Hard things Archives - Page 7 of 15 -

23 Days

October 25, 2012 by Farewell Stranger ·

I believe the common wisdom is that if you can do something— exercise, resist a cigarette, eat your veggies — for 21 days it becomes a habit. I’m not sure this same logic applies to parenting newborns.

Today is day 23. 23 days of getting to know this sweet face. 23 days of baby noises and baby cuddles and sweet baby smells.

And 23 days of not enough sleep. 23 days of feeding every two to three hours. 23 days of spitting up and diapers.

I hardly remember what life was like before he was part of it. I can’t revert back to not knowing him. But I do remember what it was like before.

I think the 21-days rule works backwards with babies. After 21 days you do what you do not because it’s a habit but because it must be done. Instead of feeling like the new freedom of carefully chosen ritual it starts to feel a little bit like chains – there, tethered, rattling.

I’ve been sick for the past 10 days or so. Just a horrible cold (with some pink eye thrown in for good measure) but the most sick I’ve ever been. The timing, needless to say, has not been great.

I’ve reached the point where he wakes up at night and I think, No. I try not to look at the clock and calculate how much sleep I might get before the next feeding. I do think about when I last changed his diaper and wonder whether I really have to do it again.

The newborn nights are tired, but they come with the sounds of soft breathing and the weight of a silky head on my shoulder. In many ways the days are harder.

I don’t do well without a routine, and a routine is something we are decidedly lacking. If any habits are being formed here, they’re bad ones – trying to sneak in extra sleep in the mornings instead of accepting that daylight has come, choosing to lie down instead of eating, getting dressed in only the very loosest sense of the term.

I’m starting to feel better (please let this cough go away soon) and am trying to force myself to do things that will help me feel better. Yesterday’s walk in the snow with a snuggly baby in the carrier was good. Getting up to eat breakfast is now on each morning’s agenda. Finding things to play with Connor so he doesn’t get bored is important for my sanity.

I know there are things about this phase that are hard. But I also know it’s temporary.

After all, it’s only day 23.

Filed Under: Hard things, Motherhood · Tagged With: admissions, perspective

No Longer Only

October 18, 2012 by Farewell Stranger ·

I have said, “Be gentle,” approximately 962 times in the last two weeks.

“Gently, please.”

“Do it gently.”

“C’mon, buddy. I really need you to be more gentle.”

Whatever form it takes, it’s tough to say and tough for him to hear.

It isn’t even usually related to Connor’s interactions with Ethan. C is pretty gentle with him, for the most part, though he does need to learn that there’s a time for patting the baby on the head and when he’s nursing isn’t really it, especially when it involves Connor climbing up on my lap to reach that little head.

No, it’s me he’s rough with. And Rich sometimes. And of course the long-suffering dog. Running jumps and flying leaps that are problematic for a mama with various sore body parts. Hitting because he’s excited or mad. Throwing things.

He’s bored, a little bit. We’re doing our best to combat that, but there’s bound to be a transition period and he’s smack-dab in the middle of it.

I feel bad for him. He so badly wants to help and be involved, and we’re letting him do all kinds of stuff. He’s the official diaper getter, wipe distributor, and nursing pillow finder. He takes the dirty diapers and throws them away before I’m even finished putting the new one on. He puts the soother back in, pulls Ethan’s hat up off his eyes and sings to him when he’s fussy.

He’s just the best darn big brother and I’m so, so proud of him.

Last night we gave Ethan a bath, and Connor really wanted to help. But he’s just a bit too enthusiastic and after being redirected when he was splashing too much and asked to wait while Dad did some rinsing, he slunk off and turned on the TV. His head drooped and he sunk down into the couch cushions and I almost couldn’t bear it.

I went to sit with him and talk to him about how we want his help and how he’s doing such a good job, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“I’m not a good helper.”

And my mama heart broke wide open.

