I Like Purple and Orange Santas

So, I have been substitute teaching.  There’s a lot I could (and probably will) say about this experience.  But for today, I’ll say this: Let’s allow our children to be the creative, curious individuals they instinctively are.

Last week I subbed in a large class with another long-term sub.  For part of the day we also had an aide (what a blessing, most classes I’m in do not have this).  I was thrilled to have the extra hands, although part-way through the day I started to witness little moments that were bothering me: condescending remarks to the kids, chastising the wrong kid when a few weren’t getting along, etc. 

But this moment stuck the longest: The kids were given a color-by-number Santa head to color.  It was boring.  There were only three colors involved, one of them being white (and might I add, the largest portion of the picture).  First off, most of the kids couldn’t read, so didn’t get the color-by-number concept anyways.  Secondly, there were only two colors for the kids to use.  Again, boring.  Not to mention there weren’t enough of these particular two colors (red and “peach”… when have you seen a peach crayon?) for each child.

So most of them began doing their own thing, coloring Santa how they saw fit.  Fair enough.  And might I add, the results were fascinating.  I didn’t interrupt the kids.  It was nearing the end of the day, they were happy and engaged… good enough for me.  I could care less if they didn’t color Santa the “right” way. 

I was alone in this opinion.  The long-term sub and aide both began to get after the kids about using the correct colors.  And when several of the kids began asking what color “peach” was, both the aide and sub would answer, “You know, skin color.”  I won’t even get started right now on that comment.

I’m torn in these areas.  I understand wanting kids to grasp a concept, to follow instructions, blah, blah, blah.  I’m just not sure how insisting that each kid color Santa the exact same way (and inside the lines, mind you) is serving a benefit.  To watch these kids color the way they want to when given the freedom is a gift itself.  So much of their young personalities spill out onto the page when given free rein.  They are all so particular in their coloring technique, their style, their strategy.  Shouldn’t this tell us something? 

What are we doing to these young imaginations by insisting they all color the exact same way?  Who wants to hang the exact same 30+ Santas on the wall outside the classroom?  Isn’t it much more interesting to have them all start from the same point and see where they end up?  Don’t you think they have much more pride and a feeling of ownership when they can quickly point out and identify, “Hey, that’s my Santa!”

It seems like a small point to fixate on, but I came home that day so discouraged.  We are so groomed to fit in, to conform, to do the “right” thing for most of our lives, and it starts young.  But let’s not take away the joy of coloring freely on a page from these abundantly creative minds.  We should all want to see what they come up with.  It’s stunning.

*  *  *  *  *

P.S.  I wanted to write a holiday-themed post, and this wasn’t my initial intention, but since this experience stuck with me (and at least had a Santa angle), I decided to share it.

That being said, I wanted to wish you all a warm Christmas with family and friends.  When the little ones you cross paths with break into those fresh boxes of crayons (as Eli and Sophie have already done) give them encouragement to express themselves however they see fit.  Don’t worry about the lines, the right colors.  I can guarantee they will show you a new way of seeing things.  One of the many gifts kids give us each and every day, if we’re paying attention.

We Don't Want to Know, News

I almost never watch the news.  As a rule. 

When I do, I am always repulsed, disturbed, or traumatized in some way.  It’s like hearing the digest version of the worst things to happen—in our city, state, country, world—in the last 24 hours.  Sure, there is the occasional lighthearted piece, the weather, sports, but… none of that outweighs the constant onslaught of terrible news.

This means I miss lots of “news.”  But there was no way to miss what happened this past Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  I am grateful this news did not make itself known to me until after I was done substitute teaching in a K-2 classroom for the day.  In fact, there wasn’t a whisper of what had transpired anywhere in the teacher’s lounge, hallways, or office.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

But now… I can’t stop thinking about what happened.  I’ve cried a bucket of tears in the last three days.  I had a ridiculously hard time dropping Eli off at preschool today, lingering on the playground, hugging him too many times, zipping his coat a little higher, messing with his hat, asking him if he was okay (he was, of course), just not wanting to step away.

Because once again the blind faith we put out into the world when we leave our children behind has been rattled, to the core.  Because we all know what happened could happen anywhere, anytime.  Because we all know that losing a child is our worst nightmare, period. 

This tragedy brings up all manner of difficult, complex, and emotionally-charged discussions.  I could write for days about gun control.  About the need for readily available mental health care.  About the fact that we as a society are failing our children.

These are all important discussions, and they are happening all around us.  This is a start.

But I have to go back to where I started.  I don’t watch the news.  This means I gather my news from the internet.  Not that it’s any more reliable or less sensational, but at least I have some control over what I choose to read and can avoid the visual aspect traditional news brings along with it (in my mind, an added layer of trauma). 

I have been careful not to read too much about this tragedy, as it only serves to overwhelm me further.  Saturday morning as we sat around the table eating breakfast as a family, I couldn’t stop tearing up, was repeatedly overtaken by a suffocating mix of emotions: grief, anger, sadness, relief, helplessness, despair, all-encompassing love.

Still, I have been following this story, part of the incessant need to “understand” how someone could do something so unimaginable to any reasonable mind.  It’s foolish, because there is nothing that could be revealed to help me understand anything about this.

So when I clicked on the latest story I wasn’t expecting (why, I don’t know) to be met with specifics detailing how the children were killed.  And these nightmare-inducing details were just simply released out to the public, as though we are somehow owed this information.  As though we somehow want to know this information.

Another layer of trauma. 

Can we have a discussion about the role of media?  About their duty to the public and the instances where discretion might be in the best interests of the public?  I don’t care how many CSI-type shows you watch or how desensitized people have become to violence, what good is going to come of describing in great detail how these children were gunned down?

It’s not about me, though I would certainly prefer not to know these things.  I am an adult, long out of my youthful school days (though my current job finds me back in that setting).  I have accrued the wisdom, maturity and emotional strength to handle most of what the media decides to throw at me.  Children, however, are infinitely more sensitive to details such as these.  And guess what?  They’re on the internet, too. 

I can’t speak to what is being shown / talked about on television since I have avoided it, though I imagine these grim details are being played out there as well. 

What are we doing to our children?  How do we expect them to feel safe, to want to go to school, when we are so thoughtlessly painting a terrifying picture for them?  I don’t think we need to keep children in the dark, but no child needs to hear these kinds of details.  In fact, no one needs to hear these details.  It certainly brings no comfort to the poor families who have lost their children. 

No, all it does is underscore the depth of this young man’s diseased mind (I refuse to type his name—we need to stop giving these monsters their celebrity).  And the callousness of the media. 

