anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression

This House is My Baby

Three years ago, I was in the midst of the maelstrom known as kitchen renovation while designing my own dream space in utero. In a house too small for three children and no money to move, we decided to do what we could about the logistics of our life.

We messed them up even more.

We ripped out the kitchen, thinking a more streamlined area would ease prepping and feeding three little mouths. Streamlined is not a word to describe a kitchen reno or raising three children.

Demo started one month and one week before my due date. Anal retentive to begin with and unknowingly suffering from a fledging case of postpartum depression, my list-making, obsessive planning, and futile attempts at control began. I created calendars scheduling every detail. I pushed my father-in-law to speed things up. I perpetually pissed off our floor installer for constant e-mail updates.

I wanted that kitchen done before the baby came. I needed running water to clean bottles and babies. I needed the nasty mastic under the formerly linoleum floor covered up so any residual dust wouldn’t assault my newborn’s fragile airways. I needed life in some kind of stasis before all hell broke loose.

How a finished kitchen would have prepared me for what happened in the delivery room and beyond is beyond me. But I felt that some measure of control over my physical world would provide me some sense of control over everything else. Well, I may not have known that then, but I can certainly see it now – especially since I’m trying to do it again.

Nearly three years to the day after the first pull of a crowbar in our kitchen, we’ve contracted a purchase and sales agreement on a new house. Gorgeous kitchen aside, we’ve reached the limits of this house. With one daughter just starting kindergarten and another young enough to make the switch to a new school hopefully not too traumatic, it seems like the perfect time. Well, sort of.

With interest rates historically low, causing a backlog in bank closings, and a seller who has a cat with special needs (don’t ask), getting into this new house in time for the first day of school is becoming increasingly difficult. And I can feel the anxiety ratcheting up as a result. I can feel that nag mechanism gearing up for e-mail assaults on my realtor, unrealistic expectations from our loan officer, and an overall sense of unrest at the universe’s apparent disregard for my wishes.

Every fiber of my being is screaming – make it happen! It must happen! You have to get these kids in that house so they can find a home for their lunch boxes and a place to lay our their clothes for the first day of school, make a dry run to the bus stop, and get a feel for that new place as home before they have to figure out a new school, too. It’s mommy guilt and good planning and type-A personality all rolled into one. It’s also unrealistic. Well, sort of.

If I felt any different, I wouldn’t be myself. I just don’t roll that way. And it’s coming from a desire to have the best for my children.

It also feels incredibly familiar.

Since 2004, I’ve been pregnant in two and a half year cycles. When my youngest passed two years and seven months, I realized that was the oldest I’d ever had a child without expecting the next. And I held my breath for the next three months. No child number four, but we still embarked on a tumultuous endeavor: this whole house-buying thing.

This house has become my baby.

Apparently I cannot live through a two and half-year cycle without giving myself something to obsess about until it comes to fruition. But while I see the parallels between my behavior now and then, at least there’s no such thing as post-house-buying depression – not until the first mortgage payment is due anyway.

Marriage, motherhood, parenting

No Bubble to Burst

When I explain to my children the evolution that is pregnancy, I do not mention the stork. I do not talk about babies left in rush baskets on doorsteps. I explain that they grew inside their mother. I explain the physiological changes and processes. But I do it in terms they will understand, which means that the baby grows in a bubble inside the mother’s belly until it’s ready to come out (and yes, we discuss where the baby comes out).

For whatever reason (a recent birthday, a friend’s newborn, another friend’s impending labor), we’ve been discussing these physical wonders a lot lately. And through the inspiration of an upcoming wedding anniversary, these wonders are helping me reframe the importance of the marriage relationship.

Floating in fluid to cushion it from blows from the outside world and allow the various parts of the body to grow evenly, without restraint; to exercise and strengthen the lungs so they can breathe on their own when out in the world – this is why the fetus is suspended in that bubble. The symbiotic bond developed in the womb prepares both mother and child for the rigors to come once they become separate entities.

Is this not unlike marriage? No, one is not born of the other, but for a marriage to be successful, the couple must build that bubble around themselves. In the world they build for themselves, the couple builds protection from anything the world might throw at them, whatever challenges, insults, hurts it has. In the shelter of their love, the couple grows as one and as the best distinct individual each can be. In the safety of their partnership, the couple learns to develop their voice – speaking as a team and to each other about what matters most. In this bubble, the two halves of this couple develop and strengthen the best parts of themselves and each other so that when they step out into the world, together or alone, they still feel the strength of that foundation.

And floating in that bubble is something only they can experience. There are some things sacred to just the two people inside; they are meant for no one else. Nor should they allow anyone to even try to permeate the outside layers. Just as in parenting, the couple is a united front. No outside force – or person – should pit them against each other. And if it’s done right, no one even has the chance to.

