Goofy kind of grief

I have given up my leadership position with Sunday School and received a letter from the Canadian head of the church wishing me luck and saying he'll pray for me.

I have resigned from my paid position with Avon (I'm an Avon lady! Or was...) and now my manager is actively looking for a replacement.

I have officially told my Avon clients that this is my last campaign and that in a week and a bit I'll be done and now I'm receiving the 'I'll miss you!' emails.

I'm feeling raw today...sad and empty and helpless.

Rationally, I know that all of this makes sense. That if I don't pare down now I won't have a shot of avoiding postpartum depression again. That if I don't focus on what's really important, I will find myself quitting in an emergency situation, not when I 'choose'.

But, it doesn't feel like I'm choosing this. It feels forced...just not emergent.

I'm grieving a goofy kind of loss today. I'm grieving the loss of who I had become since my youngest, Lillian, was born. I'm grieving the job I created for myself, the life I had been living, the responsibilities I had accepted when I was well again.

I'm grieving the shift from Julia to Underwater Mama. Again.

And this grief is familiar and just as painful as before, even though I know that it is temporary and that I'll rebuild in a year or so.

I know all this.

And yet taking time to grieve, to cry, to mourn this loss of me again feels necessary. And present. And it won't go away until I've dealt with it.

Again.

Bye-bye, Julia. See you on the other side.

Conversations

The last time I talked to a baby in my belly, it was to tell Charlie to go if they were leaving...to let go and be in peace and that I would be okay and Daddy would be okay and everyone would be okay and that that all they had to worry about was their journey and that they were loved and didn't need to hold on.

I was bleeding. And scared. And I knew in my bones. I KNEW I was miscarrying. I KNEW I was losing a baby, full of life and hope and the future and that baby smell...I knew. And I wanted the baby to go without having to deal with a mess of a mama.

That was the last time I talked to a baby in my belly.

And here I am today. Pregnant. With a belly that looks bigger than my 13 weeks (I'm told they get bigger faster the more times you do this...it's my fourth time, so...).

And I'm on the couch, watching a movie and rubbing my belly and wanting to whisper to it. To talk about how excited we are to meet this person. How exciting the next appointment will be because we'll get to hear their heartbeat. How I have no idea how we're going to handle 3 crazy little ones at once, but somehow we'll figure it out.

And yet...all I can think about is that last conversation. That last time when I was trying to be brave and kind and loving and the best mama I could be to someone I had never met or kissed or cooed at.

The last time when I said goodbye and told my baby to go into the great beyond, to not worry about me.

I miss my gone baby today. I hate that that feeling is mixed up in the feelings I have for this baby, my fourth baby...

And yet I don't know any other way.

I miss Charlie.

Today. Yesterday. Always.

Always.

Drama queen

So, I'm not really fading away.

I'm just pregnant. And have the cold from hell. And I chase after 2-3 little people every. single. day.

I wish I could remember ALL of those things when I'm in the middle of feeling like everything is falling apart and I'm having a bad day.

I know I'm allowed to have bad days, but in the midst of the exhaustion, sickness, run-down-ness, I forget that I'm allowed to sleep longer, nap more, do less. I forget and think that the sky is falling simply because the balls I have in the air are not as high or spun as nicely or are landing on the ground at record speed.

I am a bit of a drama queen on bad days.

Perhaps you could argue that because of past circumstances, because of my past experience, I am completely justified to feel like it's the end of the world when really it's just a blip. But my children don't care that I deserve the right to be dramatic. And my marriage certainly doesn't deserve my normal, everyday nonsense, let alone the over-the-top-unnecessarily-dramatic nonsense.

I remember sobbing in my therapist's office, months after beating postpartum depression, telling her that it was all coming back, that I was losing it. Again.

And she gently (although it didn't FEEL gentle) reminded me that it can't. That once you beat postpartum depression, that's it. It could be something else, but it's not 'coming back.' It doesn't work that way.

