Black & White

February 1, 2011 by ·

“I can’t do this.”

“I’m not cut out for this.”

“Yes, I do think moms who stay at home by choice are lucky. I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to.”

“I’m not as good a mom as [insert name here].”

“My husband is totally a better mom than I am.”

“I CAN’T DO THIS!!”

This is my internal dialogue. It’s what I tell myself. Heck, it’s what I tell other people. But I got called on it today.

It’s not the first time. People have been telling me, all along, that I’m a good mom. That, “you are, too, good at this. Shut up.” That he loves me and I love him and I care for him and meet his needs and feed him broccoli and all this is what being a mom is about.

But my head tells me I’m not. I’m just not. The experience of being a mom is not what I thought it would be, and I don’t act the way I thought I would, and therefore I’m not good at it.

It’s all hooey, of course.

I’m going to say that again, because I need to start to believe it: It’s all hooey, of course.

Last week I wrote about the last Sunday. My husband has changed his working day to Saturdays (ah, the freedom of freelance) because we think that might work better for me. So last weekend was the first Saturday I was on solo-mom duty. It went all right. Better. Except I think I managed to distort my expectations such that I thought it would be perfect. Perfect! Or at least totally fine. I even put the beginnings of a post in draft on Friday night (oh, the arrogance). A post that was going to be all about how well I managed and how from here on things were going to be different. (Perfect!) But they weren’t, and I’m still thinking about it, so I didn’t finish that post.

But in reality it was actually totally fine. The short version is that Connor was out of sorts in the morning so he and dad didn’t go to gymnastics. I slept in and when I got up they were hangin’ on the couch. Rich left for work, Connor and I hung out and played some more and pretty soon he was standing before me saying, “Mama, I’m ready to go in my bed.”

All righty, then!

Up we went. Milk, stories, all tucked in. And then meltdown.

“I don’t want to sleep! I’M DONE!” (Have I mentioned this is my favourite phrase? Really, it makes my heart sing with anger and frustration joy.)

I tried a few things and then gave up, because that’s not a battle I choose to fight. We hung out downstairs some more and I managed to get him to eat something finally, but it quickly became clear he wasn’t feeling well. At a certain point I decided he really needed to try a nap. Went back upstairs, told him he could sleep in my bed. MELTDOWN.

[We interrupt this post to acknowledge that this isn’t the short version after all. Sorry about that.]

Anyway… He cried and cried. And cried. I picked him up and held on to him and told him I would sit with him and read a book, hoping that would calm him down. He cried some more. “I don’t want to sleep!”

Finally said he just wanted a cuddle. Two minutes of that and he wanted to lie down. Two more minutes and he was asleep.(“Ha! I knew you were tired…”)

He only slept for 40 minutes and woke up right as I was (finally) stepping out of the shower. And he cried and cried in the way little boys do when they aren’t feeling well and they just want their mama. So we went downstairs and sat on the couch and he fell asleep again. On me. This hot, sweaty little boy slept on me for half an hour and it was lovely. It’s times like that where I really feel like a mom. That is something I can do for him. In those moments, I can make him feel better and I catch a glimpse of the part of me that is the mom I always pictured myself being.

However, this meant our plans for the afternoon got thrown out the window. Dog didn’t get walked, husband had to bring home groceries. But we managed. And I didn’t lose it.

When I told my counsellor about this today she said, “What is it about that where you didn’t do well?”

“I had moments where I hated it and thought, ‘I can’t do this!'” I said.

“But what about that couldn’t you do? What could you possibly have done differently?”

All right, I see where she’s going with this.

My experience of being a mom is not having everything planned and having all those plans go perfectly. (No one’s is, though I’m just going to put it out there: some people’s experiences are a lot closer to this than mine.)

My experience of being a mom is as someone who tends to be a bit on the sensitive side. I have less patience than my husband. So he copes with these things better than I do.

