Last weekend, we went to a birthday party and I saw some high school friends of ours. There was a time when the husband was one of my closest friends in the world, and I adore the wife also. They are sweet, funny, goofy, and some of the most generous hearted people I know.
The jerks.
Kidding. Of course.
We've kept loosely in touch over the years, and I know they've had more than their fair share of struggles. The week before their wedding, she lost her dad to cancer. A few years later, when their two year old was in infant, he lost his dad to suicide. Six months ago, they had a miscarriage.
Even though we're not that close now, I've done my best to love on them through it all, and they've let me know they appreciate it. So, I know how hard it has been for them. It's not a secret.
And yet. They have this amazing resilience, both as a couple and as individuals. They are open and positive. They are still goofy. She is an amazing, creative mom. They post on facebook and get dozens of responses from people who truly love them. And I admire them so for this, especially her, for the ability to overcome tragedy and for the ease with which she adjusted to full time motherhood and most of all for her ability to walk into a room and draw people to her.
I truly admire her. Okay, let's just be honest here. I'm jealous.
Yes, beneath my loving, empathetic, self-aware self there is someone dark and petty too. And no matter how many times I say we need to stop comparing, I can't help but compare.
So, imagine my surprise when hugging our goodbyes last Saturday, she turned to me and said, "I wish you guys lived closer. I get lonely sometimes. I haven't had the easiest time making mom friends."
Screeeeeeeeeeeeeech.
Ahem. Okay, universe. Score one for you. I'm listening.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
More things I like about me
Six months ago, I got pressured by my sweetest bloggy friends into writing a post of Things I like about me for a link up with the lovely Ciao Mom. It was the hardest post I'd ever written.
That link up led to the creation of Elena's project Just Be Enough, a group blog that I love and admire very much. I've followed their posts and participated in their link ups. Then last week I got an email saying that they were bringing back Things I like about me.
Seriously? I have to do this again?!?
So, here we go.
- I have a gift for listening. I really hear what people say.
- I am very self aware. That's not always the easiest gift to carry, but it has made my life richer.
- I'm a fast learner.
- I am full of stories, and I see stories everywhee.
- I know how to make people smile.
- In the past year, I have been braver than I've been in my whole life.
- I'm a good teacher. Even when I'm not teaching.
- I'm a good mom. A really good mom.
Thanks Elena and the rest of the Just Be Enough Me team. Thanks for helping me learn how to be this person.
Friday, February 24, 2012
You can't go home again
When DH and I got engaged, we were 23 years old and lived in different states. He was starting his master's degree and I was in my first year of teaching at a fantastic public high school. I put in my resignation, finished the year, cried like a baby at the end of year faculty party, and moved halfway across the country.
My whole life, I have always done everything right. It was the first right thing I had ever done.
We were broke, really broke. We lived in a tiny apartment. I subbed as much as I could, getting long term positions in and out, always getting enough work when I needed it. I went to the library. I read The Tightwad Gazette cover to cover. I baked our own bread, made our own ketchup. I planned my wedding there. Life was simple if not easy.
We were supposed to be there for 3 years, to have a life there, but it didn't happen that way. I cried when I heard we were moving, then I packed up and started again somewhere else.
This week, my husband had to go back to that college town for work, so BG and I went with him. I wanted to show my daughter where we'd lived, what we'd done, what our lives had been like back then.
But I didn't remember.
I mean, I recognized our old apartment building, but I didn't know which apartment had been ours. DH would point things out to me, "Oh, remember? That's the other Walmart. That's the Applebees where the Korean grad students used to drink all night." I nodded vaguely. I remembered the story, but not the restaurant.
While he was in meetings on Wednesday, I drove her out by the schools where I taught, not sure what I intended to do there, just hoping that when I saw them I would feel something.
But I didn't.
Nothing in the whole town had any meaning for me. The schools were just schools, the parks were just parks. There was no one there who would remember my name.
DH took us to dinner that night at the pizza place next to campus, where we'd only eaten once because we had gotten a giftcard for opening a bank account. The food was delicious, and it really wasn't that expensive. BG giggled all through dinner and ate half of my pasta. We bought her too many clothes at the campus book store, and we all went out for ice cream.
On the way out of town Thursday morning, our beautiful baby girl asleep in the back of our car, I lean my head on DH's shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the road, he puts a hand on my knee.
"When did we grow up?"
He raises his eyebrows. "A long time ago."