Then she asked me how I was sleeping. I had had the flu and the girls were both sick, so sleeping was not an option. She asked me how I was feeling. Ahem...flu! Then she asked me if I had any relief during the day. No, stay-at-home moms don't get sick days.

If bopping people on the head in therapy was allowed, this would be the moment. Instead, she just said, Julia, take a sick day. Figure out a way to get a day off.

So I did.

I spent that whole Saturday in bed, with my computer and the Bridesmaids movie, which literally made me cackle and laugh out loud, and a stack of books, fiction, non-fiction, parenting, goofy, and magazines and I napped and rested and emerged to eat and disappeared again and then spent the night on the couch with my husband, snuggling and enjoying life.

And you know what? I didn't get postpartum depression again. I felt SO. MUCH. BETTER.

It's amazing what a little recharge will do.

And it's amazing what creeping into the second trimester will do and breathing through your nose will do and being able to taste the food you've been craving will do.

So, dear reader(s). I'm not falling apart, the world isn't ending, and I'm okay. I swear.

Just a little overly dramatic when things get rough and pile on top of me.

Now I know where my three-year old gets it....so embarassing.

PS. PREGNANT!! :) Baby number 4 is on its way this September. Trying to stay in my skin and this moment and being excited. Trying so damn hard.

Fade

I feel like I'm fading.

Or at least just wasting away while waiting for something to happen.

It's not like there aren't things happening in my life. I'm the busy mom of two little people. I have friends and a semi-regular social life. Ish. I have a husband who I could talk to for hours.

It's not like I'm an island and I'm just frittering away my time, waiting for something to happen TO me. There are things HAPPENING. I just...

...it's like my skin isn't as bright as it used to be. It's dull. My hair even - streaked with ever-increasing lines of grey and hints of a hair colour that used to be mine. My clothes even feel scratchy, like my skin is trying to leave but the clothes are in the way.

What is that saying? Follow the rats? On a sinking ship? Or if they're leaving the slum all of a sudden? Get out?

I've wanted to escape my life before...before when I was sick and sad and broken after having my oldest, Sophie. I wanted to run away and never look back. I didn't have anything in particular to run to except for anywhere-but-here.

It isn't the same feeling. It's more like an "I'm here, now what?" feeling. As if there is supposed to be something MORE.

And maybe that's the issue. There isn't for now.

I'm a stay-at-home mom, so there is no MORE career-wise. I don't participate in my volunteer positions at church anymore, so there isn't any MORE there either.

Family-wise, I see people and participate and am engaged...so again, no MORE.

And getting out and doing things, I sometimes feel like it's too much, so I'm not comfortable adding MORE to that.

Is it that I'm missing a calling? Something I SHOULD be doing (although, if my therapist heard me use that word she'd remind me to stop shoulding on myself and start living my reality...smart lady)?

I don't know.

I do know that winter has been hard with being stuck inside, being overwhelmed with the idea of all the winter clothes and preparations needed to get out.

I do know that I have been at home by choice versus by blessing of a government maternity leave for a year...so I'm a year into being the stay-at-home-mom I swore I'd never be. Ever.

So I'm here. On my island full of people and teeming with life. I just need to find my spot again, find my equilibrium.

You know, before something else comes along and changes everything all over again.

Worth it

There are days that make this all worth it...the temper tantrums and butt-bombs and boogers and whining and wake ups at 3 in the morning to fix blankets and biting and hitting and fighting and tears and spilled water and milk and Cheerios and mouths full of crayons and rocks and markers and the neverending stream of very annoying children's programming...and today is one of those days.

Today, I had this conversation with Sophie:

Sophie: Is this a truck?
Me: Yes.
S: What kind of truck?
M: A moving truck.
S: But I want it to be a doctor's bus.
M: Okay, it's a doctor's bus.
S: Yay! Thanks, Mom!

Imagination in full bloom...but apparently it needs regulatory approval.

Later, Lillian and Sophie were sitting on the bottom stair as they often do, Lillian wearing Ben's dress shoes and Sophie wearing a pair of dress-up high heels, and they were making silly faces at each other, both squealing with laughter.

