Category Archives: motherhood

anxiety, Living, motherhood, postpartum depression

No Use Crying Over Spilt Whatever

Pinch, pinch, pull.

If my daughter’s preschool teacher can inspire twenty-five four year-olds to use this technique to open their pint-size pouches of fruit snacks, you’d think I’d be able to employ it to open a bag of pasta.

Not so.

Employing said technique, I managed to send dozens of uncooked Ditali skittering across the counter.  Surprisingly enough I caught myself before a torrent of curses loosed from my mouth, which is usually what would happen.  I pressed my body up against the impending avalanche and managed to keep all but a few Ditali from dropping.  I gathered the rest up by the fistful, after seeking out a few strays, and threw them into the boiling pot, shepherding the lost sheep to lead them to the slaughter.  And the overused idiom came to mind.

There really is no use crying over spilt whatever.

If I had flipped out (as I said I’m wont to do), what purpose would it have served?  I’d give my two year-old a few more choice words to add to her repertoire of words bound to be repeated when least desired?  I’d pump my blood pressure up a few points?  I’d push even more pasta over the precipice with my spastic gesticulations?  Really, there’s nothing positive that ‘crying’ would have added to the situation.  I’d still be a few Ditali short of a pound.

Not unlike the time I decided to bake Christmas cookies with all three kids.  Though the ‘baby’ was fifteen months old and I should’ve been ‘recovered’ from postpartum depression, I still got stressed very easily, had very little patience, and hated anything that made my job harder.  In this case: candy sprinkles.  Each time a candy-coated ball hit the floor, my rip-shit meter went up another notch.  Then Bella picked up the bottle, gave it a good shake, and the whole flippin’ lid flew off, blanketing the floor in a layer of rainbow-hued ball bearings.  I felt the wave of anger swell up inside me, but like some out-of-body experience, I stopped it before it crested.  Somehow, it occurred to me that it didn’t matter.  Let them throw candy around like confetti, for goodness sake – couldn’t get any worse now, could it?

This is not to say I’m happy when things like this happen.  Very often, you will find me cursing when I find myself under the dining room table on my hands and knees in the middle of dinner mopping up spilt milk.  And stuff like this is just one more thing threatening to push me over the edge in my already heightened state of stress.

I try to be Zen.  I try to employ my relaxation response.  I apologize to Jesus for taking His name in vain – again (something I never did until I had the third kid, by the way).  But like there’ll always be stressors, I’ll always be striving to keep it on the down low.  Just like I’ll be finding those flippin’ candy sprinkles under the stove each time I pull it out for the rest of my life.

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Living, motherhood, Recovery

The Butt of the Joke

What is it about the fabric on the butt of a bathing suit?  Is the fabric such that it always sags?  Or is it just the mass amount needed to cover my ass?  Maybe it just gets tired and worn out as time goes by – not unlike the skin on my body.

I had youth on my side with the first pregnancy.  After # 2, my breasts resembled tennis balls in tube socks.  And # 3?  After that one, I visited every specialist under the sun.

Pelvis malfunction and a left hip always slipping out?  Physical Therapist

Lower back and left buttock numb?  Chiropractor

Developing bunions (found by way of visit for ingrown toenail)? Podiatrist

My husband, knowing it would no doubt get my goat (which it most certainly did), joked that he was going to trade me in for a newer model.  Nevertheless, through exercises, adjustments, and orthotics, I regained mobility.  But just as absence makes the heart grow fonder, so did I forget how much continued maintenance and exercise matters.  Gradually, my routine lessened, then, went by the wayside.

Two years later, I have a near-constant stitch where my left hamstring meets my butt.  The place where my abs weakened and spread now yawns open hungrily.  I have saddlebags where once there were all straight lines and angles.

