The distant beep beep beep of a backing-up garbage truck
Residual rivulets of rain on the roof
Ringing in my ears
A Benedictine monk was told to repeat a Psalm over and over in his head
When it was all he could hear, he asked his superior what then.
Repeat it until you become it.
Without the outside distractions of beeping and running water,
the ringing becomes all consuming.
How can I turn down the dissonance and resonate with the truth?
thegospelcoalition
There are some sure-fire ways to guarantee the growth of your family. None are medically proven; none are rational – but all fall under the accord of Murphy’s Law.
shedka.com
All I do is eat, eat, eat no matter what
Got nausea on my mind,
man, I’ve had enough
When I walk into the bathroom
the toilet lid goes up –
and I stay there
Baby Center blog
and I stay there
and I stay there
Up chuck, up chuck, up chuck
make me say, what the *$@%
These flippin’ hormones
The three of us stared at the idling bus like zombies.
We’d managed to get our children onto it in time, but that – and being upright – were about our only accomplishments this morning.
One didn’t feel well. One was loopy from the stress of final exams. I was feeling the effects of a 4:45 wake-up call from my churning stomach.
My husband had already told me to take a nap given my chipper demeanor, but seeing that I wasn’t the only mother not feeling it this morning made me feel a little better.
We all have our reasons, right?
We all walk around on any given day with shit in our eyes, chips on our shoulders, hearts on our sleeves. The stench of puke in our nostrils. The laundry pile that threatens to overtake our youngest. The dirty dishes that make any amount of counter space seem minuscule. The pile of outgoing Thanksgiving decorations next to the tote of incoming Christmas decorations.
Our worries, our fears, our subconscious thoughts that come out in biting words and bouts of disconnectedness.
We’re all too freaking busy.
And why?
Could we do with less stuff? Own less clothing? Schedule less things?
All those must-dos are not things we must have to live – at least not enjoyably.
I think in this season of quiet pinpricks of light amidst a world of darkness, it’s time to take stock of what we really value in our lives – and make time for those people, traditions, ways of being. We must fan the flames of our hearts and exude joy among the drudgery.
pd4pic.com
And if you’ve got any tips on how to do that, let me know 😉
I had to clear out months of clutter in a matter of weeks.
I had to squeeze in cleaning sessions between naps.
I had to let some things go that seemed absolutely essential.
I had to receive guests into an imperfect house.
I had to admit that the next week was lost due to physical and mental recovery.
I had to hope that it was just the exhaustion of overextension and not the harbinger of a downward slide
into
anger
irritability
the dull padding of apathy.
I have to rally the hopeful spirit of the season and strive to be reborn each day.
Isn’t it amazing that we only engage in self-care when we have to, when it’s absolutely necessary. When we’ve reached such critical mass we’re about to blow apart.
That’s usually when I get a humdinger of a sinus infection. Agony. Aches and pains. Congestion. Fever, Chills. As horrible as it is, it forces me down for the count. To the couch. To bed early. To forcing fluids and taking it easy. Would I think to dial things down when the first symptoms show up? Heck, no. Push on through.
This morning I happily scrolled through the WordPress Reader, checking in on some of my favorite blogs. Catching up. Touching base. Doing what bloggers do. When the hormones of early pregnancy unleashed a horrible churning in my stomach. I tried to ignore it, but finally had to shove a snack down my gullet before breakfast came up. Self-care had become an interruption, an annoyance.
Arriving home from my brisk walk to the bus stop, I grabbed a glass of water. One would think the neutral taste would be good for someone trying to avoid the aforementioned ‘upping-of-the-gullet’. Un-unh. It just reminded me that hardly anything tastes good anymore – and that my long-overdue to-do of buying lemons or limes to slice up and put in my water may actually help. Why should it take utter disgust to push me to finally make this small treat a reality?
What is it about humans – and women in particular – that makes self-care always an afterthought? Guilt? A Puritan ethic? Not wanting to be self-centered, self-absorbed, selfish? Lack of time? Money?
I’m sure it’s all of the above. But I’d venture a guess that it’s most likely a feeling that we’re not worth it. We don’t deserve a reward – no matter how small. Especially when there are others in the world who have so little; who suffer so much.
That last point makes an especially compelling argument. However, there’s a reason flight attendants tell us to put our oxygen masks on first before assisting those next to us. Mothers, care givers, partners, aid workers, samaritans, humans – none of us are good to those who need us if we’re laid out, dog tired, dead sick. We can enact great waves of tenderness and care in the world if we start in our own little atmosphere.
Postpartum Mood and Anxiety Disorders (PPMADs) rob mothers of so many things, but perhaps the cruelest thing they take is the joy. The joy – which makes the overwhelming job of motherhood worth it – is replaced by fear.
Fear that you’ve made a terrible choice in having a child
Fear that you don’t deserve this child
Fear that someone may take this child from you
Fear that you may do something to hurt this child
Fear that you won’t survive another day without hurting yourself
The fears of the early days will pass – through time, gentle care, therapy, medical intervention. You will be able to envision a bright future for you and your child
Even still, there are some things PPMADs may steal that can never be replaced. The memory of the pain and anguish, the trauma linger on. There is no peace to ever be associated with that time in a mother’s life. So much so, that she will never, ever attempt it again. Women who dreamed of large families stop at one child, not because they are bad mothers or lack the desire, but because their pospartum experience was so bad.
