Postpartum dispatch #2

Ninety minutes is the magic number, the length of one adult sleep cycle.  One 90-minute nap resets my brain enough to carry on a little longer.  Three 90-minute stretches over the course of a night and I am semi-human the next day.  Zero such stretches—the nights when Younger Brother wakes at the end of each of his 45-minute sleep cycles—and life is gray and heavy.  I fantasize about checking into a hotel, taking a sleeping pill, and crashing for 12 hours beneath a puffy white duvet.

(Update: He slept for five-and-a-half hours straight last night, then went down for another two.  It was glorious.)

 

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Postpartum dispatch #1

For the first two weeks after giving birth, feeling like a mental wreck isn’t pathological.  Something like 80% of new moms experience the “baby blues.”  To nobody’s surprise, it turns out that dramatic hormone fluctuations and acute sleep deprivation can really mess with your head.

I have cried over the strangest things since Younger Brother was born.  For example: I thought of happy memories from when Little Boy was a baby, like going on walks in the evening light, and that made me sad.  They were not tears of joy, but tears of deep melancholy.

The wacky mood swings have mostly faded now, a month out, but chronic sleep deprivation is taking its toll.  I distinctly recall feeding Younger Brother shortly before midnight last night, and I know I was roused again by a hungry baby around 4 a.m.  I think there might have been another feeding in the middle, about 2 or 2:30 . . . but I honestly cannot say for sure.  Perhaps I dreamed it, or perhaps I merely stirred briefly and glanced at the clock.

 

Introducing Younger Brother

Kid #2, who shall henceforth go by the pseudonym of Younger Brother, has arrived!  Eleven days early and nearly nine pounds.  He is healthy and adorable and relatively calm for a newborn.

Close-up image of a newborn baby's foot.

I like a good birth story, so I’ll write up the details of my labor for a later post.  I never went into labor with my older son (who was breech and born via C-section), so this birth was an entirely new and different experience.  Recovery has been much easier.

(Side note: You might have noticed that I’ve changed some blog things recently—like the name—to reflect my graduation and changing life.  Those updates aren’t completely finished, so please pardon the mess!)

Saying goodbye to my office and to grad school

I said goodbye to my office yesterday.  Literally: I closed the door for a minute, so no one could see, and gave each remaining item a small farewell.

Goodbye, chair.  You have been a good and comfortable chair.

Goodbye, computer.  Thanks for holding up as long as you did.

Goodbye, desk.  May you last forever.

(Seriously, that desk is a giant industrial metal thing.  It will last forever.)

I moved into that office three years ago, about a week before Little Boy was born, so it seemed fitting that I would be very pregnant again while moving out.  The furniture had come with me from my first office, a larger shared space in the main building.  That office switch had been quite the kerfuffle, the product of some rather poor decisions by our department chair, but it had worked out in the end.

After my little parting ritual, I turned all my keys into the department office, one of the last steps to being done.  I submitted the final version of my dissertation to the appropriate authorities last week.  My campus parking permit expired on Friday; my student health insurance ends at midnight tonight.  It’ll be another week before my transcript says I’ve finished, and then goodness knows how long before they mail out the actual diploma, but at this point, I’m not a PhD student any more.  I have a PhD.

Goodbyes to furniture are melancholic but easy.  Goodbyes to people are much harder, especially when you’re trying to communicate how important someone has been in your life.  I ended as awkward as ever, and spent the next few hours at home trying to recover from the panicky anxiety that ensued.  Watching the new grad students register for classes and the established ones settling in for another year, I also got the feeling that the department was moving on without me—which of course it is, because that’s how universities work.

I won’t miss academia, but I will miss this place, if only because it was a part of my life for so long.  I’ll miss my friends, many of whom have already gone off to various jobs in other states.  I’ll miss, for a short bit anyway, the part of my identity that revolved around being a student.

Goodbye, graduate school.

A fun office trip with Little Boy

Little Boy’s daycare is closed for a few days of teacher training, so I brought him with me to campus this morning.  My office is in a mostly-empty outbuilding, so there weren’t any major concerns about disrupting others.  (Not that there are many other people on campus at 9 AM in early August anyway.)  The plan was to try to keep him entertained with the novelty of it all while I sorted some papers and packed a few things.

