Balance and martyrdom

For the last two months, I have been working 30 hours a week in a temporary position at a nonprofit. Mostly I've been a glorified intern, dropping off press releases, picking up brochures from the printer, filing, and spending lots of time updating the organization's events calendar. Lately I'm finally getting to do more of what I'm good at--writing, and there might be a more permanent, full time position for me down the road. But the adjustment from stay-at-home mom to working mom has been tough, even though I'm not full time. I'm exhausted all the time because there are so few pauses for me now. There weren't many when I was at home, either, but I did have naptime. Now I have about 45 minutes between work and picking up my son from school, and I'm often running errands then.

How do other moms do this and not feel terribly depleted all the time? And how do creative moms, who need time to write or act or paint, ever fit it in?

I feel out of balance.

Granted, I have to fight the tendency to spiral into martyrdom--doing more and more and taking care of myself less and less, all while passively aggressively lamenting how tired and stressed I am. My role model for parenting, my mom, perfected this when I was a child. Just recently, now that her kids are adults, she's coming out of that somewhat and setting boundaries and taking care of herself. But if I'm not paying attention, I start acting out this role--Selfless Martyr Who Sacrifices All for Her Family. And I need to stop.

But it's hard for me to tell where the role stops and the legitimate demands of being a working mom begin. It's hard to find some balance. I only have limited energy and time, and it fills up so quickly with chores and work and toddler demands that at the end of the day, I'm too exhausted to do anything but watch YouTube videos of cats and babies and go to sleep. Seriously.

And then I feel like my days and creative ideas are slipping away. That pieces of me are slipping away. And that frightens me. Life is starting to move so fast that if there isn't time for me for years, then I'll suddenly be 60, with quite a bit of my life and vitality behind me, and it will be too late.

The idea of "too late" really scares me.

I try to scurry and pick up the pieces whenever I can—my parents, for example, offered to take my son for a night this weekend, and we’ll have a luxurious afternoon, evening and morning to ourselves. I feel guilty about how much I’m looking forward to that (like it shows that I don’t love my son or enjoy his presence), but it does help me reset. It helps me remember—well, me.

And I’m getting better about grabbing moments for myself. I arrived 15 minutes early the other day to pick my son up from school, and instead of rushing in, I sat on a couch at the entrance. For 15 minutes. I probably could have done something other than scroll through Facebook during that time—like just breathe and look around—but still. I paused. Every pause helps me find those parts of myself that have scattered all around.

I can tell those pauses are vitally important in staying in touch with myself and not losing years to the madness of parenting. And setting limits is important too. I’m just still flailing as I figure that out. Maybe that’s OK. I’m new to this, after all.

Got to wobble a bit before you walk.

Making us even

I'm sitting in Panera at my writing group meeting, and I've been working on a short play about parenthood (naturally), and it has me reflecting on a poem I taught when I was a high school English teacher. It affects me so much more now that I've been doing this mothering thing for a little while (I was pregnant at the time but hadn't met my son yet).

In "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins, the poet reflects on a gift he made for his mother as a child--a crude lanyard he made at camp, and the crazy notion that this present was adequate gratitude for all his mother had done for him:

"Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
And here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-toned lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even."

There was probably a time when I believed similarly about my own mother. Of course, as all children do, I took my mother for granted, or focused on her failings, not seeing what was right in front of me--a woman who sacrificed everything to care for me, who wore worn-out clothes and bought nothing for herself, who stayed up with me at night when I had colic and cried at night worrying about me. I don't think I could truly understand until I became a parent myself. The love, the worry, the sacrifice. There was no way I could ever make it even--and I'm not supposed to. But the gratitude I feel now is long overdue and filled with empathy because I'm going through it too.

That's what my play is about. It's not really my mother and I, but on some level it is. It's a small way to say thank you to my mother, and to all mothers who sublimate themselves in a million ways every day to take care of their children. There can be no repayment--only gratitude. I am the product of deeply selfless love, and I am eternally thankful.

Not a milennial

Lately, I'm painfully feeling my age. Sometimes literally painfully.

I'm still surprised sometimes that I am 40 years old and no longer twentysomething. That my sense of humor, my way of speaking, my way of interacting, could come across as dated to certain audiences. That I'm not in the know about what's new, hot, or buzzed about. That I don't document every meal and every errand on social media. (I do post a lot of photos of my son, I must admit, and I do use Facebook often, but I remember a time before that world existed--and it doesn't seem long ago to me at all.)

Somewhere, somehow, I crossed over a bridge and I can't cross back. I'm no longer a "young adult," dewy and energetic and full of promise. I'm middle aged. Egads.