Upon having this pointed out to me part of me thinks, “Please, no.” Tell me this isn’t my reality now. I’m waiting for it to get to be what I expected. I’m waiting for it to feel easy. But it’s not going to. Right? It’s not, is it? This is what being a mom is, isn’t it? At least for me.

And maybe all of this – this and this and this (and yes, this!) – is what my experience is.

Maybe “good” is relative.

Maybe the definition of a “good” mom doesn’t come in black and white.

 

Filed Under: Motherhood, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , ,

Loud

January 26, 2011 by ·

He’s screaming in the car seat again. This kid has lungs, there’s no doubt about it. How can a three-month-old scream so loud?? It’s a trigger for me – the screaming, the noise – and I can’t take it any more.

———

It’s been a day much like any other. We went to a play date with my moms’ group (which is less a play date and more a breastfeeding-fest, but whatever. We all need to get out of the house whether it screws with the nap schedule or not).

In my mind, my son is always loud. He’s loud when he wakes up. He’s loud when he wants to eat. He’s loud when he’s fussy for some reason that, try as I might, I cannot identify. In my mind, our play dates involve a bunch of snuggly or sleeping babies (the others) and one fussy one (mine). So we bounce. Or we walk. But usually we bounce. Whatever we do, it generally doesn’t involve me sitting on the couch with a sleeping baby on my lap.

Sanity-saving “play date” over, we went home for a nap. Except my kid doesn’t like to nap. It doesn’t matter if I rock him, nurse him to sleep, swaddle him. It doesn’t matter if I put on white noise, music or nothing. Nothing helps. As soon as his head hits that crib, he screams.

No “me” time, then.

I find a way to eat lunch with a baby who likes to be bounced. Or maybe I don’t – I can’t remember. Some days I’d rather prevent the screaming than eat.

Time ticks on. I’d give anything to be able to put this kid down in another room so I can just be by myself for a few minutes, but he’s having none of it. So we bounce some more.

In the afternoon, it’s time to give the dog his daily exercise. “A ha!” I think. We can go to the dog park and then I can hit Starbucks on the way home. It will be a little treat for me.

But the dog park is a 15-minute drive and and the kid hates the car seat…

I decide I can deal with it. I need to get out of the house (again) so off we go to the dog park.

I manage to get there without going crazy. Manage to get him strapped into the Ergo without dropping him on the concrete. The laps of the dog park in the cool, fall air are good for me, but I’m painfully aware of one overwhelming thought: how badly I wish to be out here without a baby attached to my chest. Not a mom, just a woman with her dog.

The laps are done and the dog is panting. Back to the car we go, with Starbucks only a few blocks away.

Once in the car seat, the screaming begins again.

———

Why? Why does he do this?!

“Connor, what’s wrong, buddy? Mama’s right here. We’re going to go to Starbucks and then go home and we can bounce some more. You just have to hold on a little longer.”

Screaming.

“Connor, please calm down. I’m right here, love. Just hang in there. No more screaming, little one. Shhh.”

I just want a few minutes where I’m not tending to someone else’s needs, even if it’s in the car with a cup of hot chocolate. I can taste it – warm and chocolate-y and mine.

“Connor, please. Be quiet, little one.”

Screaming.

I can’t take it anymore.

“CONNOR! Shut up! Mama wants to go to Starbucks!”

A brief silence. I’ve scared him. And then I know what loud really sounds like.

Starbucks isn’t gonna happen.

Instead we pull into the parking lot of Canadian Tire and I take him out. Bounce him. Try to calm him down without being overly concerned that there are people walking calmly into the store and coming calmly back out with hoses and windshield scrapers and things while my baby screams because he has the worst mother ever.

I just wanted a hot chocolate.

———–

This post is part of Writing Wednesday, which is part of For the Love…of Blogging. Katie and Miranda have asked us to write today, and write well. This is my exploding moment.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: ,

The Last Sunday

January 23, 2011 by ·

In May 2009 my husband and I traded places. I went back to work after 11 months of mat leave and he started his new career as a stay-at-home dad. We were both pretty happy about it: he really wanted to stay at home (and I really didn’t). I was really ready to go back to work. This was largely because I found it incredibly hard to just be a mom all day.

