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.

Separation anxiety

As soon as my son turned 15 months old, a switch flipped. He has suddenly become a clinging, crying mess when I leave the room or leave him with a sitter, his grandparents or even his dad. Last weekend, I attempted to leave his room so I could take a shower (my husband was there with him.) He tried to follow me out, screaming, turning red, and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, found my legs and grabbed them, crying plaintively.

Naturally, I felt the familiar mom-guilt when he did this, worrying that I did something wrong or wasn’t being a good parent.  Because taking a shower is deeply selfish, right?

This is where we are right now.

On the one hand, I hate that this is happening. Of course, I am disturbed by his tears and pleas for me not to leave. Whenever he cries, my instinct kicks in and all I want to do is comfort him. I desperately want his pain to pass. I feel guilty for doing things that take me away from him, even if they are things I need to do to be sane, like exercise, see friends or rest. Each time, I have to walk through the fire of his fear before I can leave. It’s hard.

But there is this secret part of me who likes that he needs me, that he clings to me, just a little. That I’m special to him, irreplaceable. That all the hours I spend caring for him each day matter. That all the parts of myself that I’ve set aside or given away aren’t for nothing—that my son loves and needs me. I’m not just a warm body that feeds him, changes him and keeps him healthy. I’m special to him because I’m Mommy.

And always, in the back of my mind, is the awareness that won’t always be the case. That someday, he will take off in another direction and not need to look back at me or cling to me for reassurance. He is an incredibly independent soul and I feel it coming.

So I let myself secretly relish his separation anxiety even as it is stressful as hell. It has an expiration date, along with this time with my son. And that’s wonderful and awful.

That will be the time for my separation anxiety. And that will probably be there for the rest of my life.

Sorry, not sorry

I apologize a lot. For everything. When people bump into me, when someone else is upset for any reason, when I feel I'm taking up too much space. It's a problem--not so much because of the habit itself but because of why it's there. And it seems to have only worsened since I became a mother.

It would seem that becoming a parent has sent my martyrdom tendencies into overdrive--now that a being needs me so completely, I must cease to have needs myself. And if I still have them, which of course I do, I must apologize for them. Profusely.

"Could I have some water? I'm sorry if it's an inconvenience. I really appreciate it. I'm so sorry for being a pain. Did I mention I'm sorry?"

Seriously.

And why it's there goes beyond the inherited tendency--yep, my mom did it too, and probably my grandmother before her--to sublimate my needs so completely. I feel like, deep down, there is something fundamentally defective that I should apologize for. That I should apologize for just drawing breath and being on the planet. I realize that's messed up. I know this. But lately, I can't seem to stop.

I know I'm probably oversharing, but I don't care. I'm doing it anyway because it's my blog. See what I'm doing there? I'm apologizing again. For even taking up space on my own damn blog. This tendency runs really, really deep.

Yesterday, I met with a friend who directed me in a play--yep, irony of ironies, the girl who apologizes for her existence and is afraid of being rejected is a sometime-actress. She mentioned that she cast me in the play when I came in for the audition and was a nervous, apologetic wreck. I apologized right after I walked in for God knows what. In that case, the vulnerability and nerves made me a perfect choice for one of the roles. But in general, I don't think it really serves me in life.

Or maybe it does--sometimes vulnerability can be beautiful. But one has to give oneself permission to be vulnerable, to take up space in the world, for that beauty to show. And to be artistic, to create, you have to give yourself permission to share your perspective, to believe your perspective is worth sharing. And right now even that is hard for me.

So what exactly does this have to do with parenting? Everything. If I feel like I have to fundamentally apologize for my being, it's hard to claim space and time for me, which I need to be a good parent. Which I need to keep from going insane. I give so much of myself every day that I often end up prostrate on the bed at the end, unable to move. I'm so bone tired. If I'm in apologetic mode, I keep driving myself more and more, colliding more with exhaustion, instead of taking time off. The apologetic stance drives me to get up and do dishes or laundry instead of deciding to read a book or take a bath. It drives me into oblivion. More of my self bleeds away.

And what does that teach my son? That people are machines who don't need rest? That women exist only to serve others? Neither are messages I want to teach him.

