After what feels like months of filling every moment of every day, so that even the very end of day before bedtime is crammed with piles of laundry, and brushing my teeth and getting my pajamas on feels like one more chore, today it feels much stiller. Arlo is sick, and wants me to hold him. Which I have done since 6:00 this morning when he woke up, after a long night of me sleeping next to his feverish hot potato body.
He has largely slept, in that lethargic, eye rolling way, waking to cry for a minute, before he slumps back into a hot sleep again. And so I have typed some work, watched a mini-marathon of t.v. shows on my computer, did a few conference calls. And here I am writing for pleasure, as he sleeps on in my arms. But it has been one thing at a time, often one-handed one thing at a time, but this rather than three or more things at a time, when I would normally make lunch for myself, for Arlo, wash the breakfast dishes, sweep and mop the floor, pay our bills, and answer the phone, while work whistled to me from my office. None of that today though, just one at a time, with a big baby on me, heating my lap right through his clothes and the blanket he is wrapped up in.
Recently I was saying to my husband that I am afraid at times that Arlo doesn't like me very much. A more accurate statement at the time probably would have been that I don't like me very much, and that parenting at this juncture feels especially hard, which is how Matthew responded. Hard and busy, not my favorite combination because the time for reflection, for regrouping, is usually between the time Arlo falls asleep for a nap and when I walk to my computer to work. A matter of seconds, if any time at all. Put one thing down and pick up another. Put one down, and pick one up. Put down, pick up. Round and round I often go like a whirling dervish, except with a lot less grace than the actual dervishes, if you've ever seen them.
But today, Arlo is very close to me. On me. Needing me. Every time he opens his eyes he needs me to say that he's going to be alright. He asks, every time, with his tired, sick eyes, with his little hands clutching me. With his cry. And so today Mommy lets a lot of the other voices fall away, and I hold Arlo and pick away at this and that, one thing at a time. The cacophony stills. It is so rare for a day to be one-note right now, and being with a sick child (who is not too sick) is a strange kind of quiet. It is a worried quiet, a sad quiet, and also a restful one.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Long Winter Disease
I, and everyone I know, has had it with this particular Maine winter. It came on too strong, too fast in December, gave us a cold, powerless Christmas, cold and more cold to follow, and for my little family, weekly if not daily furnace troubles that continue as we now navigate a complaint against our furnace manufacturer.
Among the many other things I cannot bear any longer, is carrying over the item week after week on my TO DO list in my calendar book. "Blog." "Blog." "Blog." Maybe if I'd underlined it, or put it in all capitals, or said "Please blog," or "I'll give you $10 if you blog today," then I would have done it sooner. Done it every three days, or even once a month. But it has somehow been easier to carry it along on my TO DO list, feeling sluggier and sluggier about my meek writer identity.
I have, however, done some mommy blog reading in the last several months, but one day last month they all started to come across to me as somehow formulaic. It might have been the same day as our last snowstorm, when my days began feeling formulaic too. But the blogs, post after post of how bittersweet is motherhood, how wild the latest multitasking cacophony, how downright crazy are the expectations on mothers, and the various responses from martyr, to cheerful participant, to grim co-anchor. Tedious is the word that comes to mind as I think over these blogs, as completely uncharitable as that sounds towards the authors and mothers in general. I have been particularly disheartened by a few mommy blogs I've read that include flamboyant cursing in every sentence. I'm struck by how unfunny these posts are, but sadly am not sure why, either because these mothers are trying so hard, or because I don't have the energy to laugh with them. Let's face it, I'm really fed up with myself.
That is the major symptom of long winter disease, by the way - a feeling of general joylessness, resulting in related symptoms of snappish relating, dragging feet, and overall impatience with the present moment coupled with the feeling that there is no better moment to go to. Another major symptom I experience is tired parenting. There is no other phrase for it that I can come up with. Tired people doing tired parenting. And it's not much fun for parents or kids - I can't recommend it.