Somehow, I think, I'd been too busy to notice that until now.
My whole life, I have always done everything right. It was the first right thing I had ever done.
We were broke, really broke. We lived in a tiny apartment. I subbed as much as I could, getting long term positions in and out, always getting enough work when I needed it. I went to the library. I read The Tightwad Gazette cover to cover. I baked our own bread, made our own ketchup. I planned my wedding there. Life was simple if not easy.
We were supposed to be there for 3 years, to have a life there, but it didn't happen that way. I cried when I heard we were moving, then I packed up and started again somewhere else.
This week, my husband had to go back to that college town for work, so BG and I went with him. I wanted to show my daughter where we'd lived, what we'd done, what our lives had been like back then.
But I didn't remember.
I mean, I recognized our old apartment building, but I didn't know which apartment had been ours. DH would point things out to me, "Oh, remember? That's the other Walmart. That's the Applebees where the Korean grad students used to drink all night." I nodded vaguely. I remembered the story, but not the restaurant.
While he was in meetings on Wednesday, I drove her out by the schools where I taught, not sure what I intended to do there, just hoping that when I saw them I would feel something.
But I didn't.
Nothing in the whole town had any meaning for me. The schools were just schools, the parks were just parks. There was no one there who would remember my name.
DH took us to dinner that night at the pizza place next to campus, where we'd only eaten once because we had gotten a giftcard for opening a bank account. The food was delicious, and it really wasn't that expensive. BG giggled all through dinner and ate half of my pasta. We bought her too many clothes at the campus book store, and we all went out for ice cream.
On the way out of town Thursday morning, our beautiful baby girl asleep in the back of our car, I lean my head on DH's shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the road, he puts a hand on my knee.
"When did we grow up?"
He raises his eyebrows. "A long time ago."
Somehow, I think, I'd been too busy to notice that until now.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Blog Her Book Club: The Rules of Inheritance
I'm not sure how to begin to write about Claire Bidwell Smith's memoir The Rules of Inheritance. My first thought is how absolutely stunning the writing is. My second thought is how hard it was to read, especially for someone to whom empathy is so automatic as it is to me.
And yet, and yet. And yet, I adored this book.
The Rules of Inheritance is a memoir of loss. It tells the story of a woman who lost her mother at 18 and her father at 25, who finds herself "unmoored" by grief, who loses herself in alcohol and relationships. It tells the story of a woman who doesn't know how to continue her life after such a tragic and inescapable loss. And yet she does.
The story is told in a non-linear manner, not progressing chronologically, but with vignettes organized according to Kubler-Ross's stages of grief. What is so fascinating about this to me is that they are in fact not chronological, that she moves through all these stages recursively, from acceptance back to bargaining to anger to depression, returning to each again and again.
This is a story of tragedy, but it is not a tragic story. It is about loss, but so much more it is about growth, about self awareness and self acceptance. This was a book which, for me, showed a path through grief. It isn't an easy path, but it is a path which leads somewhere beautiful.
And for me, above all, this is a book which reminds me what I love about language, reminds me of the power of words, of the way that the darkest moments of our lives can contain the utmost beauty. It's a book that reminds me why I love to read.
And why I love to write.
Disclosure: This is a paid review for Blog Her book Club. All opinions are my own.
And yet, and yet. And yet, I adored this book.
The Rules of Inheritance is a memoir of loss. It tells the story of a woman who lost her mother at 18 and her father at 25, who finds herself "unmoored" by grief, who loses herself in alcohol and relationships. It tells the story of a woman who doesn't know how to continue her life after such a tragic and inescapable loss. And yet she does.
The story is told in a non-linear manner, not progressing chronologically, but with vignettes organized according to Kubler-Ross's stages of grief. What is so fascinating about this to me is that they are in fact not chronological, that she moves through all these stages recursively, from acceptance back to bargaining to anger to depression, returning to each again and again.
This is a story of tragedy, but it is not a tragic story. It is about loss, but so much more it is about growth, about self awareness and self acceptance. This was a book which, for me, showed a path through grief. It isn't an easy path, but it is a path which leads somewhere beautiful.
And for me, above all, this is a book which reminds me what I love about language, reminds me of the power of words, of the way that the darkest moments of our lives can contain the utmost beauty. It's a book that reminds me why I love to read.
And why I love to write.