I went back to work hoping – expecting – that all the things I found hard about being a mom would disappear. That didn’t happen but it was still a better balance for me.

And then there Sunday.

My husband is a graphic designer. He quit his full-time job to stay at home with Connor but the deal we made is that he would do freelance work two days a week. My parents take Connor on Thursdays so Rich can work. He also works on Sundays, which means I’m on mom duty.

This one day a week is so hard for me. So hard. I honestly don’t know what it is. It doesn’t matter whether I get to sleep in or not. It doesn’t matter if we have an activity planned or not, although if we have something scheduled for the morning I tend to last much longer before losing it. Sundays just…suck.

I used to find Sundays almost unbearable. Now they’re better, although I still start to get anxious around mid-afternoon on Fridays just knowing the weekend is coming and I’m about to be more mom than not. After a family-filled Saturday, Sunday alone with a 2-year-old is almost more than I can take.

I’ve tried a bunch of different strategies to deal with this, but it’s just not working. Lately I’ve been trying to be honest, with myself and others, about what I need help with. Today when my husband asked me how I was doing, I fessed up.

“I don’t think the Sunday routine is working for me.”

His response, bless his heart, was not, “No shit.” Instead he suggested what I have been thinking – that he work Saturdays instead. He can get up and take Connor to his Saturday morning class and I can sleep a bit. Then he can start working after they get home around 10. It’s not a magic solution to any of my issues. Nothing is. But at least this time I was able to admit that I need help finding something that works better.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Secret Mommyhood Confession Saturday

January 22, 2011 by ·

My husband is a stay-at-home dad. I know, right? We’re so lucky. Lucky that he wants to do this (and I don’t). Lucky that we can make it work. Lucky that we don’t have to do the crazy getting-everyone-out-the-door routine every morning to get two adults to work and a 2 1/2 year old to daycare.

Instead, I get up in the morning and have some quiet time with the kid. He and his dad goof around in the bedroom while I have a shower and get ready for work. When it’s time to go, I get a hug from a small boy who’s playing happily at home in his pj’s (or naked, as is more often the case lately), ready for whatever fun activities his dad has in store for the two of them. It makes the mornings generally quite lovely.

But there’s a down side to this arrangement. In our family, a stay-at-home dad and a working mom means I get up with the kid on weekdays. Nine times out of 10, that’s earlier than I’d have to get up. Sometimes it’s 6 a.m. and, with a kid who doesn’t sleep well, 6 a.m. is really freaking early.

It means I go to work at a busy job and then come home and go right back into mom mode. I get an enthusiastic greeting at the door from a very excited, very jumpy dog and a toddler who’s heading into the time of day more often associated with meltdowns than magical moments. Some days I love this – the running, jumping, “Hi Mama!” show of love from both of them. Some days it’s overwhelming.

Yes, my husband makes dinner. And does dishes. But here’s the thing: I’m an introvert at heart. Pre-baby, we’d both come home and have a little bit of time to decompress before dinner. I don’t get that anymore. I get a tag-along while I get changed. A very sweet boy who wants me to dive right into playing on the floor with him, even if that’s the last thing I feel like doing right when I walk in the door.

As well, I like to putter. There’s something about tidying the kitchen that makes me feel sane. It seems silly to complain about an arrangement that means I have a husband who tidies the house at the end of the day, but some days I would really rather do that than play with Playdoh.

The SAHD arrangement also means I do bedtime during the week, which involves giving a bath to a kid who likes to splash water EVERYWHERE and trying to brush the teeth of a child who would rather smear me with toothpaste than sit still for a few minutes so I can clean his teeth. It involves trying to convince a headstrong two-year-old that it’s okay to get into his bed, okay to go to sleep, and okay to do all of this without his mother having to sit in the room for God knows how long. Either that, or plop him in there and listen to the screaming.