It went delightfully well.  When you are almost three years old, there are many new and exciting—and sometimes scary—things to experience at a university.  Parking garages!  Elevators!  Public bathrooms with loud toilets!  And of course, Mommy’s office, with swivel chairs and a dry-erase board and stuffed animals and a vuvuzela (yes, really).  Plus a scientific calculator (he assumed this was a phone at first) and a computer with a mouse that he could click and scroll and use to make new desktop folders!

I had several dozen old pens that had accumulated over the years, and set Little Boy to checking them.  “If it works, give it back to Mommy; if it doesn’t work, put it in the trash can.”  He was quite effective at this task.

The best part of the morning was when my friend, who is also graduating and packing up her office across the hall, arrived.  Little Boy was ridiculously excited to see her, despite only knowing her by name before today.  He spent a good 20 minutes jumping up and down and running back and forth with sheer happiness.  Preschooler enthusiasm is amazing.

When I was Little Boy’s age, my dad was a PhD student.  I’m going to have to ask him if he has any stories about my visits to his office and lab.

Thanks for reminding me why I’m leaving academia

Well, the post-defense high was nice while it lasted.

I submitted my final research paper to a suitable journal about a month ago.  Last week, they sent me back the referee report, i.e., the comments from the anonymous reviewer.  I got what people in other fields call a “revise and resubmit”: they tell me what I need to fix, and then I return it to the journal for further review.  Very standard for this journal.  What’s not standard is that the reviewer—if you’ll pardon my language—was an asshole.

I don’t mean that he was critical, because reviewers are always critical, and it sucks and you feel bad and then you make the revisions and the paper is probably better for it in the end.  And I don’t mean that he didn’t read carefully or was oddly picky about some little thing, because that happens all the time too and you roll your eyes and grumble about it and move on.

No, I mean that he was actively nasty.  The whole review is full of snide, condescending commentary.  It borders on direct insults in places.  I’m not going to go back into it and try to find shareable excerpts right now, so you’re going to have to take my word for it, but this isn’t my first experience with peer review, and this one is different.

I’ll be honest: this has really knocked me back mentally.  With the passage of a few days, my response has settled from the initial “BURN IT ALL DOWN” to a slightly calmer “ugh, I really don’t want to deal with this.”  I’ve been able to reread the review and make a list of actionable items.  But I’m still, more than anything, really angry.

I’m angry that being a straight-up asshole is allowed.  (Yes, such people are everywhere, alas, and life is not fair.  Doesn’t make it less frustrating.)  I’m angry that I’ll have to take the high road and write a response that at least kind of sounds polite, when what I really want to do is yell at him to fuck off.  I’m angry that this paper is going to take so much longer than I’d (perhaps naïvely) hoped.  I’m angry that I’ll have to deal with this guy again in the next round of review, because he’ll undoubtedly come up with new jibes regardless of how thoroughly and professionally we answer in this round.

In addition to all that, I’m angry about the culture (both inside and outside of academia) that tells me to suck it up and deal with it.  Be strong.  Don’t let the bullies get under your skin.  Don’t let the bullies win.

Screw that.  Sometimes the bullies really are just assholes, and pretending otherwise doesn’t take away their power.

On the plus(?) side, I’ve had a lot of conflicting feelings in recent months about whether leaving academia is the right decision, and I think those feelings are sorted now.  I do not love science enough to put up with this kind of shit.

Dr. Crazy Mama

My dissertation defense was on Tuesday … and … I passed!

(It’s taken me a few days to sit down and blog about it, because my parents are visiting and Family Time is fun but exhausting.)

It was not surprising to pass—it’s extremely unusual in any PhD program for someone to fail after being allowed to defend—but I am so very happy and relieved to feel like I deserved it.  That was my greatest fear over the last year: that I would be passed out of kindness or pity or just to get me out of there.  I am comfortable that that’s not what happened.

Defenses in my department are a short (30-minute) public talk, followed by an hour or two of private questioning by the committee.  My extreme social anxiety doesn’t transfer into prepared public speaking situations; as long as I’ve practiced (which I definitely did here), it only takes a few sentences for me to get comfortable.  So that part went quite well.

The questions from my committee were generally relevant and reasonable.  It was all big-picture knowledge stuff, plus some questions about possible follow-up work.  No one asked me to justify any of my methodology or even any of my conclusions.  I had to write on the board a few times, but didn’t need to pull up any plots or refer to anything specific in my written dissertation.

