one of my favorite feelings in the world. Like any other millennial (or human, really?), I am constantly on the lookout for my “calling” and am often pulled back into writing. It really seems to be my thing, and I can’t thank you enough for appreciating it.
Secondly, my mom was visiting/helping us out for a few months, then we were away for a bit in Toulouse for a wedding and finally in California to visit family. I also turned 30! In other words, our daily lives and habits have been uprooted, shaken, and tossed around quite a bit lately - and we’re people who mostly thrive on a set routine, or at least I am. These trips were certainly less glamorous than they may sound (with two small kids in tow, nonetheless), but they were incredibly eye-opening and helped us refocus on what we want for our family in the future. They also added many points to our “traveling with kids” skillset, which I’m excited to share and hopefully help you from our experience.
And lastly, but not in the least less importantly, I’ve introduced L to solids! This is an exciting milestone for any parent, but even more so when you’re studying to help other parents introduce solids to their kids’ diet. This time around I’m giving baby-led weaning a go, and I’ve lost count of the amount of raised eyebrows I got or the number of people who asked me when we would start feeding her “baby cereal”. The answer being probably never.
That said, please let me know in the comments what you’d like to read about first:
A. Traveling abroad with small kids or
B. Introducing solids to baby L (while traveling!)
I’d also love to hear about your summer and past few months. What did I miss?
My VBAC birthing experience
I’m not really sure where to begin in retelling my daughter’s birth. All I know is that there was a series of events and choices which led to an unfortunate experience - most of which could’ve surely been avoided with a bit more knowledge and/or assertion on my end. I own up to not having known enough beforehand, and having instead chosen to believe that the healthcare professionals involved in L’s birth (mostly women) had our best interest at heart. Which, to be honest, they probably did. It just wasn’t the best for me. And I believe that this is what the vast majority of women opt to do - trust - so I urge them through this humble platform to do their research, and stand their ground when it comes to this defining moment in their and their babies lives.
L was born on February 1st 2019, at 23:41h, in Starnberg, Germany. Weighing 2.780kg and with 51 cm, she was already the most perfect bundle of joy and we were immediately smitten. We decided to have her in Germany mainly because they’d allow me to try and have a VBAC, i.e. a vaginal birth after cesarean. Since there’s been less than 2 years since my son was born, there was a small chance of a uterine rupture - a chance they wouldn’t take in Brazil or France. In those countries, I would’ve had to have undergone another c-section, which I didn’t want. We don’t plan on having more children, so I truly wanted to experience vaginal birth. My heart was set on a VBAC as long as my daughter and I were healthy; so a VBAC is what I got.
Yet, here’s what I wish I’d known in advance.
Cervical exams are optional
A cervical exam during pregnancy is when the doctor inserts two fingers into the vagina to check manually whether the cervix is dilated, by how many centimeters, etc.
The day before L was born, exactly a week before her due date, I was feeling a lot of pressure on my c-section scar and, after calling my doctor, decided to go to the hospital and have it checked (with the risk of uterine rupture, I wasn’t taking any chances). At the hospital, the doctor performed the standard cervical exam, rather aggressively, but although it was uncomfortable I didn’t see any harm in it - until it was too late. As she removed her fingers, a small gush of water came out.
That night, my urine was a bit tainted with blood. The following morning I woke up to my PJs soaked. My water had broken. I am now rather certain that this cervical exam the night before somehow contributed to PROM (premature rupture of membrane, i.e. when the water breaks before labor starts). I wasn’t dilated at all, L hadn’t “dropped”, I didn’t have any contractions. Yet the time had come, and at 7am we headed to the hospital.
Choosing a hospital close to where you live has also to do with postpartum
The hospital we chose was 30-40 minutes away from our place, in a city southwest of Munich called Starnberg. It came with excellent recommendations (unanimously good experiences by all women I asked) and, since it wasn’t in Munich, we had a higher probability of getting a private family room for my recovery. On the day of her birth we had more than enough time to get there. In fact, I would go on to spend the day walking all around and climbing up and down the hospital stairs, hoping it would trigger labor naturally.
However, what no one told us was that the hospital’s proximity is just as important, or even more so, during the baby’s and mother’s postpartum recovery as it is during labor. I’ll write more about this on my post about the first weeks of the puerperal period.