Disclosure: This is a paid review for Blog Her book Club. All opinions are my own.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Guest Post: When Kids are Sick
Do you all know Jenny? If not, you should go follow her on twitter immediately because she is one of the sweetest and most supportive people I know. She guest posted for me back in October, and I'm thrilled to have her here again talking about one of the hardest things in motherhood. Give her lots of love for me okay?
With my second daughter, I was much more prepared or so I thought. I was about to return to work after my full twelve weeks of maternity leave. We had a wonderful New Year’s Eve weekend with family and friends. Late Saturday night and early Sunday morning, my youngest Skeeter woke up moaning and groaning. My husband took her temperature under her arm, and it was 102.1. We retook her temperature rectally, and it was 102.7. We called the on call pediatrician, and we were advised to take her to the emergency room at our local Children’s Hospital. We are so blessed to have this world class facility in our area.
I don’t remember much of the drive except my mind numbing anxiety. I could not see Skeeter since she was in the car seat facing backwards. She had fallen asleep, but I was terrified that something would happen to her. I kept reaching my right arm back to touch her head and feel her breath. We were able to be seen by the doctor immediately. They thought that it could possibly be a urinary tract infection.
We had both a urinalysis and a urine culture done. The initial test came back as negative, so we went home Sunday morning at 8:00 a.m. We contacted our pediatrician to set up a follow up visit with her on Monday afternoon.
We received confirmation from the test results that Skeeter did have a urinary tract infection. The hospital called in a prescription which the girls and I picked up on our way to the pediatrician. She examined Skeeter and then advised me that she wanted to have some lab work done to see if we
needed to pursue more aggressive treatment. Her white blood cell was extremely elevated, so our pediatrician decided to admit us to the hospital. Skeeter needed intravenous antibiotics to combat the infection. I remember just staring at her in disbelief and shock. She advised me to go home and pack what I needed. Our pediatrician took care of all the pre admission paperwork for us.
I dropped Munch off at my husband’s work, and Skeeter and I continued to the hospital. The care that we received was outstanding. The nurses were so compassionate and understanding. The young residents were so respectful of me as a nursing mom. They would wait outside Skeeter’s room until
she was done nursing so that they could have my full attention. Skeeter was admitted on Monday afternoon, and she went home on Thursday afternoon. It was the most terrifying experience for me as a parent. I know that we were incredibly lucky, and our hospital treats children who are critically
ill every day. I spent the majority of those days at the hospital with Skeeter; I only left once for a few hours. I felt guilty and ashamed for being so upset because so many other children were much sicker than Skeeter. I felt guilty for leaving Munch behind; we had prepared Munch for Skeeter starting at her school with her that week. I felt guilty that my mom had to come up to help me out. I felt guilty that I could not return to work as planned. Skeeter’s hospitalization was a major factor in the development of my postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety.
Due to Skeeter’s hospitalization, I have become very sensitive and anxious when either one of my girls are sick. Exactly a year to the day that Skeeter was hospitalized, we were back at the pediatrician’s office. We met with one of the more senior members of the practice, not our regular pediatrician. He reassured me that Skeeter was not suffering from a urinary tract infection, and he explained what he would look for in that type of infection. She was suffering from sinusitis and viral pneumonia. I was incredibly anxious, but I was able to keep my anxiety at bay by focusing on my little girl. I relied on my #ppdchat mamas to support me, and I relied on my family. I have realized that it is inevitable that my
girls will get sick. I work through my anxiety by using positive self-talk to help me work through the situation.
***Author’s Note: Skeeter suffers from VUR (vesicouretal reflux) which causes bladder reflux. She has only suffered one urinary tract infection - the one that led to her hospitalization. We continue to be monitored by the Urology clinic and go for visits every six months to monitor her progress. Her case is pretty mild so it should resolve itself by the time she is potty trained.***
With my second daughter, I was much more prepared or so I thought. I was about to return to work after my full twelve weeks of maternity leave. We had a wonderful New Year’s Eve weekend with family and friends. Late Saturday night and early Sunday morning, my youngest Skeeter woke up moaning and groaning. My husband took her temperature under her arm, and it was 102.1. We retook her temperature rectally, and it was 102.7. We called the on call pediatrician, and we were advised to take her to the emergency room at our local Children’s Hospital. We are so blessed to have this world class facility in our area.
I don’t remember much of the drive except my mind numbing anxiety. I could not see Skeeter since she was in the car seat facing backwards. She had fallen asleep, but I was terrified that something would happen to her. I kept reaching my right arm back to touch her head and feel her breath. We were able to be seen by the doctor immediately. They thought that it could possibly be a urinary tract infection.
