Breathing

Marriage (and pretty much my entire relationship with Shawn, if I’m honest) has been…easy. My history with relationships was that they are hard, requiring constant tending to and nurturing and negotiating. So when I met Shawn, it felt almost jarring how simple and uncomplicated it all was. It’s not that we haven’t faced moments of adversity or argued over something mundane. It’s just that I’ve always been proud of our ability to communicate, the way we are able to work together. I naively thought that the effect of a new baby would be minimal, just a blip on the timeline of our life together. An adorable, squishy and significant blip— but certainly not the homemade explosive it has turned out to be. 

Being tired makes me unreasonable. It magnifies my emotions, my expectations and my disappointments. I wasn’t even really sure what my needs were in those early weeks, but I was pretty certain that they weren’t being met. I refused to accept any help and then inwardly scoffed that Shawn wouldn’t somehow insist on helping anyway. In short, I expected my husband to be both a mind reader and a martyr. 

Life has gotten easier as Everett continues to grow. I’m still not sleeping but I’ve reached some kind of hybrid zombie human state that is manageable, if not exactly ideal. The fog has lifted and I now have the capacity to consider things outside of the realm of ‘baby'- personal hygiene…laundry… I even sometimes remember that there are television channels other than Bravo. 

But I have a secret that I am weirdly shameful about. I am terrible at prioritizing time for my relationship. I often feel genuinely confused when I see new parents doing the very normal thing of dropping off their babies with a grandparent or other doting relative (who is usually actually salivating at the prospect) and escaping for a few hours. I encourage my own friends with new little ones to take time for themselves and my logical brain recognizes the value of it. But for me, personally…well, I don’t want to inconvenience anyone and having to come up with a plan and thaw frozen milk and pack up a bag and admit to our laid back non-scheduled parenting style and apologize for the fact that my baby doesn’t nap…frankly, it often feels like too much work. Which is not to say I’m not madly in love with my husband. In fact, I love him more at this moment than I ever have in any other point at our relationship. He is my best friend, my consummate partner and fits into every last cheesy cliche. 

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision in the middle of a mundane parenting task and my heart threatens to explode with joy and gratitude. His over abundance of patience with Grace has saved not only my sanity but probably my relationship with her, too. When I come back to bed after feeding the baby, he always reaches out to me and squeezes my shoulder in a sign of sleepy solidarity. He does the dishes every night, navigates school pick up almost every day and is the first to encourage me to work towards goals especially when I’m feeling uncertain. I also sometimes want to strangle him because WHY IS HE BREATHING SO LOUDLY AND ALSO WHY CANT HE READ MY MIND, but this seems pretty typical. So, I’ve honestly been surprised at just how bad I am at putting myself (and therefore my marriage) first. When Grace was a baby, I was prioritizing survival and figuring out how to be a grown up. My relationship just never felt that significant. Now, I’ve got the grown up thing slightly more under control but it feels so daunting to try and carve out the necessary slivers of time to connect with my husband in a way that doesn’t involve playing pass the baby or switching off bedtime duty. And still, I have this pervasive fear of looking up eighteen years from now and discovering that Shawn is essentially a stranger. 

Like so many other aspects of parenting, it’s a balancing act. And I’m not very good at balance, as it turns out. 

When I was trying to get pregnant, every month that it became obvious that I wasn’t felt like a small tragedy. As I was lamenting to a good friend about the abject disappointment I was feeling she said that she was glad that I was in a place where I wanted something so wonderful to work out so desperately. At the time, it seemed like an overly optimistic spin on the situation but now, I find myself returning to this idea. That it is a privilege to have something beautiful that is worth working towards, where you care so much about the outcome. How lucky I am to have a marriage that is worth protecting and prioritizing.

