Motherhood Archives - Page 22 of 28 -

Today I Couldn’t Do It

June 30, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

You spring from bed in the morning, awake, bright-eyed and ready to go. My eyelids feel like sandpaper. A glance between half-open eyes reveals the clock: 6:12 a.m. I roll over and wonder how long I can put you off, but I know it’s coming.

“Let’s go downstairs!”

As I stand I feel the effects of the night. We never planned to co-sleep but you don’t sleep without one of us there, so I’ve slept in your bed – balancing on the edge, muscles tensed so I don’t fall off on one side and don’t elbow you in the head on the other. I cherish your sleeping form on these nights – your quiet, soft breathing and your smallness – but I wake with the ache of not enough sleep in a bed you like to hog.

You get downstairs and are overwhelmed with the abundance of choices – breakfast? TV? Toys? What to do first? My first instinct is to get the kettle going so I can have a cup of tea.

“Do you want to play with me?” Asked over and over, this question leaves scars in my heart. The honest answer is sometimes no. I wish I wanted to play with you, but I’m tired. My brain is not awake. I want to drink my tea and read my email and enjoy the morning while you play next to me, but you’re not at the stage where playing alone is what you want.

The backyard beckons. I see you heading toward the sliding door and my heart sinks. Outside, to you, is an extension of your ecstasy – the sandbox, diggers, weeds to poke at and caterpillars to search for. I’m in my pajamas and it’s chilly and I’m not prepared to deal with sand before 7 a.m.

I love you, hard, with the fierceness of a mother who has created life. I love you, softly, with my heart full of the child you are and the person you are becoming.

When I’m not tired – when I’m in my mama zone – I can do it. I rejoice in the experience, seeing the world from your perspective. From down low as you search for leaves or sticks or crabs or shells, and from up high in that place of wonder as you discover something new.

But lately I’ve been tired and that makes all those good things elusive.

I don’t love you any less. In fact, I might love you more because I can’t give you what you need. It’s just that today I couldn’t do it.

Filed Under: Letters to Connor, Motherhood · Tagged With: admissions, depression, telling the truth

In Order to be Complete

June 28, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Birthday party. Families. Kids. Laughter. Crafts and cooperation.

I look at the three-year-olds and think how great they are. Fun. Much more independent.

I can talk with him now, not just to him.

I can see his imagination work, like images projected on an invisible screen.

He can help now, and he loves to. “We’re workers!” Said often, with joy and confidence.

Three is tough, but it’s also easier.

I look across the backyard at the two little ones.

One, just learning to walk and still so far from independent, to whom any vehicle of any kind is a “va-va.”

The other still a baby. A world filled with nursing, purees and the importance and inconvenience of naps.

They are both beautiful. I scoop each one up, amazed at his lightness. I breathe in the baby smell and remember what it’s like when they’re that squishy. I hold them and remember what it’s like to hold a child on my hip and know that I am his world.

I could do this again.

I want to do this again. So badly.

The second one is easier, people say.

Chances are your second wouldn’t be the same, they assure me.

Maybe.

I could hope so, but I don’t, knowing it could be the same. Or harder.

But I know more now.

And the wanting is a physical sensation that’s not going away.

It might be hard.

But I’m willing to do it again.

In order to be complete.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: family, hope

Remedial Mom 101

June 25, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

When Connor was born I, like every other new mom, did Mom 101 – figuring out all the newborn stuff that no one can really teach you. You just have to do it and learn as you go.

When postpartum depression struck I had some sick days and missed some classes. The ones where you learn how to deal with the difficult stuff. I didn’t master diversions, deep breathing, taking time for yourself or how to play with your child and actually be engaged in it. Since I’m feeling a little better I’m doing Remedial Mom 101 and taking those classes now.

I’m doing pretty well. In fact, I’m top of my class (of one).

After almost two months of complete and utter misery I finally, in the last few weeks, feel like I know what being a mom is supposed to feel like.

My gold stars in the hard courses are racking up as I manage to cope with stuff that’s normally a huge trigger for me. Case in point: yesterday I planned activities for us while my husband was at a meeting. We’d visit the nature sanctuary followed by the library, then make a stop on the way home for groceries.

It didn’t go well.

He fell and skinned his knee right as we entered the path towards the lake, and it was apparently just the wrong thing for a kid who, for some reason, was tired and not coping very well. He put on a sad face and wanted to be carried, then turned on the toddler-terror button and ran stomping down a bridge covered in dragonflies as I was trying to take a picture.

Then he peed himself.

That doesn’t happen often – ever, really (knock wood) – but we just dealt with it. After getting clean clothes from the car I told him we were going to head to the library. Apparently this was the worst suggestion ever.

The kid who had just said he wanted to go to the library had decided he needed to go back down the trail. Except he’d peed in his boots, and we had no other shoes. So off we went – I stopped at home to get him some shoes and he cried about the unacceptable change in plans.

When we got to the library, he was fine. At first anyway. We chose some books to check out. And then he had a meltdown. In a quiet library. Over something that I don’t really understand. But I got an A+ for diversions by getting him to help me use the self-checkout, though our success was temporary. The meltdown continued when I tried to ask the librarian a question and it ended up in one of those situations where I was carrying a bag, a stack of books and a 40 pound toddler out the door as fast as I could.

And then – oh yes, I did it – I braved the grocery store. I knew he was tired. But we needed something for lunch and, frankly, I didn’t want to have to go out again.

It was mostly okay, if you discount the constant whining as we went through the store. His attempt at throwing a carton of blueberries was prevented by my lightning-fast reflexes and I managed to sigh instead of wanting to smack something.