Now, I’ve heard of how ladies in years past, like those found in Rubens’ paintings, were valued for their curves and wide hips, signifying their life-giving capabilities.  And I do enjoy a certain comfort with my body more now than at any other point in my life.  Once upon a time, I was extremely shy about my body, even though I had a ‘cute little figure’.  Now that I’ve seen it morph and grow and sag, I realize I should’ve flaunted it when I had the chance.  But after bearing it all to give birth and publicly breastfeeding, I enjoy a ‘take me as I am’ attitude and a pride akin to battle scars, I suppose.  Plus, there’s only so much stretch before an elastic won’t snap back into place.  Just like accepting what your body is capable of on a given day of yoga, I accept that there are certain realities about my current form I must accept.  It is what it is.

It’s also a source of great amusement – because as I tell myself so often – laugh so that you may not cry.  And it’s something to share with my friends as we grow older together.  Just the other day, I received this card in the mail from my dear friend.

Maybe with the increasing effects of gravity over the years, I’ll at least stay grounded  ☺

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anxiety, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Three Ring Circus

Don’t tell my baby, but my third pregnancy was a huge surprise.

My husband and I cut our wedding cake to the tune of Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” – we envisioned a life with ‘three little kids for the flavor’.  But just like the top to the spice jar coming loose unexpectedly and dumping a whole pile of paprika in the pot, we got all that flavor all at the same time.

When Julia, our second, was born, we said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely have to be older than Bella is now when we have a third.”  God chuckled at that one.  Just after Christmas just under two years later, we found out Number Three was on its way.  Angela was born when Julia was four months younger than Bella was at her debut as a big sister.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were instantly wrapped in a cocoon of haze.  Everything seemed blurry and just out of reach.  Lost in our own thoughts, we wandered around in shock.  We didn’t tell anyone right away because we’d always waited until we knew the baby was well on its way, but also because we were waiting to wrap our heads around it.

Mere days after proof positive, we attended a New Years’ Party.  In attendance was a mother of three I’d come to know through the host.  I knew wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to tell her I was about to join her club, but I needed some assurance that I could do this.  She always seemed such a magnanimous mother, building her children up while laughing enough with them to keep them grounded.  If she said it was do-able, I could do it.  I asked her what it was like going from two to three children.  She said, “I have never been more acutely aware of the fact that I only have two hands.”  We laughed, her sense of humor seemingly able to overarch any obstacle in her way.  I can still see her standing there, those two hands raised in front of her.

Her words came back to me once we were all home from the hospital.  When someone asked me what it was like going from two to three, I said, that yes, there is some truth to the theory that it’s easier than going from one to two because you’re used to keeping all the balls in the air – but what no one tells you is that there’s always. a.  ball.  in.  the.  air.

I was a veritable ringmaster with all the balls I kept hurling into the air and trying frantically to catch and hoist again.  There was no intermission.  No time to catch my breath.  And I felt like I’d missed a very important set of lessons at circus school.  The fact that this circus took place under the big top of postpartum depression did not lend any sort of solace to the situation.  There were times I felt like I was the #1 attraction for the freak show.  But even though I was at the mercy of my hormones, I somehow made it through – and thankfully didn’t end up looking like the bearded lady.

Life is still crazy, but I’m feeling less so lately.  It’s just the usual brand of crazy, the kind that comes with three little kids and the flavor they bring (aided by the hula hoops the Easter Bunny brought each of them this year).  It may have been an acquired taste, but now it’s my favorite flavor.

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anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Torn

I felt like a thief, stealing away in the gloom before the house’s inhabitants awoke from their slumbers.  My voice caught in my throat when I called to my husband, “Give them kisses for me when they wake up.”  It felt so wrong to be leaving, especially when they didn’t have the chance to protest.  They’d been prepared well in advance, but somehow, it still felt covert.

I looked at the house as I drove away and waved at the closed curtains, the locked doors, the house already closed to me mere minutes after my leaving.  In my mind’s eye, I saw my youngest’s eyes peeking over the windowsill to wave another time I recently left.  I missed them already.

It took me awhile to settle into the drive, but eventually I pulled out the CDs I’d packed for the trip.  (Yes, CDs – apparently, my technology is at pace with the frequency of solo road trips).  I’d packed selections to fire me up for a marathon drive and a fun reunion at the end with a friend I don’t get to see nearly enough.  I’d also picked stuff I can’t listen to when driving the kids around.  I listened to the entire Beastie Boys’ Sounds of Science anthology and then switched to The Clash.  While I was having a grand old time car-dancing and singing along, it was about this time that I realized, I must be angry.  Punk rock, rap, ska with a driving back beat, songs with titles like, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.

