my blues

The road of parenthood is a long one. I've learned this recently while sitting at a table with my aunt. She and I were discussing her very long and, more often than not, challenging road with her forty-something son. I sat at the table holding my own son, just six and a half months old. She said, "When he was young, I thought 'he is amazing, so special' and he was - he was so full of possibility." I looked at my little blondie and thought the same thing: he is so little, but simply so perfect.

The beginning of my relationship with my son was complicated by my own emotional mess. I felt tortured by my own mind. I would wake up each day in the very beginning and feel the weight of responsibility. For six weeks I cried because I was happy, stressed, disappointed, thrilled, exhausted, blessed, frustrated, blissful and alone. I could not put my finger on why I cried, why everything seemed to add stress, nor why I felt so lonely and consumed by sadness while surrounded by a large family. All of the unknowns seemed only to make me cry more.

There were obvious triggers. Breastfeeding this child wasn't as easy as the first child. He seemed to fight me on every go. I worked with a lactation consultant at the hospital and met with her twice afterward, but even while she was trying to help me and while I wanted it to work, the fact that it wasn't smooth sailing created a desperate disappointment and made me feel as though I was failing. In moments of clarity, I knew that wasn't the case. I wasn't a failure as a mom - I'd done a fine job with everything else-growing him, delivering him, nurturing him, bonding with him. Feeding him, though, was so critical that it overrode all other aspects.

Trying to make the transition smooth and emotionally uncomplicated for my three-year-old daughter was a battle. It was, however, a battle I was fighting with myself alone. I created the complications in my head before they arose, I planned for the worst case scenario. I was certain the introduction of a brother was going to cause strain on my perfect relationship with her and send her into a state of worry and sadness. I was projecting my own feelings onto her. Again, in moments of clarity, I knew that wasn't the case. Additionally, if she did initially struggle with the newness of the boy - she certainly wasn't going to be permanently scarred by it. She wouldn't likely even remember her life prior to his existence. The frustrating element was that it was my own mind creating the majority of the anxiety - as it turned out, there was very little going wrong for my daughter. She had a heck of a good time with Mama and Papa; she got presents from everyone she knew for several weeks for no reason at all. She made out like a bandit.

At my first post-partum doctor visit I cried from the moment my doctor stepped into the room until she left. The whole time. It was as if the sight of her unleashed all feeling. We talked at length, she filled in so many blanks, she said "Call me anytime - night or day and we can talk more. I want to hear from you." She put me on depression watch for weeks afterward; she wanted to see me every other week until I felt better, and at each visit she offered a prescription. Instead, we created a plan for coping: ride it out for six weeks, then she would refer me to a therapist if it hadn't passed, and prescribe something if at the end of six weeks I wasn't feeling more like myself. Her plan and proactive approach gave me immense hope and encouragement.

While I sat at the table with my aunt listening to her lifetime of struggle, I wondered when, as mothers, we aren't happy, stressed, disappointed, thrilled, exhausted, blessed, frustrated, blissful and alone. While the crying spells of the baby blues had an end for me it is ever clear that the emotional roller coaster will never cease. Where is the doctor on call for the next 40 years? It will always be something, and we will never have control of it as we think we do. The only thing we can control is how we respond in the moment. I hope to maintain my doctors proactive approach - have a plan, be hopeful, have encouragement.

The Case of the Missing Clippers

There are two things about my marriage that seem to keep us working well together. First, we do nice things for each other. Not grand gestures or presents, just nice things. We bring each other a cup of coffee, doctored up right. We fix each other a plate of dessert at parties. We say please or thank you. We are generally courteous to each other. While it sounds so basic, or insignificant, it isn't. When he stubs his toe I ask, "You ok?" Even though I can clearly see that he is in fact ok. Generally being courteous makes the day pass with a happy tone. I like happy tones.

The second thing is that we accept the pet peeves we have about one another. For instance, I shed like a black lab. Having just had a baby, its more unpleasant right now. What is worse? I plaster the hairs that come out of my head in the shower all over the shower wall. It is disgusting. I mean really, really gross. As I sit here typing this, I know its nasty, I know I shouldn't do it anymore, I know I know I know. I asked my husband what he would suggest I do with the hair that I plaster on the wall in the shower because he seemed a little bit miffed when I said I was occasionally rinsing the hairs down the drain. "Well that's just going to clog the drain - we'll need stock in Drano..." Point taken. He then suggested I take a tissue after the shower and wipe the hair off the wall, then either throw the tissue in the garbage or flush it down the toilet. So I'm trying. I'm 33 years old and finally trying to get my act together with the hair plastering nonsense.

About a week ago his behavior that is my pet peeve flared its ugly head at 5 a.m. My husband goes to work very early in the morning. I can sense, from my post in bed, how his morning is going by the way he moves through the house: the pattern of his breathing, and the weight of his footsteps. If I am not awakened at all, he got out of the house gliche free. If he is late, he moves in a rushed and uncomfortably huffy way to the bathroom to pee, then to the kitchen to make coffee, back to the bathroom to shower, then into the room to dress, and finally back to the kitchen and out the garage to work. I don't even have to open my eyes, if I'm sort of awake I can just tell. I've spent many years perfecting this art of reading my husband's early a.m. movements. Now I must note, this is not irritating to me. I like that I can read his mood from his behavior. Its like what husbands and wives are supposed to be able to do.

Some mornings though once he's already headed into the garage to put on his boots or maybe he's even gotten past the boots and is at the truck - this I can't be sure because he is actually out of the house for a few minutes. Nonetheless, at one of these two points of his morning he realizes "I need to trim my fingernails immediately." Here is where, my friends, the pet peeve kicks in: the man takes my nail clippers out of the house to clip his nails and I never see the clippers again.

