There is no such thing as "clean".
There is only tidy for a little while.
10 minute naps or the luxury of 2 hours, I bustle.
Putting away.
Sweeping.
The occasional mopping.
Dishes thrown into the dishwasher.
But soon she's up again.
Toys recently put away are flung hither and yon.
Not played with exactly, just flung about like abstract art installations.
Much more fascinating to her are the drawers.
Drawers filled with baking tools,
Utensils,
Pots and Pans.
Cabinets with lids and Tupperware.
Opened and spread like peanut butter on toast
These are the things that hold her interest.
And soon, my tidy house is chaos again.
"I think we're disorganized" he says.
"Why are there hair ties all over the floor?"
These questions feel like judgements.
The house
And the child
And the dogs
And the meals
And the cleaning
And the cats are my "one" job.
Why can't I do it "right"?
I know he doesn't mean it.
I know it's my own insecurities.
But a whole day of deep cleaning and after dinner, I feel I have nothing to show for it.
There are toys all of the living room.
The couch and pillows and throw blankets are in disarray.
Laundry all fluffy and warm and clean sits in baskets waiting to be folded and put away.
The bathroom is soaked from a boisterous bath.
Dishes from dinner fill the sink and leftovers need to be put away.
All the work that took me all day seems undone and my soul just feels crushed.
He got home at 5:30, happy to compliment my hard work,
Quick to notice all my chores that got done.
But he leaves again at 7 to go for a run,
So I eat alone with our daughter,
Feed the dogs.
And give her a bath.
But he gets home and volunteers to get her ready for bed.
One weight feels like it's been lifted away.
He suggests I take a bath.
Another floats skyward.
Lounging in my liquid lava, I hear dishes being done
And tension in my neck disappears.
I get out once the water turns Normal Human Warm (too cold for me)
The bed has been made with sheets fresh from the dryer.
Every muscle in my body is loose.
"I folded all the laundry..." He says from behind of his comic book.
I am completely jelly.
I cannot believe it.
It's like a dream has come true.
I go and look and see that there is not a dish to be found.
The food is stored in the fridge.
Piles of our daughter's laundry is stacked on the couch.
The dogs are put to bed.
And he's about to get the night. of. his. LIFE.
Best. Thing. EVER.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
Monday, September 24, 2018
We Planned, God Laughed
I woke up with a feeling of conviction. I was going to get up, and go to the grocery store. I was going to buy eggs, bagels, cream cheese, yogurt, chicken for dinner, and a pregnancy test. My period was due two days before, and there was a slim chance that life was not going according to plan.
See, the plan was to start trying for another baby when my first was two. Two seemed like a good age. A little less helpless. A little more communicative. Two years and nine months seemed like a good age difference.
The plan also included my best friend, who after losing her ten week pregnancy this summer, wanted to wait until I was ready to have my second. The plan was to be ready to move home, stationed closer to my family, the best of both worlds (i.e. my own home AND dinners with my mom), and to share in all the wonders and horrors of pregnancy with someone I love.
The box said to hold it in the pee for 5 seconds and wait for 2 to 10 minutes. I did it carefully, determined not to look until the full 10 minutes had gone by. I ate some food, furtively glancing at the timer ever 2 seconds.
My heart was racing. "Please don't be pregnant." I thought. "We're not ready for this. This isn't the plan." And then another little part of my brain thought, "Goodness, girl, you just love the drama, don't you?" Which made me smile a little. Because I do. I don't know how not to. I love having something to stress over. I also hate it, obviously, stress is the worst, but there is a teenage girl in me that loves having the attention because of the DRAMA.
The timer went off and I scooped up my daughter and said, "Well, let's go see if you're having a sibling."
Two lines. The pregnancy lines.
"Well shit."
I didn't want to be alone with this information. I tried to call my husband, no answer. I tried to call my best friend, no answer. Tried my husband again. And again. Nothing. So I called my mom. She picked up on the second ring. Oh no. Now I was going to have to tell her. I was going to have to say the words. It was going to be real for someone else when it wasn't even real for me yet. But I said them anyway. She was only happy. Only thrilled. Only positive and upbeat. She knew this wasn't what I had wanted. But she was happy for me while I couldn't be happy. That gave me the strength to tell my younger sister, and then my older. And my older sister encouraged me to tell my best friend.
So I called my best friend. She was bummed about our plan. But she listened to me worry and cry and gave me advice and tried to be supportive, and help me plan how to surprise my husband. My husband called and I talked to him, but didn't tell him. Not yet.
I went out and bought a shirt that said, "Best Sister" for my daughter. I taped the pregnancy test to a dry erase board and wrote, "We planned, God laughed. May 25th, 2019."