Was/is my subconscious trying to tell me something?  Is some part of me totally repressed by my current state of affairs?  Am I really unhappy with the way life is?  Am I speeding down the highway chasing after the ‘me’ I lost somewhere along the line?  Am I doing such a sucky job at getting respite time that I’m about to blow?  Or did I really just need a road trip?

Somewhere around hour four of the six-hour trip, the soothing effects of the road took over.  I got used to the hum of the motor around 2800 rpms, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel, the crick in the back of the heel from my foot’s constant 45 degree angle on the gas pedal, the dull ache of the full bladder that I’d chosen to ignore till the final destination.  The traffic thinned, the sun came out, and my mind cleared.  I thought about everything and nothing.

I realized that one freeing thing about being totally overwhelmed and screwing up postpartum was that my heretofore-crippling bent toward perfectionism was thrown out the window.  Now, if not ever before, it was blindingly clear that it just wasn’t gonna happen.  And that theory was thrown out the window, when later that night, I confided to my friend that I felt like I couldn’t possibly do everything for my children.  She said that feeling came from me worrying so much about doing such a good job (i.e. perfectionism).

The whole weekend was a study in contradictions, me being torn in different directions.

Fear gripped me when we headed to the restaurant at 3 PM for lunch.  What about dinner?  Used to following a schedule acceptable for little bodies needing balanced meals, it took me awhile to adjust to eating whatever, whenever I wanted.  I ate so much at “lunch”, I had chips and Twizzlers for “dinner” at some point in the evening – I lost track.  I ate granola and yogurt for breakfast the next morning, but then gorged on a short stack with all the sides for “lupper” (we messed with meals so much this weekend, my friend started giving them her own names).

I wistfully noticed the babies in the arms or on the hips of nearly every person we passed.  Were there really that many small children in the state of Maine or was I missing my own babies that much it just seemed like it?  Though my husband does say all there is to do in Maine during winter is drink and have sex, so maybe there really are that many kids – and maybe that’s why he’s always wanted to move there ☺

Yet, I relished in looking at every single item on every single aisle of every single store if I felt like it – with no one to whine at me.  I loved chatting with my friend with no screeching interruptions – though we had so much to catch up on, we interrupted each other plenty of times.  I loved not waking up in the middle of night!!!!!!

I think what I liked most of all was being able to operate on the basest of levels.  Basic functions: eat, sleep, pee, laugh, breathe, be.  The weight of responsibility was lifted from my shoulders – if only for 36 hours.  And that’s what I meant when in my last post, “that which I was trying to escape had stowed away in the backseat”.  I don’t want to escape my children at all.  I love them and will always – even if it’s the death of me.

It was just really nice to get away.  Though, the squeezes I got when I walked in the door Sunday night were more powerful that any pressure I’ve ever felt in this trip called motherhood.

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Intimacy, Living, motherhood, parenting

Making Whoopee

In the middle of the pain-induced delirium of my first labor, I turned to my husband and said, “How can something that is so much fun lead to so much pain?”  We laughed: at the absurdity of the situation; at the fact that I could still joke in between contractions; at the ultimate truth of the statement.

And little did I know that as we pressed forward into parenthood, that statement would stretch and morph to encompass so much more.

When we returned home with our infant, my husband and I camped out on the couch passing the baby between us.  They fell into dreamland while I fell into the throes of a fever, my milk coming in with a vengeance.  I didn’t know why I had the chills, why I couldn’t lift my arms higher than my shoulders without hurting, why my baby wouldn’t latch on . . . I just watched my husband sleeping peacefully, the baby nestled on his chest, and shook with wracking sobs, realizing that the one I needed most couldn’t comfort me because some other little thing needed him even more than I did.