I need to change this. I have changed it before--gained confidence and became less apologetic for myself. But in the last few years, as my self-esteem has eroded, the apologies have crept back in. I guess it starts here, on this blog, in this writing. I'm wanting to apologize for being too navel gazing, for being too much this and not enough that. But I'm not going to do so. The space I occupy is just enough, and it's even OK for me to claim more. No apologies. I deserve to exist and to speak.

So what if my blog is therapy for me? So what if I ramble? So what if people don't like it? 

I deserve to be here. I deserve to write and speak and have emotions and be and say I've had enough and I need to rest. Every step I take toward taking time and space for myself means a little less apologizing. I am and I'm enough.

Not sorry.

Facing the blank page

This morning, for the first time, I'm at an early morning writers' group, carving out time for myself and for staring at the dreaded white screen. I knew the second I saw the announcement for this group that it was where I needed to be--making time for my own thoughts, my own self, my own separate being. I make every excuse in the world not to take time to write, so I'm quite proud of myself for being here. But now I don't know what to write about. Figures.

Separate being. For a long time, I haven't felt like a separate being from my son. For nine months, we literally shared a body, with each thing I ate nourishing him, each emotion I felt affecting him. For 10 more months after that, I fed him from my body, sometimes hourly, before he would often fall asleep in my arms. Sometimes, in my sleep-deprived state, I would hardly know where he ended and I began. Still now, he's often clinging to my legs, sitting in my lap, asking to be picked up, or worn in a carrier on my back. Still not really a separate being.

I'm not complaining--when he rests his head on my shoulder, or raises his arms for me to pick him up, or snuggles up close, the warmth in my body and heart spreads like sunshine filling the sky. I like that he needs me now because I know he won't always. But sometimes, in the confusion of who-is-he-and-who-is-me, I miss myself. I need myself again. I need the sunshine to illuminate my separateness.

So coming today feels like a huge step. Even sitting and staring at blankness for a while. Because I'm here to tell my story, to write my truth, in some small way--to find my voice again. Although that separate self does have a new title: mother. I wear it with pride, if also trepidation.

I have struggled a lot since earning that title with finding where I fit in the world in other ways--do I go back to work full time? Doing what? What am I called to do? Who am I? So many questions I've struggled to answer.

It starts here, with this page, with my separateness.

And now, the page isn't blank anymore.

Life with a toddler

It's been a while since I've posted, obviously. I've noticed lately that when I have downtime, I'm so bone tired, as well as tangled in a brain fog, that I don't have it in me to write, or be creative, or even think clearly. That could be an excuse, but it could also mean that I'm experiencing Life with a Toddler.

I really enjoy having a toddler--a unique little being with a larger-than-life personality, very strong opinions and an ever-evolving sense of adventure. It's also incredibly exhausting. At the end of the day, once I've put him to bed, I am ready to collapse. I'm the kind of tired that comes with hard labor, like moving heavy furniture or working outside, even though I've done nothing of the sort. I wasn't able to figure out exactly why that was until I had this conversation with my husband:

Me: "Why am I so tired at the end of the day?"
Hubs: "Have you heard of combat fatigue?
Me: "I ... guess?"
Hubs: "It's what soldiers have from having to be vigilant all the time, thinking about the dangers they must face from minute to minute." (this is paraphrased because, again, brain fog)
Me: "Oooohhhhh." (Eureka!)

I do have to be vigilant all the time, because the second I'm not, Little Guy will tumble head first off the couch, or fall down the stairs (yes, we have gates, but he still falls sometimes), or stick his hand in the toilet, or toddle toward the street. I try not to be a helicopter mom and avoid intervening when it's unnecessary or spinning into a panic over every minor fall. But toddlers are all curiosity and no common sense, so I'm always on high alert, even when I seem to be at rest. That's exhausting. No wonder I am spent at day's end--I'm on the front lines of the battle to keep my son alive!

That might sound hyperbolic, but it's true.

I worry that I never again will have the energy for creative pursuits, or hobbies, or searching for a job (I've planned to return to work in the fall, but that's fodder for another post), or stringing a coherent sentence together. But I think about what's ahead--in August he'll be starting Montessori school (toddler version) and I'll be working in some form. We will never again have this much concentrated time together. And as tired as I am, I know I will fiercely, deeply miss these days once he's older and his world has become so much bigger than the two of us. This tiring time is a gift, even though it's challenging. That's what I need to remember.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to collapse. I must rest for tomorrow's battle--er, adventure.