My husband got home and I filmed him reading our daughter's shirt. Reading the board. Being so confused. Being happy. Being worried. Then I shut the camera off.
He called his mom. His brother. His sister. They were all so excited and happy for us.
But I couldn't be. I didn't want this. I wasn't ready. I thought words like, "Bad dream." I thought things like, "Why me?"
I went to the dentist and had to check the pregnancy box. I told my cousin. I told someone who's wedding I'm going to be in a week before my due date.
5 days of being tired, of having horrible gut problems. Of worrying and feeling sorry for myself and being way too irritable with my poor husband.
And when I woke up on Sunday to find blood in my underwear... Once again I said, "Well shit." And I sat there for a long time. I wiped and wiped. But still blood. I called my husband to come into the bathroom. He seemed confused, worried, unsure. I called my mom. She was ever so helpful. Sweet mama. Good advice.
I was aware I was pregnant for 5 days. And then I just... wasn't anymore. According to the app, I was 5 weeks along, because pregnancy is confusing. I hadn't prepared myself for this outcome. I had told so many people. And now I have to untell them.
And I have to carry this guilt around like a shawl. Because for 5 days I didn't want it. I didn't know how to feel. I prayed that I would get excited about it. But it never happened. There were small moments of happiness. Feeling like there was going to be so much to look forward to. But for the most part I just stressed. And then I lost it.
I didn't want to miscarry, though. I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to be happy. I wanted a baby. I wanted to get to the point where I was excited. But it didn't happen. It's never going to happen. I had 5 days to adjust and I never did, now I have the rest of my life to wonder if I did it to myself.
I don't think God laughed at our plan. I don't think God laughs when He knows what's going to happen next. I just don't understand why any of it had to happen. Why did he put it on my heart to buy a pregnancy test that day? Why didn't he tell me to wait a week, because then I would have just thought I was late. Why did I have to know? Why couldn't I have just been happy, so that crying in bed at night over losing this little possibility of life made any sense?
It's gonna take some time. And I don't think my questions are all gonna be answered. But I will turn to God and pray and hope and with time... I will be able to grow around this horrible week.
See, the plan was to start trying for another baby when my first was two. Two seemed like a good age. A little less helpless. A little more communicative. Two years and nine months seemed like a good age difference.
The plan also included my best friend, who after losing her ten week pregnancy this summer, wanted to wait until I was ready to have my second. The plan was to be ready to move home, stationed closer to my family, the best of both worlds (i.e. my own home AND dinners with my mom), and to share in all the wonders and horrors of pregnancy with someone I love.
The box said to hold it in the pee for 5 seconds and wait for 2 to 10 minutes. I did it carefully, determined not to look until the full 10 minutes had gone by. I ate some food, furtively glancing at the timer ever 2 seconds.
My heart was racing. "Please don't be pregnant." I thought. "We're not ready for this. This isn't the plan." And then another little part of my brain thought, "Goodness, girl, you just love the drama, don't you?" Which made me smile a little. Because I do. I don't know how not to. I love having something to stress over. I also hate it, obviously, stress is the worst, but there is a teenage girl in me that loves having the attention because of the DRAMA.
The timer went off and I scooped up my daughter and said, "Well, let's go see if you're having a sibling."
Two lines. The pregnancy lines.
"Well shit."
I didn't want to be alone with this information. I tried to call my husband, no answer. I tried to call my best friend, no answer. Tried my husband again. And again. Nothing. So I called my mom. She picked up on the second ring. Oh no. Now I was going to have to tell her. I was going to have to say the words. It was going to be real for someone else when it wasn't even real for me yet. But I said them anyway. She was only happy. Only thrilled. Only positive and upbeat. She knew this wasn't what I had wanted. But she was happy for me while I couldn't be happy. That gave me the strength to tell my younger sister, and then my older. And my older sister encouraged me to tell my best friend.
So I called my best friend. She was bummed about our plan. But she listened to me worry and cry and gave me advice and tried to be supportive, and help me plan how to surprise my husband. My husband called and I talked to him, but didn't tell him. Not yet.
I went out and bought a shirt that said, "Best Sister" for my daughter. I taped the pregnancy test to a dry erase board and wrote, "We planned, God laughed. May 25th, 2019."
My husband got home and I filmed him reading our daughter's shirt. Reading the board. Being so confused. Being happy. Being worried. Then I shut the camera off.
He called his mom. His brother. His sister. They were all so excited and happy for us.
But I couldn't be. I didn't want this. I wasn't ready. I thought words like, "Bad dream." I thought things like, "Why me?"
I went to the dentist and had to check the pregnancy box. I told my cousin. I told someone who's wedding I'm going to be in a week before my due date.
5 days of being tired, of having horrible gut problems. Of worrying and feeling sorry for myself and being way too irritable with my poor husband.
