perspective Archives - Page 23 of 23 -

This past weekend was good. Not perfect, still, but so much better. And yesterday was great. Had a nice play with the kid in the morning, went for a run in the rain with my dog, went to friends’ to ~~watch the Superbowl~~ eat chips and follow the snarky comments on Twitter about the Black Eyed Peas. We had a really good time. Kids played well together and ours was practically an angel. No pushing, no throwing. He even ate most of his dinner. It was one of those days that was exactly what I thought being a mom would feel like.

At bedtime, I did the usual things – brush teeth, wash face, etc. etc. One of those et ceteras was taking a little green and white pill. I just do it as part of my routine and so did it without even thinking about it. Little pill in, water chaser, dive right in under my fluffy duvet.

Happily settled, I began thinking about what a great weekend that was. What a great week last week was (even with the ridiculous work schedule that, by Wednesday, was starting to feel like it might be trying to kill me). I thought about what it feels like to have had a series of great weeks that had their bad moments but overall were just so much better.

The thought crept in, timidly at first.

“I think I’m better.”

… “Really?”

The thought got stronger. Took hold.

“Really. Think about it for a minute.”

I’ve been feeling really great lately. Better and better and better until it dawned upon me this past weekend that I felt normal. Like, really normal. More normal than the “normal” I’ve felt since starting meds. I felt like me.

It was exhilarating.

My happy little brain continued to browse the interwebs, reading this, commenting on that and generally feeling pretty happy with its lot in life.

And then I read Miranda’s blog post from Friday about refilling her anti-depressant prescription. And it hit me. I’m not better. I’m still on meds.

For some reason, it’s as though I had forgotten. Not for long – a day, maybe less. I had forgotten even though I take it every day. Had just taken it, in fact. The little green and white pill hadn’t even begun to work its daily dose of magic and there I was thinking, “Woo hoo! I’m all better!”

But the thing is, I’m still better than I was. A couple of months ago the thought of being on medication was in itself a horrible thing. “You’re on psychiatric medication,” my mind would whisper. I was desperate to get off it for no really legitimate reason (other than the 20 lbs that seem to have come with those little green and white pills, but hey! I’ll fit my maternity pants that much sooner the next time, right?).

But last night instead of panicking that same mind simply called a halt to the over-enthusiastic celebration and just took a moment to think, “Well that sucks.” It was a downer, to be sure. But it is what it is.

As I think about this today, my mind tends more towards wondering. Wondering if I can come off. Wondering how that would go.

To be honest, it scares the crap out of me. I resisted medication for a really long time – a story I still need to tell, because it will help someone somewhere – but when I finally started taking something, things improved. Dramatically. And quickly. Much more quickly than they’re supposed to. Which makes me wonder if I’ll feel the effects of coming off quickly as well. (Anyone have any experience with this?)

Did I mention this scares the crap out of me?

Two months ago, I had planned to go off medication in the new year. A month ago I knew I wasn’t ready. Now I feel like maybe, just maybe, it’s worth thinking about. Maybe the the normal me – the new, normal me – is close by after all.

“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.