GBS testing is not standard in Germany
In Brazil as in other countries such as the US, where most of my pregnancy reading material comes from, GBS (Group-B Streptococcus bacteria) testing is pretty much standard. This is an important test, as GBS bacterial infection can pass onto babies born vaginally and, in very rare occasions, cause meningitis, pneumonia or sepsis. If a woman tests positive for it, or if she isn’t tested, she will be routinely administered antibiotics during birth - which I really didn’t want, as it could affect my daughter’s gut health for months to come. I was thus shocked, and frankly pissed off, when my doctor told me the day before L’s birth that I hadn’t been tested because “I didn’t ask for it, and the health insurance wouldn’t cover it”. At no point throughout the pregnancy had he asked me whether I was interested in taking it, and I assumed it had been routinely done. Again, my mistake in trusting and assuming. Alas, I’d be given antibiotics.
If you live in Germany and would like to be tested for GBS, which I recommend, make sure to discuss with your doctor in advance. You may need to be tested a few times throughout the pregnancy, as the result can change, affected for instance by your diet (probiotics can help a lot). The results take generally about 48 hours to come out.
If you aren’t vocal and assertive about your wishes, executive decisions can be made on your behalf without consulting you first
I arrived at the hospital around 8am, and by 1pm I was still walking around trying to trigger labor naturally. It didn’t happen. The midwife decided to give me medicine - oxytocin - to speed up the process, since my water having broken put L and me at a higher risk of infections. I had the right to refuse it, but I didn’t, which I take full responsibility for. To be entirely, 100% honest, I didn’t “feel like giving birth” at that moment. I didn’t feel empowered. I didn’t feel energized. I knew my daughter had to come out soonish by whatever means, and the only thing I was sure of then was that I wanted her to be healthy. I was fearful of a uterine rupture, and I was also fearful of stories I’d read about incontinence and ruined sex lives post vaginal birth. Yet, I didn’t want to have to recover from a c-section again (although my experience had been overall positive). All sorts of thoughts were going through my head and I didn’t know what to make of them, so I went on a trusting auto-pilot.
As I said before, I do take full responsibility for accepting other people’s suggestions rather than trusting my gut instinct. By 3pm I started feeling violent contractions triggered by the oxytocin, but they were then still far enough apart that I could rest a bit between them.
By 5pm though, I was already exhausted and miserable from the intensity and frequency of the contractions, and I was told I’d be given an epidural (which had always been part of my birth plan). For the following 3 hours I kept being told that the anesthesiologist “was coming”. When he finally showed up around 8pm, the hospital had somehow lost my paperwork - so he left while my mom, together with YY, filled it out all over again. I was truly miserable.
When the anesthesiologist finally came back, he told my mom and YY to leave the room. He didn’t speak a word of English and kept barking at me in German to not move - an instruction I tried to follow as best as I could despite the 1-minute-apart contractions. When the anesthesia caused a spasm on my right side, which obviously made me move, I was barked at again even louder, and this time by the midwife as well. I was so nervous and in so much pain that I started throwing up. Profusely. I have since learned that this “awful anesthesiologist” experience is somewhat common here. Once this whole ordeal was done and the pain had finally subsided, I was left in the room with YY and finally got to rest a little bit.
Asking you “not to scream” can be considered a form of psychological obstetric violence
Around 11pm, the doctor came to examine my cervix once again. At this point, thanks to the epidural, I finally was around 7cm dilated. I was overjoyed with the progress, and could at last envision the VBAC I’d hoped for. About 20 minutes later, however, I started feeling an overwhelming urge to push. I could feel L’s head putting a lot of pressure on my cervix, and quickly came to realize that I couldn’t “hold her in” any longer. I called for the doctor and the midwife, and as soon as they came in they told me to push. Continuously. It went against what I’d been told (to push slowly in order to avoid tear), but I was not about to contradict them. As I started pushing, screaming came naturally - at which point they told me not to. I was supposed to push, quietly.
I later learned that requesting women to be concerned about keeping things orderly during birth, when they’re at such a primal state, can be considered a form of psychological obstetric violence.