And when I woke up on Sunday to find blood in my underwear... Once again I said, "Well shit." And I sat there for a long time. I wiped and wiped. But still blood. I called my husband to come into the bathroom. He seemed confused, worried, unsure. I called my mom. She was ever so helpful. Sweet mama. Good advice.
I was aware I was pregnant for 5 days. And then I just... wasn't anymore. According to the app, I was 5 weeks along, because pregnancy is confusing. I hadn't prepared myself for this outcome. I had told so many people. And now I have to untell them.
And I have to carry this guilt around like a shawl. Because for 5 days I didn't want it. I didn't know how to feel. I prayed that I would get excited about it. But it never happened. There were small moments of happiness. Feeling like there was going to be so much to look forward to. But for the most part I just stressed. And then I lost it.
I didn't want to miscarry, though. I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to be happy. I wanted a baby. I wanted to get to the point where I was excited. But it didn't happen. It's never going to happen. I had 5 days to adjust and I never did, now I have the rest of my life to wonder if I did it to myself.
I don't think God laughed at our plan. I don't think God laughs when He knows what's going to happen next. I just don't understand why any of it had to happen. Why did he put it on my heart to buy a pregnancy test that day? Why didn't he tell me to wait a week, because then I would have just thought I was late. Why did I have to know? Why couldn't I have just been happy, so that crying in bed at night over losing this little possibility of life made any sense?
It's gonna take some time. And I don't think my questions are all gonna be answered. But I will turn to God and pray and hope and with time... I will be able to grow around this horrible week.
Saturday, April 21, 2018
Blogging for blogging's sake
I have been trying to blog at least once a week since I started following the Artist's Way, and it's not always easy to come up with ideas. Nothing's really happened this week to inspire any noteworthy feelings. So I am forced to just sort of babble in order to crank out a goal's worth of blog to feel confident about my artistic progress.
My sister has been so good to me lately. Ever since our colossal fight, we've managed to talk at least a few times a week. If not more. She's been more attentive and interactive and even when she doesn't have time or energy to video chat or talk on the phone, she'll message me via facebook to make sure I know she's not just thoughtlessly blowing me off and that she loves me. I haven't felt so very far away lately, and that's pretty much been wholly her effort and attention. Her love has not gone unnoticed. Maybe we are best friends after all. ^_^
Today is my best friend's birthday and I feel like I'm so useless, I love her so much, but I can't DO anything for her from this far away. Plus, I spent the day with my only friend here having a really nice time, and I can't help but feel guilty. I should be there, with her, making her day special. One day I hope to be able to make up for all the missed holidays and celebrations!
Why does "awful" mean "bad"? I mean... "Awesome" means "good". And "awe" means "to be in a state of wonder" (or something, I didn't look it up or anything). So how did "awful" come to mean something negative? I don't know. Just a random thought.
My little Ducky started waving recently! It's so cute! It's more of a grabbing at people, but I count it at waving. She first did it for my mother-in-law, but now she's done it to our orange cat, my sister over video message, and my mother over video message. It's the best darn thing yet!! Aside from her laughing. And her hugs when she's really excited and happy to see me. And her smile, of course. But waving is definitely up there.
My sister has been so good to me lately. Ever since our colossal fight, we've managed to talk at least a few times a week. If not more. She's been more attentive and interactive and even when she doesn't have time or energy to video chat or talk on the phone, she'll message me via facebook to make sure I know she's not just thoughtlessly blowing me off and that she loves me. I haven't felt so very far away lately, and that's pretty much been wholly her effort and attention. Her love has not gone unnoticed. Maybe we are best friends after all. ^_^
Today is my best friend's birthday and I feel like I'm so useless, I love her so much, but I can't DO anything for her from this far away. Plus, I spent the day with my only friend here having a really nice time, and I can't help but feel guilty. I should be there, with her, making her day special. One day I hope to be able to make up for all the missed holidays and celebrations!
Why does "awful" mean "bad"? I mean... "Awesome" means "good". And "awe" means "to be in a state of wonder" (or something, I didn't look it up or anything). So how did "awful" come to mean something negative? I don't know. Just a random thought.
My little Ducky started waving recently! It's so cute! It's more of a grabbing at people, but I count it at waving. She first did it for my mother-in-law, but now she's done it to our orange cat, my sister over video message, and my mother over video message. It's the best darn thing yet!! Aside from her laughing. And her hugs when she's really excited and happy to see me. And her smile, of course. But waving is definitely up there.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Unrequited friendship
Not quite as reviled, revered, or respected as unrequited love, unrequited friendship is undoubtedly the eviler of the twins. For every whiney, entitled male wingeing on about a girl “friendzoning” him is a girl confused by a guy who always seemed so nice, ditching her when he couldn’t get into her pants. Friendship has value. Friendship is important. Friendship is the building blocks of every great relationship (and the shiny victory at the end of every parent-child relationship).