Like I said, there are any number of difficult discussions happening around us.  In many instances I feel helpless, the what-can-I-do-to-make-it-better quandary I often find myself in.  Here’s a start:  Turn off your TV.  Stop clicking on every story about the tragedy.  I know it’s hard.  There’s an allure to this shared experience, a reassurance that you’re not the only one crying buckets of tears, not the only one who is heartbroken, or furious, or sad.  Let’s do this: Turn to your friends, neighbors and loved ones and start talking.  Start noticing the children in your life that may need a little extra love and help.  As hard as this is for us as adults, we need to make sure that our children are doing okay, too. 

I, for one, do not have the first clue how to talk to kids when it comes to tragedies like this.  But I’m (reluctantly) learning.  One of my friends posted a link if you need some help in this area, developed after the Virginia Tech shooting (thanks, Shane).  Go here for more information.  Let’s be there for each other right now, friends.      

Who Needs Balance?

Ahh, balance.  I’ve come back to this confounding word, often, as though if I think about it long and hard enough, somehow my life will follow.  I knew becoming a mother would throw my familiar, comfortable, stable life out the window.  And it did.  I knew carving out free time would become a challenge, that I would have to sacrifice certain parts of my life so I would have adequate time to be the kind of mom I knew I wanted to be.

Of course you have high hopes of doing it all after you have kids.  I remember my resistance when people would say to me:  “Oh, you won’t have time for _________ after you have kids” (and then they would let loose a cruel laugh).   Jeez, thanks.

Part of my struggle is my incessant need to create.  This isn’t complicated.  I need to put my ass in the chair and write.  Sure, there are other creative things I like to do, but none of them keeps me up at night the way writing does. 

This sounds simple enough.  If I want to write, then write.  And some days, I do.

Most days I don’t.  And I don’t exercise enough (this is something I like doing).  I don’t give myself a mental break.  I don’t get to spend enough time with Vinny, doing any of the things we love to do.  I don’t.  I don’t.  I don’t.

As a result I find myself hating time because there isn’t enough of it in a day to do all the things not only that I need to do, but that I would really love to do as well.

Then that damn word balance crops up.  Balance.  How do parents balance it all?  Parenting, relationship with partner, household duties, work, friends, hobbies, self-care (I’m sure I’m forgetting other critical things, but you get idea).  Is there a way to do it all? 

I have moments when I tell myself I am being selfish for needing time to write, time to have my creative outlets, time to sit in a quiet room for ten minutes and do nothing.  I can do those things later, right?  I look to the future when the kids will be in school all day and say, “Yes, that is when I will do things.”  I think about how quickly time is passing already and know that I need to have these moments with the kids now, because before I know it they will be in school all day and I won’t get to share so much time with them (this is heartbreaking to me on many levels).

But then I have to stop myself, because I know I am only doing myself a disservice in the long run to deny parts of my life from existence for several more years. 

So, what then?

This parenting thing… it’s a tough gig.  It’s by far the best gig I’ve ever had.  By far.  So there’s that.  But it’s also the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.  It amazes me how in the span of a day you can have so many highs and lows.  So many tiny joys and so many amazingly frustrating moments… sometimes in the span of a minute.

And then there’s me.  Where do I fit in in all of this?  Will the Stacy I have been survive all this and come out the other side?  I want to be the best parent I can be, but I also don’t want to lose myself in the process.

Balance.  It crops up again.  And again.  And again. 

I haven’t figured it out yet.  It’s like trying to keep ten balls in the air at the same time without one hitting the ground.  How long can you keep that up?

Here’s one thing I’ve started doing: I’ve lowered my expectations.  This sounds easy in theory, but in practice… this one is tough for me.  I expect a lot of myself.  And I’m hard on myself when I’m not, for lack of a better phrase, getting shit done.

Here’s another thing I’ve started doing: I’ve stopped comparing myself to others.  It’s so easy to do.  We all know a parent that makes it look so damn easy.  You know, their house is spotless, you would never know from looking at them that they’ve given birth (usually to at least three kids), they somehow manage to keep up with current affairs, books, the latest restaurant openings, and somehow find time to comb their hair.  Not only have I stopped comparing myself to others, I’ve stopped trying to figure out how those parents juggle all those hats and still manage to be lovely people to be around.  It’s exhausting. 

So in the midst of all this contemplation on balance and my struggle to carve out time to do the things I love, I have given the future of this blog some serious thought.  When things get hectic, it’s often the first thing to fall to the wayside.  This drives me crazy, but it’s not like I have to do this blog.  I’ve thought a lot about not doing it.

The thought of not continuing this little pocket ‘o internet makes me sad.  In fact, in mulling over whether or not to continue on, I’ve come up with some other, exciting-to-me things I would like to add to the site.  This blog is here for others.  Sure, it’s a way for me to put words down, to feel my way through this whole parenting fiasco, to share my frustrations and high-five moments. 

But when I hear from my readers?  Those are the days that stay with me.  For me, it’s all about the connection.  My goal is always to make someone else feel less alone in their journey.  To know they have company through it all.

So, stay tuned readers.  I’m currently scheming up ways to turn this corner of the world into more of a community, because if anything, I would love to hear more from YOU.  To invite more participation, to help each other out not only in our parenting lives, but in our creative lives as well.  To offer more in the way of advice, services, links, etc. 

What would you like to see more of?  Feel free to share your ideas; I’d love to hear them.

Balance?  Who needs it.

While I've Been AWOL Here...

...I have been doing other writing.  Really.

Beyond that, it's just... life.  Life has been so full lately, giving me little time to reflect, record, and share.

I did, however, get to share a memorable experience with readers of another blog, a local arts blog I was invited to contribute to.  I wanted to share the link, as I think any regular readers of my blog would appreciate this particular post: go here.

For those of you unfamiliar with ArtPrize, it is an annual open art contest here in Grand Rapids.  This was it's fourth year, the first I've attended, and the word that has stuck in my mind when I think of ArtPrize is: spectacle.  I hope you enjoy this little slice of my experience.

And I'll be back, soon. 

I Survived the First Day of Preschool

Today was Eli’s first day of preschool.  I knew I would be a wreck even though I kept telling myself I would play it cool, that I was in control of this situation.  In my mind I knew that as long as he kept it together, than I had half a chance of keeping it together.

I managed to keep things bright and cheery this morning even though I’m sick (again), and didn’t sleep most of the night.  This is not easy to do when you feel like you can barely stand up. 

Eli surprised me as we were getting ready to leave, yelling into the other room, “See you later, Dad!  I go to cool now!”  He stood there clutching his red canvas tote the preschool provides to all the kids, and truly looked excited to go. 

This might go well, I thought to myself.

And it did, right up until we got to the door of the classroom and Miss Ronda came out with a huge bottle of hand sanitizer and wanted to squirt some of it in Eli’s hand.  Apparently, this is not the way to say good morning to him on the first day of school.

He immediately started fussing, hid behind my leg, then clutched it.  I could feel myself starting to lose it, wondered how the hell I was going to get him into that classroom so I could make my getaway and cry in the car.

