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.