We took the kids to Disneyland but what I want to talk about is sleep. We joined a gym last month, as a family, in part because they have a decent-seeming day-care but what I want to talk about is sleep. I do not have a one-track mind but thoughts of bedtime creep into all sorts of spaces these days.
Before we left for Disneyland it seemed like we were starting to make some progress in the bedtime routine, which is essentially Cry It Out, Toddler Edition. Which feels like a gyp because sleep training more than once sucks. Which may be a reason not to do it, but I'm not there yet.
Six weeks had passed since the cribs went away and almost every night since had included screaming and crying and multiple wake ups. We kept changing things, little things and bigger things, and it kept being bad. So we decided we needed to pick something and stick with it, crying bedamned. We told them, the Bigs, that we would be locking the door. Even though they say "Don't lock it!" before we walk out, which is heart-wrenching. Even though the thought of someone locking the door when I'm sleeping in there makes me claustrophobic. We didn't get them out, even if they cried and screamed. Which they did, though really mostly one of them did. We left the door locked all night and would unlock it around 5 am, expecting one or both of them to walk back to our bed at some point and sleep another hour or so there. It was getting decent. At least to the point where I didn't actively dread bedtime. At least I think that's how it felt. . .a week has passed and I can't remember because it's bad again.
In Disneyland the six of us slept in one room--the little twins each in a pack n play, and one of the big twins in each queen bed with a parent. Cyrus and I had a four night slumber party and that kid slept like a baby. Or like another type of being that actually sleeps deeply. . .like a cat. We all went to bed at 8 pm and slept until 6 when we would start waking up and head to the park for a magic hour. We napped together, though my husband and I would take turns sneaking out for a little alone time during nap time. The point is, there was not one second of fuss over bedtime. It was the best part of a really fun trip. The Magic Kingdom provided many moments of magic for us--the kids loved it and only got scared a couple times. I smiled many times but the pure, sweet moments came every time I would wake up in our family room, see the smudged bright lights of California Adventure reflected in our window through the open curtains and hear the quiet breathing of every member of my family. Such peace.
I have more to write but there's a pile of sand on the kitchen floor, a blender full of broccoli puree on the counter and a series of other tasks to be at least contemplated during this hour of no children. I've missed this space and all of you who read. I'll be back soon.
About Me
- Hands Full
- Learning and trying to be kind and living my life as fully as I can stand it.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Friday, February 5, 2016
On gratitude
Our friend and old roommate Grey owns a foam and cushion store a few blocks from where we live now. Comfiest beds and pillows ever, I swear they will change your life. ( Foam and Cushion )
Last week my dad and I walked the four kids over in the red wagon so we could visit, get out of the house and help him find a new mattress. We are quite a sight in the tall red wooden Radio Flyer wagon--it has four seats with seat belts, big fat tires and a long metal handle for pulling. It's the best.
When we walked into the store the kids were initially shy. They soon warmed up, unleashing themselves on the displays, climbing onto and into beds, pulling down signs, running and laughing. They are a mostly good-natured wrecking crew.
A customer came in a few minutes after we did--she was an older woman. Older than I am but not old. She started talking to Grey about her pillow order and the details of the cover and the sewing, casting glances at the kids now and then. No smile. After a couple minutes I joked "Don't worry, you don't have to take a toddler with your cushion."
"I would gladly take one," she replied. "My daughter has had three miscarriages."
Oh.
You might expect the next line to be "And that's when I remembered how lucky I am." or "Then I felt grateful and resolved to enjoy the moment."
No.
"That is so hard," I said. "I'm sorry to hear that."
We smiled at one another and she smiled down at the kids.
"Good luck to your daughter," I said when she left.
I know to feel grateful. That's been part of my life-view for decades and in many ways has and does serve me well. I love my life. I know things could almost always be worse. I know bad things happen all the time. I know, deep in my bones, that having four healthy children is a blessing. . .and it could change anytime.
When I worked in organ placement, the department responsible for allocating organs to the people on the waiting list, it was part of my job to read the story of how someone died. Over and over again. People died in all sorts of ways--unlucky accidents, incidents where you thought "well that was dumb!", violent ways, peaceful ways. Healthy people who ate right and ran marathons and then died of strokes out of nowhere. Kids. Mothers. Everyone. No one was safe. It's hard to write that down in this space because it feels so. . .scary and sad.
In that old job we had our own black humor about things--a way to get through the day. One of the things I used to joke about was how my kids would be wearing helmets all the time--even to walk down the street. "They'll be made fun of but I don't care!"I would say. "Too bad. Safety first."
That job hasn't affected my parenting in the ways I expected. I let my kids do all sorts of risky and dangerous things. They climb ladders and go way up on the big kid playground. They handle tools. They jump from the top of their small book case onto a pillow below. They run down steep hills. Most of these are deliberate parenting decisions--we are letting them discover their abilities. We don't put them up on something they can't climb to themselves. We tell them tools are not toys and tell them how to respect them. They fall and get scrapes and bonk heads and we are nearby or right there, trying to help when needed, encouraging them to try to help themselves when they can, soothing them when they cry. I don't promise them that we can keep them safe.
All of this has been happening for months so it surprised me to notice that my past work experience was affecting me in a different way. Without going into the really long version of the story, my sister and I got in a big fight back in November. Very unusual for us. There were many layers to this fight and it took us until recently to forgive ourselves and each other and move on. Thank God. A world where we are not friends is an upsetting place.
During those months of not really talking the self-knowledge was flying in my face faster than I could keep up. The upsetness wouldn't leave. I couldn't get past it. I was vulnerable and confused and mad. Why? What was tripping me up here? What was my part? What was her part? What was I hurt or scared by? What could I learn from this?
One of the main things I landed on was how much it scares me when I feel like she can't see the good parts of her life. When I feel like she's getting caught up in the difficulty, in the struggle, and can't find her way back to gratitude. Wait a second. Then I saw that I was scared for myself in the same way.
It scares the shit of me when I can't find my way to gratitude. Like I'm tempting fate. Don't you know what could happen, Megan? Quick, feel grateful so you don't regret it!
Well damn.
I am quite good, one of the masters even, at a shrug and an easy, comforting remark when people comment about how hard something is in my life and how well I handle them. My health crises, mainly. And now my many children. You have your hands full! Oh, I'm so sorry you were in the hospital. You are so strong! I don't know how you do it.
"Eh," I often say. "You have your hands full too. One child or four children, they take up every bit of energy we have, don't they?" or "The days in the hospital were quite restful. Like a spa."
I believe those things--I'm not lying. But those are also choices I make, to see the good side. To find the gratitude, to move past the pain. Because what else can you do? I want to get beyond the shit, not live in it.