I think that’s why it hurts so much. Being heartbroken when someone says that you aren’t their best friend. Or worse, that they aren’t even your friend.
Just sisters.
I thought we were all three best friends.
It was months ago that my younger sister, the one who I’ve always let down, made it clear she and I were only sisters. That my oldest sister was her best friend. I kind of took the defeat, knowing I had laid a crummy foundation for trust, love, reciprocation... it wasn’t totally a surprise when she had said it. I have changed a lot since high school, but I cannot change the mistakes I made and J cannot tell her to let it go, so I strive to replace bad memories with good ones, always slipping back when I think I’m making progress. So, while I took that burden of truth, it still hurt. It was still a shard of ice to the warmth of my desire to heal all the transgressions of my past and help her regain the confidence I had taken away from her.
But today I was confronted with the fact that my older sister feels the same way. This was a surprise. I thought it was equal. Equal, but different. The kind of love a mother has for her children, each a favorite in a specific and unique way.
Not so.
Maybe it’s the distance. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry. Maybe it’s a million stupid things I’ve done and said in my life.
But they pick each other to be friends. Best friends.
And as she so elegantly put it, “Stop saying we’re friends, because we’re not. We’re just sisters.”
I thank God for my husband. I thank God for my child.
I thank God for my mother and for my friend.
Because this rejection... makes me think of a thousand ways I’ve hurt the two people who know me best. The two people I am most like. The two people that are my braid of strength, winding in and out of me, so entwined in who they are, I have found myself. My strength, my intelligence, my humor, my soul is just made up of little pieces of them.
But they don’t want me.
And that makes me want to die.
God, help me be stronger than this hurt.
I think that’s why it hurts so much. Being heartbroken when someone says that you aren’t their best friend. Or worse, that they aren’t even your friend.
Just sisters.
I thought we were all three best friends.
It was months ago that my younger sister, the one who I’ve always let down, made it clear she and I were only sisters. That my oldest sister was her best friend. I kind of took the defeat, knowing I had laid a crummy foundation for trust, love, reciprocation... it wasn’t totally a surprise when she had said it. I have changed a lot since high school, but I cannot change the mistakes I made and J cannot tell her to let it go, so I strive to replace bad memories with good ones, always slipping back when I think I’m making progress. So, while I took that burden of truth, it still hurt. It was still a shard of ice to the warmth of my desire to heal all the transgressions of my past and help her regain the confidence I had taken away from her.
But today I was confronted with the fact that my older sister feels the same way. This was a surprise. I thought it was equal. Equal, but different. The kind of love a mother has for her children, each a favorite in a specific and unique way.
Not so.
Maybe it’s the distance. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry. Maybe it’s a million stupid things I’ve done and said in my life.
But they pick each other to be friends. Best friends.
And as she so elegantly put it, “Stop saying we’re friends, because we’re not. We’re just sisters.”
I thank God for my husband. I thank God for my child.
I thank God for my mother and for my friend.
Because this rejection... makes me think of a thousand ways I’ve hurt the two people who know me best. The two people I am most like. The two people that are my braid of strength, winding in and out of me, so entwined in who they are, I have found myself. My strength, my intelligence, my humor, my soul is just made up of little pieces of them.
But they don’t want me.
And that makes me want to die.
God, help me be stronger than this hurt.
Cracks in the window
A pebble hit my window
I want to ignore the chip.
But soon I see the splintering crack
Begin to grow and rip.
His words were dealt in thoughtlessness
And flung without a care
And left me sobbing, hopeless
Feeling raw and bare.
The crack has spread across my vision
But I still pretend I can’t see
Spiderwebs of fractured glass
A tiny chip left unfixed has cost a hefty fee.
Maybe if he had been softer
Had explained his insecurity
I could have carefully locked my heart.
But that was my immaturity.
Whenever the weather changes,
The glass cracks a little more.
I’m forced to face the pebble’s damage
That wasn’t there before.
I had such high hopes in my marriage
Looked with rose colored glasses on.
But then he threw a pebble.
And my ignorant bliss is gone.
But when I opened my heart
And showed him the shattered picture
He wrapped me in strong safe arms
And his words became my scripture
“I hate that you’re so hurt.
I hate that it’s all my fault.
I hate that I have cringed
When all I want is to exalt.
There’s so much time to fix this.
I’m ready to begin the work.
Give you confidence, love, and courage
For every single hurt.”
So we’re replacing the window
With a mosaic of colored glass
A patchwork rainbow the sun can shine through
In out marriage that will last.