On walking

(Note: Yes, I'm being one of those erratic bloggers because I'm uncertain that anyone reads this anyway. Which gives me an excuse not to do it, I suppose. I'm a good writing-angst-avoider. But much is happening, and I really do need to write about it. So I'm back).

My little E is 13 months now and newly walking. Very newly, as in he took his first unassisted steps a couple of weeks ago and really got going in the last 24 hours, actually traversing his room a couple of times before dropping to sitting--or falling down. He still crawls more than he walks, but just in the last day his standing has become much more steady and sure, and his steps more confident. I foresee a future of falling a whole heck of a lot, but those first seeds of independence are being sown.

It seems symbolic that much of that time, he's actually walking away from me rather than toward me.

I'm not saying he doesn't love me or doesn't need me, but the kid has a strong-willed, independent streak. He's a lot like his father in that respect. And a lot like me. And that sometimes means walking away.

His focus, of course, isn't on walking away from anything, but walking toward something he wants--a favorite toy, his bookshelf, or in the direction of my cell phone so he can swipe it up triumphantly. Sometimes, it's Mommy he wants. Sometimes, he's content to leave me behind.

It's an experience I suspect will become a painfully familiar one throughout my son's life--him fighting for more independence, moving toward his goals, and moving just a little farther from me, while I watch, lump of pride in my throat, while also blinking back tears.

Every time he learns, I feel so proud, and a little bit sad, thinking about the day he won't need me anymore.

I know it's still years away, but the whole of parenthood is preparing for this, that moment in the future when he stands fully on his own, walking in the direction of his choice. Perhaps not even looking back. I'll need a lot of practice to prepare myself for that day.

But for now, I watch him learning to walk, I help guide him, and I feel that bittersweet pride. He needs me to be here today, and I am. I'll always be here when he needs me--even if he just needs me to let him walk away.

Little red swing

Little boy's nap schedule was off today, and so instead of our usual Tuesday trip to the gym, we went for a late morning trek to a couple of my favorite places in Houston (where we live)--the Rothko Chapel and nearby Menil Park.

There's a swing in Menil Park--an old-fashioned rope swing, bright red with graffiti etched in it, and it's nearly always occupied. When we first arrived, sure enough there was a woman in it. As she saw us approach, though, she relinquished it to us without my asking. I took E out of the stroller and sat on the swing with him in my lap. Then I pushed off, allowing us to swing gently back and forth. My sweet little 12 month old smiled brightly, showing off his dimples, and giggled in delight. And then as we continued to sway, he rested his head on my shoulder. Back and forth, rhythmically, lulling us both into a deep calm.

I wanted to capture that moment in words because it was so perfect. A gentle breeze ruffled our hair as we swung together, a mother and a child holding each other tightly. I felt such a radiant, generous love at that moment I can scarcely describe it. In that simple little moment, everything felt right in our world.

We played a little more in the park, with him practicing walking while holding on to my index fingers, and laughed some more. Then we packed up and walked home.

I still feel the swaying in my body, though, and my son's head nestled near the crook of my arm. I think I'll continue to feel it for a long time.

Like looking in a mirror

I spent a little time looking at a photo album of my baby pictures the other day. And I was struck by the similarities between these photos of me and of my son. (Top photo is me; bottom is my little one).

I mean, come on. That's the SAME smile. Identical. Obviously, this is not a shocking revelation, being that I'm his mother, but still, it floors me all the same. Looking at him really is like looking in a mirror sometimes. And sometimes, that can also be a bit painful.

You see, when I was a little girl, I came to believe at some point that I was flawed. Deeply, irrevocably flawed. I was too much in so many ways--too sensitive, too emotional, too chubby, too difficult. I heard many stories about what a pain I was: I had colic and kept my mother up all night; I threw temper tantrums in public; I talked back to adults; I was scared of everything; I was overly emotional. I heard these stories after my father had left us (when I was 3 years old) and came to a miserable conclusion--he had left because of me. I was just too much trouble and clearly not lovable. And I carried that belief with me from then on.

I'm sure I was a handful as a child--highly sensitive, intelligent, easily overwhelmed by the world. I'm sure it was difficult for my father, who had deep-seated problems of his own, including addictions to gambling and pills, to manage parenting me. But I look at this picture of me, and I see that I also was full of joy, light and love. I wasn't a flawed child, I was radiant and perfect. Just like my son is radiant and perfect.