I bent down and let Miss Ronda put sanitizer on my hand and explained that it’s like lotion (we almost never use sanitizer).  He started to cry and giggle at the same time.  Miss Ronda asked him about his shirt, and ten seconds later he was holding out his hand letting her squirt sanitizer into it (I’ll say I wasn’t pleased with this routine, but that topic is for another day). 

Next thing I knew she was whooshing him off through the threshold of the classroom, not making eye contact with me (smart), and not letting me say goodbye to him (really smart).  I wandered down to the other door to the classroom.  It was closed and has one of those windows where you can see in, but the kids can’t see you on the other side. 

I waited for about thirty seconds, didn’t see Eli, couldn’t hear him crying/screaming, wanted to see Eli very badly just for peace of mind, then decided I needed to get my ass in gear if I was going to make it to the car without letting everyone see me cry. 

I could see another mom ahead of me, making the same dash to her car.  I could also tell she was bawling about halfway there and for some reason that comforted me.

The teachers left “goodie bags” in all the kid’s cubbies for the moms.  The “poem” attached to the outside:

You bring to us your child so dear,

Not without a touch of fear.

You both might want to shed a tear.

We promise we will love them here.

We’ll teach them they are a special one.

We’ll teach them school is lots of fun.

We’ll teach them how to share and play.

We’ll teach them something new each day.

Relax, go home, feeling free,

To have yourself this cup of tea,

Within days, you will see,

School is where they want to be!

So I didn’t get past the first stanza without becoming a blubbering mess.  When I got in the car I briefly felt like I was going to hyperventilate as the wall of questions came crashing down:  Was he okay?  Did he know I was coming back?  What if he got upset and they couldn’t calm him down?  Who were those kids?  Were they going to be nice to him?  Was he going to be happy there?  Was he going to hate it?  Was he going to hate me for leaving him there?  How could I leave him there? 

I couldn’t believe I had just… left him.  Just like that.  I took off, in a hurry.  It went against every mothering instinct in my body to leave him.  I felt horrible.

I know there are going to be so many more moments like this.  Moments where you have to let go.  Little by little by little.  Or, on some days, a lot.  Today was a lot for me.

When I came back to pick him up, the class was on the playground and he was in the sandbox, surrounded by toys.  He looked so happy.  He was only mildly excited to see me (this was a relief, actually).  I knew it meant he had been just fine.  In fact, I had to convince him to leave those cool new toys behind, had to remind him that Dad and Sophie were excited to see him, couldn’t wait to hear about his first day at school. 

The rest of the day was a challenge.  Every time I left the room he got upset.  He’s been super clingy.  This pulls on my heartstrings, and I wonder how things will go next Monday when I drop him off again.  I hope I will be stronger. 

I know it will get easier, for both of us.  Beyond that, all I can say is that it was a big day, for all of us, and we did okay. 

Tired of Tired

Seriously.  Whenever anyone in the last, oh, two years has asked me, “how are you doing?” the automatic response is, “I’m tired.”  At which point people nod along and say, “Well, you’re ________.”  (responses may include: pregnant, moving, solo-parenting, dealing with another newborn, the mom of two young kids, crazy)

Or, I’ll get a wary look.  A look of, “your baby isn’t a newborn anymore, get over it,” kind of look. 

Here’s the thing:  I am more tired now than I have ever been in my life.  Every cell in my body is screaming at me on a daily basis I am so fatigued. 

I don’t have time for this. I certainly don’t have the patience for it.  And for a long time, I simply tried to ignore it.  I figured that once Sophie slept better (and for the most part, she sleeps well now), I would somehow follow suit and begin to sleep through the night.  No dice.  Basically, since I became pregnant with Eli, I haven’t slept through a night.  Worse, I haven’t slept longer than a five-ish hour stretch.  That ain’t right.

Look, I don’t want to tell you I’m tired.  I know you don’t want to hear it.  No one wants to hear it, least of all me.  But I can’t avoid it.  It follows me through my days and nights.  I try to beat it.  I try to trick it.  I try to make myself so tired that there is no way humanly possible that I won’t sleep through the night.  And then I don’t.

It’s easy to say I have insomnia, and that wouldn’t be untrue.  But this thing, this tired thing, goes beyond that.  Sure, there are all the usual suspects that I’ve covered countless times in other blog posts.  But surely, most of those challenges have passed, so what gives?

I’ve been seeing an acupuncturist for several months now, for lots of reasons, one of which is: Make me feel like my old self.  Or at least a version of my former self. 

I had to laugh a few weeks back when Kristen, my acupuncturist, said to me, “You sure are an interesting little mix of things.”  I know she was referring to all the various, sometimes disparate things happening in my body that she is constantly trying to pinpoint, rein in, calm down, etc.  But I took it to heart, and wholeheartedly agree that in general, yes, I’m a mix.  Interesting?  Maybe.

Our talk continued beyond that, and although it was something she had brought up before, we hadn’t really talked in length about adrenal fatigue.  She says I have adrenal fatigue, without a doubt.  What is adrenal fatigue?  In its simplest explanation, it is the fatigue of your adrenal glands due to prolonged stress on your body (and this “stress” could be from any number of factors).  For more info, go here.

It’s also worth noting that Western medicine rarely, if ever, recognizes adrenal fatigue, rather attributing it to something naturalists have dreamed up to sell more supplements, etc.  This attitude is insulting on many levels, least of which is the habit of Western medicine to slap a convenient “diagnosis” on you and then prescribe some kind of bullshit medication for you to take the rest of your life.

But I digress.  It’s always a relief to finally figure out what is happening in your body, to have something to point to and say YES! that is exactly how I am feeling.  Of course this is quickly followed up with, “Well, now what?  What can I do to feel better?”

Most treatment for adrenal fatigue is practical advice along the lines of “getting a lot of rest, reducing stress in your life, simplifying your life, gentle exercise, supplements, healthy diet.”  Nothing too shocking, but somewhat laughable when you live in a household with two small children. 

The most important part of this treatment is diet.  So for the time being I am doing my absolute best to not eat: gluten, dairy, pork, most red meat, sugar, potatoes, corn, tomatoes (NOOOOOOO! This has honestly been one of the bigger challenges), and peanuts.  I have also had to swear off (again) Diet Coke.  People, you know this is my vice.  If I go out to eat Mexican food there damn well better be a fountain Coke to go with that meal.  These are the dilemmas I face, and I have to admit, it’s getting easier.

I’ll delve more into the dietary issues and the complications that arise in another post.

Beyond the changes in diet, my biggest “change” has been trying to cultivate consistent quiet and/or down time in the evenings.  As anyone with children can appreciate, the evening hours are my now-it’s-finally-quiet-I-can-get-shit-done time.  For the longest time I would spend every evening getting all the household stuff done, or working to check some other random task off my To-Do list. 

