Monday, April 28, 2014

Early motherhood: I don't know how, but I'm really trying.

So, these days I spend a lot of my extra moments (the few that there are) snapping photos of my little girl with my phone. I received a text from a friend yesterday informing me that every picture of her that I post on Facebook is pushing him toward becoming diabetic. I am okay with that. I waited a long time to decide to have her, and my husband and I worked really hard to have her after we finally decided we were ready. It's hard to apologize for this kind of happy.

One of my responses to my friend rings so true and loudly for me: "I, of course, think every moment of her existence is adorable."

I am pretty sure every parent feels that way about their children, even in the most frustrating and stressful of moments. I also joked yesterday that this feeling is a good one to have during those frustrating moments. If they weren't so cute, how would we make it through?

Early motherhood is a difficult time. I might have made a mistake. I intentionally didn't try to read up on parenting and what's supposed to be the best method for everything. Maybe it's a little arrogant or naive, but I don't believe anyone truly knows the best method for everything. I'm pretty sure that over the thousands upon thousands of years that we as a species have been parenting children, we have been doing a lot of things wrong, and accidentally doing a lot of things right.

The only book I read from start to finish was "Happiest Baby on the Block," because it was recommended by a friend whom I really trust, and whose opinion I really value. There were lots of take-aways from that book, but one that resonates most with me right now is how mothers outside of the Western world parent--they do it together. It's a different kind of "together" than what I think we think of. Women in villages actually take turns caring for children--holding them, feeding them, caring for them. They don't have, or need the benefit of books on the subject or visits from "Parents as Teachers" representatives. I'm sure they get things wrong too, but there's a gentle kindness about the way they do things and support each other that I wish we had more of in our culture.

Who we are now.
It's hard to be a new mom and to know you don't know anything, and to feel like you aren't doing things right. That nagging feeling you get when people ask or comment about your baby's schedule comes mostly from a place of truth within yourself that you wish you did know more and that you think you are doing at least part of it wrong. And then you find yourself in a desperate place of playing catch up on all of the things you feel like you should have known.

I should have known that when she was pulling at her ears and rubbing her face and head that she was tired, but I didn't. She's had a rash. I figured that's what was bothering her--if I even noticed at all.  I should have known that she was having trouble sleeping because she was too tired. These days, I can barely keep my eyes open while I nurse her, so the idea that anyone in my house would fail to sleep when they are tired is a concept I am too tired to comprehend.

The questions aren't meant to be judging or hurtful. I have come to realize, even this early on, that once you start ticking off the days of motherhood, it's like a survivors' club. You feel compelled to share what's working for you, even if nobody asks. You do it because you are so excited that something you did actually did work or was right. You do it because so little of what you are doing, or what you did, felt right at the time, and the only way you survive is by only remembering the things that were good. Otherwise, you would be certain that you had permanently harmed your child every single day. Who could live with that feeling? Only a mom who doesn't actually care.

That second night in the hospital, I had an epiphany. I know that I have already written about it, but it's still at least partly where this blog originates. Willow was crying incessantly, and nothing I did calmed her. As a new, little family, we were beside ourselves. But all I cared about was what she was going through. All I cared about was how much I never wanted her to have a moment of sadness, pain or the frustration I was sure she felt in that moment. There is nothing I wouldn't do for her. It reduced me to tears as well.

In the weeks since we brought her home, that hasn't changed. And in those weeks, I have posted dozens of pictures of her on Facebook, and I have taken countless others. People have tried to decide if she looks more like me, or more like my husband. I look at her and I have no idea. She might have my nose and my ears. She has her daddy's hairline. But ultimately, I keep thinking that she looks like Willow. She looks like no one I have ever known. She is a whole new person.

Willow at 3-weeks. She's resting very comfortably in my belly cast.
On "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb," by U2, there's a track entitled "Original of the Species." The Edge and Bono wrote it about their daughters. I always liked it, but I never really got it until the last seven weeks. It's exactly how I feel about my little girl. The premise is that this person they write about is like no one who has ever existed before. This person is so special that they are apart from everything else that came before.

