Now that I've been a mom for a while, my mothering instinct has exploded and my family life is the center of my being. I can envision us being blissed out with two point five kids, fulfilling the nuclear family dream. And so, early this past year, I fervently prayed for another child. If God would choose to make the lightning strike once, why not again?
We took off the guardrails, so to speak. Or rather, I did.
A couple months later, I awoke during the night. I walked into the bathroom and the Holy Spirit spoke very clearly to me: You're playing with fire, He said. It nearly stopped my heart. It's not really fair to your husband, is it? He said. I wept silently before returning to bed.
In the months after that I backed away from the desire for a second child. The yearning didn't really leave me, but I paid less and less attention to it and started seeking God's will more. This past fall, three of my friends gave birth to first or second babies. I was so eager to bring a meal and help in any way. And then, suddenly I felt like I needed to leave them all alone.
At 46, I realize now that what I have is all I will have. It's my age, it's my body, it's my circumstance. Adopting has never felt like a path we were meant to take, so there it is. We are raising an only child. It's not like this is a bad thing, just different. If we hadn't been so terrified of parenthood back in our early 30's, we probably would have had three kids and not just one (assuming my eggs were of good quality, that is. The specialist surmised we would've had trouble even then). Instead we focus on the blessing of our son.
As 2015 ends tonight, so does my desire for a bigger family. But acceptance leaves more room for grace and peace, and so I am not sad. Not really.
Showing posts with label thinking too much. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thinking too much. Show all posts
December 31, 2015
October 30, 2014
working mother guilt
I sat in the chair in my therapist's office the other day, filling out a brief questionnaire to guage my level of depression. The answers had numbered scores next to them: 0, 1, 2, 3. I ticked each one off -- 0, 1, 1, 0, then came across the one asking me how guity I feel. 3. Guilty as charged.
So here's a not-so-brief confession and list for my typical week's full of working mother guilt. I feel guilty for:
Why in the world am I beating myself up? No wonder I'm halfway to being a basket case every time my son has an unstoppable, stratospheric temper tantrum. On some level I'm busy blaming myself and, yes, feeling guilty for not preventing it.
I realized something recently. It's not just the guilt of a working mother. Because of the living hell I endured through my two miscarriages and infertility diagnosis followed by God's gift of my son, I have this tendency to think of my gift of motherhood as “happily ever after.” As in, I should spend every day being grateful and not blown apart by the challenges every other mother on the planet experiences especially if she's working outside the home. Some might call this survivor guilt.
Not that I'm not grateful every day, but that’s just not realistic. Tomorrow has its own set of challenges. My biggest challenge right now isn't finding my next job (although that does take a lot of mental energy). It's accepting the reality that parenting is hard emotional work regardless of the journey to get here, and that I'm as human as the next mom with a mind and heart and needs of my own. The fact that my needs generally come dead last on any given day is, I suppose, beside the point.
I don't think antidepressants are going to absolve me or otherwise erase these guilty feelings, so I'd better look elsewhere. I'll explore that more in an upcoming post.
So here's a not-so-brief confession and list for my typical week's full of working mother guilt. I feel guilty for:
- Working part-time
- Working at all
- Considering working full-time
- Wanting to work and not having the desire (capability?) to stay home
- Having my child in daycare
- Considering having my child in daycare full-time
- Having my child in therapy someday for all the daycare he endures now (if some parenting experts are to be believed)
- Not fixing healthier meals more often
- Feeding my child a steady diet of mac & cheese instead of kale (no wait -- I don't feel guilty about that)
- Weight gain
- Spending money on clothes as a result of weight gain
- Imperfect parenting
- Judging my husband's parenting
- Not potty training my child before he's 3
- Inconsistent potty instruction
- Not using sticker charts for potty or chores or whatever the hell else they're used for
- Letting my son swallow gum instead of fishing it out of his mouth (or giving it to him in the first place)
- Praying and reading my Bible inconsistently
- Forgetting to pray or read
- Blowing off prayer or reading
- Not volunteering more
- Not wanting to volunteer at all
- Wondering whether I should volunteer
Why in the world am I beating myself up? No wonder I'm halfway to being a basket case every time my son has an unstoppable, stratospheric temper tantrum. On some level I'm busy blaming myself and, yes, feeling guilty for not preventing it.
I realized something recently. It's not just the guilt of a working mother. Because of the living hell I endured through my two miscarriages and infertility diagnosis followed by God's gift of my son, I have this tendency to think of my gift of motherhood as “happily ever after.” As in, I should spend every day being grateful and not blown apart by the challenges every other mother on the planet experiences especially if she's working outside the home. Some might call this survivor guilt.
Not that I'm not grateful every day, but that’s just not realistic. Tomorrow has its own set of challenges. My biggest challenge right now isn't finding my next job (although that does take a lot of mental energy). It's accepting the reality that parenting is hard emotional work regardless of the journey to get here, and that I'm as human as the next mom with a mind and heart and needs of my own. The fact that my needs generally come dead last on any given day is, I suppose, beside the point.
I don't think antidepressants are going to absolve me or otherwise erase these guilty feelings, so I'd better look elsewhere. I'll explore that more in an upcoming post.
September 16, 2014
jesus vs yoga part 2
Everything comes down to love. That is the deepest lesson I can learn as a follower of Jesus, whether it's about my faith or someone else's.
After my first post on jesus vs yoga, a wiser person than me invited me to study Romans 14. The book of Romans was (by most accounts) written by Paul, who was busy trying to wipe out Christians until Jesus intervened and gave him new life. I point this out to underscore the irony of a man who had once been defined completely by religious legalism that later showed how much more important love is.
In his letter to the Romans, Paul urges us to resist judging each other and recognize that each person's walk of faith is unique. My relationship with Jesus looks different than my husband's, my friend's, and anyone else's. Such is the beauty of God and faith. And because of this, I have the responsibility of working out my own faith rather than being overtly concerned about a friend's whose faith may just be weaker than mine. My faith is strong enough that I can, in fact, do yoga exercises without absorbing the tenets of other religions and philosophies that are not in line with biblical theology. They're just poses, after all. While that may look different for someone else, the best thing for me to do is love my friend and, if asked, explain why I'm taking a break from yoga for a while.
Paul uses the analogy of food and drink, which was a far more divisive issue in that day than it is now. But, lest we think he's only talking about food, he then uses the example of how one person considers a day sacred while another considers the whole week sacred. Both do so to honor God, so it doesn't really matter.
If I believe in my heart, after careful prayer and discernment, that I can do yoga exercises without compromising my relationship with Jesus, then I should as long as by doing so I don't hurt someone else's faith journey.
After my first post on jesus vs yoga, a wiser person than me invited me to study Romans 14. The book of Romans was (by most accounts) written by Paul, who was busy trying to wipe out Christians until Jesus intervened and gave him new life. I point this out to underscore the irony of a man who had once been defined completely by religious legalism that later showed how much more important love is.
In his letter to the Romans, Paul urges us to resist judging each other and recognize that each person's walk of faith is unique. My relationship with Jesus looks different than my husband's, my friend's, and anyone else's. Such is the beauty of God and faith. And because of this, I have the responsibility of working out my own faith rather than being overtly concerned about a friend's whose faith may just be weaker than mine. My faith is strong enough that I can, in fact, do yoga exercises without absorbing the tenets of other religions and philosophies that are not in line with biblical theology. They're just poses, after all. While that may look different for someone else, the best thing for me to do is love my friend and, if asked, explain why I'm taking a break from yoga for a while.
Paul uses the analogy of food and drink, which was a far more divisive issue in that day than it is now. But, lest we think he's only talking about food, he then uses the example of how one person considers a day sacred while another considers the whole week sacred. Both do so to honor God, so it doesn't really matter.
If I believe in my heart, after careful prayer and discernment, that I can do yoga exercises without compromising my relationship with Jesus, then I should as long as by doing so I don't hurt someone else's faith journey.
22 So whatever you believe about these things keep between yourself and God. Blessed is the one who does not condemn himself by what he approves. 23 But whoever has doubts is condemned if they eat, because their eating is not from faith; and everything that does not come from faith is sin.That second sentence really stood out for me, and I'll be meditating on it more. May your journey of faith bring you closer to Jesus and deeper into love.
September 8, 2014
jesus vs yoga
I have practiced yoga for about 6 years, though I have been a follower of Jesus for much longer. And now, though I've consciously deleted the Eastern mysticism aspect from my yoga practice, I suddenly find myself at odds with it and am considering another path to wellness.
Yesterday, I went with a friend to an outdoor yoga session, which on this particular day was free and open to the public. My friend is a yoga instructor, and though I don't know her very well I do know that she loves yoga and loves the Lord.
As we waited for the session to begin, we talked about her vision to help young women who've been victims of abuse by teaching directed yoga classes. She admitted a specific fear of moving forward with this, and I started to see the conflict that she may or may not be aware of.
All morning -- before, during, and after the session -- I felt ill at ease with the entire event. From the emcee's "Namaste" greeting (which I replace with God Bless You), to the encouragement of bending my "third eye" to the mat in submission, to the ending relaxation which was organized to look like a gigantic hug in the shape of a heart while we were encouraged to feel the connection with each other and everything else -- I felt the conflict in my heart and asked Jesus for help.