 

Most nights, all I really want to do is lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling (there may or may not be drool involved).  Or maybe I just want to watch a movie.  Or read a book.  Or go outside and simply sit.  It frustrates me that I have let myself get to a place where I feel guilty for relaxing, for taking a quiet moment for myself.  It’s tough to turn off that obnoxious little voice in my head that starts in, “You know… you really should be doing ________.” 

No, no I shouldn’t. 

So even though I have babes that certainly aren’t newborns, I have tried to revert back to some of the suggestions given during that time, namely: rest when they rest.  This was easy to do when I was sick and could barely move off the couch anyways, so naptime became my rest time, too.  In fact, getting sick and having it take four weeks to feel better has been the eye opener I needed to truly admit to myself: Your body is shutting down.  Stop ignoring it.

I’m only a few weeks into consciously “treating” my adrenal fatigue.  It’s daunting when you look at the recovery time associated with severe adrenal fatigue (18-24 months).  Despite this, I am so desperate to feel rested that I would do anything to move towards recovery, however long it may take.

So you’ve been warned.  I may give the annoying “I’m tired” response for a bit longer, but as soon as I feel even a little bit better I’m sure I’ll be coming up with all kinds of ridiculous things to say to you.  Aren’t you excited?  

Screw Absence ... And Green Grass, Too

Vinny left for L.A. today.  This time, it’s only for three weeks.  I put the “only” in there to comfort myself, to remind myself that it’s not four—or worse—six weeks again.  Just three.

Still… it’s a long time, for all of us.  And unfortunately, he will be there when Sophie has her next eye surgery later this month.  It’s almost the exact same procedure she had done last time, so at least I know what to expect.  But I know the wait while she’s in surgery isn’t going to be any easier to sit through this time around.

Thankfully, no one has come at me with the ever annoying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” adage (so if you were thinking about it, here’s a hint: Don’t.).

Here’s the thing.  Vinny and I have done the long-distance routine.  More times than either of us would like to recount.  In our pre-children days, it was a major annoyance and strain, to be sure.  From my vantage point, it was always easier to be the one leaving to go on the job.  I’ve lived both roles, and even though location work can be isolating and terribly lonely, it’s just somehow easier to be the one working nonstop in an unfamiliar place.  Doesn’t make much sense, but there you go.

There is part of me that always struggles not to get resentful towards Vinny during these stretches.  Taking care of the kids on my own gets old, quickly.  As Vinny hasn’t cared for the kids for more than three days in a row on his own, I know he cannot fully appreciate what it feels like.

It wasn’t until yesterday that I shook myself out of my pity-party-for-one.  It’s easy to get myself into a funk, to wallow in how hard it’s going to be, how long it’s going to feel, how much I am going to miss seeing/talking/laughing/yada-yada-yada with Vinny.  I like to think we keep each other sane in our insane world.

The longest stretch I’ve gone without seeing the kids was three days.  And that was a L-O-N-G three days.  I missed them terribly after the first day (though I do not regret for one second my decision to attend AWP with my colleagues/peers/bad-ass Fast Forward Press cohorts). 

On occasion we leave with the kids with my parents for a night so that we might enjoy an evening out, a day spent running around the house trying to tackle ten different projects in less than 24-hours.  Yes, it’s comical and ridiculous.

There was a moment yesterday when it hit me like a brick: As much as Vinny may not comprehend what it’s like to be home with the kids for so long, I cannot (nor do I want to) imagine what it would be like to not see them for three, four, six weeks at a stretch.  Just thinking about it made me incredibly sad.

It was a humbling moment.  It woke me up, shook me out of my funk in a hurry.  It was the exact attitude check I needed to help me through my day yesterday and to drop Vinny off at the airport today. 

I will inundate Vinny with photos, texts, and videos for the next three weeks.  We will use the shit out of Facetime, though the kids are often less than interested in seeing who’s on the other end of the phone. 

I still can’t fathom how hard it is going to be for him.  These kids may drive us crazy on a nearly daily basis, but we are also crazy for them on a daily basis.  It never fails that, on the day after we’ve sent them off to my parents, as we wait to pick them up or for their arrival, one of us will invariably ask the other, “Do you miss the kids yet?”  The other one always smiles and says, almost sheepishly, “Yeah.”

So even though I am jealous that Vinny gets a “break” from home, gets to see our L.A. friends (I miss you all, terribly), and gets to eat at all our favorite restaurants without me (and will recount each and every delicious meal to me in torturous detail, thanks), I still wouldn’t want to trade places with him for a second.  At least, not without the kids in tow.

You know that other annoying adage?  “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence?”  If no one’s told you this before, let me:  It’s not.

Almost Does Count

One moment can set us on a dramatically different course.

All I was going to post this week was: I am (happily) spending the week in Northern Michigan with family and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and time with loved ones. 

Then, we almost got in a horrible car wreck on the way up here.  So now I have a little more I’d like to say.

I’m not sure why it takes those near-miss events in our life to shake us up, but boy, was I shaken to the core on Saturday. 

We were heading north on the highway when we noticed traffic had come to a stand-still up ahead (it looked to be construction-related).  Vinny made the quick decision to pull off to the shoulder of the exit ramp we were passing.  We were going to consult our map and see if it made more sense to get off the highway and find a way around the back-up. 

It wasn’t ten seconds later that two cars barreled past us at top speed, neither of them seeming to notice the back-up just ahead.  My stomach lurched. 

I watched in horror as the two cars slammed into the stopped traffic.  Of course, because the two morons in those cars hadn’t slowed down, neither had some of the cars behind them.  Soon, there were cars crashing into each other, flying off onto the median and the shoulder of the highway, with approaching cars flying off the road to avoid the oncoming mess.  It was something you’d see in a movie for sure, except this time it was real.

Partway through all of this Vinny decided we needed to get moving down the exit ramp to remain safe, so we did.  I have no idea how much worse the scene became.  The event was already seared into my brain.

For the next couple hours I felt sick to my stomach.  I was shaky.  I couldn’t look at the kids without becoming teary.  What would have happened if that had been us?  Then I couldn’t stop thinking, “Well, who was in those cars?  Did they have small children, too?  Was everyone okay?”  A thousand nightmare scenarios raced through my mind. 

This much is certain: if Vinny hadn’t made that split-second decision we would have been rear ended at high speed.  

So when I say we were almost in a horrible car wreck, suddenly the word “almost” becomes so much more meaningful than it ever has before.  Especially when I go on to consider that I was almost the one driving and I am almost certain that I wouldn't have had the quick wit to pull off the highway.

And it’s not surprising that my initial thought in all of this was, “the kids.”  Not that I wouldn’t be concerned about what might have happened to Vinny or I, but... it’s like that doesn’t even register anymore.  No, the instinctual response is always, “the kids!” 