When I look at my boy, I see such light, and my heart just overflows. And then I think about where that light came from--it came from me. I have it too. I am not inherently lacking in worth. Sure, I'm human; sure, I have faults. But my being is not defective, just as surely as his isn't. His reflection has helped me to better love and appreciate myself.

As for how I was as a child, yes, I was sensitive and challenging. That's because I am a deeply empathetic person who feels things, including the pain and fear my parents felt at that point in their lives. I threw tantrums because I was a toddler, feeling things intensely, as toddlers do. I talked back because I was smart and observant. I was scared because I felt the fear of others and sensed the dangers in the world. I was emotional because that's a fundamental part of my being. All of my qualities are assets if they are nurtured and understood. There was nothing wrong with me as a child--I was just a child.

There was nothing wrong with me. Just like there's nothing wrong with my son.

Of course we humans develop traits that aren't helpful. But I believe at our essence, our core, we are beautiful and good enough. Although I believe that with all my heart, I've often had trouble extending that belief to include one person--me.

As I look in the mirror that my son offers me, though, I see more clearly now. I see the truth about me. That's something I needed to see.

Stolen moments

There are secrets about becoming a parent that few people really talk about. One of them is that you grieve your old life, even as you feel guilty about it. And perhaps I do that more because I became a mother in my late 30s--which means I had quite a few years of childlessness. So I might have more to miss.

Please don't get me wrong--I love being a mother. I can't imagine the world without my son now. But there are things about my previous life that I miss. Maybe there are those of you out there who yearn for these things too.

Here are some experiences I miss:

• Being able to decide, "hey, I'm going to the museum/the movies/out to dinner today," and just doing it. No need for a sitter, no need for an arsenal of baby supplies or scheduling around naps or bedtime. Just doing it.
• Sleeping in. At all. Ever.
• The luxury of a long heart-to-heart with a friend that isn't sidelined by a baby having a meltdown, or babbling, or doing something new, or just generally drawing all the attention of the people in the room.
• A long, uninterrupted chat with a friend on the phone.
• Possibility. Even if you might not do it, daydreaming that you could suddenly move to Paris, or join the Peace Corps, or work on a cruise ship, without immediately realizing the practical downfalls of said plan for a one-year-old in tow.
• Still being able to feel like the child yourself, even if you're a 30-something with a full-time job and a car payment.
• Having the full attention of your parents--being able to chat with them about something other than the grandchild.
• Having people notice you as a separate person, and not merely the child's mom.
• Your pre-baby body. Yes, it's OK to miss it.
• Being your own, whole, separate woman with interests and a well-rounded life. I know, that probably sounds horrible. But at least in the beginning, it can feel like that goes away, and it takes a while to get it back. Or so I hear--I haven't completely gotten it back yet.

Again, I love my son, dearly, unendingly, and I wouldn't change anything. I wanted to have him. I'm lucky to have him. But these are the truths no one tells you going in. You will miss your old life. You will grieve. You will yearn for it. You will yearn for those moments that seem like pure luxury now--those moments of being able to think for yourself, dream for yourself, be yourself.

I hear balance returns, and it has returned for me at times. But I'm still finding my equilibrium, and I'm still sad sometimes. And life will never be as it was before.

For now, I relish stolen moments to think, to be--to be me. Stolen moments like this one.

Marking a milestone ... delayed

Today was supposed to be my son's first birthday party, a couple of days after his actual birthday. Then, the afternoon of his birthday, he started acting like something wasn't quite right. I checked his temperature and, sure enough, it was almost 102. The poor guy was sick. Because he has had recurrent ear infections in the past, I took him to the night clinic, but found out it apparently was only a cold. But by Friday afternoon, I could tell a party was not a good idea. He was still feverish, fussy, and miserable, so I called it: I canceled his party. And I was surprised at the reaction that followed. Not our guests' reaction--they totally understood. My own reaction.

Soon after I canceled the party,I felt a bitter disappointment tighten my throat. I'd had no idea how much I was looking forward to it, and I had to dig within myself to figure out why.