It's even harder to wrap my head around it because not only do I not feel my age, but I don't look it at all. Every day, people assume I'm young -- late twenties or early thirties young. So I feel sometimes like I can pretend, like my 40-year-old self can go underground and I can be twentysomething again. Then I feel a pain in my back, or suddenly tweak my rotator cuff, or get really sleepy before 10 p.m., or notice the newly floppy skin under my chin, and I remember -- yep, I'm 40.

OK, being "old" is a matter of perspective--to many people, I'm still young. But my body is changing and my soul is changing. I'm not the person I was at 25, or 30, or even 35. Time is marching on.

And sometimes, when I interact with people under 30--the group that falls under the "milennial" umbrella--I really feel like an outsider. I shouldn't make generalizations--I have a close friend who is just shy of 30 and another good friend who is 25, and we speak the same language and connect as people, not as representatives of our demographic. But when I'm around milennials who make pronouncements like "I'm all about music" and talk about how deep they are without actually asking one question about you, I feel like I'm not making a connection. I'm talking to a living Twitter feed. And that's just not the way I interact with people. It bugs.

I'm on a tangent. But I guess what I'm trying to say is when I crossed a bridge, it left a gap--a generation gap. I'm officially on other side of that gap, also known as being over the hill (yes, I'm mixing metaphors. Bridge over a gap, over a hill, whatever.) I'm used to being on the dewy, full-of-promise, young-person side. Now I'm on the other side, looking at those full-of-promise types behind me with occasional disdain. Why don't you talk and interact like I do? Get off of my lawn! Stop Instagramming your food! And I'm not sure how to adjust. I feel incredibly uncomfortable over here.

I knew how to be young, wide-eyed, idealistic, inexperienced. I don't know how to wear this new mantle of middle age. I don't know how to be this new version of me.

And of course our society is obsessed with youth, so I can't help but feel that I'm drifting into irrelevance and invisibility. And that's rather terrifying.

Ironically, though, my age seems to be imbuing me with a new willingness to take risks and become more visible. To fail often and spectacularly and get back up and try again. Because the alternative is me withering away and never discovering what is truly within.

Awareness of mortality breeds greater courage. It just does. That's something I couldn't really access until I got here, to 40.

So in the end, crossing this bridge will lead to better things, I know. I might have to say goodbye to the breeziness, the privilege of youth. But I get to say hello to a greater understanding of myself.

That was worth waiting for.

A heart-stopping moment

We went out for dinner tonight, and my son, now 19 months, was in a merry mood. Hungry, he took to devouring the pieces of chicken I handed to him. Suddenly, he stopped chewing, froze, and coughed just a little. Then silence, and his face turned bright red, his mouth open, his eyes unfocused. It took me a moment to realize what was happening, but before I could act or panic, he coughed again, and a piece of chicken came out, along with some vomit that streamed down his shirt and shorts. His face returned to a normal color and he started to cry, with a couple of teardrops remaining just below his eyes. He reached for me as my husband scurried to clean him up as best he could. I only had to comfort him for a moment, and then he was back on task, focused on his food, cheerful again.

Then it was my turn to freeze, realizing what horrible thing had nearly happened. Realizing that for a few moments, my precious, joyful, beloved son couldn't breathe. It was only a second, and his body quickly solved the problem, but for a few moments, he was in danger. We could have lost him.

The fragility, the fear, the soul-gutting love I felt at that moment almost stopped my own breath. I thought of a quote that I'd heard somewhere, that once you become a parent, you spend the rest of your life with your heart walking outside your body. There, sitting next to me, was my heart, with tears and vomit on it, but still merry and beautiful and full of life. But he is so vulnerable, small, and young, and so many things could happen to him, so many dangers. And if something were to happen, I honestly don't know if I could go on. My heart would stop too.

But that's the path we must walk as parents, stepping out into every day knowing this person you love so deeply, so powerfully that it feels like your heart has left your body, could be in danger. That you are tethered, so completely and utterly, to that person's well being, to his survival, to his life. That you can be disintegrated in a moment. It's the deepest vulnerability I've ever felt, to love like this. It hurts.

After the near-choking happened, for several minutes in the restaurant I had a lump in my own throat, partially obstructing my own breath as I fought back tears. Finally, I found myself able to breathe again. My child was safe and OK, laughing at his father's antics and enjoying the bright world around him. All was well.

But my life is forever tied to his life. I was tethered from the moment I first saw his face--and that means I am one breath away from destruction.

And that's the way it will always be.