And at lunch, this exchange happened:

Sophie: Mom, can I have a napkin please? (HUGE DEAL - DID YOU NOTICE THE PLEASE???)
Me: Yes.
Lillian: Napkin.
Me: Please.
Lillian: Peease.
Sophie: Thanks, Mom!
Lillian: Thank you, Mommy! (HUGE DEAL - DID YOU NOTICE 3 WORDS STRUNG TOGETHER WITH NO PROMPTING!!! YAY LILLIAN!!)

See?

Some days are worth it.

Peter Pan

During a long day, like yesterday or the day before...or the countless days before that, I am so jealous of my mother and mother-in-law. Both of them are single and free of babies and commitments besides work. Sure, they rescue their grown children bunches of times in crazy and new ways, our little family included, but for the most part they have a luxury of floating through this earth with very few people touching them or peeing on them or yelling at them or demanding of them...and I am SO. JEALOUS.

I fantasize and dream about the time when both of our girls are grown up and moved out and living their own lives at a distance. One where I can wake up and shower and take care of myself and fetch myself breakfast and maybe, if I am feeling like it, get my husband his breakfast, make his lunch for work...more whim-like than part of the grinding routine that clouds every day for me.

One where we can stay up later and only have the reprecussions of ourselves the next day, not the demands of toddlers and preschoolers as punishment. One where breakfast could be lazy and not immediately after you get up. Where coffee is hot and clean clothes stay clean until I'm sloppy and supper could be appetizers or toast or cereal and no one will complain or judge.

One where talking to the husband could be purely interesting and purely uninterrupted by shouts or singing or questions that never end.

Oh, the dream.

But yesterday I picked up Sophie, who is now 3-going-to-be-4, and she weighs around 30 pounds and is long and tall and has big feet and little girl hair and full sentences and deductive reasoning and I realized that those 3-almost-4 years have flown by. That just moments ago we were pregnant, then we were announcing, then contracting, then pushing, then c-sectioning, then holding our baby, then becoming parents HOLY-HELL-WHO-LET-US-BECOME-PARENTS.

And I looked at Lillian, who is toddler-going-on-2 and the same thing struck me.

Even though marathon days are all I know, the years are speeding by and soon Sophie will be in school and then Lillian and then they'll be moving out and then I'll cry.

So I asked Sophie to stop growing, to not get bigger, and I even offered to stop feeding her so we could hang on just a little bit longer.

Because the truth is I can't wait to be a free-moving adult in this world again...but I can certainly wait for my babies to get big and disappear into their own fog of being grown-up-ness. Oh, yes I can.

Days like this

There are some days where I want to disappear. Where I want to curl up in bed and never emerge. Today is that day.

The girls have been fighting all morning. Every few minutes is punctuated by L shrieking over something S isn't letting her do...and S whining in that infuriating voice that L has taken something that is "hers".

There isn't enough sleep in me today. There isn't enough energy or peace or patience. There isn't enough of anything.

Today is a bad day. And I know it's a bad day. I can see it as I watch myself handle each situation horribly, as I tell S to stop whining and I tell L to stop being a butt.

I know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to take it easy. I'm supposed to make everything simple. I'm supposed to keep breathing and moving and taking everything moment by moment. I know all of that...but today, I just want to run away. I just want to sleep. I want silence and no demands.

I want, I want, I want.

Time for another coffee, to get dressed, and to start hanging out with the girls...because that is usually the cure. They stop fighting when I am present. And right now I'm hiding out.

Time to be a grown-up.

And time to stop wishing that stay-at-home parents got sick days.

Because today, if I worked a normal job, I would totally call in sick.

Totally.

More -er than you know

Yesterday I went to go running with my dear friend J at 5:30 a.m. We usually meet up Monday and Thursday mornings, run around her or my neighbourhood, peer at dark houses and talk about all manner of things (life, dessert, ridiculousness, broken brains, etc.). And then we usually talk about how tired we are, being the mothers of young children. It's a constant state of being, but some mornings are tougher than others...some moments are exhausted beyond measure, beyond knowing how you're going to get up and keep going. Somehow we do...somehow we're still moving. And running, with puffs of cold breath, at too-early-o'clock in the morning.