When I listen to the lyrics now, I think of how I want her to grow up. I want her to know how special and important she is--just as she is. I think it's harder for girls. Everyone wants to fit in and to feel a part of their peer group. In spite of it being called out and spotlighted by up-and-coming celebrities like Jennifer Lawrence, and by companies like Dove, appearance is still such a giant part of whether you are liked as a female. That part of who we are as a culture forces our daughters to choose between being who they truly are and want to be, and trying to fit into a box that everyone else fits into so they can have friends and not feel ostracized. I can't stand the thought that my girl will have to make such choices.

All kids can be be mean, but I think girls can be particularly so. I grew up around several mean girls, and sadly, I think that even as women, we can be unsupportive of each other and mean spirited at times. For the first time in my life, I understand why some parents choose to home school their children. When I think of potentially subjecting my Willow to dealing with the mean girls whom she might encounter, or just as bad that she could become one herself, I already cringe. At the same time, if I didn't send her to school with other children, she'd have a rude awakening as a young woman--not the time to learn that the world is sometimes a hard place in hard ways.

I know at the beginning and end of the day, all any parent can do is their best. All we can do is pick up the knowledge we need as we go along and hope that the mistakes we make aren't the worst kind. All we can do is love our kids more than life itself, and teach them that they are worthy of that love, and anything else in their lives that they seek.

My Willow really is one of a kind. She "feels like no one before," as the Edge and Bono write. Everyday, I will tell her "I want the lot of what you've got, and I want nothing that you're not," because that's how I truly feel. Everything she is, is perfect to me, and anything else she tried to be but herself would never be true.

Everything I try and fail at; everything I don't get right, or get right by accident--these are the things that are going to shape her into who she will be. That's why every mistake you think you're making along the way feels so painful. You don't want your babe to "survive" her childhood--especially if you actually did survive your own. You want everything they experience to be better than what you experienced--even if what you experienced was great.

Nothing can ever be enough for them, because there's no one like them.

Original of the Species--U2


Saturday, April 5, 2014

Where's my hairbrush? How we become real moms.

So, for just this moment, I'm still going qualify myself as existing in the group of "wannabe moms" who project into their mom future that they are somehow going to do it differently than everyone else. Those moms are going to wash their faces at least once everyday. They will get a shower everyday. They will rake a comb or brush through their hair everyday. And maybe--just maybe--even brush on a little mascara everyday. The really ambitious "wannabe moms" are going to actually pluck or wax their eyebrows and touch up their blonde roots before going out in public becomes ridiculous--oh yeah, those same moms are actually going to make a habit of going out in public.

The reality of my existence is that I'm so freshly "mom" that I am actually in a weird limbo state where I am aware of the space around me and how it has changed, and I can almost stand outside of that space and watch as the change takes place.

In a very real way, I have been a mom for about 16 years. Jeph and I got our first dog together about16 years ago. From that point on, I have always had at least one little life to care for. And over the last few days, my 13-year-old dachshund has reminded me how deep that love is and how that love is exactly as deep as what I feel for my furless baby. Non-pet people judge all you want--I don't care--the love really is the same depth, even though there are differences.

I think the major difference is the literal, physical connection I have to my daughter that I will never have with any other living thing. As I was working on another writing project this morning, it occurred to me that I understand why all the "wannabes" think they can maintain everything they are used to doing, and why so many of them (us) fail.

While I was pregnant, my sweet, loving husband (no sarcasm--seriously) would occasionally tell me that he didn't want me to lose my "pin-up" style after I became a full-fledged mom. I assured him each time that I would do my level best not to. In the last four weeks, I have occasionally gotten about four or five consecutive hours of sleep--usually due to an intervention by that same husband. Otherwise, I am up about every two to three hours overnight, and because I am a loser at trying to create a "schedule" for my four-week-old, I never follow the rule of sleeping during the day when she sleeps. I always want to fit a load of laundry in or clean the kitchen. Or maybe I want to clear out e-mail. Or as with today, write a little so I don't completely forget myself.