So today, I sat with my husband in a darkened theater in the middle of the day on a Sunday. I ate overly buttered popcorn, frequently pausing to wipe the grease off onto my jeans (the same pair I had worn the day before). I reached over and hooked my pinky finger into my husband’s and nuzzled my head into his shoulder, my body feeling palpable relief akin to coming home again (I also hid behind that same shoulder more times than I would like to admit- but I think I subconsciously chose a horror movie to capitalize on this exact situation). The entire date was over in a flash— my in laws didn’t even believe that we actually had been away long enough to watch an entire movie but even that small amount of time was like coming up to the surface for giant gulp of air. 

I’m learning to take that rush of oxygen where I can get it. Sometimes it will be a stolen hour or two on a random Sunday, sometimes just a favorite TV show and sweatpants and ice cream on the couch after the kids go to bed and sometimes (maybe someday?) it will be an elaborate and meticulously planned weekend away. 

And in between the breathing in and out, the world will continue to spin just the way it is supposed to. 

Nine

Grace,

I feel like I have said this before, but this has been a big year for you.

Two months to the day after your 8th birthday, your little brother was born. You were the first person who got to know if your new sibling was a girl or a boy. You not-so-secretly were wishing for a sister, and when Shawn leaned down to whisper in your ear, your entire face fell and your shoulders slumped perceptively, giving away the baby’s gender without saying a word. 

 But you then walked over to peek at the new bundle snuggled against my chest and as soon as your eyes met his, it was almost as if I could actually see your doubts and disappointment disappear in an abundance of love and adoration. You immediately made us promise we wouldn’t mention your preference for a sister again, because you didn’t want to hurt your brother’s feelings. 

I feel a little guilty starting your birthday letter with an anecdote about your brother but if I’m being honest, that’s how a lot of this last year has been. There has been so much energy and focus siphoned into your brother, with our days revolving around his schedule and needs. I often travel through my days in a sleep deprived haze and I know you aren’t getting the very best version of me- I want to apologize to you a thousand times for this. Maybe its been character building? I'm going to go with that. I am so proud of your seemingly easy transition into the role of big sister. You have handled all these changes with a poise and compassion that feels far beyond your years. Most days, you are eager to help and often change diapers and prepare bottles. You seek out your brother immediately as soon as you get home from school and are proud to show him off to everyone you know. At school events and birthday parties, it feels like you are auditioning him to be the official mascot of the third grade. Watching you blossom within this new family structure and seeing the relationship between you and Everett grow has been an unbelievable gift to me. Thank you for that.

You also started a new school this year, I worried about taking you away from the safety and security of the school you had been at since kindergarten, but as it has been with most things, I shouldn’t have worried so much about you. You navigated the beginning of the school year with not even a single hiccup and we all enjoy how much closer we are to your school and being able to get involved with your school community. You had your first “school” birthday party this year and we marveled at what a lovely group of polite kids showed up (even at a wild trampoline park!). You struggle with organization (you got my genes on that one, kiddo) but still excel in school. The third grade recently put on a wax museum and it might have been my favorite school event yet. You had a hard time choosing between portraying Abraham Lincoln or Serena Williams but eventually settled on Serena because you figured that you looked most like her- since you both have curly hair and own tennis rackets. 

You’ve gotten infinitely cooler and continue to curate a set of interests totally separate from mine. You love to watch cooking shows and have started to add your own educated commentary on each contestant’s strategy. And although you’re always ready for a dance party in the comfort of our kitchen, car dancing requires a lot more cajoling (in case anyone catches a glimpse of our sweet moves). You embarrass much more easily which is low-key one of my favorite things (probably because it reminds me of my own experiences growing up- teasing is our official family language of love, I think.) And you no longer default to finding Shawn and I automatically hilarious- we’re not always the coolest people in the room which is surprisingly bittersweet. You’ve started to discover musical theater and absolutely love Hamilton which warms my heart and reminds me so much of my own childhood hours singing along to songs I really didn’t understand, being transported by the music and magic of it all.