I have worked hard to cultivate a life of gratitude and awareness. It's not an accident of birth or a lucky roll of the dice that I am strong. I choose to be strong.
I love my life. Love it and cherish it. This is not to say I'm dancing up and down the streets right now singing "Woo hoo! I have a great life and I love it!" Clearly not, especially these days. I mean I recognize and honor that this is my one life. I am the only one who gets to live it. There will never be another Megan Doherty Shaughnessy Bondy. Just me. How lucky am I. I want to revel in it, taste it, dance with it, embrace it and think about it. I want to be a liver.
The anger and the bitterness and the despair isn't pretty. It's new for me to even make space for it. Lots of people don't want to see or hear that part because. . .well, for so many reasons. It's scary. It's ugly. It's hard or impossible to fix. It makes people uncomfortable. It feels that way to me too! I hate having to sit in the bad feelings. I want to fix it and move on. To shrug it off and get to the next place that feels better. Or eat half of a wheel of Brie with Wheat Thins until the pain goes away.
So I'm in a new place. A hard-won place. Last week I said to my yoga tribe, a group of twelve kick-ass, smart, powerful women whom I've known for a year, "It just keeps dawning on me that no matter what coping mechanisms I have, or how much help I get or how much self-care I practice or how many life hacks we implement, it just stays hard. And I don't know what to do about that!"
I am learning so much. To see how scared I've been all these months where I can't consistently live in gratitude. So scared. Like I'm just asking for it. To see how taxing it is for me to stay in the hard and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I want it to be easier, but it's not. I want to be able to shrug and smile and say something cute and funny that makes light of the reality of taking care of four toddlers. Often I can, but not always. Sometimes I need to bring out the dark side and slap it down on the table where everyone can see it.
Welcome to the table. There's room for everyone.
Last week my dad and I walked the four kids over in the red wagon so we could visit, get out of the house and help him find a new mattress. We are quite a sight in the tall red wooden Radio Flyer wagon--it has four seats with seat belts, big fat tires and a long metal handle for pulling. It's the best.
When we walked into the store the kids were initially shy. They soon warmed up, unleashing themselves on the displays, climbing onto and into beds, pulling down signs, running and laughing. They are a mostly good-natured wrecking crew.
A customer came in a few minutes after we did--she was an older woman. Older than I am but not old. She started talking to Grey about her pillow order and the details of the cover and the sewing, casting glances at the kids now and then. No smile. After a couple minutes I joked "Don't worry, you don't have to take a toddler with your cushion."
"I would gladly take one," she replied. "My daughter has had three miscarriages."
Oh.
You might expect the next line to be "And that's when I remembered how lucky I am." or "Then I felt grateful and resolved to enjoy the moment."
No.
"That is so hard," I said. "I'm sorry to hear that."
We smiled at one another and she smiled down at the kids.
"Good luck to your daughter," I said when she left.
I know to feel grateful. That's been part of my life-view for decades and in many ways has and does serve me well. I love my life. I know things could almost always be worse. I know bad things happen all the time. I know, deep in my bones, that having four healthy children is a blessing. . .and it could change anytime.
When I worked in organ placement, the department responsible for allocating organs to the people on the waiting list, it was part of my job to read the story of how someone died. Over and over again. People died in all sorts of ways--unlucky accidents, incidents where you thought "well that was dumb!", violent ways, peaceful ways. Healthy people who ate right and ran marathons and then died of strokes out of nowhere. Kids. Mothers. Everyone. No one was safe. It's hard to write that down in this space because it feels so. . .scary and sad.
In that old job we had our own black humor about things--a way to get through the day. One of the things I used to joke about was how my kids would be wearing helmets all the time--even to walk down the street. "They'll be made fun of but I don't care!"I would say. "Too bad. Safety first."
That job hasn't affected my parenting in the ways I expected. I let my kids do all sorts of risky and dangerous things. They climb ladders and go way up on the big kid playground. They handle tools. They jump from the top of their small book case onto a pillow below. They run down steep hills. Most of these are deliberate parenting decisions--we are letting them discover their abilities. We don't put them up on something they can't climb to themselves. We tell them tools are not toys and tell them how to respect them. They fall and get scrapes and bonk heads and we are nearby or right there, trying to help when needed, encouraging them to try to help themselves when they can, soothing them when they cry. I don't promise them that we can keep them safe.
All of this has been happening for months so it surprised me to notice that my past work experience was affecting me in a different way. Without going into the really long version of the story, my sister and I got in a big fight back in November. Very unusual for us. There were many layers to this fight and it took us until recently to forgive ourselves and each other and move on. Thank God. A world where we are not friends is an upsetting place.
During those months of not really talking the self-knowledge was flying in my face faster than I could keep up. The upsetness wouldn't leave. I couldn't get past it. I was vulnerable and confused and mad. Why? What was tripping me up here? What was my part? What was her part? What was I hurt or scared by? What could I learn from this?
One of the main things I landed on was how much it scares me when I feel like she can't see the good parts of her life. When I feel like she's getting caught up in the difficulty, in the struggle, and can't find her way back to gratitude. Wait a second. Then I saw that I was scared for myself in the same way.
It scares the shit of me when I can't find my way to gratitude. Like I'm tempting fate. Don't you know what could happen, Megan? Quick, feel grateful so you don't regret it!
Well damn.
I am quite good, one of the masters even, at a shrug and an easy, comforting remark when people comment about how hard something is in my life and how well I handle them. My health crises, mainly. And now my many children. You have your hands full! Oh, I'm so sorry you were in the hospital. You are so strong! I don't know how you do it.
"Eh," I often say. "You have your hands full too. One child or four children, they take up every bit of energy we have, don't they?" or "The days in the hospital were quite restful. Like a spa."
I believe those things--I'm not lying. But those are also choices I make, to see the good side. To find the gratitude, to move past the pain. Because what else can you do? I want to get beyond the shit, not live in it.
I have worked hard to cultivate a life of gratitude and awareness. It's not an accident of birth or a lucky roll of the dice that I am strong. I choose to be strong.
I love my life. Love it and cherish it. This is not to say I'm dancing up and down the streets right now singing "Woo hoo! I have a great life and I love it!" Clearly not, especially these days. I mean I recognize and honor that this is my one life. I am the only one who gets to live it. There will never be another Megan Doherty Shaughnessy Bondy. Just me. How lucky am I. I want to revel in it, taste it, dance with it, embrace it and think about it. I want to be a liver.