We had both a urinalysis and a urine culture done. The initial test came back as negative, so we went home Sunday morning at 8:00 a.m. We contacted our pediatrician to set up a follow up visit with her on Monday afternoon.
We received confirmation from the test results that Skeeter did have a urinary tract infection. The hospital called in a prescription which the girls and I picked up on our way to the pediatrician. She examined Skeeter and then advised me that she wanted to have some lab work done to see if we
needed to pursue more aggressive treatment. Her white blood cell was extremely elevated, so our pediatrician decided to admit us to the hospital. Skeeter needed intravenous antibiotics to combat the infection. I remember just staring at her in disbelief and shock. She advised me to go home and pack what I needed. Our pediatrician took care of all the pre admission paperwork for us.
I dropped Munch off at my husband’s work, and Skeeter and I continued to the hospital. The care that we received was outstanding. The nurses were so compassionate and understanding. The young residents were so respectful of me as a nursing mom. They would wait outside Skeeter’s room until
she was done nursing so that they could have my full attention. Skeeter was admitted on Monday afternoon, and she went home on Thursday afternoon. It was the most terrifying experience for me as a parent. I know that we were incredibly lucky, and our hospital treats children who are critically
ill every day. I spent the majority of those days at the hospital with Skeeter; I only left once for a few hours. I felt guilty and ashamed for being so upset because so many other children were much sicker than Skeeter. I felt guilty for leaving Munch behind; we had prepared Munch for Skeeter starting at her school with her that week. I felt guilty that my mom had to come up to help me out. I felt guilty that I could not return to work as planned. Skeeter’s hospitalization was a major factor in the development of my postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety.
Due to Skeeter’s hospitalization, I have become very sensitive and anxious when either one of my girls are sick. Exactly a year to the day that Skeeter was hospitalized, we were back at the pediatrician’s office. We met with one of the more senior members of the practice, not our regular pediatrician. He reassured me that Skeeter was not suffering from a urinary tract infection, and he explained what he would look for in that type of infection. She was suffering from sinusitis and viral pneumonia. I was incredibly anxious, but I was able to keep my anxiety at bay by focusing on my little girl. I relied on my #ppdchat mamas to support me, and I relied on my family. I have realized that it is inevitable that my
girls will get sick. I work through my anxiety by using positive self-talk to help me work through the situation.
***Author’s Note: Skeeter suffers from VUR (vesicouretal reflux) which causes bladder reflux. She has only suffered one urinary tract infection - the one that led to her hospitalization. We continue to be monitored by the Urology clinic and go for visits every six months to monitor her progress. Her case is pretty mild so it should resolve itself by the time she is potty trained.***
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Contradictions
My daughter is asleep right now. She is going on three hours of nap. Which means at any second she is going to wake up.
I miss her. I am acutely and completely full of a longing to have her in my arms, curled up against my chest, my head in her hair.
And I am at the exact same moment completely full of gratitude for this time by myself, of a sense of relief for the quiet provided by this nap, and a slight but perceivable sense of dread of that moment when she is about to wake up.
I am consumed by this contradiction. I am full of the complete nonsense of it. Of the longing and the dread, of the need to both be with her and not be with her.
I dream of date nights with my husband, of nights out with friends, of long chunks of time in which to take classes, go to writing workshops, sit in silence and stare at a wall.
And I start to hyperventilate a little at the thought of being away from her.
I am shaken to my core by the wanting, by the cognitive dissonance of my desires, by my inability to reconcile the different needs. Because I want both the separateness and the togetherness, and I want them both ALL THE TIME.
There isn't a solution. There is only the saying out loud of it. And in the moment of a nap not-quite-over, all I can do is sit with the contradictions and believe that knowing this is enough.
I miss her. I am acutely and completely full of a longing to have her in my arms, curled up against my chest, my head in her hair.
And I am at the exact same moment completely full of gratitude for this time by myself, of a sense of relief for the quiet provided by this nap, and a slight but perceivable sense of dread of that moment when she is about to wake up.
I am consumed by this contradiction. I am full of the complete nonsense of it. Of the longing and the dread, of the need to both be with her and not be with her.
I dream of date nights with my husband, of nights out with friends, of long chunks of time in which to take classes, go to writing workshops, sit in silence and stare at a wall.
And I start to hyperventilate a little at the thought of being away from her.