So I am thus flailing about, beginning March unlike a lion. If I muster energy on a given day it somehow gets sucked into questioning - my marriage, my friendships, my parenting, my housecleaning. My clothes. If I do not have energy, then I am slightly better able to let go of all of this and focus on taking care of Arlo (read: tired parenting), doing some consulting work, mopping the kitchen floor, and playing a board game at the counter with Noah when he gets home from school. Long winter disease wreaks the most havoc with my life in these weeks when the normal moments of attending to the little things, the things that anchor me, provide me meaning and direction, and often such joy, become a stream of irritating, buzzing mosquitoes. An endless pile of bricks to stack. A recurring dream of an emergency but I can't dial the rotary phone for help. You get the idea. Please, Mother Nature, mother me and bring on the melting and the mud, so I can go out and play again.
Among the many other things I cannot bear any longer, is carrying over the item week after week on my TO DO list in my calendar book. "Blog." "Blog." "Blog." Maybe if I'd underlined it, or put it in all capitals, or said "Please blog," or "I'll give you $10 if you blog today," then I would have done it sooner. Done it every three days, or even once a month. But it has somehow been easier to carry it along on my TO DO list, feeling sluggier and sluggier about my meek writer identity.
I have, however, done some mommy blog reading in the last several months, but one day last month they all started to come across to me as somehow formulaic. It might have been the same day as our last snowstorm, when my days began feeling formulaic too. But the blogs, post after post of how bittersweet is motherhood, how wild the latest multitasking cacophony, how downright crazy are the expectations on mothers, and the various responses from martyr, to cheerful participant, to grim co-anchor. Tedious is the word that comes to mind as I think over these blogs, as completely uncharitable as that sounds towards the authors and mothers in general. I have been particularly disheartened by a few mommy blogs I've read that include flamboyant cursing in every sentence. I'm struck by how unfunny these posts are, but sadly am not sure why, either because these mothers are trying so hard, or because I don't have the energy to laugh with them. Let's face it, I'm really fed up with myself.
That is the major symptom of long winter disease, by the way - a feeling of general joylessness, resulting in related symptoms of snappish relating, dragging feet, and overall impatience with the present moment coupled with the feeling that there is no better moment to go to. Another major symptom I experience is tired parenting. There is no other phrase for it that I can come up with. Tired people doing tired parenting. And it's not much fun for parents or kids - I can't recommend it.
So I am thus flailing about, beginning March unlike a lion. If I muster energy on a given day it somehow gets sucked into questioning - my marriage, my friendships, my parenting, my housecleaning. My clothes. If I do not have energy, then I am slightly better able to let go of all of this and focus on taking care of Arlo (read: tired parenting), doing some consulting work, mopping the kitchen floor, and playing a board game at the counter with Noah when he gets home from school. Long winter disease wreaks the most havoc with my life in these weeks when the normal moments of attending to the little things, the things that anchor me, provide me meaning and direction, and often such joy, become a stream of irritating, buzzing mosquitoes. An endless pile of bricks to stack. A recurring dream of an emergency but I can't dial the rotary phone for help. You get the idea. Please, Mother Nature, mother me and bring on the melting and the mud, so I can go out and play again.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
A Mother Getting By
The other day, the only way I got through the grocery store with Arlo was to let him suck on my braid. By the time I got to the checkout, my hair and shoulder were drenched with baby drool, and he was still gripped to my pigtail like it was the rope that would save him from pirhanas. The cashier politely ignored my glazed eyes.
But we had food.
As I worked feverishly on a consulting project deadline after getting Arlo to bed one night, I heard a wail rise from upstairs. Running up, I met Noah at the bedroom door. He told me that he was terrified of a cartoon creature in a book he was reading. "I can't get over it," he said matter-of-factly. "I have to sleep in your bed." So Arlo, me, and Noah, slept sandwiched together on my side of our king-sized bed, until deep in the night when Noah was peacefully heavy and I could drag him back into his twin bed a few feet away.
But he woke happy.