There are the women who achieve pregnancy fully armed with the warning signs and therapeutic tools available to them, should PPMAD strike again, yet are paralyzed by the anxiety that it could happen again.
There are women who must face the scrutiny of others who deem them crazy for even attempting pregnancy after their previous experience. They second-guess their own intuition and self-knowledge and the fact that they’ve come out the other side beat-up, but stronger – all because of the well-meaning souls who give critical advisories for mothers’ own good. Well-meaning souls who have never inhabited the dark spaces of these mothers’ individual hells, who have not fought the daily internal battles it takes to stay out of them, and who don’t realize that every negative comment saps one more drop of the mothers’ resolve.
PPMADs are an insidious band of thieves. They take without provocation, without discrimination, without consideration. They come under cover of dark; they aren’t cloaked because they’re faceless. But with help and support, mothers can choose to face them. And take back what is rightfully theirs: their own vision of motherhood.
“When we first lost our house, I told Reba, ‘I just want things to go back to normal. When is that going to happen?’
‘Soon,’ she promised.
Soon seems awfully far away.
‘Your mom’s on medication that makes her tired,’ Dana Wood explains.
‘What’s wrong with her? She’s never been like this.’ I’m trying to get a breath. I feel sick to my stomach all of a sudden.
‘The early diagnosis is that she had something called a severe depressive incident. That can happen when people are very stressed and then something tough happens and they can’t bounce back.’
I sit down. ‘Like not getting the job she was counting on?’
‘Exactly. It was the last straw, and she shut down.’
‘She made it bigger in her head than it really was.’
‘That happens often, Sugar.’
‘But it’s not normal, right? Normal mothers don’t do this!’
‘What I can tell you is that most people sometime in their lives make something bigger in their heads than it really is.’
‘But they don’t end up in the hospital!’ I’m trying to breathe normally, but it’s hard.
‘Sugar, the doctors and nurses here know how to help.’
That doesn’t tell me anything. ‘How long does she have to be here?’
‘A week, probably.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’re not sure yet, Sugar.’
I’m getting tired of this. ‘I want to talk to somebody’s who’s sure.’
‘I’d feel the same way if I were you, but right now, no one’s sure.’
I have another question, but I’m not going to ask it.
Could this shutting-down thing happen to me?
— from Almost Home by Joan Bauer
Egg and cheese on a bagel.
from districtgourmet.com
This has been one of my comfort foods since I learned how to make one at my first job, schlepping bagels at a local shop. Ironically, I didn’t particularly like the job (people get really cranky if you mess up their cup of joe or bagel proclivities), yet this sandwich remains unscathed by any negative associations. Its positive connotations could come from the fact that it gave me a niche in my kitchen at home. No one could slice, butter, peel back melted cheese from the two waiting bagel halves to insert the egg like I could. Or it could just be the crunchy shell encasing the squishy gluten sandwiching the ooey gooey cheese melded with the fluffy egg.
The only drawback to this soul-satisfying ritual is exploding the egg in the microwave.
We used to have the perfectly shaped Tupperware container, molding the egg into a precise bagel-sized perimeter. If the lid was fitted on slightly askew, the steam would escape, the egg would cook, and you’d be good to go. However, close the gap too much, the steam could not escape; too little, egg splatters would escape. Such a quandry. Sometimes even with that perfect Tupperware and certainly with the smaller glass dish I’ve replaced it with, the steam blasts the lid clear off and sprays egg schrapnel all over the inside of the microwave.
Such was the case this morning.
As my crisp toast gently warmed my swiss cheese by osmosis, I cleaned the inside of the microwave. I gathered the flaccid little bits of egg that hung forlornly in my fingertips – because have you ever tried to wipe a bit of egg? – all while wishing I was already sinking my teeth into its tender gooiness.
And I thought, as my microwave approached its cleanest state in months, I’ve been blowing up eggs all over the place lately. In every sense of the word. See, the only reason I’ve reinitiated this comfort food ritual as a second breakfast in true hobbit fashion as of late is because of the fertilized egg growing inside me. I’ve returned to the prenatal craving of carbs and all things yellow/beige. I get two-thirds of the way through this delicious carb/protein fest and lament that it cannot last forever. I truly think I’d make another sandwich right away if I didn’t mean cleaning the microwave again.
The build up of steam and fire power inside that little Tupperware and the resultant shock of the pop as the lid flies loose is not unlike the advent of this pregnancy. It makes our life a little bit messier than it was already with three children. But I have the feeling it’ll be clean and smooth when all is said and done. There will be ooey gooey comfort and warm feelings way down inside. It will be as satisfying as finally sinking my teeth into that crispy yet soft soul food sandwich.
An explosion can change all matter involved. It can forever alter the blast site. It can also clear the way for new and wonderful things.
There are two sides to me.
One side,
so dedicated to hope and wanting to believe in its existence.
In life.
The opportunity for joy at every corner
despite the struggles.
In the goodness of humanity.
The side that must be so strong
it survives
in spite of
the other side.
A dark pessimism,
the cloud of depression
that tells me it won’t work,
you won’t find joy.
You will constantly struggle and be weighted down by me.
I am the first side.
The second side haunts me like a shadow.
It won’t win, but it makes things a hell of a lot harder.
* thanks to Joni Mitchell for title inspiration 😉
Chopping Potatoes 