That morning, he came back into the house, up two flights of stairs and into our bathroom looking for nail clippers. He looks first in the medicine cabinet in our bathroom for "his" clippers. They are never there because he always loses "his" clippers whilst clipping his nails in his truck, on the side of the road, or in the garage. He then goes from that medicine cabinet to the other bathroom closet where I keep "my" nail clippers. "My" nail clippers are always in the same spot - sliver carrying case in a box of nail supplies: polish, polish remover, files, cuticle cream.

On this particular morning about a week ago, "my" nail clippers weren't where they normally are. The silver carrying case wasn't even in the bathroom closet. I could hear my husbands frustration rising as he huffed and puffed around the bathroom. He opened every drawer searching furiously and then shut them with a dramatic sigh. Finally, after he exhausted himself in the bathroom he quite nearly stormed the bedroom. The conversation went like this:
"Where are your nail clippers?" He angrily whispered.

"I don't know. Well wait... 'my' nail clippers are in the silver carrying case in the baby's room. Don't you remember seeing me clipping his nails last night?" I sleepily replied.

"NO! I don't...yes, yes, I remember, but I didn't REALIZE you would NEED the ENTIRE CASE to clip his TINY NAILS!" He snorted.

That was the last I saw of him that morning. And certainly, I thought, the last I'd ever see of those nail clippers. Alas, at the age of 34 he too is trying to get his act together with the missing nail clippers nonsense.

"Generally courteous" rares its happy head again...

Oh Crap

Today we are going to buy new ballet shoes, get a hair cut, play hopscotch, and go to a birthday party. That is our plan. We have a plan for every day. Even if its doing laundry and washing toilets, we discuss our plan. All this planning will certainly turn my kids into free-thinking hippies; no one will be able to say I didn't try to teach them organization. Everybody loves a hippie, anyway.

Sometimes in the middle of the day my daughter will concoct her own plan. "Mom I have a plan. Here it is..." Then she'll tell me a nonsensical story with a clear beginning but no end in sight. It will entail part of my original plan for the day with a little toddler twist like, "Then we'll feed the rabbits and rub lotion on their little paws." Her to-do list is far more entertaining than mine. She flips her hands around like a teenager and then ends her plan with, "How's that sound, good?" Of course, it always sounds good to me.

Today's plan, in her opinion, was adversely effected by the rain. We'd already played hopscotch and were inside having lunch when it began to rain. She stood at the backdoor and said, "Oh crap now I can't buy my ballet slippers." I replied, "What'd you say?" She repeated. "Oh crap, I can't buy my ballet slippers. Look the rain." I said, "We don't say 'oh crap' its not nice." She looked at me with the most baffled expression. I said, "Mommy shouldn't say it either." Then she said, "Ohhh ok then."

What can I say? What word can I use when something goes wrong, I stub my toe, or drop something. Do I really have to learn to say nothing at all? Can I just use "bleep." I have come up with a thousand plus ways of not swearing and I really want to keep "crap" but alas, I cannot. Oh heavens what will I do? For pity's sake there aren't enough options. My word the time has gotten away from me. Good grief I must end this post and get in the shower. Holy smokes it really is late. Fiddlesticks I've lost my mind....

Perspective

Last year we hid Easter eggs in our living room. My husband hid a few in plain sight at the top of a bookshelf and on a window ledge. When Easter morning came around we couldn't say "look higher" enough. She just didn't get the idea of looking higher. This year, she started to look up, not high, but up. It speaks to the concept of seeing the world through the eyes of a child. We are, as parents, reminded that children do not see the world from our perspective.


Last week I gave the chicken my camera. I needed to occupy her completely for as long as possible so that I could exercise in the family room. When I was done, I looked through the pictures and was again reminded of the fact that her perspective is small; she doesn't see the whole table, she sees the cup on it.

I need to remind myself of this altered perspective when parenting. She does not see the big picture, she does not need to. Her view will grow in time, and its my job to teach her about the whole picture. For now, though, we both need to relish the smaller world of us.

Reclaiming My Name

I became Mel in 1992 when one of my new high school friends couldn't remember if it was one L or two, he took the easy way out, and it just stuck. I'd tried Missy on for size as a grade school girl when my older sister came home with the coolest like-named friend. My given name, Melissa, is most usually my preference if only because its most often used. I like my name well enough. Though the first time my daughter called me "mama" its weight pushed my first name aside and opened my heart to something, a club I'd never been part of, and there was no turning back. Mom. Mama. Mommy. The club of women who breathe love of child. Who eat, drink, sleep mom-worry.

Last week when my daughter opted for "Melissa" I didn't think much of it. I assumed if I ignored the casual first name drop I'd sooner return to Mom. How wrong I was. We're in day seven of life on a first name basis and I want it, no need it, to end. Middle of the night, 3 a.m., the child wakes and says, "Melissa, I need go pee." Shopping at Kohl's she struts around, "Oh my! Melissa look at this beautiful dress." Like I'm her girlfriend or aunt or something less.

The fact is, while I become old being called Mom will not. In chatting with a grandmother about my current mom-ailment, she too agreed. Her daughter calls her by her first name and she dislikes it. It lacks the personal connection that mother-daughter relationships are wrought with.

I am certain it will end. I just really want it to be this very instant. I wish I could say that there was a reason she is using my actual name - as if I'd researched the developmental stage, but I'd much rather pout about it and get my Mommy back.