Transitions

My son has been in Montessori preschool for almost a month now, and we are all beginning to adjust. His days, I'm told, are full of laughter and discovery, and the teachers falling more in love with him all the time. He's a charmer, this one. Of course, when he gets home it's a different story--post-nap irritability, clingy tendencies, tantrums. He really does save the drama for his mama, and he's still adjusting to being away from me. But things are settling down, and I'm no longer crying every day after drop-off, lamenting the milestones I'm missing while he's out of my sight. Often, I see the results of his learning at home, and I feel joyful that he's discovering new things, even if I'm not there for all of them.

Now, I'm focusing more on me. And it's not an easy thing to do.

I really don't feel much like writing about my liminal state--about being in between. But that's what it is. And it's uncomfortable. I want it to be over already, with the next phase fully begun. I'm not there yet, though. I'm not quite sure what I want to do and what is best for all of us, so I'm standing in the unknown.

I'm doing some soul searching and writing, but honestly most of my mornings (I pick him up from school in early afternoon) are full of mind-numbing chores like laundry, dishes and errands, listening to NPR and for a week or so there, binge-watching a TV show while doing so. Now I've stopped doing that and there's a lot of silence. I'm trying to sit with the silent discomfort and not push it away. I have a feeling it has guidance for me.

I could rush out and just get another job quickly, probably. But I have the privilege right now of having some choice. I do need to start bringing income again, but I can sit in the silence for a short time. I can stand in the transition and breathe. There are few things more difficult than dwelling between the not-anymore and the not-yet, but here I am. Dwelling. Or at least lingering in the doorway.

I don't know how to end this post. But that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

Long-overdue update

I'm back. Yes, I've neglected this blog--easy to do when I imagine no one is reading it. Much has happened since last I posted, including my son E starting Montessori school a couple of weeks ago. I fell away from the blog after I stopped attending weekly writing group meetings for a time--first I had swim class with my son and then I was performing in a play. But I'm planning to get back to the meetings and back to this blog in some form, although I'm not sure I want it to just be a "mommy blog" anymore. It was never really just that anyway.

I've been standing in the space between lately--between one era of my life and a new one. I spent the last 18 months focused almost entirely on my son, not working for most of it and taking on the role of stay-at-home mom, if only temporarily. My daily life and routine revolved around him, and although I felt vaguely bored and discontent at times, at least I felt like I had all the time in the world with him, watching him grow, change and evolve. Now, the window of time I spent with him daily has shrunk, so now it's just part of the afternoon and evening. And if/when I return to work full time, it will shrink again. The era of him needing me so intensely, and of living in this world that was just he-and-I, is over. He still needs me, of course. But his realm is expanding and his time with me is contracting. And although I know it's necessary, it makes my heart deeply ache. And the idea of spending even less time with him hurts even more. So although I want new challenges and passions in my life, I'm afraid to go back to work full time. I'm afraid to spend even less time with him. I'm afraid of that tether that binds us being stretched too far, and him floating away. That he won't feel me there, holding him, being his anchor. That I'll miss too much. That the closeness we have will dissolve. I don't really believe it will, but I also deeply dread the idea of only seeing him an hour or two a day. It's not enough. He's changing and learning too fast for that to be enough. He's my only baby, and every day is precious.

Yet standing here in limbo, between identities and roles, isn't good for me either. I need something more than simply being a mom. I need to be me, expressing all sides of me. I need to work, to express, to advocate, to do something. I just need there to be balance. And balance seems elusive and impossible.

How do people do this? I know they do, but I don't really know how. And I'm standing here in this in-between place, afraid to move, afraid there's no solution.

And eventually, I need to move.

In transition

In August, my son is starting Montessori school. It's an "orientation" program for toddlers, and I know it will be a great environment for my inquisitive, social, active little boy. But transitioning from being with him full time to sending him off to school for the day will be tough. And it's got me thinking about all the ways I've been in transition in the last few years, because there are many, many ways.

(Warning: this is long and probably self indulgent, but this is my blog, dammit, and hopefully it's worth reading).

The cascade of transitions really started in 2009, when I was laid off from my job as a newspaper reporter on the Texas-Mexico border after nearly five years. That was the first domino that fell. I then moved from the border (finally--it was long past time) back to my hometown and moved in with--gasp--my parents. It was mid-recession, and finding another job was tough, so I spent 9 months applying for jobs, working on obtaining my teaching certification, and feeling adrift. I finally found a writing job at a university in the nearby big city, and I moved to a new apartment and started a new job. Another transition. (Plus I broke up with a boyfriend, because apparently I needed all the major life changes to happen at once).