So much of it is the fact that I have no control over their wellbeing in instances like that.  And no matter what, I would have felt guilty on some level, even though it would have been no fault of our own.  I would have felt like I needed to do a better job to protect my chickens.

But all this is for naught, right?  We weren’t in that accident, someone else was.  We continued on our journey safely, albeit shaken.  For the rest of the day (and beyond) I thought about how our lives could have drastically changed in that one instant.  It’s scary to think that way.

And on many levels, pointless.  Horrible things could happen any second of any day.  Thankfully they almost never do (notice that word almost again).  It’s just that sometimes, the balance tips, the almost disappears, and you are left with the aftermath of whatever that almost didn’t prevent.

On this day we were spared.  I could not be more thankful, grateful … relieved.  But then I have to remember that someone else was not so lucky, so then I pull my family closer.  I hug them harder.  Look at them longer.  Linger in the little moments that happen every day, but that I sometimes lose sight of because days are long, I get tired, and it’s all I can do to make it until bedtime. 

So what began as a short “have a good week” post has morphed into something much more meaningful for me.  How often are we bombarded with the “don’t take life for granted” “live life to its fullest” “don’t forget to tell your loved ones how much you love them” sentiments?  Sometimes we take these credos to heart.  Most times we don’t.  It’s easy to nod along, yeah, yeah, yeah, and then go about our day. 

I don’t often make requests here.  Who am I to tell you to do anything?  Well, I’m going to do it anyways.   

When you are done reading this post please walk over to or phone someone you love dearly and give them a squeeze or a kind word of love or a statement of gratitude.  Feel that moment with all your heart.  Then have a nice holiday ;)

It's Just Stuff

Except when it’s not.  A few weeks back one of my best friends mentioned she was going to have a yard sale.  Did I want to bring some stuff over to sell?

The baby stuff has been piling up in our attic since we moved in.  I’ve passed some stuff along here and there, but otherwise have been reluctant to unload the bulk of it so far.  I chose to look at the yard sale as motivation to free up space and get over what’s left of my lingering sadness over not having any more babies. 

I have to point out that I’m not a pack rat.  After moving countless times growing up I am very accustomed to getting rid of, well, pretty much everything.  There are a few items that have made it through the many moves, but for the most part I do not get sentimental over “stuff.”

That is, until I had kids.  I don’t know what the hell happens in your body after having children but I transformed from someone who rarely cried at movies, someone who didn’t dissolve into teary-eyed nostalgia over anything, really … into someone that can barely keep it together looking at an outfit Eli wore as a baby, or at a maternity t-shirt I wore, or at photos of either of the kids right after they were born, or some dumb-ass commercial that’s supposed to make you laugh.

Just this morning I went into Sophie’s room and saw that Eli had set the couch out from her little dollhouse and set the Mama and Papa bear together on the couch.  It was so cute I nearly started bawling when I looked at it.  Seriously?  What is wrong with me?

So it shouldn’t have surprised me that I would have a difficult time getting rid of things.  No, that’s not true.  I would say that 90% of the stuff was easy to part with.  But that other 10%...

I have a bin of clothes/shoes/etc. containing baby things that I won’t get rid of.  I’ve always known I would do that.  A couple outfits and the like to show the kids when they get older, to pass along to them if they have kids (or if they don’t).  That stuff makes sense to me. 

But then there are my maternity clothes.  Most of them I cannot get rid of fast enough.  Tried as I might to find maternity clothes that were flattering (an oxymoron if there ever was one) or that were at least “me” was more challenging that I had anticipated.  As a result, I hated at least half my maternity clothes with a passion. 

However, as I sorted through the box of clothes there were a few items I just couldn’t put in the “sell” pile.  My favorite jeans.  The t-shirt I wore when Vinny photographed me, two days before I went into labor with Eli.  The tank top that kept me from having a heat stroke during the summer months.  The clothes that kept me feeling like myself, the clothes I was so happy to be pregnant in.  The clothes that remind me of the sheer joy of being pregnant, remembering what it was like to carry both of my children around in my belly. 

Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was pregnant.  It’s hard to believe it’s only been a little over a year. 

I can’t let go of the memories those clothes stir up, yet.  They are still too near and dear to my heart. 

So even though my upbringing equipped me with a “you don’t need that” attitude that I have carried into adulthood, there are moments when I can’t part with “things.” 

I’m okay with this.  I’m sure as time passes it will be easier to part with more of this stuff.  Maybe not.  Maybe there will always be a special box in the attic, just for me.  So I can sneak up there once in awhile and remember how happy I was growing my children.  So I can marvel over how little my babies were when they fit into those tiny onesies (okay, who am I kidding… neither of my children were ever tiny, but they were still newborns). 

Sometimes, we need “things” to stir memories, to take us back to a time we are happy to re-live, to remind us of the distances we’ve come.  As time propels us forward, pulls us further away from these treasured memories, it’s nice to have something as simple as a t-shirt to pull me back.

The "V" Word

And no, I’m not talking vagina.  Vasectomy.  If you’re a guy, you’re probably wincing in imagined pain right now, and I feel you.  If you’re a woman that’s been through childbirth you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Hell yes.  Let him have a taste of the pain…” 

But I digress.

Vinny opted for this procedure since we are done having kids.  At least, we say we’re done having kids.  Vinny has always said we’ll have two and that’s it.  I’ve always said we’d take it on a case-by-case basis.  I never had a specific number of children in mind.  What if I had a baby and then decided I didn’t love being a mom as much as I thought I would, or if the baby was particularly demanding, or we didn’t have the money, or…  It never seemed right to put any kind of parameters on the potential size of our family.

Vinny’s stance has never changed.  As for me… it’s not as simple.

Almost immediately after Sophie’s birth I said, “I’m done.”  My children seem to have a harrowing (to me) way of arriving into this world, and there is a part of me that does not want to press my luck.  We’ve all come through unscathed so far and I am thankful each and every day that Eli, Sophie and myself came through those experiences in good health.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the part of me that longs to be younger and richer so we could have more kids.  At this point we’re comfortable with two so it seems a bit impractical to push things that way. 

And then there’s the matter of actually caring for these children.  They’re exhausting.  I already feel guilt on some days because I rarely get to spend any one-on-one time with each child and feel as though my attention is usually in ten different places.  I’ve had several people say to me, “After two kids it doesn’t matter, it’s all really the same,” but I can’t get behind that statement. 

When I think of my attention being divided further by another child I wonder how I would actually do it.  Check that.  I know I could do it, but whether or not I would do it happily is another question.

So there are all these reasons not to have another child.  And they are good, solid reasons.  To be honest, there is no further justification needed beyond Vinny not wanting more children because, really, we both need to be on board for a decision of that magnitude.