The “Kristeller maneuver” is not recommended worldwide, and is considered a form of obstetric violence
This is probably the part which shocked me the most during L’s birth, and one in which I felt like I had no control at all. The doctor performed the Kristeller maneuver (or “applied fundal pressure to facilitate childbirth”) in order to speed up the birth, since poor L was exhausted from labor and her heartbeat rate was dropping. I.e., she pushed L down the birth canal by aggressively pressuring my ribs with her arms and elbows. This maneuver is not recommended by the WHO, and hasn’t been routinely done worldwide for a while, including in Germany. The risks of this maneuver far outweigh the benefits. She could’ve broken my ribs. Worse yet, she could’ve broken L’s clavicle, or even caused brain hemorrhage - amongst many other tragic consequences which I don’t even want to consider.
With the additional aid of vacuum, L was out in about 5 minutes.
If you plan on giving birth in Germany, I urge you to include your preference for not having a Kristeller maneuver performed in your birth plan.
Suturing after a vaginal birth, no matter the degree of tear, takes longer than suturing after a c-section
Because the birth itself went by so quickly, and since I wasn’t dilated enough at that point, L came out ripping everything in her way. At first the midwife kindly reassured me that I had had “barely any tear”, but the doctor was quick to correct her. I had a third-degree tear, and suturing took longer than an hour. I thankfully had a healthy and hungry L on my chest for most of the time, but I couldn’t help but feel extremely fearful as the doctor called in other doctors to assist in stitching me up. Overhearing her say in German - twice, nonetheless - that it was a “catastrophe”, mustn’t have helped. She surely thought I was too “out of it” to hear, or assumed that I couldn’t understand German. Alas, I did hear her. And so did YY.
What I learned (much later, from another doctor, at another hospital) though is that suturing post-vaginal birth takes longer than a c-section, no matter the degree of tear. With my previous cesarean experience, S was out and I was stitched up in no more than 20 minutes. This time it took at least an hour and a half. Suturing a vaginal birth involves many unpredictable layers of skin and muscles, and doctors need to be particularly careful and attentive. Happily, I was reassured that they had done an “excellent job”, and I am ultimately thankful that they took the time they did.
By 3am, I was up in the recovery room.
To be fair, my experience wasn’t entirely negative, and I would like to end this report on a more positive note.
I had an angel of a nurse with me throughout most of the painful part of labor, who kept holding my hand and telling me that I was doing great (she also said YY was an excellent midwife as he encouraged me to do some of the breathing exercises we had learned in a great birthing class). Without her, I’m not sure I could’ve put up with the whole experience without begging for a c-section.
I’ll also never forget the moment in which I realized my daughter was being born vaginally, when we were past any possibility of a c-section, which was when the midwife exclaimed that she could see her head (and that there was so much hair!). That was exactly what I needed to hear in order to make the final push. Moments later they passed me my daughter. YY and I looked at each other, and he said “you did it”. L and I had indeed done it.
As we waited to be taken to the recovery ward, the midwife offered me tea and crackers. Time slowed down as I recovered a bit of my strength. L nursed immediately and instinctively, and I could at last enjoy the first rush of hormonal postpartum bliss.
How is it December already?
Yesterday I had written a post about it being December already and how I’ve lost track of time this year. It was the first time I’d found a half hour to write in the past few weeks. It was a short but sweet little post and I planned on publishing it later that night. Then as I tried to upload an image, I accidentally deleted the whole text. I’d forgotten to save it - and just like that it had vanished. And I had a full-blown meltdown.
Yann-Yves and I have been so incredibly busy these past few weeks. We’re both working on exciting but challenging projects, I’m on the cusp of tackling a new career path (more on that soon), we’re completely rearranging the apartment in preparation for our daughter’s arrival (think Extreme Makeover: Nesting Edition) - and we’re also caring for a toddler while my bump grows exponentially by the day. Oh and I had a nasty stomach bug that left me couch-bound for most of last week.
Juggling all of the above requires a good amount of organization, and above all it requires control. My endless to-do list and busy bullet journal give me the illusion that I have it all under a carefully thought-out control. And then at the silly touch of a button I lose the text I’d been working on for precious 30 minutes of undivided attention, and I’m quickly reminded that it is not quite so.
I surprised myself as I snapped and broke down crying, suffering with the deletion of a short silly post. Trust me, it wasn’t a masterpiece. But at that moment the illusion of control was shattered, and I was flooded with frustration at the thought of all the loose ends that I must tie in the coming weeks. If I can’t even publish one finalized post, how am I supposed to get everything else done?