The eighth time I called my internet service provider to learn that a technician had actually been to my house, had checked a wire outside and repaired a "sync issue," but hadn't bothered to knock on the door to determine whether my computer actually could connect to the internet, which it couldn't, I thought my head might split open as I calmly said, "It must be something other than a sync issue then. I'm glad to hear at least that isn't the problem," having no idea what a sync issue is. "Can you please send a technician to come inside my house?"
But my internet works again.
So many days I ask myself, "What else can I possibly simplify?" My schedule, my life, my home, my business. Selling three of our five vehicles. Giving away the old lawn mower. Regifting, consigning, Goodwill-ing. Forgoing a vegetable garden this year. Putting away calendars so there are less pages to flip, or daily blocks to rotate each morning. Eliminating idiosyncratic feeding systems for the cats. Trying to make it easier to focus on Noah and Arlo and keep afloat.
My dear aunt Barbara often reminds me, as a mom of two grown boys who have families of their own now, that having two children can get wild. It is always good to hear this, as I have a hard time supporting myself when I think about one of the doctors in our local practice, who raised five children, or my mother-in-law, who also had five. Having two children at the heart of my life has turned every day into an adventure in meeting needs, getting food, creating fun, supporting good health. The simple truth is that there is nothing simple about it. I cannot simultaneously go for a bike ride with Noah and lie down with Arlo for him to take a nap, no matter how skilled I am at multitasking. And this moment, like most of the waking ones, takes active negotiation. Do this poorly, and there will be another issue to negotiate shortly.
Sometimes I imagine myself as a waterlogged fish. Overwhelmed in my preferred environment. Confused, because being out of the bowl isn't an option. Partly afraid of drowning. Loving the water. It just doesn't make sense. It must just be like this, being a fish? Even with all the reality mommy media out there in the culture, it does not come easy to me to say, this is me with two children. Often I feel instead like "Surely, we can do better." Most of the time, though, there is rarely anything to actually do except sink or swim.
But we had food.
As I worked feverishly on a consulting project deadline after getting Arlo to bed one night, I heard a wail rise from upstairs. Running up, I met Noah at the bedroom door. He told me that he was terrified of a cartoon creature in a book he was reading. "I can't get over it," he said matter-of-factly. "I have to sleep in your bed." So Arlo, me, and Noah, slept sandwiched together on my side of our king-sized bed, until deep in the night when Noah was peacefully heavy and I could drag him back into his twin bed a few feet away.
But he woke happy.
The eighth time I called my internet service provider to learn that a technician had actually been to my house, had checked a wire outside and repaired a "sync issue," but hadn't bothered to knock on the door to determine whether my computer actually could connect to the internet, which it couldn't, I thought my head might split open as I calmly said, "It must be something other than a sync issue then. I'm glad to hear at least that isn't the problem," having no idea what a sync issue is. "Can you please send a technician to come inside my house?"
But my internet works again.
So many days I ask myself, "What else can I possibly simplify?" My schedule, my life, my home, my business. Selling three of our five vehicles. Giving away the old lawn mower. Regifting, consigning, Goodwill-ing. Forgoing a vegetable garden this year. Putting away calendars so there are less pages to flip, or daily blocks to rotate each morning. Eliminating idiosyncratic feeding systems for the cats. Trying to make it easier to focus on Noah and Arlo and keep afloat.
My dear aunt Barbara often reminds me, as a mom of two grown boys who have families of their own now, that having two children can get wild. It is always good to hear this, as I have a hard time supporting myself when I think about one of the doctors in our local practice, who raised five children, or my mother-in-law, who also had five. Having two children at the heart of my life has turned every day into an adventure in meeting needs, getting food, creating fun, supporting good health. The simple truth is that there is nothing simple about it. I cannot simultaneously go for a bike ride with Noah and lie down with Arlo for him to take a nap, no matter how skilled I am at multitasking. And this moment, like most of the waking ones, takes active negotiation. Do this poorly, and there will be another issue to negotiate shortly.