I feel like I’m watching you change before my eyes. You’re entering into the part of childhood that’s just in between, not so little anymore but still not a dreaded teenager…the last single digit year. I’m not even sure how it’s possible. You hate when I dance in public, but still want to snuggle with me on the couch. If I let you, you would follow me around the house constantly and some of my favorite moments are when I give in to your pleas and crawl into your bed and giggle with you at the end of a long day. You still ask me for hugs and hold my hand in public. I am constantly trying to remind myself to cherish this sweet time because I am going to blink and just like that, it will be over. 

You have always felt emotions in a big, bold way and that hasn’t changed. It has instead become amplified in ways that are both impressive and challenging as your experiences in the world have become more complex. I worry that I’m not doing the best job of helping you figure it all out, but I’m trying my hardest. 

You are immeasurably kind. When children are really little, kindness feels like sort of a default setting. They have no understanding that the world is anything other than unicorns and rainbows and ice cream. But as you grow older, I am realizing that you somehow manage to make kindness a priority, that it is an integral part of who you are. You choose to sit with a new student at lunch so she’s not sitting alone. You choose to hide a sweet note for me to find in the fridge. I can’t take full credit for this part of your character, but I certainly admire it. 

The bigger you get, the more I am filled with this overwhelming and somewhat suffocating desire to protect you. I want to hold fast to every little bit of your innocence for as long as possible. I’ve got the giving you roots part of parenting down— but the whole idea of also giving you wings terrifies me. 

Someone recently pointed out to me that we’re entering “the second half”. In another nine years, you will be (in some respects) an adult. The first nine years were about keeping you alive & generally happy. The next nine will be spent helping you figure out how to live— and probably making you mad. I hope you always want to dissect every moment of your day with me and that you remember you can talk to me about anything, no matter how uncomfortable or strange. You are going to make mistakes but…so am I. And they will probably be bigger than all of the ones I’ve already made so far (like when you spent an undetermined amount of time this year topping your breakfast cereal with sprinkles without me even noticing). 

As your universe expands and you begin to assert your independence- please remember that you will always be the center of mine.

I continue to be endlessly proud of you— and you will always be the very best thing to happen to your Mama. 

Love, 

Mama. 

Life in the "hard season"

Today has been a day. 

I had a disagreement with my parents about something that was relatively minor but in the moment felt catastrophic and it took a lot of mental energy to engage with them about it in a way that didn't make me feel like I was being a petulant teenager (a state I think we all often naturally regress to where our parents are concerned). The baby has had three consecutive days and nights of less than stellar sleep and while this is unfortunately the norm instead of an exception, this weekend it feels like it has worn me right down to a bundle of exposed nerves, ready to misfire at any teeny annoyance. I'm feeling anticipatory anxiety at the thought of my annual performance review at work next week, even though I work for a supportive and empathetic boss and it will be fine-- I just don't want to engage in any professional self-reflection or goal setting right now. In turn, I feel hugely guilty about not being more actively involved in the process or more inherently invested in the career I worked so hard to achieve. 

Then, my husband quietly and respectfully expressed frustration about the disastrous state of our laundry room. A room that he had kindly spent an entire weekend organizing and that I had, in my perpetual hot mess state, undone in a matter of days. So frustrated with myself and suddenly hugely overwhelmed—that is when I lost it. 

I stormed off while holding the baby (much like the petulant teenager I was trying to avoid reverting back to) and hid in my closet (that's what grown ups do, right?) and cried hot angry tears while the baby chuckled and cooed in my arms, probably thinking we were playing an elaborate game of peekaboo. I hastily texted a friend a series of incoherent texts that basically amounted to "I CAN'T ADULT ANYMORE".

I have been floating for a while in this uncomfortable space that I know a lot of mothers (and human beings) can relate to. Where I feel dragged in so many simultaneous directions that nobody is getting a complete or competent version of me. I feel a complicated cocktail of guilt, resentment and sadness about this as well as a touch of "what else am I even supposed to do right now?!".

