Dipping my toe back in

With a few things.

I feel like I have a very firm grasp of parenthood right now. Not a toe-hold, but solid footing. I honestly think it's because I'm getting something from her now. Say what you will, that my kid owes me nothing, but it is damn hard to maintain a one-way love with someone you had never met; to give give give and get nothing in return. Now it's coming back to me. She looks at me. She sings with me. She actually talks to me. She can speak better every day, which serves two purposes: (A) she can communicate better, lessening her frustration and the resulting tantrums, and (B) it is highly entertaining to listen to her talk. When she does have tantrums, they don't exhaust me like they used to. They barely ruffle me at all. It is freakin' sweet. And I am becoming crazily, scarily, hugely in love with her.

The expat thing has been on my mind a lot lately (Nick and I have this back-burner dream that someday we will move to another country). I think it's because I basically have everything I want right now, so my mind is going there. When I run, I listen to foreign music and try to imagine I'm running in my new neighborhood in Greece, or Spain, or Denmark, or any of the places we've talked about moving. My friend Taya (whose blog I have listed over there, to the right, the girl I can't believe I'm friends with) writes about her adventures living and traveling in Africa, and even though it's difficult, I envy her. I wouldn't trade lives, but I'd love to for like a month. I have been really fortunate to have traveled, but I'm sorely missing the rest of the world-- new sights and smells and sounds, different looking faces. Traveling in the US has become almost pointless now due to the big-boxing of America. Of course, this travel fever has earned itself a spot on the "con" list for having a second child. Which we are putting off for another month...

Do any of you watch "The Biggest Loser"? Nobody I know does, and I need someone to share my dirty old cougar crush on Mike. That show is hugely motivating. I'm trying to lose 5 more pounds... I will be down to my wedding weight. The best part about losing weight is that I am so comfortable (and conversely, the worst thing about being overweight is feeling so uncomfortable). My clothes are comfortable. Sleeping is more comfortable. Running, painting my toes, even just sitting with my legs crossed-- everything is more comfortable. I feel a little guilty for bragging, but I worked really hard for this.

Okay, there you have it. I'm happy. Bring the hate noise.

Working on it

Before:One day's work:

Another day:

This is going to be a lonnnng project. That wire mesh is buried a foot underground, which is what's taking so long. But this is FUN, I have to admit.

Anyway. You guys. Just know that I'm working on coming back. Doing a lot of thinking while my hands are buried in manure.

Surrender Dorothy

I don't know if I can do this anymore. Yes, I mean keep up this blog. I created this to be a respite for myself, a place I could go to talk about how I honestly felt about this experience, without worrying about shocked-face reactions. The problem is, I told people about it. And over the past six months or so, I have hurt several people (on different occasions, for different reasons) by what I've said.

I came here to escape the pressure to feel a certain way, and then invited the pressure right in. Dumb. What I need to do is tell these things to a therapist instead. When things are bad, I'm reminded to be grateful. When things are good, then people are envious and I feel guilty. Even just saying that sentence is going to ruffle some feathers, and I'm just done.

I don't know what's going to happen with the blog, because my true self always seems to bubble up to the surface, like a chronic rash... but I am going to embark on a New Me project. I am going to focus on being grateful and happy, and most importantly, fucking quiet. Yep, I'm folding. I will not be able to keep the peace inside my raging mind, but at the very least, I will be able to keep the peace outside of it. I may or may not write about it. Either way, I have to take a break. I can't make anyone else cry.

Sorry.

In My Defense...

It seems my last post caused a bit of a private kerfuffle. I won't go into detail, but what I wrote about super-happy mothers may have come off as an (unintentional!) attack, and I am feeling the need to defend my position here.

I had a strong urge to have kids when I was in my early 20s. I was also desperate to get married. In retrospect, I know that my desperation stemmed from my fear of having to find my own way in the world, and I just wanted to hide behind someone else's name, someone else's profession, someone else's identity (i.e., a husband). I wanted to have kids so that I wouldn't have to find and struggle through an actual career. THIS IS NOT TO SUGGEST THAT OTHER WOMEN MARRY YOUNG FOR THAT REASON. This was ME.

As fate would have it, I just never met the right guy, and I was forced to find my own way alone. Although I was desperately lonely, I feel like I made the most of it. Traveling. Taking interesting classes. Living in cities. Trying new and exciting things. I really started to enjoy my adulthood.

Well, then I did meet the right guy, and by the time we were in a financial position to get married, I was in my mid-30s and figured it was probably now or never with respect to children. After living in LA for two years, where many of our friends were childless (and fabulous as a direct result), I was firmly planted on the fence about having kids. We only halfway tried, and I was lucky enough to get pregnant. However, having lost my baby fever a decade earlier, I was apprehensive about it, and horribly sick to boot. Later, the kid nearly ruptured my organs with her kicking; I knew this was not just me being a baby because the delivery nurses commented that they'd never seen a newborn kick like that before.