Sometimes I imagine myself as a waterlogged fish. Overwhelmed in my preferred environment. Confused, because being out of the bowl isn't an option. Partly afraid of drowning. Loving the water. It just doesn't make sense. It must just be like this, being a fish? Even with all the reality mommy media out there in the culture, it does not come easy to me to say, this is me with two children. Often I feel instead like "Surely, we can do better." Most of the time, though, there is rarely anything to actually do except sink or swim.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
"The truth about me is...": 15 minutes of writing on this prompt from a friend
The truth about me is that I was not nearly as
patient, kind, or selfless, as I acted for much of my life. The truth is that a desperate grasping extended
through me from my childhood origins, drawing to me so many who also only
expected darkness in their lives. I
think by generous fate and no small effort of my own, my own light was not
put out by that cloud, and so the hopeful ones have come along too, but often
they have bored me or passed me by, not lighting the torch of my misery enough
to keep me interested in their presence.
The truth about me is that I have lived many sad
years. Bright and sunny on the outside, deeply
doubting and unable to console myself on my deepest levels. Doubting love, feeling it to be an empty promise. And yet, throwing myself at it again and
again, blindly seeing neither the object of my latest affection, nor myself.
The truth about me now is that since turning 40 I
have discovered compassion for myself.
Choosing a life partner and bearing children has pointed me to the
inarguable existence of my own desires and dreams, my own solid path apart from
where I came. I think I understand now that
it takes some living to get here, to what I’m coming to think of as the Good Stuff. When some of the old voices stop mumbling in my
ears and I can hear my truer thoughts.
Much like it takes writing a lot of sad clown poems to get to one that
sings instead of shuffling along, hoping to be good enough, it has taken some
living for me to decide that it is more worth it to know myself than to remain
loyal to others’ ideas of me, or who they need me to be.
The truth about me is that I was as I needed to be then, as I am now. My younger self lived a certain kind of truth, albeit one that looks more dangerous and confused to me from my current vantage point. This self that is becoming what might be called middle-age still gets confused, but I have a clearer sense of what brings me peace and happiness – and it is not the excitement of the race. The race away from everything that scared me, the race toward the unavailable. Top speed, in a dark room, racing. The truth about me is that I am slowing down beautifully, and feel the confidence of walking intentionally, able to name some of the things that I want, and don’t, and the grace in the things I have. The truth about me is showing itself, singing as she comes.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
The Best Mommy Blog that Never Was
I have been doing a lot of writing lately, not that anyone would ever know it, because the last three blog posts I've begun have been interrupted. Going back to a writing about current events in the world or my home is almost impossible at this point, because things are moving so fast around here that news quickly becomes old. And then, the limited time I have to come to my desk often ends up being spent deleting comments from hackers who have nothing better to do than plaster whacko gobbledy-gook all over the internet.
Weeks past the Boston Marathon bombings, I am unable to revive my started post about that, and all the mother thoughts I had about the two young brothers primarily responsible. I found much of the commentary out there deeply unsatisfying, in everything from parenting blogs online to articles in "The Nation," but I suppose when I compare most writers to Annie Lamott, who can knock my socks off with a Facebook post, those others don't really stand a chance. I think "The Onion" hit the nail on the head in its beautifully profane article about that particular week, which also boasted a dead anti-gun violence bill in Congress two days after the bombing: http://www.theonion.com/articles/jesus-this-week,32105/
So today, a day in which I've already been able to both shower and floss my teeth, I know the stars are in some alignment that cannot be ignored and I better attempt to write. And yet, my initial thoughts are swirls and whirls of things undone. Previous blog posts. Another batch of cookies for Teacher Appreciation Week. A consulting project or two. Updating the quotes on the right side of my blog. And I'm sure there's a diaper in the works in the other room. My older son Noah has been home sick from school for three days with a fever that just won't die down, so I've been having board game marathons with him while simultaneously working on two consulting projects and taking care of Arlo, who let's just say is not a napper in the same way Noah was. He takes cat naps that are itty bitty compared to Noah's 4-hour sleep marathons as a baby. These are the kind of naps that leave me sighing with joy at his peacefulness and my freedom one second and then sighing like a holy martyr as I give up the expectation of a little down time when I peek at him and his huge blue eyes are staring quietly up at me.