Why was I feeling this now? Maybe it's because my friend shared a great deal of how much she believes in the yoga practice and its associated Eastern philosophies such as chakras, and I knew I was hearing blasphemy. If my friend didn't see the conflict, I certainly did, and it made me very uncomfortable. But I thanked her for the experience and went on with my day. Later, my husband asked me why I didn't enjoy it. I told him "I felt like everyone there were true believers, and I just couldn't drink the punch." Later that day, and this morning, I have been researching this conflict so I can be better informed.
I am praying now for wisdom and discernment, and asking God to reveal the plank in my eye long before I even consider pointing out a speck in my friend's eye, lest I reveal myself as a hypocrite for practicing yoga at all.
The question is, can a person love Jesus and enjoy yoga?
Instructors run the gamut from the spiritually removed to true believers, so influence could be a matter of who I'm learning the practice from. I use the analogy of horoscopes: Reading a horoscope in the newspaper is fairly harmless and far removed from drawing my own astrology charts, but at the end of the day my indulgence in it takes me away from Jesus and toward self-worship by seeking my own answers to life's questions instead of asking Jesus for his guidance. So I don't do it anymore. Why would yoga be any different, especially since its original philosophies, which are still current, are diametrically opposed to biblical teaching?
This is the question I am now asking myself, and the obvious conclusion is that it isn't and I need to make a change.
I admit that it makes me a little sad, but instead of signing up for my regular yoga class at the gym I'm going to try pilates which does not involve any spirituality and includes all of the stretching, strengthening, and concentration that I love so much. There are plenty of other Christians who've turned yoga around as a Christ-centered spiritual practice, and I might check out a DVD to see if it works for me. But since I really want to get out of the house for this kind of exercise, I'll see if pilates scratches the itch without exposing myself to deeper wounds.
Yesterday, I went with a friend to an outdoor yoga session, which on this particular day was free and open to the public. My friend is a yoga instructor, and though I don't know her very well I do know that she loves yoga and loves the Lord.
As we waited for the session to begin, we talked about her vision to help young women who've been victims of abuse by teaching directed yoga classes. She admitted a specific fear of moving forward with this, and I started to see the conflict that she may or may not be aware of.
All morning -- before, during, and after the session -- I felt ill at ease with the entire event. From the emcee's "Namaste" greeting (which I replace with God Bless You), to the encouragement of bending my "third eye" to the mat in submission, to the ending relaxation which was organized to look like a gigantic hug in the shape of a heart while we were encouraged to feel the connection with each other and everything else -- I felt the conflict in my heart and asked Jesus for help.
Why was I feeling this now? Maybe it's because my friend shared a great deal of how much she believes in the yoga practice and its associated Eastern philosophies such as chakras, and I knew I was hearing blasphemy. If my friend didn't see the conflict, I certainly did, and it made me very uncomfortable. But I thanked her for the experience and went on with my day. Later, my husband asked me why I didn't enjoy it. I told him "I felt like everyone there were true believers, and I just couldn't drink the punch." Later that day, and this morning, I have been researching this conflict so I can be better informed.
I am praying now for wisdom and discernment, and asking God to reveal the plank in my eye long before I even consider pointing out a speck in my friend's eye, lest I reveal myself as a hypocrite for practicing yoga at all.
The question is, can a person love Jesus and enjoy yoga?
Instructors run the gamut from the spiritually removed to true believers, so influence could be a matter of who I'm learning the practice from. I use the analogy of horoscopes: Reading a horoscope in the newspaper is fairly harmless and far removed from drawing my own astrology charts, but at the end of the day my indulgence in it takes me away from Jesus and toward self-worship by seeking my own answers to life's questions instead of asking Jesus for his guidance. So I don't do it anymore. Why would yoga be any different, especially since its original philosophies, which are still current, are diametrically opposed to biblical teaching?
This is the question I am now asking myself, and the obvious conclusion is that it isn't and I need to make a change.
I admit that it makes me a little sad, but instead of signing up for my regular yoga class at the gym I'm going to try pilates which does not involve any spirituality and includes all of the stretching, strengthening, and concentration that I love so much. There are plenty of other Christians who've turned yoga around as a Christ-centered spiritual practice, and I might check out a DVD to see if it works for me. But since I really want to get out of the house for this kind of exercise, I'll see if pilates scratches the itch without exposing myself to deeper wounds.
July 7, 2014
thoughts on turning 45 with a 2 year old
It's a few weeks away yet, but I treat it as if it's a year. I don't feel like 45 is a celebration. More like a nail positioned at the middle of my coffin, reminding me of my mortality as every day brings me closer to that reality.
Oh, that sounds terribly morbid. Let me start again.
I'm about to turn 45, andmost all of my peers are either 10 years younger than me or, if they're my age, are dealing with teenage or fully grown children. How do I feel about that? Weird. And kind of funny.
I made peace with our starting-a-family-in-our-40s status a while ago, especially when I learned we are part of a growning demographic. The fact that I don't actually know anyone else in our demographic is not the point. The point is, today is all I have and I don't spend it wishing I was somewhere else in life -- that I was younger when I had our son, that I paid closer attention to my career development, that I had my own house years ago rather than six months ago...
We can all go down that road, can't we?
And yet, turning 45 with a toddler is serious business. At a time when most women my age are at the top of their professional game, I'm working part time so I can spend more time with my son. When others are getting close to being empty-nesters, I will be past retirement age when my son is in college. When other parents would encourage their children to put off marriage and family in favor of careers and "playing the field," I'll be trying not to tell my son too often how much I'd love it if he married early, started a family when he has the most energy (and can give me grandchildren while I'm still around), and bypassed the aimlessness of those years known as our 20s. It's also weird to have friends many years younger than me that already have many years more experience parenting.
I'm kind of exhausted most of the time, but I will say that it has gotten easier lately. In fact, just in the last few weeks I've noticed that I have been better able to accept my son the way he is rather than getting frustrated because he's not just a little older (i.e., spills less, talks more, is potty trained, etc.). Because you know what? Again, today is all I have.
Our adventures as a family are just beginning. I don't have to be buddies with another couple who's our age trying to start a family. It would be fun, but it's not necessary. Having friends no matter where they are in life makes everything more colorful, more bearable.
I mentioned that being 45 with a 2 year old is funny. What's funny about it? When my son is a teenager, I will be in the throes of menopause. Ha! He'll never know what hit him, poor guy. And he won't be able to get away with anything because his parents will have a lifetime of experience and will see trouble a mile away. I hope.
Finally, as much as being middle-aged with a toddler is uniquely exhausting, I also think he'll keep me young. After all, I can't afford to lay around and watch TV -- I have to maintain a level of mental and physical fitness just to keep up with him.
Bring it on!
Oh, that sounds terribly morbid. Let me start again.
I'm about to turn 45, and
I made peace with our starting-a-family-in-our-40s status a while ago, especially when I learned we are part of a growning demographic. The fact that I don't actually know anyone else in our demographic is not the point. The point is, today is all I have and I don't spend it wishing I was somewhere else in life -- that I was younger when I had our son, that I paid closer attention to my career development, that I had my own house years ago rather than six months ago...
We can all go down that road, can't we?
And yet, turning 45 with a toddler is serious business. At a time when most women my age are at the top of their professional game, I'm working part time so I can spend more time with my son. When others are getting close to being empty-nesters, I will be past retirement age when my son is in college. When other parents would encourage their children to put off marriage and family in favor of careers and "playing the field," I'll be trying not to tell my son too often how much I'd love it if he married early, started a family when he has the most energy (and can give me grandchildren while I'm still around), and bypassed the aimlessness of those years known as our 20s. It's also weird to have friends many years younger than me that already have many years more experience parenting.
I'm kind of exhausted most of the time, but I will say that it has gotten easier lately. In fact, just in the last few weeks I've noticed that I have been better able to accept my son the way he is rather than getting frustrated because he's not just a little older (i.e., spills less, talks more, is potty trained, etc.). Because you know what? Again, today is all I have.
Our adventures as a family are just beginning. I don't have to be buddies with another couple who's our age trying to start a family. It would be fun, but it's not necessary. Having friends no matter where they are in life makes everything more colorful, more bearable.
I mentioned that being 45 with a 2 year old is funny. What's funny about it? When my son is a teenager, I will be in the throes of menopause. Ha! He'll never know what hit him, poor guy. And he won't be able to get away with anything because his parents will have a lifetime of experience and will see trouble a mile away. I hope.
Finally, as much as being middle-aged with a toddler is uniquely exhausting, I also think he'll keep me young. After all, I can't afford to lay around and watch TV -- I have to maintain a level of mental and physical fitness just to keep up with him.
Bring it on!
June 17, 2014
potty training fail and random success
Last week I talked about the top
5 signs my son is ready for potty training, and I geared up by reading a
highly-rated and seriously detailed book. I honestly thought training the
trainer was the way to go. Then reality slapped me back to the ground.