The anger and the bitterness and the despair isn't pretty. It's new for me to even make space for it. Lots of people don't want to see or hear that part because. . .well, for so many reasons. It's scary. It's ugly. It's hard or impossible to fix. It makes people uncomfortable. It feels that way to me too! I hate having to sit in the bad feelings. I want to fix it and move on. To shrug it off and get to the next place that feels better. Or eat half of a wheel of Brie with Wheat Thins until the pain goes away.
So I'm in a new place. A hard-won place. Last week I said to my yoga tribe, a group of twelve kick-ass, smart, powerful women whom I've known for a year, "It just keeps dawning on me that no matter what coping mechanisms I have, or how much help I get or how much self-care I practice or how many life hacks we implement, it just stays hard. And I don't know what to do about that!"
I am learning so much. To see how scared I've been all these months where I can't consistently live in gratitude. So scared. Like I'm just asking for it. To see how taxing it is for me to stay in the hard and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I want it to be easier, but it's not. I want to be able to shrug and smile and say something cute and funny that makes light of the reality of taking care of four toddlers. Often I can, but not always. Sometimes I need to bring out the dark side and slap it down on the table where everyone can see it.
Welcome to the table. There's room for everyone.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Madness
The toddlers are killing me. I woke up this morning pissed, after being pissed for every moment that I was awake last night (which was a lot of moments). As I dragged my flannel-PJ'ed self to the kitchen I was stopped by the blazing sunrise of pinks and lavenders shining through the dirty windows of the laundry room. I stopped and beheld. The beauty of the natural world coming at just the moment I needed it. I said thank you and asked to be better today.
All I do is yell these days. Because I often can't seem to help myself and because what I really want to do is slap the %$#&*! out of my kids. The urge to hit them is fiery and strong within the muscles and fibers of my arm. The times they spit in my face, despite my telling them over and over and over not to. Watching my daughter take a handful of her lunch and fling it on the freshly washed floor, for no apparent reason except the fact that she is two and this is the kind of shit they do. My son biting his sister for the hundredth time. It's these things and endless other things, big things and small things. It's the constancy of four small people who inhabit a developmental stage that tells them to explore the world, its consequences. To defy. I can't fucking stand it.
My siblings and I were sometimes spanked as kids but rarely. I got slapped across the face once, mostly due to that easy-now-to-imagine cross-section of adult challenges and kid pushing-of-buttons. My mom has brought it up to me over the years, how horrified she was, how horrified and scared I was. I don't remember it at all.
I don't plan on hitting my kids and I'm surprised and appalled by the fierce desire to do so. When I walk into the room and see my daughter standing in the middle of the dining room table holding two candlesticks with the candles in her mouth I mostly want to say "Really?" with an eyebrow raised. Or "What the fuck, are you seriously doing that right now?" It could even be funny, if you weren't already on the verge of being pissed. If you weren't sick because of all the coughing you take in the face. If you weren't combating the craziness you feel after a day, and then days, of being consistently ignored. The table dance didn't make me want to hit her. Actually the deeper I get into this essay the harder it is to remember specific moments that bring up the urge. There's a freedom in admission I guess.
I don't hit but I do grab them roughly. And I do yell. A lot. Last night as I brought the bigs back to their beds for the second time I yelled "This shit has got to stop!" because I felt so helpless and tired and mad. Like we're getting it wrong but I don't know how to get it right. I am so done by the time bed time rolls around. . .but now we don't get to be done. It is no longer easy to put them down. Now it is a fight, a struggle, a cajoling. And it lasts anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours with them finally falling asleep only to then get up and come back to our room two to three times a night. They end up in our bed for good around 5 am and as one snuggles into me I want to say "This is my time to not be touched. I am done. I can't do this another second," and I skootch ever closer to the edge of the bed. My bed that is no longer mine.
My anger has always been something I struggle with. I don't like feeling it--it makes me uneasy. So I swallow it and become Ice Queen and shut down. Which looks like calm on the outside. Oh yeah. . . .remember how I have that autoimmune disease that wrecks my guts? Weird.
I'm also very hard on myself.
I'm also a natural problem-solver. This makes me great at certain jobs because I'm always looking at how things work, diagnosing the problems and figuring out how to make the system work better. Some of this is because I somehow got programmed, or was born with, the idea that there is a right way. A right way to be married. A right way to parent. A right way to seat the dining room of a restaurant. Pretty much a right way to do anything. I have been working on easing up on this for the past several years, even before the kids arrived.
This toddler sleep situation is causing me problems. I keep having to tell myself that there is not necessarily a right way to solve it. That there might not even be a problem that I need to solve--we may just need to be patient and wait it out. It's only been a month. I get caught up in the shame of doing it wrong when all I want is to do it right. I want them to know how to sleep so that when they're older they have that ability. And so that right now when they're young their brains and bodies get the time they need to grow and rest. And so that I don't completely lose my shit at them for anything they do because I am just so tired. Tired in general and tired of the bullshit that comes with parenting toddlers.
My dad spent the first half of the day with us today, as he does most Wednesdays. He is always good about telling me what a good job of parenting I'm doing, which I appreciate. And as we sat in the wrecked kitchen after putting them down for a nap (with a locked door for the two-year-olds which resulted in no crying today as opposed to the two hours of screaming three nights ago) I cried a little, in exhaustion and relief, and talked about this essay and about how much I yell at them lately.
"Just so you know, you didn't yell at them at all this morning."
I'm not sure I noticed that so I was glad to hear it.
Maybe it's because I started writing about it. . .
Maybe it's because we got outside. . .
Maybe it's because I had an extra set of hands. . .
Or maybe most of it is out of my hands entirely and I just have to keep breathing. Keep trying. And give myself a break because there is not just one right way.
All I do is yell these days. Because I often can't seem to help myself and because what I really want to do is slap the %$#&*! out of my kids. The urge to hit them is fiery and strong within the muscles and fibers of my arm. The times they spit in my face, despite my telling them over and over and over not to. Watching my daughter take a handful of her lunch and fling it on the freshly washed floor, for no apparent reason except the fact that she is two and this is the kind of shit they do. My son biting his sister for the hundredth time. It's these things and endless other things, big things and small things. It's the constancy of four small people who inhabit a developmental stage that tells them to explore the world, its consequences. To defy. I can't fucking stand it.
My siblings and I were sometimes spanked as kids but rarely. I got slapped across the face once, mostly due to that easy-now-to-imagine cross-section of adult challenges and kid pushing-of-buttons. My mom has brought it up to me over the years, how horrified she was, how horrified and scared I was. I don't remember it at all.