But he does have beautiful blue eyes, and it feels slightly blasphemous to complain about anything about parenting when I wanted him so badly, and tried for so long, and suffered such a miserable pregnancy to bring him into the world. And got him all the same, at 43 years old. Those beautiful clear blue eyes hold the answers to my prayers and are completely worth it. When I look at Arlo I have a sense of what I have done, that we can move through almost anything toward what we want most, if we are clear that we want it. He and Noah are so obviously worth the interruption of just about anything else in my life.
I often think about a local woman who owned a dry cleaning business nearby that closed down a couple of years ago. I used to bring Noah in, and she would come out and exclaim about how beautiful he was. She had raised boys of her own, and said how much she missed the time when they were little. She was a beautiful petite woman who always dressed like she was going on a date, not like she was going to run the dry cleaning place, and I always left knowing that these are the best years of my life, when Noah and now Arlo are here with me.
That doesn't take away from the fact that I've been up at 4 a.m. the past three mornings, or that there are many things in my life that I also care about that are going undone, which at any given moment can really make me go batsh*t crazy. But these important things are happening. My children. To my great satisfaction. A wise person reminded me recently that making a decision to do anything by definition means another thing goes undone. And that this is a painful or at least difficult part of life, and growing up. And having a family, certainly. Making choices. But you know what? Sometimes I still delude myself with thoughts of being a famous writer someday, who will get that way by some kind of shortcut or late-run burst, since my day-in, day-out commitment has been to a career in anti-violence work and in more recent years, my children. My boys make me realize that anything is possible, so why not this dream too?
Weeks past the Boston Marathon bombings, I am unable to revive my started post about that, and all the mother thoughts I had about the two young brothers primarily responsible. I found much of the commentary out there deeply unsatisfying, in everything from parenting blogs online to articles in "The Nation," but I suppose when I compare most writers to Annie Lamott, who can knock my socks off with a Facebook post, those others don't really stand a chance. I think "The Onion" hit the nail on the head in its beautifully profane article about that particular week, which also boasted a dead anti-gun violence bill in Congress two days after the bombing: http://www.theonion.com/articles/jesus-this-week,32105/
So today, a day in which I've already been able to both shower and floss my teeth, I know the stars are in some alignment that cannot be ignored and I better attempt to write. And yet, my initial thoughts are swirls and whirls of things undone. Previous blog posts. Another batch of cookies for Teacher Appreciation Week. A consulting project or two. Updating the quotes on the right side of my blog. And I'm sure there's a diaper in the works in the other room. My older son Noah has been home sick from school for three days with a fever that just won't die down, so I've been having board game marathons with him while simultaneously working on two consulting projects and taking care of Arlo, who let's just say is not a napper in the same way Noah was. He takes cat naps that are itty bitty compared to Noah's 4-hour sleep marathons as a baby. These are the kind of naps that leave me sighing with joy at his peacefulness and my freedom one second and then sighing like a holy martyr as I give up the expectation of a little down time when I peek at him and his huge blue eyes are staring quietly up at me.
But he does have beautiful blue eyes, and it feels slightly blasphemous to complain about anything about parenting when I wanted him so badly, and tried for so long, and suffered such a miserable pregnancy to bring him into the world. And got him all the same, at 43 years old. Those beautiful clear blue eyes hold the answers to my prayers and are completely worth it. When I look at Arlo I have a sense of what I have done, that we can move through almost anything toward what we want most, if we are clear that we want it. He and Noah are so obviously worth the interruption of just about anything else in my life.
I often think about a local woman who owned a dry cleaning business nearby that closed down a couple of years ago. I used to bring Noah in, and she would come out and exclaim about how beautiful he was. She had raised boys of her own, and said how much she missed the time when they were little. She was a beautiful petite woman who always dressed like she was going on a date, not like she was going to run the dry cleaning place, and I always left knowing that these are the best years of my life, when Noah and now Arlo are here with me.