Two nights this week, our daughter chose not to sleep for most of the night. I was rescued both times, and am so grateful and lucky. Over the last three days, our furry daughter has not been feeling well, and I am not ready to accept that she is in her physical 80s or 90s. So, today, I've had a little time to wallow in my worry over her and shed a few tears during the time my furless daughter has been sleeping. I just walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and it occurs to me that I haven't used a hairbrush in days, my lower eyelids have never been darker or puffier, and I have only sneaking suspicions about the various spots of things on the T-shirt I am wearing.

I could really use a little moisturizer and some eye-makeup right about now.

Moms don't make time for things they think are bullshit. And most moms--right or wrong--see taking care of themselves as bullshit. When we get up in the morning, we take care of every other living thing in our proximity before we take care of anything we need. Four weeks in, there are already times I realize that I have just sat down to feed my daughter--which could take anywhere from 10 minutes to half an hour--and I desperately need to go to the bathroom. Somehow, I manage to get her fed before I explode, and that reinforces for me that this is the way things are supposed to be.

Twice this week, I have had "spur of the moment" outings with only about an hour to prepare for leaving the house. Neither time did I manage to eat before leaving the house, or even manage a bottle of water. It's true, both times, I not only got my daughter cleaned up, dressed and fed, but I managed some semblance of putting my hair in order and straightening out my face. I imagine as the months go by, food and water will override vanity--I'm not quite there yet--that's why I am still qualifying myself as one of the "wannabes." I'm still kind of deluding myself into the idea that I can at least maintain myself when I go out into the world. I think there's some crazy place in my brain that believes I "owe it to my public." Let's forget that aside from my husband, there is literally one other living soul where I live who knows me well enough to recognize me, and while visiting me in the hospital after I had my daughter, I'm pretty sure she saw me practically topless--so I really doubt she cares if my hair is in order or not.

I am really fortunate. The last several years, my pregnancy, and the birth of our daughter has brought my husband and I so closely together that not even scruffy hair and dry patches on my face are going to "put us asunder." And he takes as many opportunities as he can to remind me that I am more than just our daughter's mom. One of those moments this week was unexpected, and it occurred to me that while I remember those kinds of moments, it already doesn't occur to me that I should expect those moments on any given day.

My girls.
It already doesn't occur to me that I have a place on my own list--my own list of priorities. I get up. I get meds to our dog and get her outside to do her business. I check and change our daughter's diaper and feed her. I get us dressed for the day and relocate all needed "work supplies" to the living room. I manage a load of laundry or dishes while my daughter sleeps for about an hour and a half, and then I start this list over. I know there's more to the list, but these are the dominating items. By the time I complete the list a couple of times, it's midday and I realize that I have neither eaten nor tried to grab a shower.

In recounting the list, it's not about feeling bad for what I can't manage, or about wanting anyone else to feel bad. It's more about what almost all moms are doing on autopilot every single day. I know there are a few moms out there who have their shit together and manage these things with the same finesse and style with which they have managed careers and lives before motherhood, but since I don't really belong to their club, I don't know any of them.

I am quickly slipping away from the "wannabe" crowd and into the "real mom" crowd. I am one of the moms who will eat cold dinners over the sink as quickly as possible--at least in part so I can complete the load for the dishwasher. I am one of the moms who will leave the house, not realizing that she did mascara and eyeliner on one side, but not the other (no, this hasn't happened yet, but it will). I am one of the moms who will still be wearing that red and white striped shirt I got at K-mart my sophomore year in high school while my daughter wears whatever they will be wearing when she's in sixth grade.

And while these things are playing out, I won't even feel like I'm missing out on anything. I will briefly acknowledge--only to myself--that I really should cover those roots soon. I will be thankful that I had a C-section instead of a traditional birth, because I will still be able to wait to go to the bathroom during feedings and other tasks without the concern that this might be the time I don't make it. 

From time to time, my husband will remind me that the line in front of me has gotten really long, and I will briefly be surprised enough by those reminders to realize that it happened without my paying attention along the way. And I won't remember any of those things I "wanted to be" as a mom. I'll just be a mom.

And when my daughter is old enough not to need me so much, only then will I realize there is no line in front of me anymore, and I will probably feel so lost because I won't know what or who to follow. That will be a sadder day than any of those on which I have nearly forgotten what a hairbrush or mascara can do for me.