I want to ignore the chip.
But soon I see the splintering crack
Begin to grow and rip.
His words were dealt in thoughtlessness
And flung without a care
And left me sobbing, hopeless
Feeling raw and bare.
The crack has spread across my vision
But I still pretend I can’t see
Spiderwebs of fractured glass
A tiny chip left unfixed has cost a hefty fee.
Maybe if he had been softer
Had explained his insecurity
I could have carefully locked my heart.
But that was my immaturity.
Whenever the weather changes,
The glass cracks a little more.
I’m forced to face the pebble’s damage
That wasn’t there before.
I had such high hopes in my marriage
Looked with rose colored glasses on.
But then he threw a pebble.
And my ignorant bliss is gone.
But when I opened my heart
And showed him the shattered picture
He wrapped me in strong safe arms
And his words became my scripture
“I hate that you’re so hurt.
I hate that it’s all my fault.
I hate that I have cringed
When all I want is to exalt.
There’s so much time to fix this.
I’m ready to begin the work.
Give you confidence, love, and courage
For every single hurt.”
So we’re replacing the window
With a mosaic of colored glass
A patchwork rainbow the sun can shine through
In out marriage that will last.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Nightly Joy
I hear her cry sweep into my dark bedroom, and inwardly I groan. I have stayed up too late, relishing in the blissful independence that night time brings, the cozy comfort of being able to roll about and use my phone with two hands. I have lost hours in a stupid game I cannot play during daylight due to a grumpy baby, needy animals, and too many chores. How did midnight find me so quickly? Where did my "Freedom" hours go? I lie still and quiet next to my gently slumbering husband, half wishing he could take a turn, half wishing she won't wake him up. I let her fuss through a cycle, hoping against hope that she will find her pacifier, feel comforted, and go back to sleep. But the end of a gentle cycle brings on a louder one, and I know if I leave her crying for too long, she will be so awake, her feeding won't lull her back to sleep. So up I get as my husband begins to stir, hurrying to calm her so he can get a full night's rest. He's got his job in the morning. I've got mine all night.
Her room is always so much darker than I expect it to be, despite the string of battery operated apple-shaped lights hanging on her walls. She's ramped up louder than I realized and I scoop her up with comforting coos. Her little hand scratches at my shoulder, but she doesn't lean against me, pushing away, squirming, trying to manuever herself down to where she is the most comforted; with a breast in her mouth. So I hold her firmly and carefully, ignoring my sudden need to pee, and carry her back into my room.
Laying down with her, she makes urgent, noisy demands. I hate this because I know it disturbs her dad and as much as I resent his peaceful REM cycle, I don't want to wake him up. My pjs aren't warm enough to face the cold of the room, but inexplicably the blankets have become so completely twisted, I have no idea how to get under them while lying on my side. I fling one arm out, vainly tugging behind me, as I simultaneously try to maneuver my boob into my daughter's frantic mouth. I focus on the boob to calm her and once she's latched, I'm able to twist in such an acrobatic way that something shifts and suddenly the blankets flop over us as though there was nothing holding them back in the first place.
My dear husband has rolled away from us, snuggled against his pillow, knees bent in front of him, taking the room of two people, leaving baby and me a tiny sliver of bed. Even with the lack of room, he still manages to make his body totally useless to my need for support. If he lay just an inch closer, or rolled onto his back, I could lean my back against his warm strength and be able to relax. But because he's got the knack of keeping my weight off him during sleep so perfected, I am forced to steel my core against rolling into his gravitational pull and away from the baby. This nightly workout should have me toned by the time she starts sleeping till dawn.
Something about my pillow and my arm have made it impossible to just lay my head down, so I bend my elbow and prop my head on my forearm. This does nothing for my comfort level. I begin counting her gasping gulps, hoping she nods off soon. But she cried too long and she's awake enough to begin exploring. I can feel her little fingernails scratching at my skin, pinching any raised skin tag she finds. Her arm flings out and she whacks herself in the head several times, a new trick she's picked up. She pops on and off my breast, enjoying the sensations of learning to control her little body. She bucks and kicks me in the stomach, legs, crotch... her whole body never stops moving, even when she's suction-cupped to her milk-supply. Scratch, scratch, pinch, pull, kick, kick, kick. Her hand finds my shirt and yanks at it a couple of times. I count gasping gulps, readjust my arm, pull the blanket she's managed to kick off back over us, hoping my breathing, my heartbeat, our warmth will lull her back to sleep. Kick, kick, kick. Yank, tug, pull.