That doesn't take away from the fact that I've been up at 4 a.m. the past three mornings, or that there are many things in my life that I also care about that are going undone, which at any given moment can really make me go batsh*t crazy. But these important things are happening. My children. To my great satisfaction. A wise person reminded me recently that making a decision to do anything by definition means another thing goes undone. And that this is a painful or at least difficult part of life, and growing up. And having a family, certainly. Making choices. But you know what? Sometimes I still delude myself with thoughts of being a famous writer someday, who will get that way by some kind of shortcut or late-run burst, since my day-in, day-out commitment has been to a career in anti-violence work and in more recent years, my children. My boys make me realize that anything is possible, so why not this dream too?
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Baby Love, My Baby Love
Arlo is here and 9 weeks old already! Becoming a mother twice over has cracked open my gratefulness farther than I ever thought possible in this life. Gone are the pregnancy days, and happily so this time around, and now I am back in the land of diapers and milk. And back in my regular jeans - hallelujah!
The anticipatory questions I had about how it would look to extend my heart and energy to another child when for over six years I have circled around Noah, are answering themselves. More children equals more love for everyone! I am so relieved to affirm this, because I had received warnings and cautions before and during my pregnancy, about Noah feeling abandoned and left behind. I was afraid that I would have to turn away from Noah to turn toward another child. That the love pie was only so big, and more people would mean less love per slice for all of us. Is there a fairness formula for giving love among children? So the exhale on this issue is an especially welcome one, to trust that having a second child can be framed, and in fact be seen as, a joyous occasion to a first child, and to all of us in the family. Even taking into account the earlier moments in Arlo's time with us when Noah would hide in the shower or go headfirst under his blankets in bed when the baby cried, Noah is happy that Arlo is in the family. In fact, for several weeks now Noah has been volunteering that he wants us to have another child so he can have a little sister too. Clearly he is not too distressed by having a baby in the house.
One night at the dinner table Matthew asked Noah if he could remember what it was like before Arlo was with us. Noah immediately answered "Yes, I remember!" Matthew prompted him to describe it, and Noah said, "It was a little bit lonelier." My heart melted quietly in my chest as I sat across from him.
Going back into the baby zone has also pitched me into long, quiet days when the baby sleeps and I go many hours without speaking with another adult. So far, this has been remarkably acceptable. I also already have had some of those dark moments of helplessness and frustration that I now remember so well from when Noah was an infant. Those fabulous moments when I have all the answers for this little one's bubbles, tiredness, or discomfort, go hand-in-hand with those when I am helpless to do more than tell Arlo "I'm so sorry, I know you can do it, you can get through it," while I try to continue breathing as he yells, red-faced, at the top of his lungs.
I have said to my husband a couple of times that we need to get out of the comparison business in terms of our children, in that has been a common conversation for us to say to each other, "Noah did this same thing, Noah was not like this at all," etc. While of course our parenting expertise comes from our experience with Noah, Arlo is Arlo. And he is, too. He laughs in his sleep, and gives us a pirate look by squinting one eye and opening the other, and smiles out of one side of his mouth. He is extremely gassy, and makes noxious smells. He can be a total crier. He has a full head of beautiful dark hair and always keeps his fists balled up by his face when he is sleeping. I have fallen in love again with all of it, in the way that it is with children and no one else. The deliciousness of his details are all his own, and all my own to witness, as his mother.
I recently read a wonderful writing about how each of the author's children believed that he or she was the author's favorite child, and how they all were right. This mother could list all of her favorite things about each of her children, and they were things to which her other children couldn't hold a candle. I felt the zing of insight in both directions - looking back at my own life, and looking forward at my boys'. Being one of three children myself, the youngest of all girls, I was finally able to replace the confusing dichotomy of the memory of my oldest sister once telling me bitterly how I always got what I wanted, on one hand, with my perception of going unseen at times, on the other. The truth as I see it now is that my mother loved and loves each of us specially. That this is the way it is for mothers, and the way it will be for me. My own boys will continue to amaze me in their own ways. Noah will always be my first baby. And Arlo will always be my last. Two boys, exponential love.