I don't plan on hitting my kids and I'm surprised and appalled by the fierce desire to do so. When I walk into the room and see my daughter standing in the middle of the dining room table holding two candlesticks with the candles in her mouth I mostly want to say "Really?" with an eyebrow raised. Or "What the fuck, are you seriously doing that right now?" It could even be funny, if you weren't already on the verge of being pissed. If you weren't sick because of all the coughing you take in the face. If you weren't combating the craziness you feel after a day, and then days, of being consistently ignored. The table dance didn't make me want to hit her. Actually the deeper I get into this essay the harder it is to remember specific moments that bring up the urge. There's a freedom in admission I guess.
I don't hit but I do grab them roughly. And I do yell. A lot. Last night as I brought the bigs back to their beds for the second time I yelled "This shit has got to stop!" because I felt so helpless and tired and mad. Like we're getting it wrong but I don't know how to get it right. I am so done by the time bed time rolls around. . .but now we don't get to be done. It is no longer easy to put them down. Now it is a fight, a struggle, a cajoling. And it lasts anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours with them finally falling asleep only to then get up and come back to our room two to three times a night. They end up in our bed for good around 5 am and as one snuggles into me I want to say "This is my time to not be touched. I am done. I can't do this another second," and I skootch ever closer to the edge of the bed. My bed that is no longer mine.
My anger has always been something I struggle with. I don't like feeling it--it makes me uneasy. So I swallow it and become Ice Queen and shut down. Which looks like calm on the outside. Oh yeah. . . .remember how I have that autoimmune disease that wrecks my guts? Weird.
I'm also very hard on myself.
I'm also a natural problem-solver. This makes me great at certain jobs because I'm always looking at how things work, diagnosing the problems and figuring out how to make the system work better. Some of this is because I somehow got programmed, or was born with, the idea that there is a right way. A right way to be married. A right way to parent. A right way to seat the dining room of a restaurant. Pretty much a right way to do anything. I have been working on easing up on this for the past several years, even before the kids arrived.
This toddler sleep situation is causing me problems. I keep having to tell myself that there is not necessarily a right way to solve it. That there might not even be a problem that I need to solve--we may just need to be patient and wait it out. It's only been a month. I get caught up in the shame of doing it wrong when all I want is to do it right. I want them to know how to sleep so that when they're older they have that ability. And so that right now when they're young their brains and bodies get the time they need to grow and rest. And so that I don't completely lose my shit at them for anything they do because I am just so tired. Tired in general and tired of the bullshit that comes with parenting toddlers.
My dad spent the first half of the day with us today, as he does most Wednesdays. He is always good about telling me what a good job of parenting I'm doing, which I appreciate. And as we sat in the wrecked kitchen after putting them down for a nap (with a locked door for the two-year-olds which resulted in no crying today as opposed to the two hours of screaming three nights ago) I cried a little, in exhaustion and relief, and talked about this essay and about how much I yell at them lately.
"Just so you know, you didn't yell at them at all this morning."
I'm not sure I noticed that so I was glad to hear it.
Maybe it's because I started writing about it. . .
Maybe it's because we got outside. . .
Maybe it's because I had an extra set of hands. . .
Or maybe most of it is out of my hands entirely and I just have to keep breathing. Keep trying. And give myself a break because there is not just one right way.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
On sleep
Our Bigs learned how to climb out of their cribs a little over a week ago and whoa. Life has changed. Over the past year Stephanie, our stellar babysitter, mentioned a few times being surprised that they hadn't already done it. They're such good climbers and more than once had swung a leg over the rail, testing things out. My guess is that having a partner in crime right there next to you takes some of the need to escape away--you already have company while you're laying in your cozy bed so why climb out?
The first time they did it I was out of the house--I already forget where I was because it happened over five minutes ago so its place in my memory banks has been long erased. My in-laws were visiting and my husband was home from work. When I returned Grandma told me the story of hearing Lily and Cyrus laughing and talking and goofing around. . .right up until they came out of the room crying, apparently freaked out by their new-found freedom and the falls that accompanied it.
The details of the last several days are already fuzzy--like I said, the memory--so I can't tell you if things were immediately different after that first escape. Did they start climbing out every time right away? Not sure. I think so because we soon changed their cribs to the toddler bed style-- leaving one long side of the crib open so they can climb in and out at will. After one night Lily asked us to change hers back. . .though she continued to climb out every nap time and bedtime.
I've been dreading the escape from cribs for a while, mostly because my son doesn't love to sleep. I love to sleep. Two of his sisters, Lily and Daphne, love to sleep. Cleo is in between--she cries when we put her down but falls asleep pretty quickly and then doesn't want to get up. Daphne asks to go to bed and snuggles in with relief once we lay her in her crib. Lily has been a solid sleeper since shortly after we brought her home from the hospital. Cyrus, like his dad, would prefer to stay up as late as possible. My husband didn't nap as a child and didn't have a bedtime. When he told me this when we were dating I was horrified--our children would be napping for sure! Not only because kids need sleep but because I already knew, before any kids had even arrived, that I would need that break in order to maintain some semblance of mental health. And boy was I right. . at least in terms of the mom's sanity piece.
People have expressed anything from surprise to admiration to shock when we mentioned the fact that our kids napped at the same time. How did we do that?
We don't give them a choice, I said. Because I would probably be dead if they didn't.
Over the past week and a half we had a few days where the big kids didn't nap at all. Other days when it took over an hour for them to fall asleep--and that took having a parent, usually my husband, laying down in the room with them. The days when two would be asleep and then, just before those two woke up, the other two would fall asleep were the worst. You couldn't go anywhere or do anything and you didn't get more than a few minutes to yourself. Boooooooo. Seriously, the napping in sync was a necessity for us. For me.
We sleep trained our son. Three times. Have I written about that already? I think so but I can't recall. It was awful. He sobbed and screamed--the longest he went was 45 minutes. I lay in bed in our room next door (in the old house), my heart cracking at the sound of his anger. Fear? Loneliness? Anguish? Despair? Who knew? He was a little baby and crying was his way of communicating. It was so hard to listen to and eventually, after 45 minutes, I went in to get him. He stopped immediately and was happy as can be. Damn, I thought. Now I'll have to start all over tomorrow and those brutal 45 minutes were for naught. We did it twice in the old house and then once again in the new house. The impetus for the final sleep training session was the night I went in to get him for the fourth time-and I almost slammed his little body onto his mattress in despair. I was so tired. Pregnant. Needing to get up to take care of these two nine-month-olds in a few more hours. . .and just could not go on like that anymore. The most helpful and life-saving parenting advice I've ever received has been the kind that says something like this;
You are allowed to take care of yourself. You can't be a good mother if you're draining yourself dry in the process. It is the right thing for your family if it's the right thing, the necessary thing, for you.