When we added a second child to the mix, the house was never quiet enough, the baby never had uninterrupted sleep, our nearly-three year-old never caught a break.  The pained look on her face when one of my tirades went a little too long and a little too loud broke my heart – because I was afraid I had broken hers.

Baby Number Three ushered in a matrix of physical and emotional pain unimaginable.  It took me months to figure out what the hell was going on and years to fix it (or work on it – I’ll let you know when I’m done).

Then there’s the toll parenthood takes on the bond between husband and wife, or ‘Mom and Dad,’ as it seems you will now forever be known as.  In the beginning, doing the act that landed you in this predicament in the first place does not seem appealing at all; never mind the doctor’s estimation that you will be back to ‘normal’ in six weeks, ludicrous.

In fact, I used my pregnancies as warnings to others.  When I overheard two of my twelve year-old students discussing sex, I piped up, “I hope you’re not thinking of becoming sexually active,” at which their pretty little jaws hit the floor.  I went on, from my perpetual position behind my desk because I was too tired to stand, “Because you don’t want to end up like me.  I’m married and it’s hard enough.”  At a wedding shower about a month before the due date of my second-born, I told the bride not to break any of the ribbons from her presents.  Circling my belly with a pointed finger, I said, “This is what happens when you break a ribbon.”

But that weird mind-blanking trick that humankind’s desire to procreate does to our memories soon kicks in, allowing you to forget the (seriously) gut-wrenching pain and remember the joy of intimacy again.  That is, when time and circumstance allow.  When you’re alone.  When the kids are sleeping in their own beds.  When you’re not so exhausted you fall asleep before your head hits the pillow.  When you can think like man and woman and not Mom and Dad.

Just last week, as my husband reached for me, brushing my arm in the process, I cried out, “Ow, watch out for my boo-boo!”  Nothing like the mention of a decidedly kid-term to ruin the moment.  Even when they’re not there, they’re there.  But, all parents somehow find a way around such dilemmas.  You lock the door.  You find a way to connect without hurting the various wounds you’re nursing.  And you learn to have fun.

 

When we were invited to a party at our newlywed friends’ place, we decided to bring whoopee pies for dessert.  We thought they fit well with the southern menu of pulled BBQ, cole slaw, and corn bread, but also that they were somehow apropos for newlyweds.  Wink, wink.  Then the girls, who love anything sweet, wanted to help prepare them.  I couldn’t help but see the irony as I watched them.  Here, in living color, devouring what was left of the frosting, were the literal fruits of my labor.

That’s what you get when you make whoopee.  Three gorgeous girls.

It’s been a long road since the first pangs of labor, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  And I wouldn’t do it with anyone other than my husband.  (Wink, wink).

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anxiety, motherhood, parenting, Recovery

Escape Artist

It being close to St. Patrick’s Day, I’m going to invoke Murphy’s Law: all that will go wrong, shall – especially if you speak to the opposite.

Just last week, I was telling my father that I always thought Angela, two and a half, would behave just as Julia, now four, did when she was that age. And how, surprisingly enough, she wasn’t. That what I thought was ‘terrible two’ behavior was in fact, Julia’s unique disposition.

Julia was by no means a terrible toddler. The second born, she was accustomed to following her big sister around (see previous post on how I dragged her to the library as an infant). Going places and doing things made her more gregarious and more kinesthetic. Plus, she needed an easy-going nature in order to survive toys being perpetually shoved in her face or being startled out of a sound sleep without posttraumatic stress disorder. Unfortunately, easy-going was also her attitude towards rules and directions.

Crossing the street a danger? Nah. I can run at full-tilt with my eyes closed. Wait for Mommy? Nah. The world is a safe place. Stay dressed in the outerwear Mom turned herself inside out to get me into? Optional. I’ll just run fast enough to stay warm.

Julia entered this phase of independence and autonomy just as I entered an unexpected phase of disability. In the latter days and weeks of my pregnancy and during labor, I suffered what is medically referred to as pubic symphysis diastasis. In laymen’s (or women’s) terms, it hurt like hell. The muscles in my pelvis had stretched just enough that I could not sit up in bed or get out of it without excruciating pain. I had to sidestep the stairs one at a time. I had to bend to the floor to slide my pant legs up.