I’ve birthed three babies. I’ve grown each of them in their own personal bubble. But none of them would be here if it weren’t for the special ‘bubble’ that my husband and I built in love eleven years ago – and no one can burst that.

motherhood, parenting

A Big Sarcastic Thank You

To you who draw obscene pictures of target areas of your anatomy

To the teenage delinquents who practice the spelling of choice four-letter words

To the future pyromaniacs of America who melted a pothole into the slide

To the underage drinkers who left a bottle a few swigs short of empty by the jungle gym

I thank you

For enhancing my child’s playground experience

I thank you for questions like

What is that?

Why did mean people ruin the playground?

Why do people drink beer here?

I applaud your ingenuity at finding ways to feed your obviously repressed artistic talent,

your scientific aplomb at experimenting to find the exact temperature at which plastic melts,

your courage in fighting acceptable social norms for public drinking and congregation.

But, please, take your Miller someplace else and find some other way to live ‘the high life’ – and leave the playground to the kids.

Living, motherhood, parenting

Phases and Stages

As my three year-old legs trudged after my parents on the last leg of a trail where the promise of the parking lot was just around the next corner, I was the most tired I had ever been in my life.

In the final push of a crazy semester where all-nighters became a necessity, I was the most tired I had ever been in my life.

On the last day of the marking period during my first year of teaching, with too many grades to process and not enough daylight hours to do it in, I was the most tired I had ever been in my life.

When I slept twelve hours a night and still needed a nap during my first pregnancy, I had never been more tired in my life.

Then the baby was born.

Then a pregnancy while taking care of a toddler.

Then a pregnancy while taking care of a toddler and a preschooler.

When a few years into a family of three, I thought I could resume my own interests and still maintain the smooth flow of said family, I was never more tired in my life.

Undertaking a six-day intensive writing institute, prepping a manuscript for publication, tearing through my house for showings, looking for a new home for us, and hosting a birthday party, I have never been more tired in my life.

It’s so easy to get snarky with ingénues of any sort, in any matter, when you know what’s coming down the pike. But they don’t. To them, in that instant, it is the hardest thing they’ve dealt with. As is everything that I think is the penultimate exhaustion-inducing tribulation. But there’s always something more challenging than the last, isn’t there? Which is another good reason not to resort to snarkiness – karma will come around and knock you on your ass – or at the very least, laugh heartily at your discomfort.

All the more reason to be present.

If we lament our lot now, when we’ve reached the next, progressively more difficult step, we’ll look back and realize we didn’t know how good we had it.

A wise woman with almost as many children as Mrs. Duggar with whom I’ve become acquainted once said, “You always have one more child than you think you can handle.” So true. Adding one more straw of any sort isn’t going to break our back, even if we fear it may. If we only follow our instincts and trust in ourselves, our bodies, our lives, our mindsets will shift naturally to accommodate the weight.

Great advice. If I wasn’t so damn tired, maybe I’d be able to follow it.

motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Mom – that’s enough

A couple of weeks ago I made the mistake of calling in to a radio talk show. Stupidly enough, I thought the host, a contemporary of mine in age and many ideas, and I would be able to have an intelligent dialogue. I had forgotten the talent that radio hosts have to turn every conversation on its ear until it follows the tack they had intended for that evening’s show.

I called to counter that ridiculously inflammatory article ‘timed’ to coincide with Mothers’ Day. I said that the issue was not whether this woman should be breastfeeding her child, but that this magazine had the chutzpah to title their article in such a way. As if mothering isn’t a hard enough job on its own, as if women don’t constantly question themselves, and as if some of us don’t already feel tempted to attack others’ decisions to validate our own. There is no need to create divisiveness where there should only be support and camaraderie. For when it all comes down to it, aren’t we all just struggling to make it through as best we know how?

The topic of blogging came up, the host wondering about the now infamous woman from the cover photo’s own blog. I said that while I hadn’t read it, blogs can be an enormous help to other readers going through similar experiences. He said, yes, I can see if you or a loved one are suffering from some rare disease and there is a support group or information on a blog, but a blog on mothering? Sharing your ‘fresh’ experiences on something that has been done down through the millennia?

I felt the fire rise up the back of my neck, but I knew the conversation was over.

This man does not know I am a mother. Who blogs. Who receives enormous benefit from it as I come to grips with the person left in the wake of postpartum. Who has felt like less of a woman because I didn’t do X, Y, Z with my babies and children like I knew other moms were doing. Who has suffered in misery thinking I was so completely and totally alone. Like a failure. Who shares my story in the hopes that other women will not suffer as I did.