I had the book and the potty training doll and the treats. Then I forgot my precious book at work. In a panic, I downloaded it on Kindle Saturday morning (training day). Then my mind started flooding with endless questions: In what order do I perform all the steps? Do I warn him that we’re starting the half-day marathon called potty training? What if he doesn’t do anything – do I still reward him? What if there are interruptions, or he just keeps asking for treats? My mind was reeling.
By mid-morning I called it quits. Yep, I chickened out of potty training. I felt ill-prepared to take on this momentous task. Monday morning I polled my friends to see what method worked best. And you know what? Most of them had an unorganized, downright lackadaisical way of going about the whole thing. I began to wonder if it was possible that I was overthinking this. Who, me? The one who analyzes processes like a chef hunting down the Perfect Recipe?
Based on my friends’ input, I decided there was one small step I could take: I would begin with one small ritual with rewards. So last night, I excitedly told my son that we would start learning how to use the potty before bathtime. If he went, he could get a special potty treat as a reward. He sat on there for maybe 10 seconds before deciding he needed that treat. My reaction? “Oh well, that’s okay. We’ll try again next time. Let’s take a bath.” I didn’t give him the treat, which he wasn’t happy about, but we moved on.
This morning as I was in the bathroom putting on makeup, he came in and I asked if he’d like to use the potty. He said “Yeah.” I took him through the steps of pulling down his shorts, helped him get into position, and reminded him to point his thingy down so that when pee comes out it will go straight into the toilet (no guard on this seat).
What did he do? He farted. Ha! He looked up at me in surprise, and I exclaimed “Good job! Mommy’s so proud of you.” He decided he was done, and we moved on. There was no mention of a treat.
When I dropped him off at daycare, I mentioned how ready he is and they said that no, he hasn’t gone there yet either. Not 10 minutes later, one of the teachers called me to announce that he pulled off his shorts, marched right into the bathroom, and peed in the toilet. I told her it was okay to give him a gummy bear as a special potty treat.
Can I just tell you how much that made my day?!
I know, this is just the beginning. And complete success could be months away. One small step for (little) man…
So, for now, I think I’ll take my hands off the reins and follow his lead a bit more. I will encourage and praise him for every tiny effort. Maybe, like a fellow mommy blogger, I’ll just say no to potty training.
I had the book and the potty training doll and the treats. Then I forgot my precious book at work. In a panic, I downloaded it on Kindle Saturday morning (training day). Then my mind started flooding with endless questions: In what order do I perform all the steps? Do I warn him that we’re starting the half-day marathon called potty training? What if he doesn’t do anything – do I still reward him? What if there are interruptions, or he just keeps asking for treats? My mind was reeling.
By mid-morning I called it quits. Yep, I chickened out of potty training. I felt ill-prepared to take on this momentous task. Monday morning I polled my friends to see what method worked best. And you know what? Most of them had an unorganized, downright lackadaisical way of going about the whole thing. I began to wonder if it was possible that I was overthinking this. Who, me? The one who analyzes processes like a chef hunting down the Perfect Recipe?
Based on my friends’ input, I decided there was one small step I could take: I would begin with one small ritual with rewards. So last night, I excitedly told my son that we would start learning how to use the potty before bathtime. If he went, he could get a special potty treat as a reward. He sat on there for maybe 10 seconds before deciding he needed that treat. My reaction? “Oh well, that’s okay. We’ll try again next time. Let’s take a bath.” I didn’t give him the treat, which he wasn’t happy about, but we moved on.
This morning as I was in the bathroom putting on makeup, he came in and I asked if he’d like to use the potty. He said “Yeah.” I took him through the steps of pulling down his shorts, helped him get into position, and reminded him to point his thingy down so that when pee comes out it will go straight into the toilet (no guard on this seat).
What did he do? He farted. Ha! He looked up at me in surprise, and I exclaimed “Good job! Mommy’s so proud of you.” He decided he was done, and we moved on. There was no mention of a treat.
When I dropped him off at daycare, I mentioned how ready he is and they said that no, he hasn’t gone there yet either. Not 10 minutes later, one of the teachers called me to announce that he pulled off his shorts, marched right into the bathroom, and peed in the toilet. I told her it was okay to give him a gummy bear as a special potty treat.
Can I just tell you how much that made my day?!
I know, this is just the beginning. And complete success could be months away. One small step for (little) man…
So, for now, I think I’ll take my hands off the reins and follow his lead a bit more. I will encourage and praise him for every tiny effort. Maybe, like a fellow mommy blogger, I’ll just say no to potty training.
June 9, 2014
top 5 signs my son is ready for potty training
Yesterday, DH and I decided that this coming Friday is Training Day. We (uh.. that really means me since he's working) are going to potty train the boy. Below is a list of the top 5 signs we know our toddler is ready for potty training.
- He wants to help me by being in the room, trying to wipe me with tissue way before I'm ready, and flushing the toilet for me. Hey, I'm not shy about letting him get to know the ropes.
- He plays with the integrated toilet seat and enjoys putting little bits of tissue in there, then flushing to watch it go down.
- He doesn't want me to change him when he's got a number 2, but then he wants to wipe himself as soon as I get started (I haven't given him the opportunity to play with the contents but I'm sure he would).
- He investigates the area with a finger.
- The other day, we put him in his room for naptime. According to the evidence, he apparently took off his diaper, peed in front of his bed, then went to sleep naked below the waist on his bed where we found him 2 hours later. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.
- A doll that wets
- An extra stool for the downstairs bathroom
- A second integrated toilet seat for the downstairs bathroom
- A variety of tasty drinks, treats, and candies
- Special stickers
- Big-boy briefs
- A special reward for mommy to be enjoyed at the end of the day
May 8, 2014
in sickness and in health – the 24-hour mom
I think it was Sunday or Monday that I started coming down
with this cold. I honestly haven’t been able to taste food since then, four or
five days later. I’ve slept with my mouth open for three nights despite using
nasal strips, a humidifier, decongestants, and vapor rub. I’ve been using my
son’s very expensive boogie wipes (great invention, ridiculous price point) to
avoid having my nose look like a crocodile’s. I’m starting to consider using a
neti pot, but I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the concept.
What I have tried to do is not withhold attention from my
son, or cook dinner, or go through any of the motions of daily life. Because being
a mom means the show must go on.
I count myself blessed to have a husband that steps in when I’m
miserable like this, even though he’s had the same cold to a lesser degree. But
I push myself anyway, and I’m not sure why. I guess I just don’t want to feel
like a slacker unless I have no other choice, and the common cold isn’t enough
for me to justify it. I’ve been smiling and playing with my son when I can, and
just getting things done that need to be done. I crash on the couch once he
goes to bed.
A few weeks ago, when a double ear infection really had me
flattened, I still smiled at my family even though I couldn’t get out of bed. The
boy’s reaction? He brought two of his trucks from his room and put them on the
bed near my feet, as if sharing his toys would make me feel better. It was such
a sweet gesture, and I thanked him wholeheartedly for it. My husband put on his
shining armor and became my hero, taking over household things and helping out
without me asking (and especially when I did ask).
Sickness is just part of the deal. Parenting never stops. But
when it slows down for illness, I have to call in for reinforcements whether I think
I need it or not. I have this tendency to act like it’s all up to me all the
time. I have no idea where this comes from, and I know it’s not true. Maybe I need
to be sure that I can do it all, just in case someday I have to. Then there’s
the knowledge that for some moms (and dads), there isn’t a choice. There are no
reinforcements. So the least I can do is do it all once in a while.
This is the point at which a reasonable voice says “This is
stupid. You are half of your son’s
parents, so quit acting like it’s all up to you because it isn’t.” In fact, I could
very well sabotage my husband’s efforts as a dad by acting this way. It’s not
healthy for any of us.
Even as I type this, I’m starting to feel feverish. I give
up. I need my one-man cavalry. I think I’ll crawl into my couch this afternoon and do what I'm supposed to do when I'm sick -- rest and let someone help.
April 21, 2014
when is it time to go back to work full time?
Yesterday, on a whim, I decided to see what openings there
might be at the last place I worked before being laid off. What I found
surprised me – they currently have several openings in the department I worked –
and got me thinking.
Do I want to work there again?
Am I ready to work full-time?
Will my son be okay going to daycare 5 days a week?
What’s going to happen where I work now?
Before I could answer these questions in my head, I wrote an
email to my closest contact there. She was my first supervisor, someone I admire
very much, and probably the closest I’ve come to having a mentor. I invited her
to join me for lunch to catch up. The gears in my head have been turning ever
since, and I spent last night trying desperately to sleep.
When it comes to my career, I’ve always been fairly casual
on-the-job but very proactive in-between jobs. While that MO never bothered me
in the past, I’ve come to understand that until recently I simply didn’t take
my career very seriously. Sure, every job I’ve had has built on my experience,
and I’ve never taken a professional step backward. But I also haven’t found a
professional home despite my searching – someplace I could settle in and count
on advancing periodically. With my last layoff, I finally learned that no
matter how hard I try to do the best I can, and no matter how grateful I am,
things can still slip through my fingers and leave me standing on a cliff faced
with yet another chasm of unwanted change.