Good thing our list was small.

We checked out, I got him in the car and, boom, he was asleep.

I knew it. Had called it. Had texted my husband: “This is going to be a nap day.” I got home and handed him off. It had been a rough morning but I considered it a success.

That doesn’t mean I’ve graduated – it’s still early in the semester – but this is a huge sign that I’m feeling better.

I never had to take remedial anything, but this is one class I’m not ashamed of taking and am determined to pass. I think a SuperMom t-shirt is in my future.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: admissions, depression, meltdown

Code: Meltdown

June 23, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

We’re good at meltdowns in this house. I can pull off a spectacular one, though have had less need lately. Connor, on the other hand, has an ongoing, intrinsic need to completely lose his cool on a fairly regular basis.

This is normal for toddlers, I know. Occasionally – very occasionally – I find it funny. This is huge progress, mind you, because I used to absolutely lose it when he lost it, and that was all kinds of not pretty. One of the reasons I know I’m getting better at tolerating his meltdowns is that I’ve developed my own little rating system. The Code: Meltdown System has three levels.

The characteristics of a Code One Meltdown include:

Dropping to the floor in a puddle because he didn’t get what he wanted (see also: Things the Books Don’t Tell You, item #2).
Refusing to brush his teeth.
Flopping around on his bed like a chubby, soft little fish in cute jammies because he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Usually accompanied by on-and-off tears and the wail of “I don’t want to go to sleep!” which means he’s tired.
Throwing something, but gently because he doesn’t really want to invoke the Wrath of Mama.
A brief bout of tears that subside when the appropriate response is given to the arms-raised, sad-face “up” gesture.

With a Code Two Meltdown you get:

Ongoing tears that don’t respond to normal efforts to provide comfort and a resounding “NO!” to anything offered as a possible diversion.
Any of the following: running away, pushing, hitting, biting, smearing toothpaste on the sink/counter/mother, throwing things with aim and intention, hiding with face buried in couch cushions, adopting rag doll pose, or mimicking octopus limbs while dressing is being attempted.
One of the following outbursts, always included for the purposes of attention seeking or release of frustrated energy: loud banging, a trademarked “RAWR” (that I really must get on camera one day because it’s a perfect combination of dinosaur/pissed off toddler), or, more recently, a scrunched-up, spitting sort of face that I don’t understand but certainly don’t appreciate.

The Code Three Meltdown is where things get really interesting:

Screaming. My god, this kid can scream.
Did I mention screaming?
Very physical responses – usually aimed at parental head and face regions – designed to provoke a specific response.
Throwing himself on the floor and writhing around in a way that makes it almost impossible to pick him up (but not quite, ha ha).
More screaming, which, as the defining characteristic of the Code Three Meltdown, tends to go on for quite some time.

As I’ve previously admitted, he gets a lot of this from me, so I get it (though it’s also – hopefully? – because the toddler switch has been flicked to “ON”).

This system is more observation than criticism, and besides, when tolerating a meltdown, analyzing the level and assigning a code to it gives me something to do other than stabbing myself in the eardrums so I don’t have to listen to it. That’s good parenting, right?

This previously published photo is an example of a Code One Meltdown (liked his outfit, didn't want his picture taken). Funnily enough, I don't have a photo of a Code Three. Must get on that.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: meltdown, mom's instinct, perspective, toddlers are weird

Things the Books Don’t Tell You

June 20, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Just like most mamas-to-be, I had the pregnancy books. I read them. A lot. I also had the parenting books but I didn’t read those as much. I flipped through the sections on early milestones and advice on breastfeeding and how to stop being a maniac and checking 65 times a night to see if your baby is still breathing (kidding – sadly, none of the books I read offered advice on that).

I know there are books out there on toddlers – I probably even have some that address this stage, but I guarantee they don’t include stuff like this:

One day your toddler will eat something normal for breakfast, like eggs or yogurt. The next day he will empty the whole cupboard looking for just the right thing, rejecting many options in the process, and then choose plain coarse bread crumbs. The day after he will insist on eating a tortilla. Just the tortilla – nothing in it or on it.
Telling parents-to-be “what to expect” should really include the fact that offering the wrong bowl or spoon can lead to an epic meltdown.
Kids like to lick their mother’s face. At least mine does. (Why is this?!)
A child who is always hot and generally opts for no pants will sometimes insist on wearing fleece pants. In the summer.
Sleep books should all include this line: “Some kids just don’t sleep much. If you get one of those, sorry about that, but you should probably just accept it.” (This might have prevented Go the F*ck to Sleep from becoming a bestseller, but that book is too late for me anyway.) This one little line might, just possibly, have saved my sanity.
Toddlers can form attachments to weird things. Like a dog crate that’s been in storage and then brought out to be sold, the idea of which prompts floods of tears.
This same toddler might reject anything and everything you suggest that might offer comfort – including things that are much softer and generally more comfortable than a dog crate – and insist on rubbing his mother’s wrist all.the.time. (Speaking of my sanity…)
Sometimes it’s not the mother who will feel sentimental about wee baby clothes when putting them away, but the toddler who insists we can’t possibly pack these things up.
A kid who hates getting his hands dirty while eating – and will whine as if his hands are crawling with spiders until you wipe them off – will then jump down from the table and immediately make a gigantic mess somewhere else. With his hands.
In some cases, small boys will go from being totally fascinated by bugs to completely freaking out when there’s a fly in the house. And then he will go outside and find a caterpillar and make it a home with leaves and insist that it needs to live inside.