It’s hard to convincingly tell your biggest boy that he is a good helper when you’re crying like a hormonal mess, but I tried. I told him he was a really, really good helper and I’m so glad we have him and he’s just the best big brother we could hope for.

He’s just not our one and only anymore. And right now that’s tough for everyone.

Filed Under: Hard things, Motherhood · Tagged With: family, moments

Home, Interrupted

July 3, 2012 by Farewell Stranger ·

We went home for the weekend. Home? I’m not actually sure if it’s the right word anymore.

We were there just over a month ago — my first time back since we moved — and while there I visited a friend.

“How does it feel to be home?” he asked. Then paused. “Is this home?”

We were sitting on the grass in the bright sunshine outside Starbucks. The shopping centre I had been to countless times hummed along, ignorant of my six months’ absence. I looked around.

“I don’t know.” I pondered. “I think so. Yes.”

But is it? I didn’t really feel that way when we got back to where home is now, at least in the literal our-house sense, and I have torn through the nuances of that question many times since.

Is home where we live? Or is it where I grew up?

Is it where my family is? Which part of my family?

Is it wherever I damn well say it is?

I have answers to none of those.

“We’re going home tonight,” we told Connor on the night we planned to leave. I pictured our current house, with the trim color we don’t like and plan to change, and our bedroom, which I love, with its new dark furniture.

That’s where my small but growing family resides. My mugs are in the cupboard and Connor’s toys are in the bath. My husband has nurtured the lawn. My dog has his spot, which, lately, is on the bath mat (whether someone else is using it or not).

My siblings are nearby – two of the three, anyway. My sister and her husband, after way too long being a province away, now live 20 minutes from us. My brother and sister-in-law are about to help double the head count of the next generation by bringing twin boys into our lives. (And if you think I’d miss the day-to-day of that, you’re nuts.)

But my parents are still where we left them, living in the same house they’ve been in since I was 19. Connor misses them, and every time they visit I’m reminded of how important it is for them to be part of his life.

This last trip back was for the 4th annual joint birthday party we have with four kids who have known each other since they were born. They are Connor’s friends, and he doesn’t know a life without them.

Except I suppose he does now, because they are no longer part of his everyday. He talks about them as though they are, though these comments are punctuated with heartbreaking missing-them statements and “Can K come over?” questions.

This year’s party was perfect. The weather co-operated and the kids enjoyed the slip ‘n’ slide, and there were only a few parental interventions required. We snacked, we drank (some of us more boring drinks than others), and if you had asked me if I wanted to stay in that backyard with those people forever I would have said yes.

But we have chosen to leave that backyard, both literally and metaphorically. I often question whether it was the right decision, and yet when I’m back in my hometown it doesn’t feel like home.

For the most part, I don’t miss the city. But I miss the people something fierce, as though a part of me were missing, and it has quite unexpectedly left me feeling homeless in a way I could never have anticipated.

Filed Under: Hard things · Tagged With: admissions, family, weekends

Random Worries of a Pregnant PPD Mom

June 27, 2012 by Farewell Stranger ·

I’m not fretting too much about this stuff, but it’s taking up space in my brain so I thought I’d put it somewhere else.

I’m worried that if I spend 40 weeks totally exhausted (which seems to be the way this is going) I will be already tired when I go into the newborn-tired phase. And that’s not good for someone who’s attempting to avoid once again turning into a raging lunatic.
I’m not even sure I’m going to get to 40 weeks. If all my wishing for this to be over happens to work I won’t. Which isn’t how it works, I know. So maybe I’m just dreading 16 more weeks of feeling like crap.
I’m not sure if I’m up for all the baby stuff again. (I know. Too late, right?)
I’m worried I’m going to have another breech baby.
I’m a little concerned that if I do end up with another scheduled c-section I won’t be as okay with it as I’m trying to prepare myself to be.
I’m afraid I’ll be disappointed in myself and how I handle labour if I do get to experience that this time.
I’m afraid that, no matter what happens, the new-baby stuff will result in me being an absolutely awful mother to Connor.
I’m dreading all the icky postpartum stuff – sore boobs, sore incision, hair loss, night sweats. (Oh wait, I get night sweats now. (Thanks, meds.) So I guess I dread that getting worse. Or never, EVER going away.)
I’m worried that the recently-discovered marginal cord insertion issue I have is more of a concern than my midwife is making it out to be. (This is when the umbilical cord is inserted into the side of the placenta instead of the middle, and it can affect the baby’s growth. Anyone have any experience with that?)
Despite #9, I’m worried that I’m measuring small because my being on medication is making this baby small.