My coworkers at that time showed me an unexpected level of
support, and expressed more sympathy for me than perhaps I felt for myself. After
all, there was nothing I could have done; I was one of several let go who still
carried a Temporary status and was therefore vulnerable to budgetary
constraints. After the initial “This too will pass” attitude wore off, though, I
was angry for a little while. I fought against the temptation to wallow in
questions like “Why is it always me?” and “Why can't I find a professional
home when others stay at their jobs for 20 years?”
My challenge was to let go; to stop trying to hold on to unpredictable
things, pray for my situation, and do what’s right in front of me. In this
case, it meant staging our condo for sale, connecting with other moms through
church, buying a house and moving, and settling into the reality of another
dream that finally came true. I was grateful for the time I had to dedicate to
all these things, and when I knew after several months I’d either have to pull our son from daycare
or get some kind of a job, God
provided one that couldn’t have fit my situation more perfectly.
In three months, that perfect situation (my six-month
contract) will end and I have no idea if I’ll be offered something more or if I’ll
be starting over. So it makes sense to shake the career branches a bit and see
what’s going on. In other words, the timing could
be perfect yet again. But I don’t trust what I see, not really. So I’m
training myself yet again to let go and let God, and do what’s in front of me.
Then there's the issue of how this would impact my family, and what I could do to make the most of work and home. I still have my son every Friday, and I try to make the most of that time even though it can be exhausting. It's hard to constantly juggle life's demands and never know when I'll be given another ball to juggle or when one will be taken away. So I am intentionally recognizing the gifts of the age he is while trying to make the most of my current schedule. If I'm being honest, another way to put it is to say I feel like I can never relax because everything is temporary. It's irritating and stressful.
My devotional this morning is right on target:
Matthew 6:34
34 “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow
will be anxious about itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”
March 26, 2014
grocery shopping and the working mom
I made a list, and apparently it was too short.
You see, there was a time when I could go through the store on my own and build a menu out of things I found appealing combined with my mental inventory of what's currently in the freezer. I am no longer able to accomplish this feat of brainy multitasking. I had no idea what a talent this was.
I walked in, got some of the things on my list, and got confused. No, not confused. Dazed and confused. I had no idea what to buy. Do we need bread? Do I want English muffins? Shouldn't I just eat toast and forget the many ways to eat bread-like items? Why don't they have smooth whole wheat bagels? (Seriously, I really want smooth whole wheat bagels.)
I walked down the aisles, turning my nose up at the meat-helper stuff and refusing to buy what I thought I already had. No potential dinner menus were manifesting in my mind. Half an hour later, I still had only 6 items in my cart and no clue what to feed my family for the next week. So, I did what any confused working mother would do, given the opportunity: I called my mom. I figured, if she could help me shop for clothes (which she can), surely she can help me shop for groceries and kick my brain back onto the track. She reminded me that I am an "excellent" cook, and that all I need is to think about things I would enjoy. Never mind the kiddo - he'll eat if he's hungry.
Why do I forget this stuff? Why do I think the only food I can reliably feed him is fish sticks, mac & cheese, and a veggie? I know this is wrong. In fact, I've seen him purposely try spicy food and then continue to eat it (makes me proud). It is also a fact that working just part time has splintered my attention span enough that thinking about what to make for dinner feels like too much effort, and I scare myself just a little. If only they didn't need to eat dinner every. single. day.
I need to let go of trying to make my two-year-old son the center of the meal, and focus more on gathering family at the table for something that tastes good. Period.
After reviewing the many cuts of beef that are adequate for a slow cooker meal (not the stew meat they sell), I ended the call and wrapped up my shopping trip. Oh, I still had a paltry number of items. But I also left with a right perspective on food and feeding my family as well as my love of cooking.
You see, there was a time when I could go through the store on my own and build a menu out of things I found appealing combined with my mental inventory of what's currently in the freezer. I am no longer able to accomplish this feat of brainy multitasking. I had no idea what a talent this was.
I walked in, got some of the things on my list, and got confused. No, not confused. Dazed and confused. I had no idea what to buy. Do we need bread? Do I want English muffins? Shouldn't I just eat toast and forget the many ways to eat bread-like items? Why don't they have smooth whole wheat bagels? (Seriously, I really want smooth whole wheat bagels.)
I walked down the aisles, turning my nose up at the meat-helper stuff and refusing to buy what I thought I already had. No potential dinner menus were manifesting in my mind. Half an hour later, I still had only 6 items in my cart and no clue what to feed my family for the next week. So, I did what any confused working mother would do, given the opportunity: I called my mom. I figured, if she could help me shop for clothes (which she can), surely she can help me shop for groceries and kick my brain back onto the track. She reminded me that I am an "excellent" cook, and that all I need is to think about things I would enjoy. Never mind the kiddo - he'll eat if he's hungry.
Why do I forget this stuff? Why do I think the only food I can reliably feed him is fish sticks, mac & cheese, and a veggie? I know this is wrong. In fact, I've seen him purposely try spicy food and then continue to eat it (makes me proud). It is also a fact that working just part time has splintered my attention span enough that thinking about what to make for dinner feels like too much effort, and I scare myself just a little. If only they didn't need to eat dinner every. single. day.
I need to let go of trying to make my two-year-old son the center of the meal, and focus more on gathering family at the table for something that tastes good. Period.
After reviewing the many cuts of beef that are adequate for a slow cooker meal (not the stew meat they sell), I ended the call and wrapped up my shopping trip. Oh, I still had a paltry number of items. But I also left with a right perspective on food and feeding my family as well as my love of cooking.
January 31, 2014
top 10 ways my body has changed two years after giving birth
Okay, it's almost been two years since I gave birth to my son. I'll tell you right now that I'm pretty sure I'm still in a state of denial about my body, but slowly I am coming to accept some things. For example, it's different. Different, even, from a year ago. But that has more to do with beer and pizza than anything else. Also, I'm learning to see myself differently. Which leads me to a short list of the things I've noticed about my body since then.
Motherhood. It's a journey that lasts a lifetime, even if you start it midlife.
- I could care less if I fit into a size 12 (which I'm only one size away from), but at the same time I do covet the other, smaller half of my wardrobe. Also wondering when I may get up the gumption to join Weight Watchers again (I used to be a lifetime member).
- Motherhood has flattened my ego for the most part. I care a bit less about makeup, depending on what's happening that day, and more about which pair of comfy pants I'll wear when I get home from work.
- I keep developing these weird skin thingys that I know are harmless but I pick at them anyway.
- I have more gray hairs. Pretty sure I'll have twice as many another year from now.
- I will still pay just as much to have my hair done well as I did before I had my baby.
- My hips sit higher than they used to. I noticed this last year, but now I'm understanding how it affects my clothes. I'm secretly hoping I can keep my hourglass figure, but kinda doubt it.
- JEANS. Not only do they not fit the same way, but I have to try on every pair from every designer when I go shopping now. I'm finding that some of the brands I used to hate now look okay on me, and in some cases the reverse is true. The size is the same, but the higher hips really affect how they fit. And, since I'm almost 5'10", camel toe continues to be my biggest detractor from most brands. Plus, I am finding that I seriously hate low-rise jeans -- I'm getting tired of constantly pulling them up over my love handles. I'm still trying to fall in love with skinny jeans, but my fuller thighs make this a challenge. There are times I've laughed out loud in the dressing room.
- Even though my arms are almost Popeye-strong, they look flabbier (probably the excess weight).
- I have more wrinkles around my eyes, and a few more dark circles. Fun.
- I'm tired enough at night that going to bed at 9:00 feels like a special occasion.
- I try to make myself get up an hour before my son to keep it all together.
Motherhood. It's a journey that lasts a lifetime, even if you start it midlife.
November 26, 2013
independence is overrated
I had things to do. Didn't do them. Tried to go for a walk around the lake but couldn't because of pulled muscles in both legs. Definitely didn't want to do chores, though that's really my job these days especially when the boy is in daycare.
This time, I wasn't bored. I was lost.
At the lake, I started wondering what in the world is wrong with me. Depressed? No. Anxious? Not at this point. Numb? I guess. What I really was, was lonely. Even though life with my son is a rollercoaster that never stops, I start to miss him when I'm by myself. I love my husband of course, and I love the days when he works from home. But after 12 years of marriage I'm pretty good at spending time on my own for short periods. I just don't want to (he feels the same way). I'd rather just be with my family.
When I was working, it was different. I was engaged in developing content, solving problems, and managing projects. I can't say I was emotionally invested in my work but it was certainly rewarding intellectually. But that time made family time all the more precious. It's just weird.
Being alone all day kind of sucks. It doesn't inspire me to pursue playing guitar (though I fantasize about it often), or kick-start me into cleaning house no matter how many times I pick up crumbs with my bare feet (as much as it pisses me off). I think I don't care anymore about being independent, being exceptionally self-reliant, or possessing much of the pioneer spirit that defines our great country. Instead, I wish my family lived in the same state. I wish I was wealthy enough to fly every year to see everybody (though now at least they don't have as many excuses not to fly here since we're about to move into a 5-bedroom house). I miss having work friends, even though they all fall off the planet the minute I leave a company (don't tell me this doesn't happen everywhere). I miss my best friend whom I emailed with almost daily while I was working, but has practically disappeared now that I'm not.