The anticipatory questions I had about how it would look to extend my heart and energy to another child when for over six years I have circled around Noah, are answering themselves. More children equals more love for everyone! I am so relieved to affirm this, because I had received warnings and cautions before and during my pregnancy, about Noah feeling abandoned and left behind. I was afraid that I would have to turn away from Noah to turn toward another child. That the love pie was only so big, and more people would mean less love per slice for all of us. Is there a fairness formula for giving love among children? So the exhale on this issue is an especially welcome one, to trust that having a second child can be framed, and in fact be seen as, a joyous occasion to a first child, and to all of us in the family. Even taking into account the earlier moments in Arlo's time with us when Noah would hide in the shower or go headfirst under his blankets in bed when the baby cried, Noah is happy that Arlo is in the family. In fact, for several weeks now Noah has been volunteering that he wants us to have another child so he can have a little sister too. Clearly he is not too distressed by having a baby in the house.
One night at the dinner table Matthew asked Noah if he could remember what it was like before Arlo was with us. Noah immediately answered "Yes, I remember!" Matthew prompted him to describe it, and Noah said, "It was a little bit lonelier." My heart melted quietly in my chest as I sat across from him.
Going back into the baby zone has also pitched me into long, quiet days when the baby sleeps and I go many hours without speaking with another adult. So far, this has been remarkably acceptable. I also already have had some of those dark moments of helplessness and frustration that I now remember so well from when Noah was an infant. Those fabulous moments when I have all the answers for this little one's bubbles, tiredness, or discomfort, go hand-in-hand with those when I am helpless to do more than tell Arlo "I'm so sorry, I know you can do it, you can get through it," while I try to continue breathing as he yells, red-faced, at the top of his lungs.
I have said to my husband a couple of times that we need to get out of the comparison business in terms of our children, in that has been a common conversation for us to say to each other, "Noah did this same thing, Noah was not like this at all," etc. While of course our parenting expertise comes from our experience with Noah, Arlo is Arlo. And he is, too. He laughs in his sleep, and gives us a pirate look by squinting one eye and opening the other, and smiles out of one side of his mouth. He is extremely gassy, and makes noxious smells. He can be a total crier. He has a full head of beautiful dark hair and always keeps his fists balled up by his face when he is sleeping. I have fallen in love again with all of it, in the way that it is with children and no one else. The deliciousness of his details are all his own, and all my own to witness, as his mother.
I recently read a wonderful writing about how each of the author's children believed that he or she was the author's favorite child, and how they all were right. This mother could list all of her favorite things about each of her children, and they were things to which her other children couldn't hold a candle. I felt the zing of insight in both directions - looking back at my own life, and looking forward at my boys'. Being one of three children myself, the youngest of all girls, I was finally able to replace the confusing dichotomy of the memory of my oldest sister once telling me bitterly how I always got what I wanted, on one hand, with my perception of going unseen at times, on the other. The truth as I see it now is that my mother loved and loves each of us specially. That this is the way it is for mothers, and the way it will be for me. My own boys will continue to amaze me in their own ways. Noah will always be my first baby. And Arlo will always be my last. Two boys, exponential love.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Learning Not to Spit on Myself
The title of this post is not a metaphor for us not "shoulding" all over ourselves, which many of us recovering perfectionists are prone to doing at times, if not all the time. Rather, I was e-mailing a colleague recently who was joking about working out because his abs are all he has to counteract his frightening looks, and I found myself reminded of my life at this time last year, when Noah had been in school just a few months into Kindergarten, and for the first time in years I had time to exercise as long as my energy would last, rather than rushing through a 40-minute workout so I could shower and pick up Noah in the babysitting room at the Y before my time expired or his patience did.