There’s my visa to renew. Paperwork to apply to. Market research to conduct. Books to read. A crib to buy. A bed to build. A business to kick-start. A maternity bag to pack. Maternity pictures to take. Clothes to donate. Furniture to give away. Courses to attend. Social media to manage (a particularly painful one for me). A husband not to neglect. A toddler to entertain. A baby to nourish. And then, maybe, there’s me.
The real list is much longer than the word limit of a blog post would permit, yet yes, I know I have it easy. But for the last few weeks it’s been truly challenging to see the figurative light at the end of the tunnel. As the reality of birth starts to dawn upon me, I’ve been piling myself up with an outrageous number of tasks to accomplish before our girl decides to show up, for fear (or acknowledgment) that I simply won’t be able to tackle them once she’s here.
So how is it December already? Any other year I would’ve put up the Christmas tree and decorated the house for Hanukkah weeks ago. I would’ve been listening to Christmas carols nonstop and would’ve driven Yann-Yves insane by now. I would’ve been drinking cosy drinks and soaking up the comfort of a nice smelling candle and all that hygge that comes with winter. More importantly for me, I would’ve started my yearly process of evaluating my past 12 months, in excited anticipation of the upcoming year and the “turning page” effect that it’ll bring.
But right now all I can do is finish writing this post and hope to publish it before accidentally deleting it again. Baby steps I guess?
Que pena
Desabafos e pensamentos nesse blog são normalmente expressos em inglês, mas esse post deve ser necessariamente em português. Que me perdoem os anglófonos.
Tenho pensado diariamente em me desligar das mídias sociais, pois o que vejo me traz mais tristeza do que esperança. "Mas, o que sinto escrevo. Cumpro a sina" - como diria Adélia Prado. Então aqui estou, me sentindo no direito (e dever) de expressar tais sentimentos que vêm me consumindo.
Mas que pena que se expressar tornou-se sinônimo de radicalismo. Que pena que discordar com "B" tornou-se sinônimo de apoiar "A". A vida, que sorte a nossa, não é tão preta ou branca, 8 ou 80, e não há quem me convença do contrário.
Minha primeira reação ao ver tantos "amigos" e familiares defendendo um candidato cujas ideias me embrulham o estômago foi me perguntar - por quê? Não encontrei argumento que justificasse uma descida além do fundo do poço do que considero (para mim, notem) moralmente aceitável. E por mais que busque na empatia o respeito necessário para o convívio amigável, a tristeza de termos chegado onde chegamos, nesse "nós contra eles", me consome. Diariamente. Hora por hora, minuto por minuto.
Sou forçada a me perguntar o que tais amigos e parentes pensariam de mim se fosse negra, ou pobre. Mulher, mãe e grávida eu já sou. Tenho a sorte de morar em um país onde minha condição humana não se volta, institucionalmente, contra mim (e se a Alemanha ainda está longe da igualdade salarial entre homens e mulheres, imaginem o Brasil). Morar na Europa é minha sorte e privilégio, e que pena que seja assim. A meu ver, morar fora do Brasil deveria ser uma opção, não uma escapatória.
O meu voto é portanto a favor de mulheres menos privilegiadas social e financeiramente do que eu. É também a favor de homossexuais, e de negros. O meu voto não é necessariamente contra o seu voto; esse desabafo não é uma afronta. É um desabafo político, mas não somente. A verdade é que a minha preocupação prioritária é como mãe.
Meu filho de um ano pode vir a ser gay, ou afeminado, ou simplesmente fora das normas da "família tradicional brasileira". E isso não deveria ter nada a ver com ninguém além dele mesmo e seus futuros parceiros. Mas me dói a perspectiva de visitar meu país e ouvi-lo sendo chamado pejorativamente de "boiola", entre outros "insultos" esdrúxulos, com a intenção de machucar. Me dói também a perspectiva de que ele poderia ser espancado pelos seus potenciais trejeitos - atitude essa, diga-se de passagem, sancionada abertamente pelo próprio presidenciável em questão. Me dói pelo meu filho e por todos os filhos e filhas que não se encaixam nos padrões grotescos da nossa sociedade hipócrita e retrógrada. Não, não dá.