Yesterday, though, when I arrived at J's house, she was still in her kitchen, no socks on, brushing her teeth. Usually she's ready to go and I only need to wait for her shoes to be tied. But yesterday I came into the kitchen and she said, "I was hoping you'd cancel."

I kinda hoped she would cancel too. And I was seriously toying with the idea of cancelling on her. Both of us had been up too late and both of us had long days ahead of us, days that could have used those extra hours of sleep.

I couldn't cancel, though. I needed to see her, to talk to her, to ruminate over the latest developments in my mothering, to get her advice and support and reassurance that the next hurdles in front of me were not only achievable, but that I would survive and keep moving well after I had jumped them.

I needed to hear that I was okay, that the future would be okay, even if it turned out horribly wrong, that things would still be okay. I left as I always do - bolstered, picked-up, and ready to keep moving, to keep fighting, even though the exhaustion was in my bones. We didn't run, we had tea instead, but we talked and talked and worked through the moments that were causing me the most difficulty. It wasn't as fit-full, but it was mentally health-full. Thank God for J.

Last night my gorgeously pregnant sister came over, overwhelmed by all the things that having a baby meant - from needing new maternity clothes to actually being a mother. She was slightly horrified that when she came in my youngest was having a temper tantrum and I had pen on my neck from an earlier colouring session. It didn't help her panic of "How in the world am I ever going to do this?!?!?"

We sat and talked and ate candy and I told her all the things J had told me that morning - that she's got this. That things are only overwhelming because she's trying to tackle everything all at once. That she's going to be more okay than she'll ever realize because in the moment she'll be awesome. And after the moment, she'll look back and be impressed because no one ever knows that they have it in them. Ever.

And I reassured her that babies do not come out temper-tantruming and pen-wielding. They come out small, and basic in need, and they DO NOT MOVE. That you ramp up. That once you get to where I am, two babies, a miscarriage, and almost 4 years in, this is manageable, not always ideal or sexy, but survivable.

I found this today and it fits perfectly for yesterday's theme:

Source

It's hard to remember this all the time...especially with pen on your neck or a panic attack coming on or when you get knocked down pretty impressively. And sometimes you just need someone to hold your hand and remind you: You've got this. You're awesome. It's going to be okay. You've GOT this.

Because you do.

Miscarriage

I am now the mother of three babies - two here on earth (one upstairs asking to come down right this second) and one in heaven...or eternity...or the realms...just not here.

It breaks my heart that that is the case. It hurts more than I could ever imagine, but there it is.

I wanted some record of it, of that baby being, even though it was only 11 weeks of being pregnant that that baby was around.

Charlie Scott Marie Mills was 'born' (or declared no longer alive) on May 7, 2012. On November 26, 2012 we were supposed to be getting close to meeting them.

Forever, we will love them. Him. Her. Them.

And one day, I might not cry or have to take deep breaths when someone says, I'm pregnant! One day the grief won't be so fresh.

And one day, I'll get to meet the baby that was, but never was, the baby that is but will never be...

Charlie, I love you. I'm your momma. And one day, we will know what that means. Today, it means I miss you. And I can't wait to see you.

Unattractive

Parenthood is hard.

I know a collective "Duh!" just went up from people who have been parents for decades (KUDOS to you, by the way), but bear with me.

When I was pregnant, I read all the books, watched all the shows/movies, took all the classes, asked all the questions, and harangued my mother and mother-in-law for their opinions on everything from napping and showering with an infant to "to use a soother, or not to use a soother?". And do you know how much help it was??

A big fat NO HELP.

Oh wait, it did one thing - it let me think, for 9 blissful months, that I was prepared, that I was ready, that I could handle it.