I don't read a lot of parenting books. I talk to my friends who are parents about things like sleep and eating and potty training, though I've done that less since getting out of the teeny tiny baby stage the first time. I like to mostly go with the flow, pay attention to their cues and figure things out on my/our own. Sleep was probably the first topic that I learned to keep quiet about, mostly because people had such strong opinions about it. One major strong opinion was anti-crying it out. And I didn't want to hear it. Because my heart already hurt about it. I already doubted whether it was the right thing and I didn't want to feel worse listening to parents who didn't let their kids cry.
There is a lot written about mommy wars. I have two main thoughts about them. One, we women can often have a hard time building each other up rather than tearing each other down. And I do think that the wisest thing I've read about the infighting among mothers is that the more time and attention we spend fighting each other, the less time and attention we're paying to the parts of the system that are broken and breaking. Two, being a parent has me in super-judgment mode almost all of the time. Even before I can spare a second to judge anyone else I've already spent five hours judging myself.
Am I disciplining enough? For the right things? In the right way?
Am I feeding them healthy enough food? Have they had a variety of colors and textures this week?
Am I treating them fairly? Paying enough attention to each of them?
Are we doing the right thing in terms of school and childcare?
Do we let the cry or do we go in and soothe?
How embarrassed should I be that my daughters' hair is not brushed?
It is a role that you can't get right. At least not all right. We will make mistakes and we won't know what they are or what the consequences, if any, were until far off down the road. It is hard and fun and silly and crazy-making and full of judgement. Actual, true judgement where we are finding ourselves seated in the thrones from whence the values and rules get decided. Which doesn't mean the rules will get followed, or even that the values will be taken in. But we are the deciders. . .for now. For some things.
Because I have four kids and I've had them so close together I can see that they are inherently different when it comes to sleep. Which doesn't stop me from wondering what else plays into it--their hospital stays, their birth order, the way we've changed and grown as parents. This adds another layer to the peer discussions about what works and what doesn't. What works for one kid, and one parent, won't always work for another. How tricky is that? It's like giving each other management coaching when we all do very related, similar jobs, in different offices with different employees and a different set of goals and measurements of success. Well! I say we just offer what we've seen and done and try to do it in a way that says " I see you are trying and worrying just like I am. I wish you luck, sister-warrior-boss lady."
My house is silent now. And as I've written many times before, the silence is perfection. It vibrates throughout the rooms. In some ways I live for these moments these days.
The final thing I will say, for now, about the climbing out of the cribs is that this change has been way bigger for the kids than I ever imagined. There is so much more crying and fighting bedtime now that they aren't contained. It reminds me how much they are growing and learning and taking in all the time, every minute. Their brains are growing, their bodies are growing and becoming more agile, their awareness of themselves and the world around them is changing every day. All of this without having all the words to describe what it feels like to suddenly not be sleeping in your crib anymore.
As we try to figure out how to respond, how to help them still get sleep so they have the energy to do all this growing and learning, I try to remember to say to them
You're safe.
We're here.
You can go to sleep and when you wake up, I'll still be here.
The first time they did it I was out of the house--I already forget where I was because it happened over five minutes ago so its place in my memory banks has been long erased. My in-laws were visiting and my husband was home from work. When I returned Grandma told me the story of hearing Lily and Cyrus laughing and talking and goofing around. . .right up until they came out of the room crying, apparently freaked out by their new-found freedom and the falls that accompanied it.
The details of the last several days are already fuzzy--like I said, the memory--so I can't tell you if things were immediately different after that first escape. Did they start climbing out every time right away? Not sure. I think so because we soon changed their cribs to the toddler bed style-- leaving one long side of the crib open so they can climb in and out at will. After one night Lily asked us to change hers back. . .though she continued to climb out every nap time and bedtime.
I've been dreading the escape from cribs for a while, mostly because my son doesn't love to sleep. I love to sleep. Two of his sisters, Lily and Daphne, love to sleep. Cleo is in between--she cries when we put her down but falls asleep pretty quickly and then doesn't want to get up. Daphne asks to go to bed and snuggles in with relief once we lay her in her crib. Lily has been a solid sleeper since shortly after we brought her home from the hospital. Cyrus, like his dad, would prefer to stay up as late as possible. My husband didn't nap as a child and didn't have a bedtime. When he told me this when we were dating I was horrified--our children would be napping for sure! Not only because kids need sleep but because I already knew, before any kids had even arrived, that I would need that break in order to maintain some semblance of mental health. And boy was I right. . at least in terms of the mom's sanity piece.
People have expressed anything from surprise to admiration to shock when we mentioned the fact that our kids napped at the same time. How did we do that?
We don't give them a choice, I said. Because I would probably be dead if they didn't.
Over the past week and a half we had a few days where the big kids didn't nap at all. Other days when it took over an hour for them to fall asleep--and that took having a parent, usually my husband, laying down in the room with them. The days when two would be asleep and then, just before those two woke up, the other two would fall asleep were the worst. You couldn't go anywhere or do anything and you didn't get more than a few minutes to yourself. Boooooooo. Seriously, the napping in sync was a necessity for us. For me.
We sleep trained our son. Three times. Have I written about that already? I think so but I can't recall. It was awful. He sobbed and screamed--the longest he went was 45 minutes. I lay in bed in our room next door (in the old house), my heart cracking at the sound of his anger. Fear? Loneliness? Anguish? Despair? Who knew? He was a little baby and crying was his way of communicating. It was so hard to listen to and eventually, after 45 minutes, I went in to get him. He stopped immediately and was happy as can be. Damn, I thought. Now I'll have to start all over tomorrow and those brutal 45 minutes were for naught. We did it twice in the old house and then once again in the new house. The impetus for the final sleep training session was the night I went in to get him for the fourth time-and I almost slammed his little body onto his mattress in despair. I was so tired. Pregnant. Needing to get up to take care of these two nine-month-olds in a few more hours. . .and just could not go on like that anymore. The most helpful and life-saving parenting advice I've ever received has been the kind that says something like this;
You are allowed to take care of yourself. You can't be a good mother if you're draining yourself dry in the process. It is the right thing for your family if it's the right thing, the necessary thing, for you.
I don't read a lot of parenting books. I talk to my friends who are parents about things like sleep and eating and potty training, though I've done that less since getting out of the teeny tiny baby stage the first time. I like to mostly go with the flow, pay attention to their cues and figure things out on my/our own. Sleep was probably the first topic that I learned to keep quiet about, mostly because people had such strong opinions about it. One major strong opinion was anti-crying it out. And I didn't want to hear it. Because my heart already hurt about it. I already doubted whether it was the right thing and I didn't want to feel worse listening to parents who didn't let their kids cry.