I think being a little co-dependent and admitting I need someone isn't so terrible. This from the daughter of one of the founding members of the National Organization for Women, and the granddaughter of a woman who forged a strong family almost in spite of her husband. Trust me -- independence and You Can Do It! is in my blood.
I decided today that I really need to work. I'm really trying now to find something, and would love to get going in January. I'm doing all I can from my end, but otherwise I have no control over what happens. It's not up to me and sometimes that's hard. I want to be able to make it happen and I just can't. Someone else has to decide that they want to hire me. Hurry up and wait.
In the meantime, I am going to make a stronger effort to practice gratitude in the moment. I am blessed beyond belief.
This time, I wasn't bored. I was lost.
At the lake, I started wondering what in the world is wrong with me. Depressed? No. Anxious? Not at this point. Numb? I guess. What I really was, was lonely. Even though life with my son is a rollercoaster that never stops, I start to miss him when I'm by myself. I love my husband of course, and I love the days when he works from home. But after 12 years of marriage I'm pretty good at spending time on my own for short periods. I just don't want to (he feels the same way). I'd rather just be with my family.
When I was working, it was different. I was engaged in developing content, solving problems, and managing projects. I can't say I was emotionally invested in my work but it was certainly rewarding intellectually. But that time made family time all the more precious. It's just weird.
Being alone all day kind of sucks. It doesn't inspire me to pursue playing guitar (though I fantasize about it often), or kick-start me into cleaning house no matter how many times I pick up crumbs with my bare feet (as much as it pisses me off). I think I don't care anymore about being independent, being exceptionally self-reliant, or possessing much of the pioneer spirit that defines our great country. Instead, I wish my family lived in the same state. I wish I was wealthy enough to fly every year to see everybody (though now at least they don't have as many excuses not to fly here since we're about to move into a 5-bedroom house). I miss having work friends, even though they all fall off the planet the minute I leave a company (don't tell me this doesn't happen everywhere). I miss my best friend whom I emailed with almost daily while I was working, but has practically disappeared now that I'm not.
I think being a little co-dependent and admitting I need someone isn't so terrible. This from the daughter of one of the founding members of the National Organization for Women, and the granddaughter of a woman who forged a strong family almost in spite of her husband. Trust me -- independence and You Can Do It! is in my blood.
I decided today that I really need to work. I'm really trying now to find something, and would love to get going in January. I'm doing all I can from my end, but otherwise I have no control over what happens. It's not up to me and sometimes that's hard. I want to be able to make it happen and I just can't. Someone else has to decide that they want to hire me. Hurry up and wait.
In the meantime, I am going to make a stronger effort to practice gratitude in the moment. I am blessed beyond belief.
September 18, 2013
will you have any more kids?
I hate getting asked this. It makes me uncomfortable. And yet, whenever I'm in the company of another mother we compare how many kids each of us has and one of us is bound to ask this. Heck, I've asked it myself when it seemed appropriate (then again, how would I gauge that?).
With a bit of hesitation, I said no. We're one and done.
She seemed slightly disappointed for my sake and gently asked why. I told her - I'm 44 and am already tired and overwhelmed, blah blah... her eyes got as big as saucers and she told me she never would have guessed. I smiled and said thank you (and seriously meant it).
Every time I say no, I feel a little sad.
We both feel like we should have two kids, but I couldn't tell you where this is really coming from. Maybe it's the fact that we both have siblings (never mind the fact that we all live separate lives two states away, making real relationships all but impossible). Maybe it's because that's more common than having one (and gee, we do want to be normal don't we?).
Last night we talked about this briefly, discussing how to build relationships with lots of friends and wanting to create the best possible childhood for the boy. Off the cuff, I realized the irony and said "I think the worst thing we can do as parents is somehow make our son feel like he isn't enough."
Ouch. Even as the words came out, it stabbed my own heart.
Occasionally I play the math game: If I conceived by Christmas, oh I'd be 45 when she's born (why do I think it'd be a girl?) and ohmygoodness that sounds so old. Then again, others have done it and lived to tell the tale. Then again, I feel incapable of being a full-time SAHM as it is to one child. I'd lose my mind, not to mention what's left of my figure, forever and I'd have two teenagers when I'm in the throes of menopause. Then again...
Ugh. We'd better be committed to whatever we decide, even if we decide that deciding is too hard.
With a bit of hesitation, I said no. We're one and done.
She seemed slightly disappointed for my sake and gently asked why. I told her - I'm 44 and am already tired and overwhelmed, blah blah... her eyes got as big as saucers and she told me she never would have guessed. I smiled and said thank you (and seriously meant it).
Every time I say no, I feel a little sad.
We both feel like we should have two kids, but I couldn't tell you where this is really coming from. Maybe it's the fact that we both have siblings (never mind the fact that we all live separate lives two states away, making real relationships all but impossible). Maybe it's because that's more common than having one (and gee, we do want to be normal don't we?).
Last night we talked about this briefly, discussing how to build relationships with lots of friends and wanting to create the best possible childhood for the boy. Off the cuff, I realized the irony and said "I think the worst thing we can do as parents is somehow make our son feel like he isn't enough."
Ouch. Even as the words came out, it stabbed my own heart.
Occasionally I play the math game: If I conceived by Christmas, oh I'd be 45 when she's born (why do I think it'd be a girl?) and ohmygoodness that sounds so old. Then again, others have done it and lived to tell the tale. Then again, I feel incapable of being a full-time SAHM as it is to one child. I'd lose my mind, not to mention what's left of my figure, forever and I'd have two teenagers when I'm in the throes of menopause. Then again...
Ugh. We'd better be committed to whatever we decide, even if we decide that deciding is too hard.
September 11, 2013
is the journey still worth talking about?
Since I was laid off from what I saw as the Most Perfect Gig Ever, I have endured the range of emotions that come with it, looked at myself from different and new angles, pondered various employment options, thrown in the towel and pouted, and searched endlessly for the Next Most Perfect Gig Ever.
I think maybe it's not out there.
Instead, my daily life has become a series of small actions and decisions that happen in such rapid succession that I have little time to ponder the bigger ones. Who has time to think about a career when you're soothing away toddler tantrums, wiping yogurt off the floor, and trying to decide what might make a good dinner today and tomorrow and next week?
I haven't blogged much since the layoff, mostly because I don't have the opportunity to gather my thoughts long enough to type them out. I think about things that would make great blog subjects, though. Like the lesson we learned recently of how, even on vacation, we absolutely cannot share a bedroom with our son anymore (we wake each other up and the boy gets up too early for the day). Or the time I asked for prayer in church, and the young woman who prayed for me told me she had a picture of Jesus beaming with joy at me - letting me know that He is very happy with me (which made me cry with relief immediately, knowing that even though I feel like I'm constantly failing and falling apart, the Lord is happy with me -- and if He is happy with me, I feel far less pressured and far more successful). Or how thrilled I am to start going to MOPS meetings today, a grassroots support/sharing group (I seriously am).
But so often, I feel like my potential posts are just rants. Complaining about how tired I am. Wondering if I'll ever work full time again or if I can actually succeed as an independent writer. Musing about the book I'd like to write if I ever decide to implement the discipline. Whining about how overweight and unattractive I feel. Lamenting the fact that I can't keep up with my fave blogs because I can't remember the name of the Web-based feed reader I was using before I lost my job.
What's so interesting about that?
I'm considering hanging it up. Maybe I've said all I need to say about how hard this journey is and how wonderfully blessed I am to be on it. I dunno.
I think maybe it's not out there.
Instead, my daily life has become a series of small actions and decisions that happen in such rapid succession that I have little time to ponder the bigger ones. Who has time to think about a career when you're soothing away toddler tantrums, wiping yogurt off the floor, and trying to decide what might make a good dinner today and tomorrow and next week?
I haven't blogged much since the layoff, mostly because I don't have the opportunity to gather my thoughts long enough to type them out. I think about things that would make great blog subjects, though. Like the lesson we learned recently of how, even on vacation, we absolutely cannot share a bedroom with our son anymore (we wake each other up and the boy gets up too early for the day). Or the time I asked for prayer in church, and the young woman who prayed for me told me she had a picture of Jesus beaming with joy at me - letting me know that He is very happy with me (which made me cry with relief immediately, knowing that even though I feel like I'm constantly failing and falling apart, the Lord is happy with me -- and if He is happy with me, I feel far less pressured and far more successful). Or how thrilled I am to start going to MOPS meetings today, a grassroots support/sharing group (I seriously am).
But so often, I feel like my potential posts are just rants. Complaining about how tired I am. Wondering if I'll ever work full time again or if I can actually succeed as an independent writer. Musing about the book I'd like to write if I ever decide to implement the discipline. Whining about how overweight and unattractive I feel. Lamenting the fact that I can't keep up with my fave blogs because I can't remember the name of the Web-based feed reader I was using before I lost my job.
What's so interesting about that?
I'm considering hanging it up. Maybe I've said all I need to say about how hard this journey is and how wonderfully blessed I am to be on it. I dunno.