My answers were awkward and clunky at times.  Someone once told me that the point of a PhD defense is to find out the limits of your knowledge (and decide if it’s enough)—and so to expect people to keep asking questions until they ran into those limits.  I think not all of the clunky answers were my fault, though.  Some of my committee members were just not very good at articulating what they were looking for, and it took a few rounds of clarification to get there.

There was only one point when I felt really nervous, and that was when they sent me out of the room after an hour of questions, to decide if they were done or if they needed to ask me more.  I began the wait feeling confident, but after about five minutes started to worry that it was taking too long, even though rationally I knew that it wasn’t.  (And it wasn’t: they called me in after about ten minutes to congratulate me and sign the passing paperwork.)

I passed with no revisions, meaning that I don’t have to rewrite anything or add components to my dissertation.  Each committee member pointed out a few typos and suggested a clarifying sentence here or there in my introduction, but that’s all.  This is fairly common in my department, nothing extraordinary, but it still feels good.

Officially, I will receive my PhD in mid-August, when my university confers degrees that were completed during the summer semester.  I do still have to fix those typos and formally submit my dissertation to the university.  (Submissions are electronic these days, with much less stringent margin and formatting requirements than they used to require for paper copies.)  I’m also waiting to hear back from the referee on my latest paper, and I won’t feel mentally totally done until I’ve taken care of revisions on that.

To be honest, it still feels pretty unreal.  Did this actually happen?  Am I actually (almost) done?  My brain doesn’t quite know what to do with it, I think.  But it does feel good.

The final countdown… to my PhD defense

After many years—so many it seemed like they would never end—and an enormous amount of stress, I am almost done.  In one week, I will be defending my dissertation, the final significant hurdle to being granted my PhD.

After working myself to my absolute limit to get the writing done, I now have a brief period to breathe.  My dissertation has been sent around to my committee.  I just need to prepare my slides for the formal talk part, and practice the talk, and remind myself of a couple of little details that I think might come up in questioning.

I waver between serene confidence and absolute terror—so, completely normal for someone at this stage.  In the last few months alone, I have had multiple panicky crises about whether I would ever get the research and the writing finished, but having reached this point, there is no real doubt that I will pass the defense.  My work is solid; my advisor had some extremely complimentary things to say about my last research chapter.  But the question remains: how hard will the committee make it, and how foolish will I feel by the end?

Wish me luck, readers!  I will let you know when it is over.

Survey vent, part 2: do gender better

For the last few years, all the official student surveys coming from my university have offered three options for gender: male, female, and transgender.  I appreciate that they’re trying—it’s better than only listing male and female—but arg, no, that’s not how it works.

By itself, “transgender” isn’t a gender; rather, it’s a descriptor meaning that your gender identity doesn’t match up with the gender you were assumed to have at birth.  Transgender people are male and female and non-binary, not an extra separate gender.

I’ve seen other surveys that attempt to do better by offering four options: male, female, transgender male, and transgender female.  However, that kind of setup implies that trans people aren’t “real” members of their gender.  It would be somewhat less problematic if the first two were specifically listed as “cisgender male” and “cisgender female”—but if you really need to know whether your survey respondents are cis or trans, consider breaking that into another question.  The Human Rights Campaign has a good example of a survey approach that separates “What is your gender?” from “Do you identify as transgender?”

Of course, as alluded to above, gender is not binary, and your survey also needs an option for people who are non-binary / genderfluid / genderqueer / agender / etc.  (Not to imply that these terms are interchangeable, because they are not, just that at bare minimum there needs to be some kind of “outside the gender binary” selection available.)  If your survey design allows it, an additional option with an open text field will help you avoid unintentionally excluding anyone.  And personally, I’d also like to see a “prefer not to say” choice for gender, as is common on some of the other demographic questions.

Survey vent, part 1: married students exist

When designing a survey to be taken by university students, please remember: Some students are married or live with long-term partners—and some students have children.  These things are true for any college-student population, but they are especially relevant when your survey specifically targets graduate and professional students.

This little vent was brought to you by a graduate housing survey from my university’s Residence Life department.  “Lives with family” can mean very different things depending on whether you mean “lives with parents” (which was the implied meaning in this case) or “lives with spouse/partner/children” (for which there wasn’t another, more applicable choice).  And don’t frame your rent, roommate, and bathroom-sharing questions in a way that assumes people are single.

Oh, and while we’re at it, don’t ask me for my “hometown.”  Be more specific about what you’re looking for here.  Where I grew up, where my parents live now, and where I consider “home” are three different things.