And yet…

When I think about not having that moment of learning I am pregnant again, I get sad.

When I think about not feeling a little babe kick/move/punch/roll around in my belly again, I get sad.

When I look at my maternity clothes and remember being pregnant with Eli and Sophie, I get sad (and nostalgic).

When I think about how awesome our kids are, how good we are at making kick-ass babies, and then realize we aren’t going to do it again, I get really, really sad.

For some crazy reason I like being pregnant and having babies.  Nevermind the insomnia, morning sickness, insane heartburn, carpal tunnel, massive weight gain, general aches and pains, etc.  I love it.  And I have to add that I do have easy pregnancies, despite those ailments.  Really.  I am lucky.

In spite of all these things I know the best decision for us is to not have more babies. 

It doesn’t mean I still can’t be sad about it.

I never anticipated being the one leaving the urologist’s office in tears (and for those of you that know Vinny, you will appreciate that statement to the fullest ... and for the record he did fine).  But there you go.  As we drove home from Vinny’s procedure last week I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face.  It was a bittersweet moment for both of us.  Then Vinny managed to lighten it with a joke: “I’m not sure if I just did that because I don’t want more kids, or because of the ones we already have.” 

It didn’t stop my tears, but it did put a smile on my face.

A Dose of Anxiety

And, it’s done.  Just like that.  Sophie had eye surgery this morning.  A simple procedure, but one that required her being put under. 

This was the real issue.  Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve been a wreck.

The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.  Then, a call late last Thursday wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.  It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah, blah, but yes, let’s move it up.  Less time to think about it.

And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was fine.  Then, the nurse called on Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof, thankfully).  It was going well until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.  And bring her favorite stuffed toy or blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re frightened.”

The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was enough to turn on the instant tears.  The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.  “She’ll be fine.  Really.  It’s so much harder for us parents then it is for them.”  

I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a clue what was coming and I did.  I was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.

We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.  I had experienced this long before ever having children.  However, after having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.  And not just stronger, but ferocious, too. 

There have been several instances when I have felt threats to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face (please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.  Things of that nature.

Never before have I had to turn over either of my children to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.  This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.  Because really, at the end of the day what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility. 

Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with the utmost care.  I don’t doubt their intentions or capabilities.  But, mistakes happen.  Unpredictable reactions can occur.  There is an unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say, “yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”  It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the slight possibility of that even happening. 

Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten myself up over signing such a document.  Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.  She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose (poor girl), but she was a total champ today.

And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit by a truck.  I’m exhausted.  I forget how we hold fear and anxiety in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we robbed it of rest and peace of mind.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do differently.  Saying, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.  There are some things I cannot force my body to do.  It’s okay.  Sometimes surrendering to the emotion is much less tiresome than fighting it.

In this instance it didn’t matter.  It drained me.  It won.  But I don’t mind.  Even when Sophie could barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your tickies (our term for her toes)?”  She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her toes in the air.  Somehow, that one small act reassured both of us that she was fine.  We needed it.  Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us with a smile.

The day has only gotten better.  We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either: One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.  I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have come along with a woozy Sophie.  You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.  

I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain

It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant). 

In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight, something I had never done in the sixteen years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr. Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head on the pillow.  That is, until I became pregnant.

Hello, Pregnancy Brain.  Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).

Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would have gotten pregnant.  Sure enough, after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain, that’s all.”

So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that kid out all would return to normal.  I was wrong.  Not only has my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie. 

For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand this.  You won’t be able to fathom what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen? 

It goes on.  And on.  And on.

You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they take away your car keys and put you in a home.

The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses. 

No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.  I’m not talking tough, life-changing decisions.  I’m talking…

Vinny:  “Babe, do you want some cheese?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Babe?  Cheese?

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Umm, it’s a yes or no question?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . . I don’t know?”

It’s annoying, for everyone involved.  The questions are “easy,” and yet, my brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.  I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese. 

Every decision feels momentous.  Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!” regardless if it’s what I want or not.  At least it’s an answer.

Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt that Pregnancy Brain exists (go here).  They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up.  

As is often the case, I try to find something positive in the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished mental capacities.  Sure, it makes for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember most of those moments…

But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.  I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.  If it isn’t written down (and sometimes, even when it is), it doesn’t exist.  If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays, reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal level in our house.  But if I can’t…

So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday, anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know each other.  It’s not personal.  I promise.

Time for Cool

Except it’s not cool.  Not at all.  How is it that I’m already looking at preschools for Eli?  Not only that, I’m late to the game.  I should have been looking late last year (to be fair, I was in L.A.), and trying to register him in January.  Oops.

Instead, about two weeks ago, it suddenly occurred to me that if we were indeed going to send him to preschool this fall (and we’ve been on the fence about this), that I needed to get on my shit and get this thing done.

The organized, practical part of me kicked in and was like, “Right, I need to get some recommendations, do some research, and go visit some schools.  We’ll go from there.”

The emotional part of me has been freaking out about sending my child off to school, even if it is only four + hours a week.

It’s easy to rationalize not sending him.  He won’t be three until Halloween, so is close to the cut-off point age-wise anyways.  I’m not in any hurry for Eli to be “schooled” in the traditional sense. Why not wait another year?

But, I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I think Eli would love going to school.  I know he would have so much fun and that in and of itself is reason enough for him to go.  It would be good for him for lots of other reasons, too, but knowing it’s something he would enjoy is what is pushing us in this direction.

So, I went to visit a school with him.  I told him the night before we were going to school the next day.  The first thing he said to me the following morning when I entered his room (with a huge smile on his face to boot) was: I go cool?  I go cool?  He was so excited about going to school.

Eli is going through a bit of a shy phase right now, so although he was completely psyched about the playground, sandbox, and toys in the classroom, he was less enthralled with all the kids there, not wanting to get close to their “morning circle.”  Even the flirty grin of a little girl (which was melting my heart) did nothing to encourage him closer.

It cannot be overstated how emotional this entire visit was for me.  It was only that, a visit, and yet already I could envision the first day when I would have to drop him off for real and what a blubbering mess I was going to be, and how would I hold it together for one second if he was a blubbering mess and didn’t want me to go, and…

Several times I had to remind myself simply to breathe.  Calm down. 

This is the first in about 1,113 steps of letting my children go. 

And as resistant as I sometimes want to be in these instances, kicking, screaming and fighting every step of the way, I have to remember that I cannot stop time.  I cannot stop my children from growing up and away.  I know it will break my heart a million times as they take their independent steps, each one taking them further away.  At the same time there are moments of intense pride and an ever-deepening awe as I watch Eli grow into an amazing boy. 