It's because this year was hard. Exhausting, transformative, beautiful, overwhelming, gigantic--and hard. And after that, darn it, I wanted to party. To celebrate that we survived this incredible, and incredibly trying, first year. To thank the family and close friends who helped us get through it. For me, it's a ceremony of sorts, commemorating the first year, the loved ones who surrounded us, and the strength within and without that helped carry us. And to have it suddenly canceled felt like a great loss.

Turns out I didn't have to feel that loss for long--it looks like we've successfully rescheduled it for later in March, when it will be closer to a happy-13-months party than a first birthday party, but oh well. We will still celebrate, and remember, and reflect. I'll be able to look across the room at my own mother and marvel at all she had to carry, emotionally and physically, when I was a baby. Because now, I understand. Now, I've been there too.

I'll look at my husband and remember all the many sleepless nights we shared, the worries when he was sick, the frustration and irritation and harriedness of the early days, and marvel at all we survived. We are all survivors.

And I'll be able to look at my son and express the gratitude for that year of babyhood, for seeing him grow, for the gifts within the stress and worry and sleeplessness. For the gift of being his mother.

That's something I want to celebrate.

Happy birthday little one

Tomorrow morning, when my son wakes up, he will be one year old.

I am overwhelmed by that. So much has happened, so much has changed, so much has evolved since that moment I first held him in my arms, since he was whisked away from me to the NICU, since I counted the minutes until he could come home with us.

There are so many emotions it's almost too much to write about, but I will try.

This time last year, at this moment, I was in labor. Our baby was four days late, and I spent that day, February 25 of last year, trying to encourage this labor thing to get going already. My doctor, concerned about my advanced maternal age (39) and the possible increased risk of stillbirth related to my age, was only going to let me go a week late before I would be induced. So I walked and walked and walked (very difficult to do because I was so enormously pregnant that walking was painful). I tried to relax, getting a pedicure and having my toenails painted baby blue--as if to coax him out. Come on, baby, move toward the toes!

And it worked. That evening, the contractions started. At first they felt like menstrual cramps, but they became much stronger quickly, and they were close together right away. That didn't seem right, and I could already hardly talk when I tried to speak to my doula on the phone. She said it was probably best to go ahead to the hospital.

Nineteen hours later, after an unpredictable and at times frightening labor full of unseen twists--induction! Pain medicine wearing off! Failure to progress! Baby's heart rate dropping--twice! my doctor recommended a C-section. By then I was so afraid something was going to happen to my son that there was little question. "Please, just get him out safely," I remember saying.

In a whirlwind, he was out of my body, and I remember the next several minutes seemed like hours to me because I couldn't see him and I couldn't hear him. I kept asking, "why can't I hear him crying? Why isn't he crying?" and getting no response. I could see doctors moving, crowding in the corner, and I knew my son was at the center of their huddle, but no matter how I tried to move my head, I couldn't see anything. My husband was over there, seeing what was happening but wasn't saying much either. My heart raced in fear and anticipation, hoping to see my baby's face at long last, and wanting someone, anyone, to please tell me what was going on.

And then they held him up for me, ruddy and squinty-eyed, bubbles forming between his lips, not crying, but definitely alive and pink. And I heard broken pieces of conversation about needing to take him temporarily somewhere for observation. But that I would get to hold him.

Wrapped in a swaddle blanket, with a blue and pink striped hat precariously on his head, he was placed on my chest and I encircled him with my arms. I will never forget my first close-up look at his face--his wrinkled forehead, his heavy eyelids, his perfect tiny lips. I tried to memorize every detail--if they were going to take him away for now, I needed to remember.

And then he was gone, and I was being wheeled to a recovery room. My husband went with him and I lay in that room wondering how long it would be before I would see my son again. And if he would really be all right.

I found out later that he had inhaled amniotic fluid filled with meconium--his first bowel movement--and that it would take time for his lungs to clear. That's why he didn't cry. He ended up staying longer in the NICU so they could make sure he was eating enough and would continue to do well once he came home. That's a whole other story--adventures in initiating breastfeeding with a NICU baby. I'll tell that one another time.

About eight hours after he was born, I was finally able to come to the NICU to see him (before that I was in recovery from surgery and even getting in a wheelchair was impossible). I held him for the second time, pressed my cheek against his, and made a promise to him--that I would always and forever be there for him, that he would always me my priority, that he would always know how incredibly deeply he is loved. Then I just clutched him to me and cried.