She pops of and gasps, finds her pacifier by following the handy cord that keeps it from being lost forever, and pulls it to her mouth. She's just playing with it and making happy cooing sounds. I stroke her head and take this momentary reprieve to adjust my position, jostling the pillow till my neck can rest without feeling like I'm hanging upside-down. She yanks her pacifier out of her mouth and turns back towards me, seeking me out. I help her and she latches again for 30 seconds before popping off and fussing. It's a good sign that she's tapped that side out, so I tuck her against me and we roll over together.
All comfort is once again lost in the scuffle of trying to fit our bodies together, her mouth finding my breast before I can sort out what happened to the blankets that were covering my legs a moment ago, and why the pillow decided to shoot out from under my head. But rolling over has calmed her and she seems drowsier. She moves a little less, still gulping and gasping, but they stretch apart and in a lull, I manage to settle my head on the pillow and snuggle us together as she slowly drifts off at my breast. Her hand has found mind and curled around it, her feet are tucked against my abdomen, and I can hear her beginning to fall into a deeper sleep.
My face is so close to her face... I can smell her sweet breath. I pop her relaxed mouth of me and tuck my bits back into my shirt, but now she's snuggled in my arms and she's so warm and soft. How has her hair grown so quickly? I rub my lips back and forth against the softness. She's still bald compared to some babies, but she's got more hair than she ever had before. I can just make out the curve of her face from the glow of a streetlight filtering in through my blinds. Such a sweet round little face.
It's just me in this moment. My husband is snoring contentedly and my daughter is sailing to dreamland. It's just me and her heartbeat and her sweet smelling breath. The resentment I had for her daddy getting to sleep while I nursed my little wiggler melts away, and I'm left with a prideful feeling of selfishness. He may not have the same responsibility, but neither does he get to reap these little rewards. I am overwhelmed with joy.
She moves a little and I put her pacifier in her mouth. She immediately relaxes again. She's so little. I can fit her against me so perfectly. But she's also so much bigger than ever. 7 months old. It's felt like no time at all. And it's felt like forever. I can't believe there was a time when I slept through the night and didn't get to hold this warm, soft, sweet-smelling bundle against me for a few moments of joy. My heart swells with love. Do I have to put her back in her crib? Her hair is so soft. And her body is so snuggly. Can't I drift off with her right here, tucked against my tummy?
But she twists a little and lets out a quiet fussy noise, and I know we both sleep better on our own, So I nestle her against me and, with my whole core, I crunch up in a smooth and fluid motion, holding my breath so I don't grunt. Moving a sleeping baby is a dangerous game, but I have been doing this multiple times a night, every night, since she was 5 months old. It's a skill I have almost perfected.
When she's relaxed like this, she feels like she weighs nothing and I could hold her all night long, but I carry her into her always-too-dark bedroom and lay her down in her crib. Her arms flop up around her ears and her head turns to the side. She won't move until she begins to wake up for her next feeding. I tuck her blankets around her and kiss my hand and touch her little head with it. I don't think it matters how many times I do this, I'm always so overwhelmed with love when I see her sleeping so peacefully. I did this. I think to myself. I took a fussy baby and put her back to sleep. It's a pretty cool feeling.
I return to my room and lay down. I'll fall asleep quickly. It's been a long day that was proceeded by a long night and a long day before that. This won't be the last time I have to crawl out of bed to calm my fussy child. But for now, I'll get some well-deserved sleep.
Her room is always so much darker than I expect it to be, despite the string of battery operated apple-shaped lights hanging on her walls. She's ramped up louder than I realized and I scoop her up with comforting coos. Her little hand scratches at my shoulder, but she doesn't lean against me, pushing away, squirming, trying to manuever herself down to where she is the most comforted; with a breast in her mouth. So I hold her firmly and carefully, ignoring my sudden need to pee, and carry her back into my room.
Laying down with her, she makes urgent, noisy demands. I hate this because I know it disturbs her dad and as much as I resent his peaceful REM cycle, I don't want to wake him up. My pjs aren't warm enough to face the cold of the room, but inexplicably the blankets have become so completely twisted, I have no idea how to get under them while lying on my side. I fling one arm out, vainly tugging behind me, as I simultaneously try to maneuver my boob into my daughter's frantic mouth. I focus on the boob to calm her and once she's latched, I'm able to twist in such an acrobatic way that something shifts and suddenly the blankets flop over us as though there was nothing holding them back in the first place.
My dear husband has rolled away from us, snuggled against his pillow, knees bent in front of him, taking the room of two people, leaving baby and me a tiny sliver of bed. Even with the lack of room, he still manages to make his body totally useless to my need for support. If he lay just an inch closer, or rolled onto his back, I could lean my back against his warm strength and be able to relax. But because he's got the knack of keeping my weight off him during sleep so perfected, I am forced to steel my core against rolling into his gravitational pull and away from the baby. This nightly workout should have me toned by the time she starts sleeping till dawn.