I know this is a "hard season" of life. But I also know (because every well meaning person over 40 says it to me constantly) that these days go by so fast and to cherish them. How do I do that? How do I knuckle down and figure it out and get through it and also savor each moment and be present?

There is a lot of talk about "losing yourself" in motherhood. I don't feel like this is true. If anything, I think becoming a parent amplifies who you really are- the good and the bad. Being a mother to a fresh, vulnerable and needy child has put all of the pieces of me into bold font and then jumbled them up into a heap that I feel like I'm constantly laying at other people's feet- my husband's...my children's...my colleagues'... my family & friend's. And saying "Here you go. It's kind of a mess but maybe you can pick through the wreckage and find something that you can use".

I've been forced to acknowledge pieces of myself that I don't really like. Like that I am someone who has to work very hard to keep a clean and organized home and frankly- I don't always want to make it a priority. That I really need sleep and when I don't get it, I am often emotional and reactive in situations I could otherwise easily brush off. That I really struggle with establishing a work life balance (even though I only work a few hours a week) and that I want to actually punch the person that ever claimed that women could have it all square in the face. 

But I can also identify things that I'm proud of, too. I am a really good mom. I consistently put my children first- but struggle with figuring out how to do that in a way that doesn't impede on my own sanity or marriage. I can be endlessly patient- with a crying baby who needs to be comforted, less so with an overtired eight year old who doesn't understand her math homework. I love people in my life fiercely and never give a second thought to pouring myself into their lives and their problems. 

I am also struggling with my identity as a "working mom". Because I only work (very) part time, I feel precariously unbalanced with one foot in stay at home mom territory and the other in the working world. Going in to work often feels like a party that I was only invited to as an afterthought. People are glad to have me there, sure, but I am never quite in on all the jokes and I always feel woefully underdressed (both metaphorically and also literally because honestly I don't even know if I own pants that aren't leggings at this point). I have so much respect for my many friends who work full time with young children, out of choice or by circumstance. I feel a strange sense of lingering disappointment in acknowledging the fact that I cannot be that person. I'm not even sure that I'm meant to be the person that I am right now (working part time) but for some reason I am clinging desperately to that part of me and consistently ignoring a tiny but persistent voice that is whispering to me that it might be time to let go. This makes me feel decidedly like less of "I am woman, hear me roar" and more like some kind of defective Stepford wife who is very bad at housework. Which circles back to that very untrue and horribly unfair notion that women can somehow have it all- but I still haven't worked out my feelings about that enough to write about it at length. 

The mental load of wives and mothers is something that's also talked about a lot and I am here to say that it is very real.The constant running commentary in your head about what needs to get done is relentless and it is heavy. I am so lucky to have a supportive husband who does a lot of things- laundry and dishes and school pick ups- but there are just things that automatically default to me. Big things like remembering doctor appointments and little things like clearing off the baby's high chair after mealtimes and keeping a constant mental tally of where we are at in everyone's daily schedule. I know my husband would gladly help with more if I asked but the idea of spelling out everything that is so inherently obvious to me feels just too exhausting. 

But at the end of the day...this is life, right? It is messy and hard and complicated in the exact same breath that it is rewarding and beautiful. As I type this, I have a peaceful snoring baby laying on my chest who will wake soon and gaze up at me with beautiful eyes that take up 75% of his face and a sweet little knowing smile that seems to somehow say "Oh good, I knew you'd still be here". 

And that's all I can do. Keep showing up and trying my best and embracing my flaws and all the cliched reassurances we tell ourselves to make it through the day. And if baby smiles, unabashed and exuberant hugs from my third grader and appreciative kisses on the top of my head from a hard working husband are my daily reward, I think I'm doing ok. 

And remembering that "ok" is a perfectly fine thing to aspire to these days is probably the kindest thing I can do for myself.