I often compare parenting to being on a rollercoaster.  And while there are certainly ups and downs, the comparison isn’t quite apt because often the ups and downs are occurring at the exact same time (which as far as I know isn’t possible on a rollercoaster, yet).  So I am concurrently excited for Eli to have this new experience and devastated that he won’t be home with us all the time.  I am thrilled to have him spend time with other children and paranoid that he will pick up some horrible tidbits from them.  I am forever curious to see what life will bring next for Eli, and disappointed that I won’t get to share all the new discoveries with him (something I adore doing with him right now). 

I feel like I’m going to miss out on so much of what he’s learning in life. 

I’m going to feel left out.

I don’t know if this gets easier as he gets older or not.  Sometimes I rationalize it by saying, “well, it’s because he’s still so young and impressionable,” that’s why it’s so hard.  Or, it’s important to me that his immediate family be the ones shaping him, helping him to learn his rights and wrongs, his manners, etc. 

Now, for part of the day at least, we’ll be the ones on the sidelines, having to trust that he will be in the care of people that have his best interests in mind, that will lead him down a path I would agree with, that will take care of him.

It’s scary.

I’m eternally grateful that I’ve been able to stay home with my kids so far.  Sure, there are days when I want to go hide in the attic and let them figure it out for awhile.  Generally, I try to burn each moment into memory because those moments are passing by at lightning speed, and now we’ve enrolled our first-born into preschool for the fall. 

Next week, he’ll be graduating from college.  The week after that we’ll be meeting the love of his life.  The week after that?  Grandchildren.  See, this is all going way too fast.

A Need to Pause

Yes, it’s been awhile.  Again.

For lots of reasons, I haven’t been posting.  I’ve had good intentions.  I’ve started four or five posts with fervor and then… nothing. 

Initially I chalked it up to all the usual things, which I won’t bore you with, but if you have any procrastination “skills” I’m sure you could put together a list, too.

However, after some time passed I had to ask myself: Why haven’t I been writing?  What is really going on (beyond the usual BS excuses)?

When I take that quiet moment and ask myself what on the surface appears to be a very basic question, I am quite often bowled over by what rushes forth in the way of response.

I’ve been so bowled over that I haven’t written for some time now.  That in and of itself is quite striking because my usual response to any situation is to write about it.  I may not always share it, but it will undoubtedly be written about.

Lately, though, I’ve been stuck.  My thoughts have not moved down to my fingers and onto the page like they are so normally apt to do. 

In short, I’ve been in a mourning period. 

In mid-February, Sophie stopped breastfeeding altogether.  She was just over ten-months old, a respectable run some might say.  The fact that breastfeeding had been a struggle since she was just shy of four months old makes that ten month run seem downright amazing on some days.  However, on most other days it makes me sad.  When you want something for your child, when what you feel so strongly about is a struggle and cannot be accomplished, well, my tendency is to blame myself.

I know this is foolish.  I know she is fine.  She’s always been fine.  I’m the one who struggles with these things.

Beyond that, and I can only really talk about this in a peripheral sort of way, even now, is the fact that for about seven months I was really, really depressed. 

To feel so depressed in light of all these wonderful things happening in my life, at a time when the dream of finally moving into our first home was realized, a time when I could look at my beautiful and healthy and complete family and say, “we’re home,” was devastating to me.  How could I be depressed?  Why couldn’t I snap out of it?

Well, I didn’t.  Not for a long a time.  And it wasn’t something I could talk about when I was in the throes of it because it only made me feel worse, only made me feel like I should be able to wake up one day and “feel better.” 

Of course it’s not that simple.

I wasn’t prepared for the toll all this would take, either.  With Eli, I had a several-week period of “baby blues,” but between month three and four, when all the breastfeeding and sleeping and colic issues had smoothed out I started to feel somewhat “normal” again, finally felt some semblance of my former self. 

Sophie turned one last Friday.  Although I am finally emerging from a months-long fog of sleep deprivation and depression, I still don’t feel like myself, yet.  The difference now is I can see that I am making progress and this propels me forward, strengthens my attitude on a daily basis.  I know that one day, maybe soon, I will wake up and feel ever closer to… myself. 

It’s a difficult concept to explain to anyone that has never experienced it.

Sophie turning one has been a shock to my system.  Vinny and I were watching videos of her early months the other day, and in some ways it was as though I were seeing Sophie as a baby for the first time.  Truly seeing her.  I marveled over every coo, every little facial expression.

Then I cried.  A lot.

While I know at the end of the day she is fine, we’re all healthy and fine (thank goodness), and that I did the best job I could during her first year, it still pains me greatly that I wasn’t as present for her (and the rest of my family) as I wanted to be. 

Her first year is gone.  Gone.  And I feel like I am just now showing up to the party, just now being as present as I would like to be on a daily basis. 

When it hit me how much I missed, how much of her first year was spent on autopilot in an attempt to just get through the day, well, how can I not feel guilty about that?  I can never get those days back, no matter how much I long for them.  And I do.  So much.

So I’ve had to allow myself some time to be sad, to reflect, to think about what it means to be Milk Machine Mom.  When Sophie stopped breastfeeding I initially thought, “Well, I guess I need to find a new title.  I’m all dried up…”

But I’m not. 

I’m still here.  I’m still giving to my kids all day, every day.  Sure, in the early days I was a literal milk machine to those hungry babes.  But even once the boob juice stops running we are always giving and giving and giving to our children.  It’s what we do. 

And I’m back to it to the extent that I would like to be, finally.  I am grateful for a return of clarity, some occasional long-ish stretches of sleep (after three years of not sleeping through a night my body has needed to re-learn even this seemingly basic task, and it’s been slow going even on the best day), and most of all to a healthier mental state. 

During the worst of it, I had thought about closing up shop and shutting down the blog, but I still have words I would like to share with you all, and the comments and support I’ve gotten from so many of you propel me forward.  I’ve always thought of this space as a community for anyone who cares to join, and still think we always learn the most from each other.  So thank you for helping to create this little corner of the internet with which to share my experiences… I hope to share more with you, soon.

Distance = Perspective (and mush).

You may have noticed the time between postings has been getting longer and longer these days…

Yes, there is a reason.

It’s called being a single parent.  Of course, I am not truly a single parent, something I am grateful for.  However, Vinny is currently working 2,500 miles from home, so at least temporarily I am living the single parent life.

And I have to say: I don’t know how single parents do it.  I am in complete and total awe of any parent that can hack this on their own day in and day out.  I want to give each and every one of them a medal … or a break.

These days I miss the obvious things: help with the kids, an adult in the house to talk to, having my partner to snuggle, doing activities as a family, being able to run an errand all by myself. 

But one of the things I’ve realized (and in a big way) is that I cherish sharing all these moments with Vinny.  It’s an amazing experience to raise children.  However, without your partner to share all those moments with, well, for me it’s less fulfilling … like there is something critical missing each and every day.