Something about my pillow and my arm have made it impossible to just lay my head down, so I bend my elbow and prop my head on my forearm. This does nothing for my comfort level. I begin counting her gasping gulps, hoping she nods off soon. But she cried too long and she's awake enough to begin exploring. I can feel her little fingernails scratching at my skin, pinching any raised skin tag she finds. Her arm flings out and she whacks herself in the head several times, a new trick she's picked up. She pops on and off my breast, enjoying the sensations of learning to control her little body. She bucks and kicks me in the stomach, legs, crotch... her whole body never stops moving, even when she's suction-cupped to her milk-supply. Scratch, scratch, pinch, pull, kick, kick, kick. Her hand finds my shirt and yanks at it a couple of times. I count gasping gulps, readjust my arm, pull the blanket she's managed to kick off back over us, hoping my breathing, my heartbeat, our warmth will lull her back to sleep. Kick, kick, kick. Yank, tug, pull.
She pops of and gasps, finds her pacifier by following the handy cord that keeps it from being lost forever, and pulls it to her mouth. She's just playing with it and making happy cooing sounds. I stroke her head and take this momentary reprieve to adjust my position, jostling the pillow till my neck can rest without feeling like I'm hanging upside-down. She yanks her pacifier out of her mouth and turns back towards me, seeking me out. I help her and she latches again for 30 seconds before popping off and fussing. It's a good sign that she's tapped that side out, so I tuck her against me and we roll over together.
All comfort is once again lost in the scuffle of trying to fit our bodies together, her mouth finding my breast before I can sort out what happened to the blankets that were covering my legs a moment ago, and why the pillow decided to shoot out from under my head. But rolling over has calmed her and she seems drowsier. She moves a little less, still gulping and gasping, but they stretch apart and in a lull, I manage to settle my head on the pillow and snuggle us together as she slowly drifts off at my breast. Her hand has found mind and curled around it, her feet are tucked against my abdomen, and I can hear her beginning to fall into a deeper sleep.
My face is so close to her face... I can smell her sweet breath. I pop her relaxed mouth of me and tuck my bits back into my shirt, but now she's snuggled in my arms and she's so warm and soft. How has her hair grown so quickly? I rub my lips back and forth against the softness. She's still bald compared to some babies, but she's got more hair than she ever had before. I can just make out the curve of her face from the glow of a streetlight filtering in through my blinds. Such a sweet round little face.
It's just me in this moment. My husband is snoring contentedly and my daughter is sailing to dreamland. It's just me and her heartbeat and her sweet smelling breath. The resentment I had for her daddy getting to sleep while I nursed my little wiggler melts away, and I'm left with a prideful feeling of selfishness. He may not have the same responsibility, but neither does he get to reap these little rewards. I am overwhelmed with joy.
She moves a little and I put her pacifier in her mouth. She immediately relaxes again. She's so little. I can fit her against me so perfectly. But she's also so much bigger than ever. 7 months old. It's felt like no time at all. And it's felt like forever. I can't believe there was a time when I slept through the night and didn't get to hold this warm, soft, sweet-smelling bundle against me for a few moments of joy. My heart swells with love. Do I have to put her back in her crib? Her hair is so soft. And her body is so snuggly. Can't I drift off with her right here, tucked against my tummy?
But she twists a little and lets out a quiet fussy noise, and I know we both sleep better on our own, So I nestle her against me and, with my whole core, I crunch up in a smooth and fluid motion, holding my breath so I don't grunt. Moving a sleeping baby is a dangerous game, but I have been doing this multiple times a night, every night, since she was 5 months old. It's a skill I have almost perfected.
When she's relaxed like this, she feels like she weighs nothing and I could hold her all night long, but I carry her into her always-too-dark bedroom and lay her down in her crib. Her arms flop up around her ears and her head turns to the side. She won't move until she begins to wake up for her next feeding. I tuck her blankets around her and kiss my hand and touch her little head with it. I don't think it matters how many times I do this, I'm always so overwhelmed with love when I see her sleeping so peacefully. I did this. I think to myself. I took a fussy baby and put her back to sleep. It's a pretty cool feeling.
I return to my room and lay down. I'll fall asleep quickly. It's been a long day that was proceeded by a long night and a long day before that. This won't be the last time I have to crawl out of bed to calm my fussy child. But for now, I'll get some well-deserved sleep.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Adulting
This new "millennial" word that means "Doing the things adult people do". Driving. Working. Getting out of bed. Showering. Paying bills. Not spending all your money on fast food and makeup. The type of things we looked at our parents doing and ignored just how much effort went into those every day routines.