There is a lot written about mommy wars. I have two main thoughts about them. One, we women can often have a hard time building each other up rather than tearing each other down. And I do think that the wisest thing I've read about the infighting among mothers is that the more time and attention we spend fighting each other, the less time and attention we're paying to the parts of the system that are broken and breaking. Two, being a parent has me in super-judgment mode almost all of the time. Even before I can spare a second to judge anyone else I've already spent five hours judging myself.
Am I disciplining enough? For the right things? In the right way?
Am I feeding them healthy enough food? Have they had a variety of colors and textures this week?
Am I treating them fairly? Paying enough attention to each of them?
Are we doing the right thing in terms of school and childcare?
Do we let the cry or do we go in and soothe?
How embarrassed should I be that my daughters' hair is not brushed?
It is a role that you can't get right. At least not all right. We will make mistakes and we won't know what they are or what the consequences, if any, were until far off down the road. It is hard and fun and silly and crazy-making and full of judgement. Actual, true judgement where we are finding ourselves seated in the thrones from whence the values and rules get decided. Which doesn't mean the rules will get followed, or even that the values will be taken in. But we are the deciders. . .for now. For some things.
Because I have four kids and I've had them so close together I can see that they are inherently different when it comes to sleep. Which doesn't stop me from wondering what else plays into it--their hospital stays, their birth order, the way we've changed and grown as parents. This adds another layer to the peer discussions about what works and what doesn't. What works for one kid, and one parent, won't always work for another. How tricky is that? It's like giving each other management coaching when we all do very related, similar jobs, in different offices with different employees and a different set of goals and measurements of success. Well! I say we just offer what we've seen and done and try to do it in a way that says " I see you are trying and worrying just like I am. I wish you luck, sister-warrior-boss lady."
My house is silent now. And as I've written many times before, the silence is perfection. It vibrates throughout the rooms. In some ways I live for these moments these days.
The final thing I will say, for now, about the climbing out of the cribs is that this change has been way bigger for the kids than I ever imagined. There is so much more crying and fighting bedtime now that they aren't contained. It reminds me how much they are growing and learning and taking in all the time, every minute. Their brains are growing, their bodies are growing and becoming more agile, their awareness of themselves and the world around them is changing every day. All of this without having all the words to describe what it feels like to suddenly not be sleeping in your crib anymore.
As we try to figure out how to respond, how to help them still get sleep so they have the energy to do all this growing and learning, I try to remember to say to them
You're safe.
We're here.
You can go to sleep and when you wake up, I'll still be here.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Amber
One of my first jobs was as a hostess at the Cliff House in San Francisco. I was eighteen. It was this job that taught me such valuable lessons as "Don't come to an interview with your hair wet." More importantly, I learned how to deal with people. Waitressing came later and taught me other ways of dealing with people--all service jobs probably teach you a lot about this. Hostessing though--you are in the direct line of fire with almost no power. Potential diners are pissed at you because they want a window seat or a booth like ten minutes ago. Servers get pissed because you over sat them or under sat them and they're in the weeds or aren't making as much money as they could be.
And then there is the couple that strolls in ten minutes before closing. They are relaxed and in love, happy to have found a restaurant that's still open. As they walk down the long hallway looking at you with smiling faces you are looking back, balancing the various forces to be reckoned with. The owners would be pissed if they knew you were telling people the kitchen was closed ten minutes before it actually was. So would the managers, for the most part. The would-be diners will be bummed and/or pissed, depending on their personalities, if you tell them they just missed your last seating. But the kitchen and the closing waiter will be real pissed if you seat someone at 9:50 pm. Real pissed.
I was a very good at this job. The fast pace, the problem-solving, the keeping calm as people are yelling at you, the handling of multiple personalities. I loved it, for the most part. Though it did make my feet hurt. We worked in pairs at the front desk during busy shifts and it was at the hostess podium that I met Amber.
We liked each other almost right away. If you're a woman or know women you may be surprised to hear this. It doesn't happen often.Usually there is a testing period or a level of skepticism or judgement that precedes any bond that might eventually arise. We were both young and pretty, dressed up and put on display to greet people. It could have been a competition from the start. But she was a great hostess and so was I--and that made us friends.
Working hard with someone feels good. We were quick and in sync, passing each other on the way back from seating. Never leading a couple to a two-top only to discover that it had already been sat and having to veer at the last minute to a worse table and try to play it off like it was the plan all along. Being able to rely on someone to make your shift easier is no small thing. Not having to explain things or try hard to communicate is so much sweeter than the alternatives. Being young and not having had many jobs I didn't even recognize just how special our collaboration was. I just knew I liked her. Our friendship even survived the realization that we were both after, or being pursued by, the same guy. Ah, restaurant love affairs in your 20s. Good times.
Amber and I have known each other for fourteen years. I was with her when she got her tattoo. I was in her wedding. I was standing in front of her a week after her son was born as she looked up at me with a look of terror and awe on her face and said "They let anybody do this!" That was one of my first signs of how hard it was to be a parent because I didn't know anyone more prepared to have a kid than Amber--early childhood education, nanny, lover of children.
Our lives have greatly changed since we first met at age 24. She has four kids, I have four kids. We live in different towns, almost two hours away from one another. We don't see each other often. We manage to call each other up just in the nick of time when we really need someone to listen and understand and cheer lead.
It's her birthday today. Thirty-nine years old. Years ago we'd be celebrating at a table for fourteen eating hundreds of dollars worth of sushi and drinking lots and lots of booze. Today? I'm not sure what she'll be doing but I'm sure it won't be that.
I love her and appreciate her so very much. She has made my life better in many ways. We are friends for life.
Happy birthday Am.
And then there is the couple that strolls in ten minutes before closing. They are relaxed and in love, happy to have found a restaurant that's still open. As they walk down the long hallway looking at you with smiling faces you are looking back, balancing the various forces to be reckoned with. The owners would be pissed if they knew you were telling people the kitchen was closed ten minutes before it actually was. So would the managers, for the most part. The would-be diners will be bummed and/or pissed, depending on their personalities, if you tell them they just missed your last seating. But the kitchen and the closing waiter will be real pissed if you seat someone at 9:50 pm. Real pissed.
I was a very good at this job. The fast pace, the problem-solving, the keeping calm as people are yelling at you, the handling of multiple personalities. I loved it, for the most part. Though it did make my feet hurt. We worked in pairs at the front desk during busy shifts and it was at the hostess podium that I met Amber.
We liked each other almost right away. If you're a woman or know women you may be surprised to hear this. It doesn't happen often.Usually there is a testing period or a level of skepticism or judgement that precedes any bond that might eventually arise. We were both young and pretty, dressed up and put on display to greet people. It could have been a competition from the start. But she was a great hostess and so was I--and that made us friends.