I am shaken to my core by the wanting, by the cognitive dissonance of my desires, by my inability to reconcile the different needs. Because I want both the separateness and the togetherness, and I want them both ALL THE TIME.
There isn't a solution. There is only the saying out loud of it. And in the moment of a nap not-quite-over, all I can do is sit with the contradictions and believe that knowing this is enough.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Letting go
This morning I woke up angry. Spitting fire. Without words to describe what was going through my mind. Coffee didn't help.
BG and I had an appointment downtown to do another experiment at 9:30, and at 8:30 I realized that we weren't dressed and BG hadn't eaten. There was no way in the world to not be late. And I hate being late.
I threw clothes on us both, put her in her car seat with some Cheerios (mom of the year, right here), and booked it to the city.
The pretty young grad student met us at the gate, the same one that did our study last time. And BG sat quietly in my lap and cheerfully watched the video she was shown, only looking away a few times. A physics genius, my one year old. She grabbed the "Where's Pooh" book off the thank you gift shelf before she was even offered something. She babbled and giggled all the way to my car.
I pulled out of the parking lot. My gas light went on. BG started saying "mamamamamamama" and signing for food, both with increasing intensity. I looked at the clock and thought of how long it would take us to get home, of how much I had to do to get there. I turned corners, apologizing to my baby, listening to the petulant woman on my GPS tell me she was "recalculating" every five seconds.
And that is how I found myself in front of the botanical gardens, a furious baby in my back seat, my gas needle below empty, at 10:00 on a Wednesday morning.
And I parked my car.
Climbed into the backseat.
BG giggled when she saw me. We sat in the car and I fed her an applesauce, nursed her, and talked to her a little. Then I scooped up my now-pleasant baby, grabbed my diaper bag, and went inside.
The ticket was $12, which is a lot of money for me (I'm well aware how lame that sounds), but I didn't even pause. I grabbed a map, paid the lady and in we went.
I immediately realized I hadn't brought my stroller and my hip was getting sore, so I set BG down on the ground and let her run. At first I tried to hold her hand and read the map, but I quickly realized I wasn't the one in charge.
So I let go.
We stared at the fish. We pointed at the banzai trees. We walked around the orchid room 5 times.
Then she reached out her hand for me to take it and we walked out.
This job, of being a mom? I'm not patient enough for it. I'm not brave enough for it. I'm not strong enough for it. But this job of being my kid? BG has that one down pat.
And maybe that's all we need.
BG and I had an appointment downtown to do another experiment at 9:30, and at 8:30 I realized that we weren't dressed and BG hadn't eaten. There was no way in the world to not be late. And I hate being late.
I threw clothes on us both, put her in her car seat with some Cheerios (mom of the year, right here), and booked it to the city.
The pretty young grad student met us at the gate, the same one that did our study last time. And BG sat quietly in my lap and cheerfully watched the video she was shown, only looking away a few times. A physics genius, my one year old. She grabbed the "Where's Pooh" book off the thank you gift shelf before she was even offered something. She babbled and giggled all the way to my car.
I pulled out of the parking lot. My gas light went on. BG started saying "mamamamamamama" and signing for food, both with increasing intensity. I looked at the clock and thought of how long it would take us to get home, of how much I had to do to get there. I turned corners, apologizing to my baby, listening to the petulant woman on my GPS tell me she was "recalculating" every five seconds.
And that is how I found myself in front of the botanical gardens, a furious baby in my back seat, my gas needle below empty, at 10:00 on a Wednesday morning.
And I parked my car.
Climbed into the backseat.
BG giggled when she saw me. We sat in the car and I fed her an applesauce, nursed her, and talked to her a little. Then I scooped up my now-pleasant baby, grabbed my diaper bag, and went inside.
The ticket was $12, which is a lot of money for me (I'm well aware how lame that sounds), but I didn't even pause. I grabbed a map, paid the lady and in we went.
I immediately realized I hadn't brought my stroller and my hip was getting sore, so I set BG down on the ground and let her run. At first I tried to hold her hand and read the map, but I quickly realized I wasn't the one in charge.
So I let go.
We stared at the fish. We pointed at the banzai trees. We walked around the orchid room 5 times.
Then she reached out her hand for me to take it and we walked out.
This job, of being a mom? I'm not patient enough for it. I'm not brave enough for it. I'm not strong enough for it. But this job of being my kid? BG has that one down pat.
And maybe that's all we need.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)