E o que será do bebê no meu útero? Não sabemos ainda seu sexo - nem entremos na questão de gênero. Pode ser menino, pode ser menina, pode ser intersexual. Eu sei que o amo da mesma maneira, venha como vier. Mas não posso dizer o mesmo da sociedade brasileira. Aos olhos dos "bons valores" brasileiros, se for menino é judeu, se for menina merece ganhar menos, se for intersexual está fadada à prostituição (a realidade de 90% dos trans no Brasil). Para essa sociedade atual, meus filhos já teriam seu potencial limitado - que dirá se elegermos alguém com valores tão obsoletos que consegue fazer o Trump parecer uma opção razoável.
Isso sem falar da política pró-armamento, que é por si só uma receita para o desastre em um país tão desorganizado quanto o Brasil. E o militarismo? Tenho medo, muito medo. Choro de medo, e me perco na desesperança, fruto da intolerância e do discurso de ódio que andam pregando por aí. Já dizia de Gaulle que "o Brasil não é um país sério". Refutei sua afirmativa enquanto pude, mas por fim, ele sempre teve razão. Que pena.
Antes que me apontem o dedo, afirmo que por aqui não há indiretas. Esse é um artigo apartidário, fruto de uma mente ansiosa, que tenta achar um fio de lógica e esperança em meio ao caos. O que sinto, escrevo.
Taking time to be kind
I have very recently realized that up to this point I hadn't written once - not one time - the whole month of February. Every time I've logged my daily habits on my bullet journal this month, the blank space next to "write" led to a painful pang of guilt, which was subsequently forgotten due to a crying baby or a dirty pile of clothes.
I still somehow find the time to read a lot, though, and since my pregnancy I've devoured almost every article on so-called "mommy blogs" (such as Pregnant Chicken and Scary Mommy, to name a couple). A recurring theme seems to be the busyness of motherhood and the heaviness of a mother's (or main caregiver's) mental load; or how one can go about doing "stuff" all day long without seemingly adding up to anything, feeling absolutely drained by the time baby's in bed. Washing bottles, burping baby, changing diapers - you name it. It's an ongoing loop in which I am currently stuck, and find myself sometimes guiltily eager to get out.
This past weekend I got a chance to break the routine, and I ran with it. For my parents' birthday (they were born the same day, years apart) we went on a weekend trip to Innsbruck, Austria. We spent a wonderful time together, happy and healthy with the beautiful Austrian mountains as the most magnificent backdrop. I am always grateful for every minute I get to spend with my family. And yet...
The planning it took and the anxiety generated from organizing every single thing the baby could possibly need during those 48 hours left me with a migraine for days.
I haven't gone to the gym in almost two weeks, though I've been eating like a pig, which truly affects my self-esteem.
My hands are so dry from the baby bottle detergent, the skin has started to crack and it hurts (no matter how much moisturizer I apply).
I miss being creatively productive, and being tickled intellectually.
My home is a mess, which is a daily visual assault against my usually uber-organized self.
My whole body hurts from the cold and the numerous layers I have to wear just to go around the corner to buy some formula.
Although I know I am doing my best, I too often feel like it's not nearly enough.
I often want to quit, to disappear, to fade away. It sometimes feels like it's just too much. But this overwhelming anxiety isn't new to me, and by now I've learned to take deep breaths and count my blessings, until I'm ready to go on with my day.
But you wouldn't know any of this from social media.
Which brings me back to this trip to Innsbruck. The first night, my husband and I decided to leave S with the grandparents for an hour or so in order to catch up solo over a drink or two. My place of choice was the Hard Rock Café, because I could truly use a giant plate of nachos followed by an outrageously large margarita. Plus it brings both of us sweet memories whenever they play Blink 182 or New Found Glory, so the choice was really a no-brainer.
By the entrance, they had a metal sign which read "take time to be kind". I hadn't stepped into a Hard Rock Café for over a decade and couldn't recall if this was a "thing", but I found it awfully cheesy at the moment. Cute, but cheesy, and maybe a bit out of place? Anyways, on to nachos!
But now, being back to the daily grind, to the overeating to compensate for the fatigue, to the piles of dirty clothes and to the messy apartment, that phrase keeps coming back to me. Being kind to my son is second nature and unquestionable, but I can still use the reminder. I choose to interpret it as a sign. In the sea of never-ending stuff to do and to feel guilt about, I am claiming some time to be kind to myself.
Starting with this post.
PS: There is a fantastic Instagram account titled @postpartumstress which I follow and highly recommend to anyone whose anxiety is as bad as mine. Their super relatable material has made me feel less alone on numerous occasions.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