Yes, the stories and cuddles are awesome. Yes, seeing my active little boy looking like a baby again asleep in his bed is wonderful. But at the 14-hour mark, it takes a lot of patience I often don’t have.

You see, if my husband worked too, some of this would be easier. I wouldn’t have to do all of the kid stuff every night. I’d get to come home and putter sometimes. I’d be a little bit less mom and a little bit more me.

And that’s my secret mommyhood confession.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With:

Fate Calling

January 20, 2011 by ·

When I started this blog almost three weeks ago, the idea was that I would be able to talk about what I’ve done to get past postpartum depression, both to reflect on that experience and to help others. I was feeling pretty good – had that new-year/new-attitude/new-motivation thing going on. I envisioned plastering something like this up here:

Postpartum Progress

Turns out my badge looks more like this:

Photobucket

I had a rough week last week. A little bit of a roller-coaster with some ups and some downs. It’s made me think a lot this week about where I am on this journey. No, not think. Wonder. If “wonder” can be read as “desperately looking for meaning in all this.”

One of my problems is that it feels as though what I call my coping skills, though I’m sure there’s a more clinical term, have disappeared through all this. I’m able to do some of the right things – exercise, eat well (mostly), try to get sleep when I need it, sometimes ask for help. I’m just not able to think the right things.

My mom has a piece about attitude on her fridge. I gave it to her 13 (14?) years ago. I thought it was insightful but, to her, it’s become almost like a compass, a way to ensure you’re going in the right direction. That same piece of paper has been on her fridge all this time, and she has frequently quoted it back to me when talking about situations where she thinks someone has lost that resource – their attitude. It came up the other day and a little part of my brain turned off the conversation and thought about my attitude. Realized I have chosen not to choose my attitude about this experience. That same part of my brain also, in a fit of spite, whispered, “I don’t care. I can’t do it.”

I’ve been waiting, for so long, for this problem to just go away.

This idea that I have to take control of my attitude, my perception, the language I use to describe my experience and my reactions to it has been darting in and out of my consciousness lately. It’s always there, but I haven’t been willing to acknowledge it.

“Go away,” I think. “I’m waiting for an easier solution.”

But it didn’t go away.

This morning I read Lauren’s post about giving thanks for things no one would normally be thankful for – accidents, addiction, postpartum depression, unemployment, grief. Her thankfulness is founded on faith – gratitude to God for what He has given her. That faith is not my particular foundation, but I can appreciate how powerful that is, and how genuine are the thanks that result. I totally get it.

I’m a fatalist by nature. Not in a we-have-no-control-everything-is-predestined kind of way, just in that I think everything happens for a reason.

I’ve lived a pretty blessed life. I’ve had a lot of stability and many wonderful opportunities. I have people to love, and who love me back. I really can’t complain. And yet, in some ways, that’s what makes this whole thing harder. I don’t understand why this happened. I don’t understand how I got here.

That whole “you’re not given what you can’t handle” thing never really rung true for me and it feels laughable to me now, because I can’t say I feel like I’ve handled the last 2 1/2 years very well.

What I do believe is that everything happens for a reason, and there’s a lesson in everything. My Type A personality doesn’t really like it when I can’t figure out the lesson (and trust me, there are times when I’ve analyzed something to death to figure out what I’m supposed to learn from it). I don’t know what the lesson in this experience is, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to specifically identify it.

Maybe it’s more of an opportunity than a lesson. A chance to discover I can get through it and am strong enough to be open to sharing my experience in order to help others. I’m already doing that, but to keep doing it – in a way that allows me to move forward instead of this becoming a woe-is-me blog – I have to be willing to spin it the right way in my own head. And while I can’t yet say “I survived” I’m coming around to the idea that it’s okay for this blog to be more about the here and now, and the ups and downs. For it to be about how I’m surviving.

I will survive. And you can too.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:
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