While my pain and limited mobility were very real, to everyone else I was a young woman shuffling like some sort of invalid with no reason at all. I imagined them thinking, “What, does she think she’s the first woman to have ever given birth? Women in some parts of the world go back to working the fields the very same day!” In fact, many of the nurses in the hospital thought this birth was my first when they saw me lolling about the room – until they heard my diagnosis.

Unfortunately, pubic symphysis diastasis is not something that rolls off the tongue, nor something you want to share with the ladies at preschool pick-up; a fact which made one pick-up in particularly very interesting. Bella, the preschooler at the time, was due to return from a field trip. The time stretched and stretched as myself and two other mothers with small children waited, the little ones growing more and more antsy. They edged closer and closer to the corner of the building, then toward the rusted metal bike rack that looked infinitely interesting amidst the sea of concrete, then into the wide open expanse of the school yard on the far side of the building. One of the other mothers engaged her son in a game of tag designed to lure Julia back towards us, he being more compliant than my child. She played along for a few minutes, then made a break for freedom, shooting across the play yard toward the driveway and street beyond. My heart leapt to my throat as I weighed my options. Yell to her? Abandon her baby sister by the door and chase after her? My hesitation gave her a healthy head start, after which I shuffled like a decrepit zombie across the pavement, waiting to watch in slow motion as she was squished like a bug by a passing car. Luckily, the other mothers, despite no prior knowledge of my condition, took pity on me and ran to her aid. We only knew each other in the hellos and goodbyes of the previous weeks, but they rallied to the universal crisis call of motherhood and helped me. Thank God.

We returned to the door to resume our wait, me clutching Julia fiercely and muttering something about, “Wonder what my physical therapist would say about that?” to somehow excuse my absolute ineptitude at chasing after my daughter. Angela lay sleeping in her infant carrier right where I had left her, totally oblivious to the melee.

So, perhaps you’ll understand my concern when another year of preschool drop-offs and pick-ups – this time Julia’s – rolled around. I think I was the one with posttraumatic stress. I dreaded that Angela, now that magic number, would put me through the same paces Julia had. As the year progressed, I started to think that it was still Julia who was the difficult one; the one who channeled Goldilocks when it was time to choose shoes; the one who ripped out her perfectly parted ponytails mere seconds before it was time to go; the one who refused to even step out the door. Angela seemed easy in comparison.

Enter Murphy’s Law. Mere days after my proclamation to my father, Miss Angela entered the dreaded phase. Pulling into the driveway and springing the kids so they could run about in the yard while I unloaded, Angela disappeared. Julia hadn’t left the grass of the front yard, but Angela had wandered off somewhere. I finally found her standing in my neighbor’s backyard, grinning. A few days later in said neighbor’s backyard, while her sisters played with the girls, Angela moved out to their driveway to take their tricycle for a spin. I watched her over the gate. When I turned to say something to my neighbor and then back, she was gone. I heard Julia calling for me, and found her chasing her sister and the trike down the street. And just this morning, as I trucked groceries from the trunk to the kitchen, Angela followed along – until I stopped to yell at a squirrel to stop digging up my fledgling garden. At the end of my tirade, I sensed her absence and hurried to the front yard – to find her strolling down the street, hands in pockets. I called to her as I approached, at which she laughed and broke into a run. I’m still out of shape, but at least this time, I was able to catch my escapee.

So, lessons learned. Never let your kids get a running start – regardless of your level of disability. Never peg one child as the challenging one – another one will step up to prove you wrong. Never accept any platitude about parenting – circumstances will change the very next day.

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anxiety, Literacy, motherhood, parenting

Story Time

It’s a good thing I believe in the power of reading – because if I didn’t, there’s no way I’d take my kids to the library.  Time after time, it proves to be a taxing experience – one I’m not sure is balanced by the benefits of the books we obtain.

