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.