After four days, our son finally came home. My heart rejoiced, and rejoices still.

Our son. He is the most amazing child. Everyone says that, but it's really true. He is the most joyful, inquisitive, open-hearted, gregarious, energetic baby that I've ever seen. I remember a friend saying when he met him, "there's so much joy there in that one little dude." His smile--oh, how those little lips turn up into a dimpled grin that lights up his whole face--is my very favorite thing in the whole universe. Or maybe it's second to his laugh, his deep, belly laugh, which makes a frequent appearance. He is the very essence of joy and light. He is the love of my life.

And tomorrow, he will be one year old. 12 months of sleep deprivation, fumbling with diapers and snaps and pants and socks, breastfeeding and bottle feeding and finger food feeding and burp cloths and bibs and baby gates and play dates and so many toys that play music and pacifiers and swinging and shushing and ...

Joy beyond words. Gratitude beyond expression.

Happy birthday, little one.

To (NOT) sleep, perchance to dream

Written in November, but I'll go ahead and post it retroactively with an update ...

According to Shakespeare (in MacBeth, because I was an English teacher and writer and I'm geeky and know these things), "sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care." If that's the case, then sleep deprivation must tangle the hell out of it.

In case the reference is too obscure, let me simplify: sleep relieves stress. Lack of sleep creates a whole mess of stress.

I have had only an occasional good night's sleep in the last eight months--or really the last year if you count my last trimester of pregnancy (which, for anyone who doesn't know, is an exercise in constant discomfort and resulting insomnia. Meanwhile, people keep telling you to sleep now because you won't have a chance when the baby comes. Evil people.) I could say I haven't had a single good night's sleep in that time, except there have been a few nights in which my baby has taken a break from his standoff with the sandman and slept for a glorious 6 or 7 hours in a row. But it's usually just for a night or two, and then something happens to balance the sleep deprivation karmic scale: he's teething and cranky, so he wakes up often. He's sick, so he wakes up often. He's hungry, so he wakes up often. (Sense a theme?) And so we're back to Mommy drinking gallons of Diet Coke to function.

Other parents joke about it--probably to keep from crying--but sleep deprivation is hard. It's ridiculously hard. There's a reason it's used as torture--it reduces the person to a delirious, crabby and desperate puddle. It makes people certifiably nuts. And by people I mean ME.

The worst of it was in the few weeks after E was born. It got so bad that at one point, as I walked back and forth between my hospital room and the NICU (that's another story), I could have sworn I saw cats in my peripheral vision. Cats prowling the hospital halls, because of course.

It was bad.

UPDATE, February: it has improved greatly most nights--he now wakes up an average of once a night, and my husband often is the one who gets up with him. Some days now, I even feel human. Back to normal. Able to function.

But the threat of a resurgence of sleep deprivation is always there. I hear once they can climb out of their crib, it is ON.

I hope not. Sleep deprivation is hell. And I'd like my sleeve of care to be knitted, thank you very much.

And for the imaginary cats not to return.

I suck at this blog thing

I got so excited about the idea of starting a blog, and then what happens? I write three entries and vanish. Bad, bad blogger. But this mothering thing is hard, and lots of sleep deprivation, and blah blah ... I'm procrastinating. I have high standards for my writing, and I'm out of practice, and also possibly overwhelmed by all the changes in my life, and also not wanting to write exactly what everyone else writes. I want to have something beautiful and wise and interesting to say, and I come up blank while I'm fighting off sleep or cleaning up after diaper blowouts or trying to convince my now 11-month-old (!) to eat vegetables.

I cannot believe my little baby is going to be one year old in a few weeks. Excuse me while I blink back a deluge.

I haven't promoted this blog or even told my closest friends or family how to find it, so I'm not sure anyone has even noticed whether I'm posting to it. I didn't want to tell people until I knew what the heck I was doing with it, or how personal I wanted to get. I'm such a good little procrastinator. Really.

I do have Important Things to Say about motherhood ... maybe. Or maybe just about my experience of it. But because of the aforementioned high standards, I don't say them. If I can't say them with the poetic flair of some of my favorite writers, I'll just stay silent. I'm a chicken.

But hey, I posted something today. That's progress.

And with that, I'm going to watch "Downton Abbey" and let myself breathe after my not-so-little baby's bedtime.

I'll stop procrastinating tomorrow.