The kids, however, love it.  So much, in fact, that they burst through the doors like an invading army, one running this way, one the other.  Unfortunately, the front doors deposit us right into the “quiet” section of the library.  While I try to corral them towards the book drop, they dodge and weave, this last time with Julia lighting upon the stack of rolling bins “just like the ones at the grocery store, Mama” to tote books around in – even though I can’t get her to carry our tote bag.

After numerous shushes on the way to the reserves where Mommy’s book is waiting, it’s time to commandeer the children’s section.  They rush to the stairs with renewed vigor, Angela’s voice reverberating through all the levels as we ascend.

They do comment on a few books on display en route to the play area, Julia picking one on various modes of transportation throughout the ages.  Story time must have just ended because there are many little people and their parents hovering about.  Julia and Angela dive into the crowd, playing with the puppet theatre and puzzles; making friends more easily than I.  Julia sits on a low-slung kid couch near another mother and starts a conversation with the Tyrannosaurus she’s operating.  Angela giggles at the parrot another mother has squawking.  I smile and mill about.  These two must already know each other because a few minutes later, I can’t help but overhear one relay the story of her husband’s possible adultery to other.  One father with a preschooler and an infant looks up in surprise when he sees his baby smiling through a gap in a bookshelf, playing peek-a-boo with me – maybe he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself either.  A grandmother plops in a chair after depositing her toddler into the play area, looking worn out.  I want to tell her I feel her pain.

Today, as with nearly every visit here, I’m having flashbacks to when Julia was an infant.  So exhausted as a new mother, yet determined to keep my active two and a half year-old busy, I would strap Julia to the front of me and take Bella to story-time.  I think I was trying a passive-aggressive attempt at keeping some semblance of pre-baby # 2.  I figured if I couldn’t sleep when she slept and lie around all day in my pajamas, I may as well be out and about to distract myself from my misery.  I’m still not sure which was worse: a mom who could hustle around two of them, her harried mania bubbling just below the surface, or a mom drooling in delirium with a stir-crazy kid.  I was so desperate to latch on to something, I rushed the kids to story time without realizing there is an etiquette to such events.  I was lucky enough to attend the first meeting of a new session, at which there would be arts and crafts and for which advanced registration was required.  The most dour-looking librarian of the staff came over to me with her clipboard, pointing to my daughter, and asked, “And who might this be?”  After introductions, she said, “Ok, I’ll add her to the list for next time as she’s not signed up.”  I stammered some statement/question about pre-registration and she assured me it was fine; she had extra materials for the craft.  She had moved on to the next child, who was on her list, before I could thank her.  We went home with our contraband craft and never returned.

I guess I’m not much of a joiner.  One of the things I love about reading is getting lost in one’s own little world, a world that changes from chapter to chapter, book to book.  The solitary, quiet joy of it.  Although, I do love sharing and discussing the juicy details of a book I’ve just finished with someone else.  It has to be someone I know will enjoy it equally though.  Someone who loves a good story for the pure, unadulterated joy of it; the thrill of figuring out a mystery; the ache of a loss as if it were your own.  Not someone who will rebuff me because I wasn’t playing by a set of rules I didn’t even know existed.

I still take my kids to the library.  Though I’d much rather get my books and run, I let them say hello to the fish in the aquarium; put together puzzles that are missing a few pieces; pluck books from the shelf not by their merit, but because they’re at eye-level.  I let them scan the books at the self-check station even though their squeals as they push each other off the stool they’re sharing make me cringe – never mind the other patrons.  I take them to the library because they need to create their own experiences in the world of reading.  I can’t force them to operate under a set of rules made by someone else; they need to be afforded the same opportunities as those kids whose names are on the list.

Plus, it always makes for a really good story.

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anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Same $*@#, Different Day

There are times when I wake up in the morning and don’t know what day it is.  It takes my mind a minute to focus and remember.  I can blame a lot of this on lack of sleep.  My body feeling like its packed inside a bag of cotton balls, it’s no wonder my head is foggy.  But I think most of it has to do with the repetitive nature of my days.