July 4, 2013
early morning brain dump - mommy guilt, independence day, and me time
okay, so today's blog is my attempt to empty my brain before the start of the day. it would be a journal entry if i felt like writing by hand, but this is a lot easier.
at about 5:00, i woke up, went to the bathroom, came back to bed, and soon after realized i wasn't going back to sleep. random songs started playing in my head - that's how i know. i could lay there with a pillow over my head, wishing myself back to sleep and listening to my husband snore peacefully, or i could get up and journal, a special me-time activity that happens about as often as i get a pedicure which is regretfully far too rare.
i hear some little bumps - is my son whacking his legs around in the crib? no matter. he'll go back to sleep.
fourth of july. independence day.
oh crap. yup, that's him - just said "HEY." go back to sleep, kid. i swear i'm not making any noise, and his door is shut.
we have no plans for this weekend - well, that's not entirely true. we invited my mom up for breakfast so we have an excuse to make an indecent amount of bacon and eggs fried in coconut oil (i'm gonna make banana bread too - why not?). we're meeting people for happy hour friday, and then joining a friend's birthday party dinner saturday evening before we sneak out for a date. i'm feeling good about it.
yesterday, i didn't feel so good about it. knowing that it would be the four of us for four days, i scheduled a drop-off for our son at daycare for monday. i'm giving myself the day off. i know i desperately need it. i've been slammed at work the last two weeks, and home life is a constant buzz from dawn to dusk. i have a really hard time sleeping anymore, and i know it's anxiety plus too small margins in my life right now. i know it's a season, and one of these days i'll wonder what happened to this little toddler who charms the pants off of me even when he's screaming his head off with tantrum #231.
anyway, guilt set in. i'm a crappy mom. why do i need a day off? what the hell do these stay-at-home moms do - take zanax? i'm sure i would lose my mind if i didn't work, and yet i'm so mentally and physically exhausted i can't help but wonder if i would feel "right" by napping every day when my son naps and scheduling the next play date?
it is what it is. we need what we need.
work is going extremely well. i got a tiny raise - just enough to bump me up to a personal salary milestone. it's humbling. and i'm working better, more efficiently and more effectively than ever. not a week goes by that i don't ask the Lord to give me his strength, and i believe this is his hand in my life because my work life is oddly successful to me. it kind of blows me away that, even though i only work four days a week (and one of them from home), i'm pretty sure i do the work of a regular full-timer. i also learned last week that i may become a client rep - a significant step up from my current role as a person who works alongside a client rep. it's more responsibility, which scares me but only because i'm a bit on the lazy side and am weirdly introverted when it comes to my clients (the group of lab researchers that i edit papers and such for). i realized earlier this year that i really have never taken my career seriously - oh, i'm very good at selling myself and getting good jobs with good companies with increasing amounts of responsibility, but when i get settled into a place i also get bored and restless. good grief, i think this is the first time i've really admitted this. i'm in my 40s and i'm not what you call established. i've figured out how to work things to my advantage and move up a notch every so often, but i've also put a really high priority on putting margins in my personal life and i don't work a single minute of overtime if i don't absolutely have to. for those reasons, how i've managed to be successful in my current job is a bit of a mystery to me.
through an odd turn of events i'm pill-free for the next month. i lost my paper prescription during the temporary move, then they called it in without the generic okay so i couldn't get them (i wasn't going to pay a $50 copay thank you very much). oh well. what's the worst that could happen? hahahahahaha...
i think i'll get a massage monday. the place we like to go is next to a really fabulous french bakery/cafe in a recently gentrified, snobbily high-brow-hipper-than-thou, walkable part of town called the denver highlands. it used to be cool and on the fringe, now it's irritatingly inviting.
damn. he's working himself up to a cry. go back to sleep! time for my second cup of coffee. maybe he pooped and needs a change? it would be cruel to let him stew in it.
i have a calendar print-out with every social circle event happening this summer, which is every single day. this is our church's latest creation - creating opportunities for people to just hang out and have fun together. it's alternating with short-term small groups, which i guess will start in september. we're desperate for social interaction, so we're trying some of them. saturday morning play dates in a park? instant win. friday evening at one of a dozen new nanobreweries? i'm so there.
the boy's early bedtime is a sacrifice for us. it makes it hard to do anything in the evening. but it's totally worth it. we get evening quiet/movie/margin time, he gets a solid 12 hours of sleep (usually). maybe when he's six i'll let him stay up until 8. ha!
i love cooking and meal planning and grocery shopping. i hate walking in the door at 5:30 and realizing i have 30 seconds to make dinner. but i found a recipe for sausage kale soup that i absolutely have to try. i tried kale chips a week ago. my son liked them. i thought they were pretty nasty. i told my girlfriend she needs to make me some kale chips or i may never eat this superfood. it's going into a soup where it can mellow out and be palatable, dancing around with the flavors of italian turkey sausage, mirepoix, and beef broth. sounds good, right?
silence. i think he went back to sleep. thank you, Lord!
we're gonna have some good family time, dammit. i think we'll try to go hiking today before it gets hot. afternoon? indoors somewhere. we have two museum memberships that we never use. i won't bother renewing until the boy's old enough to appreciate them - or when he's old enough to do their kiddie activities, which oddly is not far away. so maybe i better keep them up. ugh. i definitely need to drop the gym membership and switch to punch cards. we rarely go anymore. not worth $48/month.
it's 6:20. i think i'm done dumping my brain. going to sit on the patio and enjoy my second cup of coffee. happy 4th of july!
at about 5:00, i woke up, went to the bathroom, came back to bed, and soon after realized i wasn't going back to sleep. random songs started playing in my head - that's how i know. i could lay there with a pillow over my head, wishing myself back to sleep and listening to my husband snore peacefully, or i could get up and journal, a special me-time activity that happens about as often as i get a pedicure which is regretfully far too rare.
i hear some little bumps - is my son whacking his legs around in the crib? no matter. he'll go back to sleep.
fourth of july. independence day.
oh crap. yup, that's him - just said "HEY." go back to sleep, kid. i swear i'm not making any noise, and his door is shut.
we have no plans for this weekend - well, that's not entirely true. we invited my mom up for breakfast so we have an excuse to make an indecent amount of bacon and eggs fried in coconut oil (i'm gonna make banana bread too - why not?). we're meeting people for happy hour friday, and then joining a friend's birthday party dinner saturday evening before we sneak out for a date. i'm feeling good about it.
yesterday, i didn't feel so good about it. knowing that it would be the four of us for four days, i scheduled a drop-off for our son at daycare for monday. i'm giving myself the day off. i know i desperately need it. i've been slammed at work the last two weeks, and home life is a constant buzz from dawn to dusk. i have a really hard time sleeping anymore, and i know it's anxiety plus too small margins in my life right now. i know it's a season, and one of these days i'll wonder what happened to this little toddler who charms the pants off of me even when he's screaming his head off with tantrum #231.
anyway, guilt set in. i'm a crappy mom. why do i need a day off? what the hell do these stay-at-home moms do - take zanax? i'm sure i would lose my mind if i didn't work, and yet i'm so mentally and physically exhausted i can't help but wonder if i would feel "right" by napping every day when my son naps and scheduling the next play date?
it is what it is. we need what we need.
work is going extremely well. i got a tiny raise - just enough to bump me up to a personal salary milestone. it's humbling. and i'm working better, more efficiently and more effectively than ever. not a week goes by that i don't ask the Lord to give me his strength, and i believe this is his hand in my life because my work life is oddly successful to me. it kind of blows me away that, even though i only work four days a week (and one of them from home), i'm pretty sure i do the work of a regular full-timer. i also learned last week that i may become a client rep - a significant step up from my current role as a person who works alongside a client rep. it's more responsibility, which scares me but only because i'm a bit on the lazy side and am weirdly introverted when it comes to my clients (the group of lab researchers that i edit papers and such for). i realized earlier this year that i really have never taken my career seriously - oh, i'm very good at selling myself and getting good jobs with good companies with increasing amounts of responsibility, but when i get settled into a place i also get bored and restless. good grief, i think this is the first time i've really admitted this. i'm in my 40s and i'm not what you call established. i've figured out how to work things to my advantage and move up a notch every so often, but i've also put a really high priority on putting margins in my personal life and i don't work a single minute of overtime if i don't absolutely have to. for those reasons, how i've managed to be successful in my current job is a bit of a mystery to me.
through an odd turn of events i'm pill-free for the next month. i lost my paper prescription during the temporary move, then they called it in without the generic okay so i couldn't get them (i wasn't going to pay a $50 copay thank you very much). oh well. what's the worst that could happen? hahahahahaha...
i think i'll get a massage monday. the place we like to go is next to a really fabulous french bakery/cafe in a recently gentrified, snobbily high-brow-hipper-than-thou, walkable part of town called the denver highlands. it used to be cool and on the fringe, now it's irritatingly inviting.
damn. he's working himself up to a cry. go back to sleep! time for my second cup of coffee. maybe he pooped and needs a change? it would be cruel to let him stew in it.
i have a calendar print-out with every social circle event happening this summer, which is every single day. this is our church's latest creation - creating opportunities for people to just hang out and have fun together. it's alternating with short-term small groups, which i guess will start in september. we're desperate for social interaction, so we're trying some of them. saturday morning play dates in a park? instant win. friday evening at one of a dozen new nanobreweries? i'm so there.
the boy's early bedtime is a sacrifice for us. it makes it hard to do anything in the evening. but it's totally worth it. we get evening quiet/movie/margin time, he gets a solid 12 hours of sleep (usually). maybe when he's six i'll let him stay up until 8. ha!
i love cooking and meal planning and grocery shopping. i hate walking in the door at 5:30 and realizing i have 30 seconds to make dinner. but i found a recipe for sausage kale soup that i absolutely have to try. i tried kale chips a week ago. my son liked them. i thought they were pretty nasty. i told my girlfriend she needs to make me some kale chips or i may never eat this superfood. it's going into a soup where it can mellow out and be palatable, dancing around with the flavors of italian turkey sausage, mirepoix, and beef broth. sounds good, right?
silence. i think he went back to sleep. thank you, Lord!
we're gonna have some good family time, dammit. i think we'll try to go hiking today before it gets hot. afternoon? indoors somewhere. we have two museum memberships that we never use. i won't bother renewing until the boy's old enough to appreciate them - or when he's old enough to do their kiddie activities, which oddly is not far away. so maybe i better keep them up. ugh. i definitely need to drop the gym membership and switch to punch cards. we rarely go anymore. not worth $48/month.
it's 6:20. i think i'm done dumping my brain. going to sit on the patio and enjoy my second cup of coffee. happy 4th of july!