I graduated 8 years ago. That didn't turn me into a grown up. I got my license and my ears pierced at 19. I was still not feeling "grown up". I have been married for almost 4 years. That didn't really turn me into a grown up. The moment I got pregnant... I felt a little older. Not grown up, exactly, but on my way. And then, in the blink of an eye, holding my baby after the most traumatic experience of my life... I was grown. I had become an adult. And unlike all my fears and worries and lazy nature had warned me... I wanted it. I wanted to be an adult person doing the adult things. Driving and working and waking up and taking care of someone else day in and day out. I wanted to know everything about this little person and be the most important. It was the most daunting idea... and the most satisfying reality. There is no way to prepare someone who doesn't understand what that feelings like. You really have to experience it.
My life before giving birth was easy, leisurely. I enjoyed (for the most part) staying home all day, basking in my stuck-ness, my happy-to-be-lazy idleness wrapping me in a bubble of ignorance. I was so scared to lose it. Now, I wouldn't go back for all the world.
I get up every day with my daughter, feeding her, changing her, welcoming her to the day. I take care of my dogs, my cat, my new bird. I wash laundry every Monday and Thursday (for such a tiny person, my laundry has doubled). I cook meals and prepare packed lunches for my husband. I have begun taking quiet time during her naps to focus on God and my own creativity. I have set goals, and every week I put together a To-Do list that I have consistently gotten done. Not just easy things like washing the dishes, but big jobs that I have put off for far too long, like organizing the garage, and going through my craft room.
I owe a lot of my motivation to a book I've been following called "The Artist's Way" which is about recovering your creativity through the work of the Lord. It's been an amazing boost to my productivity. And for the past 4 weeks, I have been crawling into bed at night happy, productive, and sore. I have even begun exercising again.
I feel like an adult. Maybe not quite like my mom yet, who is a role model of self-motivation, hard work, and keeping busy. But I am like me. As an adult. Happy, efficient, and very content in my little chores.
I've even left the house by myself. (well, with my little Ducky-girl!) A tremendous feat for me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression when I lived in Guam with my honey... A great deal of that fell away once we moved back to the states. (I don't know if it was knowing I could drive to see my folks, or the air, or my own bizarre brain, but I was so grateful to be released from anxiety's strangling grip.) But now I feel like I can do anything. I've even joined a MOPS group and made friends!
Anyway. My point was... I've been adulting a lot lately. And it feels SO. Good.
I graduated 8 years ago. That didn't turn me into a grown up. I got my license and my ears pierced at 19. I was still not feeling "grown up". I have been married for almost 4 years. That didn't really turn me into a grown up. The moment I got pregnant... I felt a little older. Not grown up, exactly, but on my way. And then, in the blink of an eye, holding my baby after the most traumatic experience of my life... I was grown. I had become an adult. And unlike all my fears and worries and lazy nature had warned me... I wanted it. I wanted to be an adult person doing the adult things. Driving and working and waking up and taking care of someone else day in and day out. I wanted to know everything about this little person and be the most important. It was the most daunting idea... and the most satisfying reality. There is no way to prepare someone who doesn't understand what that feelings like. You really have to experience it.
My life before giving birth was easy, leisurely. I enjoyed (for the most part) staying home all day, basking in my stuck-ness, my happy-to-be-lazy idleness wrapping me in a bubble of ignorance. I was so scared to lose it. Now, I wouldn't go back for all the world.
I get up every day with my daughter, feeding her, changing her, welcoming her to the day. I take care of my dogs, my cat, my new bird. I wash laundry every Monday and Thursday (for such a tiny person, my laundry has doubled). I cook meals and prepare packed lunches for my husband. I have begun taking quiet time during her naps to focus on God and my own creativity. I have set goals, and every week I put together a To-Do list that I have consistently gotten done. Not just easy things like washing the dishes, but big jobs that I have put off for far too long, like organizing the garage, and going through my craft room.
I owe a lot of my motivation to a book I've been following called "The Artist's Way" which is about recovering your creativity through the work of the Lord. It's been an amazing boost to my productivity. And for the past 4 weeks, I have been crawling into bed at night happy, productive, and sore. I have even begun exercising again.
I feel like an adult. Maybe not quite like my mom yet, who is a role model of self-motivation, hard work, and keeping busy. But I am like me. As an adult. Happy, efficient, and very content in my little chores.
I've even left the house by myself. (well, with my little Ducky-girl!) A tremendous feat for me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression when I lived in Guam with my honey... A great deal of that fell away once we moved back to the states. (I don't know if it was knowing I could drive to see my folks, or the air, or my own bizarre brain, but I was so grateful to be released from anxiety's strangling grip.) But now I feel like I can do anything. I've even joined a MOPS group and made friends!
Anyway. My point was... I've been adulting a lot lately. And it feels SO. Good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)