Don’t get me wrong – I love routines.  I actually get a bit batty without them.  Anxious people like me do not like the unexpected (except surprise gifts on Mother’s Day – much to my husband’s chagrin).  I’m much better at fitting everything in if I have a set list of objectives and time frames within which to do them.

I’m thinking you can wear routines out though.  Without variety, you ain’t got no spice, right?  And life right now is looking pretty bland.  It’s the first week off winter vacation.  The weather’s cold, actually wet and snowy for once this year, the kids (and I) struggling to get back into the groove of wake-ups, waffle-making, lunch-packing, teeth-brushing, coat-wrestling, out-the-door running.

This morning, Thursday, I woke up saying, Thank God I don’t have to go anywhere besides drop-off and pick-up.  Four days into the week, I’m already so beat-down, I could barely crawl into my sweats.

I suppose I could approach this the way Bill Murray did in Groundhog Day, righting all the wrongs the second, third, fourth time around.  I could go to bed earlier tonight so I wake up somewhat refreshed.  I could make Bella’s lunch after dinner so I don’t have to scramble in the morning.  I could plan something new and different for tomorrow to break the monotony.  But in real life, unlike the movies, we don’t always get the moral of the story.

Sometimes we get so worn down in our ruts that we can’t see up over the rim.  And we wake up in the morning to the same day, essentially, because we’re dealing with the same shit.

But I’m thinking maybe this is nature’s way of getting us to embrace change.  We get so sick of ourselves and the monotony that we’re thrown off the track and forced to forge a new one.

It’s times like this that I find the pages in my cookbooks that aren’t yet dog-eared.  I purge all that clothing I’ve been meaning to give to good will.  I seek out friends that I’ve been meaning to make plans with.  I try some long-forgotten yoga pose.  I stretch muscles I’d forgotten I had.

All of life is cyclical.  Like the tides and the lunar cycle, today and its attendant shit are bound to come around again.  But in between, there will be moments of shock and awe and the sublime.  I’ll just have to remember not to get caught out too far when the tide comes back in.

So I’m sure I’ll find something exciting to get me through this low point.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and remember what day it is.  Until then, you’ll have to excuse me, I have another load of laundry to do.

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motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression

My Lifesaver

“I save you.”

My two-year-old daughter said this to me one morning as I dressed her.  She reached up from the changing table and grasped my arm, hugging me to her.

“You save me?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, a smile lighting her sweet little face.

She’s been playing games of chase, tag, and intrigue with her older sisters, which is no doubt where this line came from, as they ran from imagined assailants.  But these three small words held a much deeper meaning for me.

If it weren’t for Angela’s love – and my love for Angela – I might not have survived the three years that have elapsed since the news of her coming.

I read recently that humans have an evolutionary predisposition to always think the worst.  If we did not anticipate danger, we would get eaten by the wooly mammoth hanging around the corner.  If we didn’t worry constantly about starvation, we wouldn’t feel compelled to gather berries for the coming winter.  If it were always sunshine and roses, the species as we know it would not exist.

However, in the modern age, where thankfully we do not have to parry with wooly mammoth, this predisposition makes living a life of gratitude really hard.  Being genetically wired to pay attention to the negative, the positives of our life fade into the background without a concerted effort on our part.

And, sadly, I can say that I let that happen throughout my pregnancy and postpartum with Angela.  Letting the blessing of a child be outweighed by the unexpected timing of it.  Letting myself be buried by the drudgery of day-to-day rather than being uplifted by the wonder in her eyes.  Letting myself founder instead of accepting the help I needed.

There were times when I could pull those positives back into the foreground.  Little arms wrapped tightly around my neck.  Sitting in the living room, surrounded by my husband and the girls.  Watching the three of them splash in the bathtub.  I even started a gratitude journal as a concrete reminder of the blessings all around me on a daily basis, especially helpful on those days when the clouds made it impossible to see them.

It was through the filter of Angela’s unconditional love that I began to see the world differently.

If at the end of the day, chaos ruled, but our kids were safe and happy, all was right with the world.  If things didn’t go according to plan, maybe that was because God had a better one.  And if we weren’t happy, maybe that meant we were supposed to be doing something different anyway.

