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.