And, clearly, there is.  One-quarter of our family is missing, and we feel that hole constantly. 

So I’ve been finding myself, even in moments of frustration, exhaustion, and general crankiness, also feeling very thankful these days.  So often, life doesn’t work out exactly the way you want it to.  We would prefer that Vinny have steady work here, all the time, so that he wouldn’t have to travel, but that isn’t the case presently. 

It would be easy to dwell on the negative aspects of this situation, but at the end of the day what I am reminded of most is how lucky we are to have the life we do: at least there is work, there is a family unit we treasure, there is a place to call home, there is food on our table (albeit with an empty place setting lately). 

We feel our way through life the best we can.  I try to find lessons when things are tough, to learn more about myself.  The last four months I have learned that I can do it on my own if needed (including handling an infestation of mice in our kitchen).  I have learned that I love having my family all together, all the time.  I have learned that it’s impossible to wash dishes with oven mitts on (yes, we are still working on sleep over here).  I have learned most of all that I cannot imagine living my life without Vinny at my side each day. 

Okay, so I’ve also learned that I get a little mushy when Vinny isn’t around.  Only two more weeks of that; I’ll attempt to keep it in check.

And On the Fourth Night There Was Sleep

Sophie slept through the night last night.  I know, I can hardly believe it myself.

And because this topic has been on the radar again recently (see article in Psychology Today), I feel compelled to share my experience.  Yes, we finally relented and resorted to letting Sophie cry it out. 

For those of you that may not know, this is a polarizing, controversial topic.  The approach is basically what it sounds like: letting your babe cry during the night until they get themselves back to sleep (for a little more background, go here – there are several approaches and modified versions of this method, popularized by Dr. Richard Ferber). 

I’ve always had mixed feelings about this sleep training method.  Any parent knows how agonizing it is to listen to your babe scream bloody murder, even if it might be for the (hoped for) greater good.  And I can’t get behind the whole “put ‘em to bed and sleep as far away as possible so you can’t hear ‘em” suggestion, either.

I do believe that at a point a child does need to learn to self-soothe.  This doesn’t mean there aren’t going to be nighttime instances that require parental assistance.  However, I also think babes are creatures of habit, and I know my babe has gotten very, very used to seeing me multiple times per night.  Whether she “needs” me or not, apparently she does like to see my face anywhere from 2-5 times per night.

This might be flattering on some level if I could sleep my days away and party it up with her all night.  Alas, I cannot.

We may have arrived at this point much sooner were it not for the continuing issues with breast feeding, and fluid intake in general.  Her nursing has been so erratic, and as of last week had slowed down to one feeding per day – at about three in the morning. 

I’ve had continued concerns and anxieties about her hydration levels.  When her nursing slowed to this one nighttime feeding for close to a week, I called the pediatrician (again) in a panic, because even her one nighttime feeding was brief, and I could tell she was waking for it out of habit, not hunger.

After a lengthy discussion with the pediatrician, I was assured (although not pleased) that I have on my hands a baby that eats like a linebacker, but that cares very little for fluids of any sort (oh, how I’ve tried).  He ruled out anything being medically wrong with her and concluded that “this is just the way she is.”

When I expressed concern that I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed much longer since her demand is so low (and pumping is not helping to maintain my supply) he said, “You’re probably right.  It’d be preferable, but she’ll be fine.  We’d like her to have breast milk or formula for another couple months, but she’ll be okay either way.”

On some instinctual level, I knew this all along, but hearing someone say it out loud was such a relief.  We all know that during a baby’s first year of life that breast milk (or formula) should be the main source of nutrients.  Sophie has other plans, and I need to accept that.  It hasn’t been easy and I’m still not quite there.

So after attempting to get my head around all of this, and knowing that medically she is on stable ground, I knew it was time to get to work on her sleep habits.  We are both miserable most of the day because neither one of us sleeps for any considerable stretch of time. 

For a long time the only way she would go back to sleep was if she would nurse.  Not nurse to sleep, mind you.  She hasn’t done that since she was two months old.  No, she would nurse, I would lay her back down, and she would go to sleep.

However, as time went on the number of overnight feedings decreased, but not the amount of times she woke up.  Most babes want to be snuggled back to sleep.  Not Sophie.  She does want me to come in and pick her up.  But then she gets antsy and wants me to put her back down.  So I do.  And sometimes that’s enough, and sometimes it isn’t.

Long story short, she fusses for much of the night.  She resists going back to sleep, for whatever reason(s) she has.

With crying it out you have to be consistent.  And for me there’s any number of reasons why I’ll eventually go in to rescue her.

As anyone who knows me could attest, after nine months of no sleep I am truly not myself these days.  I’m forgetful.  Cranky.  Struggle to concentrate.  Struggle to make decisions.  Struggle to take good care of myself as I use what little energy I have to care for everyone else.  As you can see, it’s a struggle.

So something had to give.

We started last Thursday.  I kept asking, “We’re really going to do this?  We’ll really just not go in there?”  I was nervous (I have to mention I tried a modified version of crying it out three months ago, where you go in at set times during the crying to briefly soothe – but not pick up – your baby.  This did not go well, so for this go-round we decided to go all in.  I will also point out that my pediatrician strongly encouraged trying this method for 3-5 nights, and to my doubtful glance said, “I know some people strongly disagree, but I’m telling you it will work.”).

Thankfully, this process has not been as torturous as I had feared.  She has woken up, she has fussed, and at times she’s cried hard for short stretches, but so far she hasn’t resorted to that top-of-her-lungs screaming that I can’t stomach.  And part of me knows this is the key to me sticking with the method.  I know her screams.  I know when she’s hungry or when there’s something wrong (i.e. pain from teething).  I also know when she’s simply mad and fussy and wants me to rescue her.  Even though it is hard for me to ignore those kinds of pleas, I am not doing either of us a favor at this point by repeating the rescue cycle.

The third night she woke several times and each time it took her nearly an hour to get herself back to sleep.  It was a long, long night. 

Then last night: she slept from 6:45 – 5:45.  Eleven glorious hours.  I didn’t manage anything like that, waking several times to check her.  She was fine.  She woke this morning babbling happily in her crib.  She never does that, and it put the biggest grin on my face.     

I won’t lie.  I’m not sure I could stick with this if she really screamed for any great length of time.  And even if this “works” for us, I couldn’t be a champion for the method.  It’s honestly come down to desperation and the fact that any other tactic I’ve tried has done nothing to improve her nighttime sleep. 

I’m once again reminded that we do what works best for us at any given moment.  And by “us” I mean parents and Sophie.  I wouldn’t press on if I didn’t think there were benefits in it for her, too. 

Will she do it again tonight?  Have we finally, finally, finally made it over the hump?  I don’t know.  But for the first time in a long time I feel hopeful that maybe things are changing…  for the better.