The first few months after her birth, what I had been led to believe would be a carnival ride felt like I had been in a gruesome car accident. I was in tremendous physical pain from the surgery. I was disfigured. The sleep deprivation/recovery combo was a thousand times harder than the worst thing I could imagine. I'd have to get up to feed Sascha and then pump, getting half the sleep that breastfeeding mothers get. My boobs didn't work; I saw about a dozen professionals, including some lactation consultants so confident in their abilities they could probably get a man to breastfeed, throw their hands up in surrender and shake their heads at me. I even whipped out a sweaty boob at a new neighbor, a self-described expert, hoping she could help. She couldn't. Everyone said "I've never seen anything like this before." I was desperate and heartbroken.

And then there was Sascha. She wasn't much of a snuggler. At three weeks, she put her hand on my chest and pushed me away from her. There didn't seem to be as much cooing and smiling from her as there were suspicious glares, like Stewie Griffin. It's funny now because I know her strong Scorpio personality, but damn. My kid kind of rejected me. Some of my friends did too. I cried constantly. As she grew older, I heard from people who knew her best (my mom & sister) that she was way more challenging than your average kid. And they have known lots of kids.

So that is where I'm coming from. When I bitch, it's part catharsis, part bewilderment (like what the hell is up with this child?) and part begging for someone to tell me it's not me, it's Sascha. I guess I feel like when she was born, I figuratively tripped and fell on my face-- black eyes, knocked-out teeth-- with the shock of it and how ungodly awful it was, and everything in my life was kind of ruined. It turned out to be the exact, polar opposite of what I had heard about motherhood, which made me feel fifty shades of guilty and awful, and betrayed by the message of "oh, the heavens will open up, you will believe in god and understand the meaning of life, no other accomplishment will matter, and you will finally be complete as a woman!" People would get mad at me for not feeling grateful. I got zero fulfillment from that baby. I hated myself for feeling that way. And I'm only just now starting to get my footing in life again, now that I've lost the weight and she is communicating and her tantrums are lessening and we're all just finally figuring this out. Now, the heavens open up for me when she says she likes orange juice, but that's probably because it's not screaming coming out of her mouth.

Part of the reason I want another child is to roll the dice on an easier baby; to see if it was just me, if it was my fault, if I was the colossal failure in this whole crazy experiment. And if it was? Well, then Sascha will have someone to help her through therapy. (Oh, shut up, I'm not beating her. To be honest, I am constantly smothering her in unwelcome snuggles. I'm like Pepe le Pew with that kid.)

So that is my experience. I am defending myself, but I'm not trying to say I don't suck. It is not happy mothers who suck. I am the one who sucks. I am the dog. Actually, I should change the name of this blog to Why I Suck. That would be kind of awesome.

Oprah

Kate and I watched yesterday's show on motherhood, and it was fantastic. Of course, I had to turn the volume up to 50 (normal = 22 or so) and squat next to the TV to hear it over the small army of tiny humanity (our three girls). It also sent Nick into a quiet snit, but Jesus, it was one hour.

I have to make this quick because I still have to make copies for class in 20 minutes. I just wanted to add to the show's discussion about the pressure mothers feel to be "good" mothers. I think for me, the pressure isn't so much to be a "good" mother, although I feel that too; I think if Nick wasn't such a great father, I wouldn't feel nearly as guilty about being a "bad" mother, but then of course I'd have other things making me feel bad.

No, the pressure I feel is the pressure to enjoy it. I've mentioned this girl before, but I have a friend from college who recently had twins after years of infertility treatments. I am thrilled for her, of course, but she will never, ever admit how hard it is. The sleep loss is fine, the sick kids are fine, they're growing up way too fast and it's all WONDERFUL AND BEAUTIFUL and she races home from work every day to see them. And that's fantastic, really. I'm just so glad she doesn't live next door or I would have a serious inferiority complex. I do not rush home every day. In fact, I make up excuses to dawdle at work, to buy myself 15 extra minutes of alone time where my chest isn't tight and my nerves aren't on edge waiting for the next tantrum. I mean, I don't stay here an extra two hours, but still, I'm not rushing out the door either.

That being said, although it feels like geologic time, Sascha is growing up and becoming more fun every day. When she says something intelligible, like "I like orange juice," it feels like the sun breaking through the clouds. It feels like my head is going to burst from the joy. Whether it's joy from seeing her grow up or joy because it's a break from Toddler Hell, I don't care-- it's awesome.

Gah-- There's the bell... here come the troops. Time to think about moon phases.