Which is funny, because literally 1 second after the first contraction, I realized I was none of those things, and that I would probably never be any of those things ever again. Period. (Contractions lend a sort of intensity to thinking - never question a woman who is contracting...it would not bode well for your intent to remain living).

Parenthood is so hard, that I have become one of the most unattractive people on the face of the earth.

And no, I'm not talking about the obvious unattractiveness - the unwashed-hair-no-make-up-bags-under-the-eyes-lumpy-bits-galore-messed-up-fashion-sense unattractiveness.

I'm talking about the personality unattractiveness (the other kind is SO much easier to clean up!).

I have become a martyr. Plain and simple.

I work myself to the bone, trying to be superwomanhousewife...and in the end, I become a snivelling, crying, upset, over-worked, disgustingly self-righteous, nagging martyr.

This morning my husband and I had a pretty bad fight about pretty much nothing at all, and the reason for it? The martyrdom shooting out of every one of my orphices.

I don't know how to stop being a martyr (for example, my retaliation so far today for the fight is to clean up our bedroom, and wash, fold, and put away every stitch of laundry in our house...that will SHOW HIM).

I hate martyrs. I hate them with a passion. And I desperately hate myself right now.

I wish that I could stop for sixteen seconds and actually enjoy the fact that today is finally, FINALLY Friday...that my husband loves me enough not to bite my head off when it's all I seem to do to him...and that for 3 days we get to blissfully hang out together as a little family with few if any interruptions (everyone is busy this weekend, so little to no drop-ins from random people trying to see the baby).

That will be my goal for the rest of the day - focusing on the good that is coming my way...

...while washing, folding, and putting away every stitch of laundry.

Understanding

As all new parents, I've had multiple "I get it" revelations about my parents on some things that previously puzzled me (other things, I'm still confused). One such revelation happened this morning...

The kid decided to sleep in this morning and by sleep in I mean she stayed in bed until 7 instead of waking for a feeding at 3:30 and getting up for the day at 6 a.m. (HUGE victory)

I, of course, woke up for both the 3:30 feeding and the 6 a.m. wake-up. Now a normal human being would simply go back to sleep and enjoy the sleep until 7 a.m., but I am no longer a normal human being - I'm a mother to a very young child...which means that I am all things to a very young child - food, sleep, comfort, etc...

And this means that I got out of bed, pumped some bottles of milk, enjoyed the quiet of the morning, watched the news which I feel guilty doing around the husband (he needs captions to watch t.v., so I try not to watch live shows around him as the captions lag and he doesn't get the same enjoyable experience that I do), and generally enjoyed being just me for a few minutes.

As a kid, I used to wonder why on earth my mom relished the thought of waking up early and having the house to herself. Now I know that that was her only moment in a long day of moments that weren't hers.

I think that this blog is going to become one of those moments for me...although I hate saying what this blog is - it puts pressure on me and inevitably makes me run away. So for now we'll say this space is an oasis...this spot is mine...and no young child or even husband can encroach on it.

For now. ;)

Losing myself

There are days when I don't even recognize myself anymore. Instead of a cool, level-headed 20-something, I'm an old nagging wife and mother who can't muster even an ounce of patience and compassion for my husband.

That's right - since I've last written, I've become a mother. The mere thought of this is insane - aren't mothers older than me? More put together than me? Better at this than me?

All evidence points to no, simply because no one is the "right" age to be a mother (there is no right age), there is no perfectly put together mother (it does not exist), and no one is better than anyone else (we are all our best at every moment by using what we've got and trying our damnedest to not fail entirely).

That last paragraph is the hardest thing in the world to embrace - that no one is perfect and I will never be.

But there are days when I feel like if I get angry one more time at my husband...if I am frustrated with my 3-month old one more time...if I breakdown and complain about motherhood to women who want children but aren't able to have them one more time...that someone is going to punish me by taking it all away - my beautiful baby, my patient husband, my good life.

I keep waiting, but no one comes...no one takes anything away....

But maybe it will happen one day. This is my greatest fear. EVER.