I decided to do a lot of things differently.  Acutely aware that there were some things in life that would choose me with no regard to my misery, I decided to only choose things that would bring me joy.  I found myself contemplating risks I never would have taken pre-partum.  With newly opened eyes, there were new possibilities.

It was Angela who gave me eyes to see.  She gave me back my life.  If her birth – and the resulting struggles – hadn’t happened, my serious examination of my life and place in this world wouldn’t have happened.  And every time I got lost or distracted by the discouraging things around me, her two little arms around my neck reminded me to come back to center – to the heart of what truly matters.

Angela returned the wonder to my eyes.  Watching her find her way in the world inspired me to find mine.  She is the ultimate gift of love – and isn’t that the greatest blessing of all?

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motherhood, parenting

Shut the Front Door

I now know why my grandmother used to shoo her children outside – and lock the door. Her kids, of course, would object.  According to family lore, my two aunts would hover on the landing of their third-floor apartment waiting for her to let them back in.  My father, the only boy, would wander outside to find his friends.  In any event, it didn’t seem that any amount of begging or pleading would alter my grandmother’s decision or when she deemed it acceptable to return home.

I always appreciated this story and found it quite humorous (my grandmother had that certain amount of pluck that allowed her to get away with it), but now I can fully relate.

Last Tuesday was gorgeous; the last day in January, yet feeling more like a fine day in spring.  When I was able to bring my scraps to the compost bin in my shirtsleeves and not freeze, I went back in for the recyclables and lingered outside for a moment.  Angela abandoned the last of her lunch and joined me.  Encouraged by the weather, we began a joint effort to rid the yard of broken-off branches from winter windstorms.  A few minutes later, Julia, who had heretofore been deeply involved in a serious reenactment of Cars 2 in miniature, wandered out as well.

I tidied twigs.  Julia decided to play school.  Angela followed along.  If I had planned an afternoon outside, it couldn’t have gone any better.  The thing was, I hadn’t planned an afternoon outside.  Angela’s naptime was in ten minutes.  That meant Julia’s quiet time in ten minutes.  And Mommy’s chance for ‘me’ time.

“Ok, a few more minutes and then we’re going in,” I warned.  To which both girls objected, of course.

After wrestling Angela inside and into a new diaper while Julia bopped alongside the changing table telling me her plans for playtime, I realized resistance was futile.  If they were so invested in playing outside, maybe that was my best chance at uninterrupted work time.  This is why assumptions are so dangerous.

With the girls safely ensconced in the fenced backyard, I stationed myself by the window that looked directly onto their play area with my papers.  Maybe five minutes passed before I heard the first plaintive call by the door.  Once that issue was resolved, another five minutes passed before I heard the squeak of the screen door.  Then the stomp of feet.  The desperate plea for some indoor toy that was absolutely essential for their play outside.  Then a cry.  Another squeak.  A snack.

I could feel my blood pressure going up with each interruption.

“In or out,” I bellowed.

For kids who not so long ago were completely invested in playing outside, their actions were certainly not showing it.  Then Big Sister got home from school and a third set of feet beat a path back and forth.

“My God,” I thought.  “Now I know where Grandma got her motivation.”

Any mother knows it’s easier to get things done when there are no children under foot.  Unfortunately, society and culture have changed just enough that it’s no longer acceptable to boot our kids out the door for the day and welcome them home for dinner.  It’s no longer safe for our kids to play unsupervised in the open areas around our homes.  It’s no longer acceptable or expected for them to fill their own time with their own imaginings; we’re supposed to do it for them.

Not only does this culture shift take accountability and creativity away from our children, it makes the job of a mother a hell of a lot harder.

Now, please understand me, I’m not advocating for mothers across the world to lock their children out of the house.  It just seems to me that while the tension and tenderness between mothers and children is the same as in previous generations, the expected goals and duties of mothers have swelled with no subtractions from our job descriptions.

Kind of makes one want to lock the door and hide.  But, like my grandmother, I will always open my door to my children and welcome them in with open arms – even if I let them sit on the landing for a little while first.

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