May 16, 2013
constantly adjusting expectations
That's what parenthood is really about, isn't it? I mean, we all wonder what our baby will be like. Then we wonder when he'll sleep through the night, and eventually wish he'd go back to sleeping through the night. There's the ever-evolving body changes, food and beverage preferences, behavior changes that are wonderful to witness and often puzzling to say the least (Really? You're crying because I put you on the changing table?).
The more I research, the more I have to relearn the fact that I have to change right along with my son if I want to stay sane. I've been torturing myself over what to feed my suddenly-picky toddler and searching endlessly for meal ideas for picky toddlers. Then, this morning, I came across this little gem: "...a child who opened wide during the first year may become suddenly obstinate at some point during the second year, often between 12 and 18 months of age... This normal behavioral development is a nearly universal source of (usually unnecessary) worry for parents. Ensuring that toddlers really get what they need to eat has a lot to do with adjusting parental expectations." (emphasis mine)
Note to self: Okay, take a deep breath and remember your kid is NORMAL. He won't be doomed to a lifetime of fries and ketchup, dairy and crunchy, diabetes and high blood pressure, just because he goes through a phase of whatever the heck this is.
The more I research, the more I have to relearn the fact that I have to change right along with my son if I want to stay sane. I've been torturing myself over what to feed my suddenly-picky toddler and searching endlessly for meal ideas for picky toddlers. Then, this morning, I came across this little gem: "...a child who opened wide during the first year may become suddenly obstinate at some point during the second year, often between 12 and 18 months of age... This normal behavioral development is a nearly universal source of (usually unnecessary) worry for parents. Ensuring that toddlers really get what they need to eat has a lot to do with adjusting parental expectations." (emphasis mine)
Note to self: Okay, take a deep breath and remember your kid is NORMAL. He won't be doomed to a lifetime of fries and ketchup, dairy and crunchy, diabetes and high blood pressure, just because he goes through a phase of whatever the heck this is.
May 15, 2013
more on feeding the one year old
I'm flummoxed. Baffled. Bewildered. Even flabbergasted.
I thought the boy was into a variety of foods. Maybe it's the cafeteria food he's eating at daycare for lunch (which I'm convincing myself breeds picky eaters). Maybe it's because toddlers don't grow nearly as fast and just aren't very hungry and therefore have the luxury of being picky. Maybe he's just too tired to care about food by the time dinner rolls around. But this kid can barely entertain the notion of eating something that isn't dairy or crunchy. (Yes, I just used a noun like a verb for the sake of rhyming.)
I have this fantasy in my head that we're going to raise an adventurous eater; a kid who loves going out to restaurants and actually eats something besides mac & cheese and isn't instead predisposed to flick food onto the floor while my husband goes apoplectic with embarrassment and frustration.
Maybe that's the problem: the fantasy in my head doesn't match my toddler's eating whims.
Every day, I'm charged with deciding what's for dinner. In that decision I take into account whether the boy will eat it. Usually the answer is no. At this point, I either change my mind or have a backup plan. Usually the backup plan is enacted.
Last night was no exception. I placed him in his booster, presented him with some seaweed, watched him flick it to the floor, broke out the crunchies as the backup, watched him eat a handful of these, gave him seaweed a second time and watched him eat them with no problem, grabbed a few chunks of chicken (flick), carrots (yum), more seaweed (yum), cheese (double-yum), followed by some chunks of orange (sort-of yum, one flick). Determining that the last flick meant he was full, I gave him his milk. He had a few sips, then tossed it to the floor. I called dinner done at that point, and he held out his hands at that point for me to pick him up. I try to remember to smile so he doesn't think he's disappointing me.
Every day is a secret combination-decoding process that I am determined to solve. However, I'm learning how to live with the fact that, often, I don't solve the puzzle and just move on to the next day.
Maybe he'd like a finely-diced lasagna? I could certainly go for that. Maybe I should just feed him dairy, crunchies, and baby food until he's 5 years old - at least that way he'd get some veggies in that cute little belly!
Any suggestions?
I thought the boy was into a variety of foods. Maybe it's the cafeteria food he's eating at daycare for lunch (which I'm convincing myself breeds picky eaters). Maybe it's because toddlers don't grow nearly as fast and just aren't very hungry and therefore have the luxury of being picky. Maybe he's just too tired to care about food by the time dinner rolls around. But this kid can barely entertain the notion of eating something that isn't dairy or crunchy. (Yes, I just used a noun like a verb for the sake of rhyming.)
I have this fantasy in my head that we're going to raise an adventurous eater; a kid who loves going out to restaurants and actually eats something besides mac & cheese and isn't instead predisposed to flick food onto the floor while my husband goes apoplectic with embarrassment and frustration.
Maybe that's the problem: the fantasy in my head doesn't match my toddler's eating whims.
Every day, I'm charged with deciding what's for dinner. In that decision I take into account whether the boy will eat it. Usually the answer is no. At this point, I either change my mind or have a backup plan. Usually the backup plan is enacted.
Last night was no exception. I placed him in his booster, presented him with some seaweed, watched him flick it to the floor, broke out the crunchies as the backup, watched him eat a handful of these, gave him seaweed a second time and watched him eat them with no problem, grabbed a few chunks of chicken (flick), carrots (yum), more seaweed (yum), cheese (double-yum), followed by some chunks of orange (sort-of yum, one flick). Determining that the last flick meant he was full, I gave him his milk. He had a few sips, then tossed it to the floor. I called dinner done at that point, and he held out his hands at that point for me to pick him up. I try to remember to smile so he doesn't think he's disappointing me.
Every day is a secret combination-decoding process that I am determined to solve. However, I'm learning how to live with the fact that, often, I don't solve the puzzle and just move on to the next day.
Maybe he'd like a finely-diced lasagna? I could certainly go for that. Maybe I should just feed him dairy, crunchies, and baby food until he's 5 years old - at least that way he'd get some veggies in that cute little belly!
Any suggestions?
March 27, 2013
and the best parenting award goes to… nobody
I hate it when I snap at my husband for talking to our son
as if he has no idea what we’re saying, and that he’s not a dog that only pays
attention to cadence and pitch. He’s old enough that he probably does know exactly what we’re saying and
will someday regurgitate choice words for us in all their glory.
I kind of hate it when it seems like I’m more effective at
calming our son down. Or getting him to eat. Or whatever. Because it’s just not
true. I could be smug at such moments, but I’m not because I hate the idea that
somehow my husband might be internalizing some of these moments and assuming
his heyday of fathering will come when our son is of a more interacting, active
age (you know, walking and talking and itching to build model airplanes).
At every turn, I am reminded just by looking at him that our
son needs both of his parents, and different isn’t necessarily wrong when it
comes to parenting styles. I see it when he lifts the boy in the air and makes him
giggle wildly, or gently tosses him around the bed as if they’re wrestling, or
shows the boy his latest art project, or they watch The Simpsons together (the
boy’s favorite show, part of his severely limited TV exposure), or even when he
convinces him to try eating something that had never occurred to me to feed him.
Who knows, but those moments when I'm cuddling and petting our son I could be setting my own stage for smothering or over-protecting him as he gets older. I can see that happening since I hear so much about abused children and victims of all kinds of evil. Some days I'm terrified that I'll lose him to some disaster, but I try not to think that way.
There are days when it dawns on me that I might be
subconsciously competing for some kind of Best Parenting award. And that’s when
I get hen-peckish and I hate it. Lord, help me to see the stick in my eye.
March 10, 2013
sex trafficking... imby?
There was this one day a few years ago. This one random day. My husband and I went to a restaurant (loosely defined), late in the afternoon, that's been around for decades which was a place we went on our first date. We'd been married for 10 years or so. We sat in a booth with torn pleather and the requisite linoleum-that-looks-like-dark-wood table. A few booths away we noticed a... group. Not a family. It was too obvious.