Just a couple of months after moving, I met the man who would become my husband. More dominoes of change. A year and a half later, I was laid off again after budget cuts at the college. Eric and I got engaged, we moved to a new house, and I started another new job. And then things got really hairy.

Hitting rock bottom
In the midst of it all, I was experiencing chronic depression and anxiety that had crept up as the first dominoes fell. As I lost my job in journalism and the career to which I had devoted several years of my life, I lost my sense of purpose. And it showed. I didn't do so well in the university job, hampered by constant existential anxiety and sadness. I felt lost. So when I started another job, actually in journalism, I had trouble keeping up with the frantic pace as the anxiety became more overwhelming, having taken on a life of its own. So one day, I overslept a bit, was late arriving at work and late on a deadline, and I was fired. Then the dominoes really started to fall.

The depression began to completely overtake me, but I tried to slog on. I got another job in corporate communications and struggled to keep up with the expectations when I could hardly get out of bed in the morning or concentrate at the office. I was put on a performance improvement plan, which as a past overachiever I found profoundly embarrassing, and then I lost that job too.

I was devastated. I cried for days and days, humiliated and defeated. Would I be able to pull myself out of this hole and function again? Would anyone ever give me a chance again? I felt like I had a scarlet F, for fired, on my chest. It was a dark time.

New career, new challenges
I crawled out slowly after some professional help with the depression. I took a part-time job as a tutor, and decided to finish the endeavor I started after being laid off at the newspaper--my teaching certification. I started my student teaching at a prestigious high school, and from that experience I was quickly hired at one of the best high schools in the district. That eased some of the shame I felt about all my failures, but I still felt a lot of anxiety about proving myself. Somewhere amid all this, my husband and I agreed to try for a baby. And just like that, I was pregnant.

So that meant I started my first full year in a new profession--a notoriously demanding one at an especially demanding school--while pregnant with my first child. I advise STRONGLY against being pregnant and completing your first year of teaching at the same time! But I got through it, and even got good reviews from my appraiser. However, I was completely and utterly burned out. (I also had a child and went on maternity leave in the middle of it, so the exhaustion was all encompassing throughout the year). I spent every weekend, every night, buried in piles of essays to grade. Crazy late-work policies at the school made my job even harder. So after my son was born, I decided I was not willing to sacrifice all my free time and sanity for teaching anymore. I had to have time and energy left over for him. I felt guilty about leaving because I thought that teaching could potentially be a calling for me, like journalism was, but in this form it was too much. I couldn't live out a calling if I was bereft and burned out. I decided to stay home with him for the next school year.

What now?
And now, here we are. I haven't worked outside the home for exactly one year. I've taken occasional freelance writing projects, but my daily life is mostly consumed with keeping a toddler happy and healthy. I have cherished this time and been drained by this time all at once. I will never regret focusing on him exclusively for this year, even if it's been hard and lonely at times. But the plan was always for me to return to work, and that's why we applied for Montessori school. In less than two months, everything will change. He will begin new adventures, and I ... don't know. I feel this pressure to hurry up and just find a job, any job, but I also know this is a turning point. This is an opportunity for me to choose a direction that is truly right for me, that encompasses the experience I have, the passions I have, and the desire to have balance. But to really, enthusiastically brave my own path, I have to forgive myself for my missteps and have faith in myself again. And I have to choose a direction already.

I'm seriously considering launching my own freelance writing business--pursuing freelance work full time--while volunteering as a tutor or mentor. I'm dragging my feet on looking for teaching jobs because I don't want to end up in the same situation, and the jobs I have interviewed for would have been even more demanding than my first one was. In my ideal world, I'd be writing, teaching, and pursuing my arts interests (theatre, music) all at once, while also having time for my family. I know it's unrealistic to think I can do these all at once. But maybe I can at least bring those things more into my life, on my own terms? Can I turn that into a steady paycheck? So many questions.

I realize I am deeply fortunate to be able to ask those questions, that we have enough savings that I can hem and haw for a little while (but not long). But these existential questions don't have easy answers. And I've been stuck.

Transitions aren't often quick, and so here I am, staring down that fork in the road, scratched and bruised from falling down on the trail. But I haven't given up. I'm still on the journey.

I mixed my metaphors with the journey and the dominoes, I know. But that's because I'm changing the story. From thinking of it as dominoes that fall, and therefore not under my control, I'm walking on a path. I'm choosing where to go. I like that narrative much better. And if I'm not in charge of my own story, who is?

I'm journeying on.