And he could never possibly understand.

And that, I understand. This post is not about attacking him. Everything’s relative, this I know. My own husband said, Jen, when he’s a father and watches his wife go through it, he’ll know.

But there are many people who already know. The women – my aunts, my grandmother, my friends, my cousins, women wrangling their children at the grocery store, women struggling to drop their kids at daycare and get to work, women all around the world – with whom I’ve shared my struggles. It took me a long time to admit I wasn’t the perfect mom I tried to portray. But when I did, my confessions were met with nods, knowing smiles, affirmations, similar stories. There is a special bond with these women. A comfort. An unspoken feeling that they’ve got my back – if for no other reason that they’re not going to judge me because they’ve been in my same position.

That’s what women need to share – not the stepping on each other in the struggle for perfection, but the imperfection. That’s the only way we can shatter the idea of ‘the perfect mom’ and end the war for our self-esteem and self-image. Because who the hell are people trying to sell magazines and get radio ratings to tell us if we’re mom enough? That’s up to us and our fellow moms, the women who are all in this together.

Intimacy, Living, parenting

The Perils of NFP

I awoke this morning with a thermometer in my eye. My two and a half year-old, having recently mastered the art of crib climbing (as in, out of), came stealthily to my bedside and announced her presence by handing me my thermometer, point-first, in the eye.

“Thank you, honey,” I murmured as I deftly plucked it out of her little hand and out of range of my eye.

Rousing myself to face any day is hard enough – exhaustion keeping me down, thoughts of the daily grind keeping me from getting up. A poke in the eye by a metal-tipped prod adds injury to the insult.

Every morning for more than a decade, I’ve taken my temperature before rising, marking it down on a chart as part of the Creighton Model of Natural Family Planning. I’ve also noted other symptoms of my cycle, such as the start and duration of my period, any pain, etc. For the most part, it’s been no problem. For all the reasons that matter, I’m glad my husband and I have chosen this method to order the reproductive part of our lives.

Then there is the drawer of my bedside table, spewing charts from months past, always a pen, the thermometer. One more thing to add to my morning routine – the taking of the temperature; and one more thing to do before bed – recording the temperature (because I usually don’t have – or take – the time to do it in the morning).

And the restraint it takes to successfully practice Natural Family Planning. There are certain days in my cycle that we must abstain from sex if we wish to postpone or prevent pregnancy. Then, there are days when it ‘might’ be safe. That’s when the third ring of our circus (see last post) found her way into the world. My husband may never get lucky during that range of days again! Unless I/we decide to throw caution to the wind.

But, then, that’s the point of Natural Family Planning – and perhaps what makes it hardest for even the most God-fearing humans to practice. Relinquishing control.

I may not have been ready for a baby at that time, and yet, I cannot imagine my life without her love in it. And the personal struggles that I dealt with during my pregnancy and postpartum with her, have wrought changes in me that never would have happened had I waited until a time I deemed the right one. The self-control and mutual respect that my husband and I had at the start of our marriage have blossomed into a stronger partnership as we follow this method.

With the ebb and flow of my body’s natural cycles, God has a chance to interject His will into our usually tightly structured plans. There certainly is no peril in that.

Me getting over my control-freak tendencies – and avoiding blinding by impalement – that’s another story. At least I can find a new spot for my thermometer – because I’m thinking the crib climbing is just the beginning.

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.

parenting, Writing

A fabulous lady who stepped out of the blogosphere and onto my stats page nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. Tiny steps, big journey first found me sometime in February, then we bonded over Star Wars and a predisposition to dressing our kids in Star Wars garb! No matter what our parenting experience, it’s the commonalities that draw us together, isn’t it?

So I looked up the definition of versatile for a deeper understanding of it. Visuwords, one of my favorite language sites, says versatile is varied, which I knew, but also skilled and mobile. I’d like to think I’m not only a versatile blogger, then, but parent as well; skilled in handling the various crises that come my way, such as shuddering and moving to another room when my seven year-old daughter sings “I’m Sexy and I Know It”.

If you find yourself nominated, you’ve been awarded The Versatile Blogger award. And then, you need to pay it forward:

Thank the person who gave you this award
Include a link to their blog
Select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly
Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award — you might include a link to this site.
Tell the person who nominated you seven things about yourself

Seven things about me:

I love the combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
I was slightly obsessed with anything Jack Kerouac for the better part of ten years.
I am neither a morning person nor a night owl; I thrive between the hours of 10 AM and 2 PM.
I was born tired (which may explain # 3).
I am an only child raising three children (at times, bizarre!)
I love to sing.
I love to compete with my husband as to who can first name the title and artist of a song within the first few beats.