There was a woman and man who looked like they were together, maybe married but maybe not. There was a young girl with them - 13? 14 at the most? and a friend of hers, neither of whom looked anything like the adults. We both got the sense that something was terribly wrong, especially given the slightly racy attire of the girls and comparatively slovenly dress of the adults who were more interested in their food than the children.
The girls went to the restroom, and suddenly I felt desperate. I wanted to rescue them. Was I right? Was the Holy Spirit trying to prompt me? I did nothing. I sat in my booth and drank my water. I think we had food, but I can't tell you what it was.
I got up to use the restroom and it was occupied. I waited. The door opened and the two girls emerged, looking slightly more polished than before and ready for adventure. My heart leaped out of my chest - should I have said something? I did nothing. I stood there with my mouth open and eyes fixed as they passed me, oblivious.
I never forgot that moment, those girls, or that place. I have prayed since then, and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit as I petitioned for their lives. It's not so unlike many prayers in which I may never know how or when God honors them.
And yet, a black sticky film forms in my stomach when I hear about the fact that sex trafficking is still going on in America. And yes, here - in Denver. It's disgusting and highly profitable and must. Be. Stopped. Our mothers and sisters and daughters deserve redemption and the knowledge that the life they are in is not what God promises for them, nor is it all that is possible for them.
A recent article in the Denver Post on Sex trafficking in Denver highlights its prevalence, and I'm glad to know someone is paying attention to this.
I may never know the fate of those two girls or why I felt compelled to pray for them. But then, it's really not about me.
There was a woman and man who looked like they were together, maybe married but maybe not. There was a young girl with them - 13? 14 at the most? and a friend of hers, neither of whom looked anything like the adults. We both got the sense that something was terribly wrong, especially given the slightly racy attire of the girls and comparatively slovenly dress of the adults who were more interested in their food than the children.
The girls went to the restroom, and suddenly I felt desperate. I wanted to rescue them. Was I right? Was the Holy Spirit trying to prompt me? I did nothing. I sat in my booth and drank my water. I think we had food, but I can't tell you what it was.
I got up to use the restroom and it was occupied. I waited. The door opened and the two girls emerged, looking slightly more polished than before and ready for adventure. My heart leaped out of my chest - should I have said something? I did nothing. I stood there with my mouth open and eyes fixed as they passed me, oblivious.
I never forgot that moment, those girls, or that place. I have prayed since then, and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit as I petitioned for their lives. It's not so unlike many prayers in which I may never know how or when God honors them.
And yet, a black sticky film forms in my stomach when I hear about the fact that sex trafficking is still going on in America. And yes, here - in Denver. It's disgusting and highly profitable and must. Be. Stopped. Our mothers and sisters and daughters deserve redemption and the knowledge that the life they are in is not what God promises for them, nor is it all that is possible for them.
A recent article in the Denver Post on Sex trafficking in Denver highlights its prevalence, and I'm glad to know someone is paying attention to this.
I may never know the fate of those two girls or why I felt compelled to pray for them. But then, it's really not about me.
January 29, 2013
why is it so hard to ask for help?
Over the weekend, we went to a mountain town to check out the results of an annual international snow carving championship. It was a good excuse to get out of the condo for the day, and of course the baby would nap in the car (he's pretty reliable that way).
We drove up there, walked around the exhibit and snapped a few photos, introduced the boy to snow (he was fascinated), strolled down Main Street, went to lunch, and drove home. Easy peasy.
The only problem was me. My hormones must have been raging. I must have been tired. All I felt like I did was manage my son. Not because he was in a bad mood or anything, and not because DH doesn't do plenty, but rather because a) when I hold him, he generally wants down and that isn't going to happen in a public square, b) he's so excited around big groups of people that he gets bored hanging out in the stroller (hence the holding), and c) I fed him that day in the restaurant which meant constantly managing how much he has in front of him, whether (or when) it's fallen to the floor and he needs more, wiping his mouth often enough to not let him look like a disaster, and giving him a bottle when he's not into solids anymore. Finally, I had the job of changing his diaper - something I really don't mind, especially when the sexist restaurant doesn't bother putting a changing station in the men's room (grr).
So, when we were all done eating (and I kind of slammed a beer so my heart would quit palpitating and I would calm the heck down), I took him to the restroom. Nearing the restroom door, a woman was walking out and - since she didn't notice the changing station (it's in one of the stalls) - she offered to help. She said she has twin 14-month old boys and knows how tough it is when there isn't a changing station. First: How sweet is that? Second: She was at least my age. So I remarked "Wow, you're a hero!" She waved it away, saying "Nah. You just get through it."
A simple remark, but it was enough grace for me to smile and move on. Would I have taken her up on it? Hard to say. Speaking of grace for strangers, I'm often the beneficiary (and try to be the giver) of a door held open, a kind word spoken, a compliment on how cute my son is. At these times, my shoulders un-hunch just a little and my load feels a bit lighter.
And yet, for some odd reason, I had to ruminate for days - days! - before getting around to asking my mother to hang out with my son while he slept so I could sneak away for a bit of quiet time. Ridiculous, right? I mean, I was gone for 1.5 hours. I sat in a coffee shop and forced myself to stare out the window and watch the clouds go by without checking messages or email. Well, for a few minutes anyway. Stupid smartphone makes it way too easy to distract myself from the moment.
My mother has graciously and generously offered to babysit my son pretty much anytime I ask. Her mom once did it for her, so it was one way of paying it forward. Plus, she loves the dickens out the little bub so it's not like she doesn't enjoy it (ensuing exhaustion notwithstanding).
So maybe I'm wary of wearing out that welcome mat, or maybe I'm not used to such open generosity. Or maybe I'm just too busy to take her up on it most of the time and really need to get out more. In fact, she's suggested that we have a standing once-a-month commitment so DH and I can go out on a date. I'm totally taking her up on it, and it gives me something to look forward to. A little breathing space.
At any rate, while I never expect generosity from strangers and really appreciate it, I have a hard time asking for what I need when I need it from the people who are in the best position to help me. I'm not sure it's age-related, as I'm not the only one I know that struggles in this.
Maybe - just maybe - I need to be a little more proactive in making sure someone takes advantage of my generosity too. Just in case they're a little shy.
We drove up there, walked around the exhibit and snapped a few photos, introduced the boy to snow (he was fascinated), strolled down Main Street, went to lunch, and drove home. Easy peasy.
The only problem was me. My hormones must have been raging. I must have been tired. All I felt like I did was manage my son. Not because he was in a bad mood or anything, and not because DH doesn't do plenty, but rather because a) when I hold him, he generally wants down and that isn't going to happen in a public square, b) he's so excited around big groups of people that he gets bored hanging out in the stroller (hence the holding), and c) I fed him that day in the restaurant which meant constantly managing how much he has in front of him, whether (or when) it's fallen to the floor and he needs more, wiping his mouth often enough to not let him look like a disaster, and giving him a bottle when he's not into solids anymore. Finally, I had the job of changing his diaper - something I really don't mind, especially when the sexist restaurant doesn't bother putting a changing station in the men's room (grr).
So, when we were all done eating (and I kind of slammed a beer so my heart would quit palpitating and I would calm the heck down), I took him to the restroom. Nearing the restroom door, a woman was walking out and - since she didn't notice the changing station (it's in one of the stalls) - she offered to help. She said she has twin 14-month old boys and knows how tough it is when there isn't a changing station. First: How sweet is that? Second: She was at least my age. So I remarked "Wow, you're a hero!" She waved it away, saying "Nah. You just get through it."
A simple remark, but it was enough grace for me to smile and move on. Would I have taken her up on it? Hard to say. Speaking of grace for strangers, I'm often the beneficiary (and try to be the giver) of a door held open, a kind word spoken, a compliment on how cute my son is. At these times, my shoulders un-hunch just a little and my load feels a bit lighter.
And yet, for some odd reason, I had to ruminate for days - days! - before getting around to asking my mother to hang out with my son while he slept so I could sneak away for a bit of quiet time. Ridiculous, right? I mean, I was gone for 1.5 hours. I sat in a coffee shop and forced myself to stare out the window and watch the clouds go by without checking messages or email. Well, for a few minutes anyway. Stupid smartphone makes it way too easy to distract myself from the moment.
My mother has graciously and generously offered to babysit my son pretty much anytime I ask. Her mom once did it for her, so it was one way of paying it forward. Plus, she loves the dickens out the little bub so it's not like she doesn't enjoy it (ensuing exhaustion notwithstanding).
So maybe I'm wary of wearing out that welcome mat, or maybe I'm not used to such open generosity. Or maybe I'm just too busy to take her up on it most of the time and really need to get out more. In fact, she's suggested that we have a standing once-a-month commitment so DH and I can go out on a date. I'm totally taking her up on it, and it gives me something to look forward to. A little breathing space.
At any rate, while I never expect generosity from strangers and really appreciate it, I have a hard time asking for what I need when I need it from the people who are in the best position to help me. I'm not sure it's age-related, as I'm not the only one I know that struggles in this.
Maybe - just maybe - I need to be a little more proactive in making sure someone takes advantage of my generosity too. Just in case they're a little shy.
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