Last winter I was the most happy with my body than I'd ever been in my life that I can remember. I was not thin from stress, a broken heart, or being too broke to buy food. I was really not thin at all, actually, by today's frightening definitions. But I was fit, fitter than I've ever been. Even using the word "fit" to describe myself would never have passed my own snort test before. Back in college although I swam every morning in the Bates College pool, walked everywhere, and dabbled in aerobics, yoga, and other classes, my exposure to campus-wide grain alcohol punch parties, my stress at being in school and away from home, and the unlimited bowls of Fruit Loops available in the cafeteria did a lot to counteract true health.
So it was about a year ago, I was online looking at Land's End's online sales and found some of their $90 bikinis on sale for $5-$10. I went for it. My family was planning our first ever family vacation to the Gulf Coast of Florida, and I had a first ever feeling that I could rock a two-piece. I can still hear and picture myself in my early 20s complaining to my best friend as we swam in the ocean somewhere in Southern Maine how much I loathed my body. Whether it is age, exercise, the experience of childbirth and the gratefulness I now feel for my body for creating Noah and blessing me with another baby soon to come, or all of the above, I no longer see myself taking the critical survey when I look in the mirror. Instead, it's more like an interesting examination of how things change and how they stay the same, as I age into my 40s.
But the inspiration for this post is less about that acceptance, and more about the ridiculousness I am feeling at times, being 43 years old and 7 months pregnant. Blessed for sure, but at times also ridiculous. Like I have a clown stomach strapped onto me. I keep thinking I need to create a tee shirt that has one word printed on it: Oof. Because even if I'm not saying it, I'm thinking it to myself. Clown waddling. Oof. Oof. Oof.
So as I brushed my teeth over the sink last week and dropped a long line of toothpaste down the front of my shirt over my big belly for the fifth time in as many days, I sighed an exaggerated clown sigh, and changed my shirt. I have apparently learned not to s*it on myself but am unable to keep from spitting on myself. And when I work this out, which will likely be when I go into labor, it will be just in time for our new baby boy to join us on the outside, when I'll be back to having someone else spitting (up) on me instead!
Last winter I was the most happy with my body than I'd ever been in my life that I can remember. I was not thin from stress, a broken heart, or being too broke to buy food. I was really not thin at all, actually, by today's frightening definitions. But I was fit, fitter than I've ever been. Even using the word "fit" to describe myself would never have passed my own snort test before. Back in college although I swam every morning in the Bates College pool, walked everywhere, and dabbled in aerobics, yoga, and other classes, my exposure to campus-wide grain alcohol punch parties, my stress at being in school and away from home, and the unlimited bowls of Fruit Loops available in the cafeteria did a lot to counteract true health.
So it was about a year ago, I was online looking at Land's End's online sales and found some of their $90 bikinis on sale for $5-$10. I went for it. My family was planning our first ever family vacation to the Gulf Coast of Florida, and I had a first ever feeling that I could rock a two-piece. I can still hear and picture myself in my early 20s complaining to my best friend as we swam in the ocean somewhere in Southern Maine how much I loathed my body. Whether it is age, exercise, the experience of childbirth and the gratefulness I now feel for my body for creating Noah and blessing me with another baby soon to come, or all of the above, I no longer see myself taking the critical survey when I look in the mirror. Instead, it's more like an interesting examination of how things change and how they stay the same, as I age into my 40s.
But the inspiration for this post is less about that acceptance, and more about the ridiculousness I am feeling at times, being 43 years old and 7 months pregnant. Blessed for sure, but at times also ridiculous. Like I have a clown stomach strapped onto me. I keep thinking I need to create a tee shirt that has one word printed on it: Oof. Because even if I'm not saying it, I'm thinking it to myself. Clown waddling. Oof. Oof. Oof.
So as I brushed my teeth over the sink last week and dropped a long line of toothpaste down the front of my shirt over my big belly for the fifth time in as many days, I sighed an exaggerated clown sigh, and changed my shirt. I have apparently learned not to s*it on myself but am unable to keep from spitting on myself. And when I work this out, which will likely be when I go into labor, it will be just in time for our new baby boy to join us on the outside, when I'll be back to having someone else spitting (up) on me instead!
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