Working hard with someone feels good. We were quick and in sync, passing each other on the way back from seating. Never leading a couple to a two-top only to discover that it had already been sat and having to veer at the last minute to a worse table and try to play it off like it was the plan all along. Being able to rely on someone to make your shift easier is no small thing. Not having to explain things or try hard to communicate is so much sweeter than the alternatives. Being young and not having had many jobs I didn't even recognize just how special our collaboration was. I just knew I liked her. Our friendship even survived the realization that we were both after, or being pursued by, the same guy. Ah, restaurant love affairs in your 20s. Good times.
Amber and I have known each other for fourteen years. I was with her when she got her tattoo. I was in her wedding. I was standing in front of her a week after her son was born as she looked up at me with a look of terror and awe on her face and said "They let anybody do this!" That was one of my first signs of how hard it was to be a parent because I didn't know anyone more prepared to have a kid than Amber--early childhood education, nanny, lover of children.
Our lives have greatly changed since we first met at age 24. She has four kids, I have four kids. We live in different towns, almost two hours away from one another. We don't see each other often. We manage to call each other up just in the nick of time when we really need someone to listen and understand and cheer lead.
It's her birthday today. Thirty-nine years old. Years ago we'd be celebrating at a table for fourteen eating hundreds of dollars worth of sushi and drinking lots and lots of booze. Today? I'm not sure what she'll be doing but I'm sure it won't be that.
I love her and appreciate her so very much. She has made my life better in many ways. We are friends for life.
Happy birthday Am.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
January 3, 2016
Like a vampire, or a drug addict, I feed off my children. Leaving them behind tugs at my heart or some deeper part of my anatomy and makes it hard to keep going. And then I'm lost, practically turning in circles as I try to figure out what to do with this free childless time.
In September I spent eleven nights in the hospital. . .and everyone survived. Much more than survived. My children looked so happy every time they came to see me. Part of it was gladness to see me but beyond that they looked peaceful and well-loved and full. One night alone I stood naked at my hospital window overlooking Buchanan Street, seeing the reflection of my body against the city lights shining dully in the glass. I was familiar, when I gazed upon myself. I have been looking at this face, this body, in mirrors or bathtubs or windows all my life. I will be me, alone in myself, for every day for the rest of my life no matter what I do. Sometimes that feels lonely. Sometimes it feels like coming home.
Lately I've felt desperate to get away from my kids. Counting down until bedtime, which is no longer easy now that the two-year-olds know how to climb out of their cribs. My husband and I look at each other, dead-eyed and going through the motions, waiting waiting waiting to get a break. And then I miss them. It's a fucked up dance, this parenting song.
We are trying something new. Each of us gets a day of the weekend--he is Saturday, I am Sunday. This is our day to do whatever we want. Today is my first day like this. I woke up and went to yoga, stretching my tight muscles to the sky, enjoying the invitation of focus into individual movement. It was hard and blissful. A reminder that yoga makes me so much better. The breathing. The community. The quiet. The practice of coming back to myself again and again. The class ended, I walked outside, and I felt. . .lost again. Didn't know what to do with myself, where to go. An almost panic set in, wanting to make the most of the free time. . .and feeling drawn back to my children, to my family. I came back home and took a sweet-smelling bubble bath before they returned from the park. Seeing their faces beaming at me filled me up. Five minutes later I was ready to leave again.
Yesterday, on my husband's day, I took the kids out of the house to spend the day in San Francisco so that he could work on projects at home. Puttering is his therapy, his coming home to himself. My city greeted me like the friend and cozy turtleneck sweater that it is. Driving familiar streets with my kids noticing the people and trucks and lights and dogs of urban life made me feel good. I dropped my eldest off with my mom for some one-on-one Nana time and took the other three to a park on top of a hill where we met an old, beloved friend of mine from high school, his beautiful fiancee and their son. The three of us wove together like a braid, handing off children and viewpoints. Eating croissants and peeling tangerines. At one point she asked me if I'd been writing much.
No, I said. And it's not that I can't find the time. It's that I hate everything I have to say.
That's how it is with making things, she said.
It was a benediction.
In September I spent eleven nights in the hospital. . .and everyone survived. Much more than survived. My children looked so happy every time they came to see me. Part of it was gladness to see me but beyond that they looked peaceful and well-loved and full. One night alone I stood naked at my hospital window overlooking Buchanan Street, seeing the reflection of my body against the city lights shining dully in the glass. I was familiar, when I gazed upon myself. I have been looking at this face, this body, in mirrors or bathtubs or windows all my life. I will be me, alone in myself, for every day for the rest of my life no matter what I do. Sometimes that feels lonely. Sometimes it feels like coming home.
Lately I've felt desperate to get away from my kids. Counting down until bedtime, which is no longer easy now that the two-year-olds know how to climb out of their cribs. My husband and I look at each other, dead-eyed and going through the motions, waiting waiting waiting to get a break. And then I miss them. It's a fucked up dance, this parenting song.
We are trying something new. Each of us gets a day of the weekend--he is Saturday, I am Sunday. This is our day to do whatever we want. Today is my first day like this. I woke up and went to yoga, stretching my tight muscles to the sky, enjoying the invitation of focus into individual movement. It was hard and blissful. A reminder that yoga makes me so much better. The breathing. The community. The quiet. The practice of coming back to myself again and again. The class ended, I walked outside, and I felt. . .lost again. Didn't know what to do with myself, where to go. An almost panic set in, wanting to make the most of the free time. . .and feeling drawn back to my children, to my family. I came back home and took a sweet-smelling bubble bath before they returned from the park. Seeing their faces beaming at me filled me up. Five minutes later I was ready to leave again.
Yesterday, on my husband's day, I took the kids out of the house to spend the day in San Francisco so that he could work on projects at home. Puttering is his therapy, his coming home to himself. My city greeted me like the friend and cozy turtleneck sweater that it is. Driving familiar streets with my kids noticing the people and trucks and lights and dogs of urban life made me feel good. I dropped my eldest off with my mom for some one-on-one Nana time and took the other three to a park on top of a hill where we met an old, beloved friend of mine from high school, his beautiful fiancee and their son. The three of us wove together like a braid, handing off children and viewpoints. Eating croissants and peeling tangerines. At one point she asked me if I'd been writing much.
No, I said. And it's not that I can't find the time. It's that I hate everything I have to say.
That's how it is with making things, she said.
