Stress re-defined

I used to be a very deadline-driven woman. I was a small-market TV reporter for a combo CBS/ABC station that put out 10 newscasts a day between the two of them. From 4 to 6:30 p.m., my blood pressure skyrocketed, my skin flushed, my temper flared and people avoided me as I tried to get all of my stories written and edited in time for newscasts at 4:30, 5, 5:30 6 and 6:30 p.m., plus usually at least two live shots. Then I'd have enough time to grab a fast food dinner before I'd have to repackage stories for the two 10 p.m. newscasts, which also often required live shots. I routinely put in 80-hour weeks with no overtime pay on a salary so low I was envious of rich school teachers; at one point I was also tutoring Spanish, freelance writing and cleaning a stable on Sundays to make ends meet.

Then I switched to newspaper reporting. That single daily deadline could at times be pushed as late as midnight, and I made almost as much as a first-year teacher. I felt like I had time for naps and trips to the spa between stories, even though at times I wrote as many as nine a day. So I'm no stranger to stress.

But stress these days is a completely different color and flavor. I still have deadlines, but those now take a back seat to the tint of Riley's mood ring. Usually she's a very upbeat, happy baby who's a joy to be around. But there are times I see in her a scary echo of my under-TV-deadline self. She can hit a boiling point that in turn flips my switch, and I feel like I'm back at the station laying down my last few seconds of video as the clock hits 5:59. Teething is a common culprit of dark moods, but there are times I have no clue why she's out of control.

Her doppleganger came to visit earlier this week. She wouldn't stop crying, no matter what I did. Then she started pinching me -- hard. I tried to explain that it hurt, that she needed to be gentle. I showed her how to touch softly. But she kept digging in with her toddler talons. I finally had to take her upstairs and stick her in her crib and let her cry. She didn't appreciate that one bit. She continued screaming.

I was ready to scream myself. I was mad at my daughter, which made me feel guilty, which only added to my frustration and stress. What was I doing wrong? Was Riley hurting? I'd given her Tylenol on the theory that erupting teeth were to blame, but it didn't make any difference. I felt completely helpless and incompetent. I was sick of her crying, bruised from her pinching and thoroughly fed up with the day.

And I just really, really wanted her to be happy again. Not just because my life would be easier, but because it truly pains me when she's upset. I called my husband to see if he could leave work "early" -- 5 p.m. -- to relieve me. He reminded me he'd told me he had to work late for a meeting I couldn't recall ever hearing about. That made me want to toss him in the crib with Riley and plug my ears.

I glanced at the clock. It was almost 5 p.m. -- almost 6 p.m. at my old TV station. I sighed, nostalgic for the good ol' days when all I had to worry about was breaking news, beating the competition, back-to-back deadlines and paying for Ramen noodles. Back when life was uncomplicated.