And bonus #11: I’m worried that this many worries is a sign that I get to deal with mucho anxiety this time as well as the potential for rage/depression/general craziness.

Sigh.

Linked up with:

Filed Under: Hard things, Postpartum depression, Pregnancy · Tagged With: admissions, antenatal depression, anxiety, expectations, lists

Things I’m Afraid To Tell You

June 12, 2012 by Farewell Stranger ·

There’s a bit of a movement happening in the blogosphere. Jess from Makeunder My Life wrote a post called Things I’m Afraid To Tell You. Ez of Creature Comforts took the idea and ran with it (including designing the image you see below), and the Huffington Post thought it was such a good idea they published a piece about it.

Now Lisa from joycreation is keeping it alive.

I love this idea, because I think one of the most valuable things bloggers offer is a peek inside someone else’s head. We tell you things we might otherwise never voice, and in doing so make others feel less alone. That’s what some bloggers have done for me and what I hope to do for others.

I know, you’re probably wondering what on Earth I’m afraid to tell you, especially after recent posts about how I’m sad about not having a girl and my recurring slide into depression. But there are things. Probably lots of things. Many more things than you’ll find in this post, not because I don’t want to share them but because I honestly thing some of them are buried so deep even I don’t know they’re there. But I do have some things on my mind lately that I’m afraid to say out loud because they’re hard and they’re not the things I like most about myself. So I’ve joined up with Lisa and some other bloggers who want to share their things as well for this edition of Things I’m Afraid to Tell You.

Here’s my list.

***

I’m not sure if moving was the right decision. I’m not sure it was the wrong decision, but so far we haven’t accomplished what we set out to accomplish, which is avoiding me working all the time and wanting to throw myself in front of a truck.

***

I’m getting more introverted as I get older, and I’m starting to like people less and less. I’m accepting them more, but liking them less. We’ve lived here for 6 months and I really don’t care at this point whether I make new friends. I have no desire to go out and chat and get to know people. I just want to come home and see my family and walk my dog and write.

***

The above-referenced post about depression was really hard to publish. I have posted a ton of really personal stuff on this blog in the last year and a half, but it’s getting harder to admit when I’m not doing okay. I thought I had moved past that and figured out what it all meant. I haven’t.

***

I fear I won’t be any better of a mother the second time around. I read a beautiful post by Angie from The Little Mumma about her four-week-old daughter. It included a piece that caused a bit of a revelation for me:

“People ask me if she is a good baby. I say she is a dream. She doesn’t sleep through the night, she prefers to be held, she upchucks regularly. But still, I’m not lying. To me, she is a dream. A newborn dream. Feeding regularly (feels like constantly!), wanting closeness to Mumma, crying when she needs something. To me, these are normal, newborn things and I try not to buy into the idea of what she should be doing.”

Well there you go. If that isn’t the secret to new motherhood, I don’t know what is. The thing is, my revelation lasted about four seconds and deep down I question whether I have any ability whatsoever to remember that this is what life is about for a newborn and not wish it were different.

Despite all I’ve gone through in the last four years, despite all my learning – both the usual way and the incredibly hard way – I’m not sure I’ve learned this lesson. And I question whether I will stay sane this time, and I wonder if perhaps I’m already doing wrong by this beautiful baby we’ve chosen to bring into the world.

And those are the things I’m afraid to tell you.