It was a benediction.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
The unhermiting
Buying books that I loved in order to give them to people I love makes me feel happy. Full of good memories of curling up in a quiet corner to read. I add books to my cart on Amazon and then feel a dip in joy as I tell myself that I should buy these books from a local bookstore to support my community and small business. Yep. That right there is a good insight into how I feel a lot of the time. My values bat against my forehead like kitten paws playing with a soft toy. . .until one unleashes its claws and the points sink into flesh. You should! Because I believe strongly in supporting local bookstores. Just as I believe strongly in feeding my children healthy foods and in teaching them manners and in not having too many toys and in. . . so many things.
Should is a dirty word. It is an almost constant bedfellow of mine. I keep trying to kick it out but it really likes to snuggle up close.
Back in October when I was flying high and writing every day I was living life without the spectre of Should. It was gone. I felt like I'd put down my 1,000 pound back back--the bag full of caring so damn much what other people think. It was exhilarating. A little scary even. My mind was so powerful--I could see connections between people and ideas create themselves in the air in front of me, like physical, obvious things. I felt so joyful and strong and sure. The clarity. . .I miss it.
These days I can't get away from feeling raw and vulnerable. So self-conscious. I hate it. I knew the post-hospital feelings wouldn't last forever but it's been an especially rough come down. The back pack is cinched tight on my shoulders and I wake up every morning stiff and sore. I have about seven half-written blog posts that I started and then stopped because I couldn't stand the sound of my own written voice. Blech. Why would anyone want to read this? So navel-gazing and unimportant. Why do I even have a stupid blog? The insecurity just seeps into every pore and I feel pathetic. Even as a part of me knows this is not the truth. Knows what to do to get away from it or try to. I just can't right now.
And I keep it largely to myself. When I was full of joy and the feeling of really getting it, getting what this life is all about, I wanted to share it with everyone I knew. Here! Take this wisdom and add it to whatever you have going on. But the itchy, doubting, yucky blahness? That makes me want to sink into the couch and eat crappy, soothing food and watch TV and maybe drink some booze. . .during the day. It makes me want to be a hermit because I don't want any advice. I don't want any reassurance. I only want someone to step inside my brain and heart and know exactly, 100% how I feel so there is no chance of misinterpretation. That person can give me advice. Or even better take over my life for a while and make all the decisions.
I am incredibly hard on myself and veer into the dark and serious. Which then makes me the lame person at the party who you don't want to stand next to because all I want to do is talk about the main purpose of life. . .and all everyone else wants to do is have a few drinks and have fun. Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to have fun. This is a metaphorical party of course because I don't actually go to real parties anymore.
So I've been quiet. Sensitive and wounded and shy and silent. Wanting to say something meaningful about the violence and fear in the world and falling short anytime I try. Wanting to share the exquisite shuffle from piercingly sweet moment of parenting to"I need to be away from here" as I walk out the door immediately upon the arrival of my husband because I can not take another minute of my children.
People help us so much and, yes, we could certainly ask for and find more help. We should (there's that fucking word again.) But the help we really need is the ability to call for a sub. Like, now! Not the help that needs to be planned and arranged...the kind where I could have someone immediately walk in and take over the minute I need help. That can happen, right? The ancient arrangement of entire communities living in the same cave makes so much sense. I could ride off and hunt with weapons and blood and fierceness and fresh air and leave my little ones with someone else for the moment. And then I could come back and be their primary caregiver again. Yes. Who wants to join my cave?
Thank you to my friend Cat for the push and the hug to get back to it, even while I'm feeling raw and vulnerable. Especially while I'm feeling that way. Here's to all of you, navigating the choppy waters wearing or carrying luggage that needs to be put down. I have no solutions but I offer you my camaraderie and my company.
Should is a dirty word. It is an almost constant bedfellow of mine. I keep trying to kick it out but it really likes to snuggle up close.
Back in October when I was flying high and writing every day I was living life without the spectre of Should. It was gone. I felt like I'd put down my 1,000 pound back back--the bag full of caring so damn much what other people think. It was exhilarating. A little scary even. My mind was so powerful--I could see connections between people and ideas create themselves in the air in front of me, like physical, obvious things. I felt so joyful and strong and sure. The clarity. . .I miss it.
These days I can't get away from feeling raw and vulnerable. So self-conscious. I hate it. I knew the post-hospital feelings wouldn't last forever but it's been an especially rough come down. The back pack is cinched tight on my shoulders and I wake up every morning stiff and sore. I have about seven half-written blog posts that I started and then stopped because I couldn't stand the sound of my own written voice. Blech. Why would anyone want to read this? So navel-gazing and unimportant. Why do I even have a stupid blog? The insecurity just seeps into every pore and I feel pathetic. Even as a part of me knows this is not the truth. Knows what to do to get away from it or try to. I just can't right now.
And I keep it largely to myself. When I was full of joy and the feeling of really getting it, getting what this life is all about, I wanted to share it with everyone I knew. Here! Take this wisdom and add it to whatever you have going on. But the itchy, doubting, yucky blahness? That makes me want to sink into the couch and eat crappy, soothing food and watch TV and maybe drink some booze. . .during the day. It makes me want to be a hermit because I don't want any advice. I don't want any reassurance. I only want someone to step inside my brain and heart and know exactly, 100% how I feel so there is no chance of misinterpretation. That person can give me advice. Or even better take over my life for a while and make all the decisions.
I am incredibly hard on myself and veer into the dark and serious. Which then makes me the lame person at the party who you don't want to stand next to because all I want to do is talk about the main purpose of life. . .and all everyone else wants to do is have a few drinks and have fun. Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to have fun. This is a metaphorical party of course because I don't actually go to real parties anymore.
So I've been quiet. Sensitive and wounded and shy and silent. Wanting to say something meaningful about the violence and fear in the world and falling short anytime I try. Wanting to share the exquisite shuffle from piercingly sweet moment of parenting to"I need to be away from here" as I walk out the door immediately upon the arrival of my husband because I can not take another minute of my children.
People help us so much and, yes, we could certainly ask for and find more help. We should (there's that fucking word again.) But the help we really need is the ability to call for a sub. Like, now! Not the help that needs to be planned and arranged...the kind where I could have someone immediately walk in and take over the minute I need help. That can happen, right? The ancient arrangement of entire communities living in the same cave makes so much sense. I could ride off and hunt with weapons and blood and fierceness and fresh air and leave my little ones with someone else for the moment. And then I could come back and be their primary caregiver again. Yes. Who wants to join my cave?
Thank you to my friend Cat for the push and the hug to get back to it, even while I'm feeling raw and vulnerable. Especially while I'm feeling that way. Here's to all of you, navigating the choppy waters wearing or carrying luggage that needs to be put down. I have no solutions but I offer you my camaraderie and my company.
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