And the nominees are . . .

1. The Fulcrum Chronicles

2. Burgeoning School Psychologist

3. Mermaids Love Sushi

4. grrlscene

9. misslisted

10. A Calibama State of Mind

11. Sassy Sass

12. Unexpectant

13. Momma Swears

14. Off-Duty Mom

15. For His Love . . .

These fifteen fabulous blogs are not ranked in any way, shape, or form. I’ve found something that speaks to me in all of them, as I hope you have in mine. Thank you!

I’m Versatile and (Now) I Know It

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.

Automobiles, Living, parenting

Escape Has Been Compromised

I’ve spoken before about the nostalgia and melancholy with which I think of the sedan I once drove daily, but which has been consigned to the driveway due to passenger limitations. My escape vehicle.

When my husband and I bought the car, a Saab 9-3, we asked a mechanic friend for his take on the vehicle. He told us it was an electrical nightmare. But I’d grown up hearing stories my father had told with misty eyes about his own Saabs, “you know, the cars we owned before we had you.” I’d heard the wonders of heated seats with cooled air coming through the vents, uncompromising safety, and cool design. And they were born from jets, for goodness sake! What more could one want? I fired back at our friend the mechanic, who went on to bust me that I just wanted it for the prestige, “our baby will be sitting in the lap of safety!” Granted, we didn’t have babies, yet. But when we started our family within the next few years, our vehicle would be up to snuff with the latest safety standards.

We had no worries when Baby # 1 arrived. Then we had to install the car seat. Placed in the middle of the backseat, rear-facing, to ensure her ultimate safety, we cracked our heads times innumerable as we bent down to click the infant carrier into the base. When my belly swelled enough with Baby # 2 to make wedging myself into the backseat to strap her into her now convertible seat nearly impossible and very uncomfortable, we moved it directly behind the driver’s seat. Soon, we had another seat behind the passenger seat, too.

That’s when my husband started car shopping. His car, a Jeep Cherokee so old it actually looked like one, was rusting apart on the road. The girls loved riding in it because they bounced all around the back seat, but even my husband, an off-roading enthusiast, was getting nervous. He wanted air bags and latch-capability. He wanted more space. He did not want a mini-van. Neither did I – really. I wanted one when I sat inside it, flipped and folded the seats, slid the doors open. But when I stood back and looked at the thing, ugh. I was out-voted anyway. He decided on a Ford Flex, at the time, a brand-new vehicle from Ford. We got one with captains’ chairs in the second row, allowing for a pass-through to the third row, where we could put our oldest who was now more self-sufficient, should we need a third seat in the future, you know?

You know how people say the more money you have, the more you spend? Well, apparently the same goes for cars; the more seats you have, the more kids you will have to fill them. The Flex hadn’t even lost the new car smell before we found out Baby # 3 was on the way. Good thing we opted for the family car.

I was ambivalent. Three kids needing three car seats meant that the mommy who was home with them all day would be driving the RV-like vehicle all the time. No more Saabie. When I did drive it, I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of loss – loss of freedom, of my personal desires, of my tastes. Because I was no longer driving it wherever and whenever I wanted. Because I very rarely went out by myself anymore. Because it was cool – and now life wasn’t always such.

The Saab is a five-speed manual. It has a sunroof. It has bucket seats in leather. It is low-slung and hugs the corners. The Flex is automatic. It is has cloth seats that sit so high I feel as if I’m suspended above the road. It is a tank. Now, in deference to my husband, it is cooler than a mini-van. It’s got a cool, retro beach-wagon vibe that sets it apart from other vehicles on the road. It is beautiful and certainly has get-up and go. But it does not inspire in me a feeling synonymous with winding down a tree-lined road curving into oblivion.

However, that may be a thing of the past as well. In response to rising gas prices and only two girls needing daily transportation for the most part, we bought an additional car seat for the Saab. Today was the first day I tried out this new arrangement. I honestly thought I’d like it because I’d be able to run the Saab about more often and not chance the battery dying or the brakes rusting together. Plus, I love driving it.

But after looking down on the road from my perch in the Flex, I suddenly felt very small. The cockpit that always fit me like a glove suddenly felt tight. I felt claustrophobic as I ducked into the backseat to avoid the rain and fasten the kids’ seat belts. Little feet could reach the back of my seat and little hands could reach the window and door handles. Worst of all, my calm had been jettisoned out the window. That which I usually try to escape had stowed away in the backseat.

Escape has been compromised.

I do have a road trip planned this weekend, though, so we’ll see if I can reclaim some of the former glory of the Saab. Take-off is scheduled for 7 AM Saturday. No delays are anticipated.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: parenting