Just. . . Breathe. . .

I have to keep saying this to myself this week.  See, we sign the papers on our new duplex tomorrow.  Yep.  Ten days before Christmas, and I'm going to be rushing from signing the lease to get to the office Christmas party on time.  I have laundry that needs folding, a kitchen that feels like a disaster (though I'm certain I've spent most of my week cleaning it), and so very much that still needs to be packed.

I've been unable to sleep all week.  I lay down at night, and my mind begins to race with the list of things I need to accomplish tomorrow, and the longer list of things I failed to accomplish today.  When I finally drift off, I spend the entire night locked in a dream where I am trapped somewhere (it's somewhere different every night) and have to spend my dreaming hours trying to figure out how to escape.  I wake exhausted from the effort, and start my day more sleepy than when I went to bed.

Last night, it all began again.  The racing thoughts.  The feeling of being trapped.  The near-panic of trying to do everything.  The stress of moving.  It all came rushing in the moment I laid my head down.

And that's when I gave in.  I took a deep breath, centered myself, and began talking to God.  See, I have this impossible urge to try and deal with everything myself.  And it never works.  I have to admit that I can't do it alone.  So, laying there, in the dark, breathing deeply, I told God everything.  And I asked for help.

For the first night in a week, I slept like a baby.  A dream began with Miles being taken from me - the catalyst for several of my 'trapped' dreams.  But I wouldn't allow myself to be trapped this time.  Instead, I walked straight up to the man who had taken him, sized him up, and knocked him flat with one blow to the face.  I picked up Miles and cuddled him, and slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

I will get through this week.  Even if I have to punch it in the face.

Help!

I have come to a startling discovery:

Patrick and I are terrible at naming toys.  Like, ridiculously awful.  It's a miracle that Miles wound up with a decent name.  Let me give you some examples:

This:

is Bear.  This:

 is Horse.  And this:

is Pillow Pet.

We have two teddy bears named Bear, two dinosaurs named Dinosaur, two dolls named Baby, and assorted Duck, Whales, and so on.

We really suck at this whole toy-naming thing.

Never. That's When.

Alright, Folks.  Be prepared.  I am about to step up on my soap box.

Never ask someone when they're going to meet someone.  Or get married.  Or have a kid.  Or another kid.  It's just not nice.  I get that you're excited, and that you want them to be happy.  I understand that you can't wait to meet their perfect little bundle of joy.  I get that babies are fun.  And cute.  And precious.  I also get that they are even more fun, and cute, and precious when you can send them home.  I get it.  Really.  But, please don't ask.  Because while you are saying, "When do I get to celebrate Life's next milestone with you?", what you're also saying is, "Because your life is incomplete as it is."

This isn't a response to any one comment, or even any group of comments.  Just an overall perception that we are constantly (subconsciously) telling others how to live their lives.  Some examples that illustrate my point:

Stacey is probably one of the closest female friends I have ever had.  She is smart, funny, silly, compassionate, and generous to a fault.  She is also an integral part of our family.  She is that third person we can call on to watch Miles for a moment when there is a household job that requires two people.  She is the person who supports whatever decision I make, no matter what.  And from what I've seen, she's fairly happy in this life.  Does she want to get married and settle down?  Sure.  But she's also content with what she has right now.  And yet, her own mother continually encourages her to 'lower her standards' and 'just get married already'.  Why?  Why would someone make their own daughter feel like the life she lives isn't good enough?

Example two:
My cousin has two amazing children; an eight-year-old daughter, and a five-year-old son.  Both are well-mannered, cute as buttons, and darn near as close to perfect as any kids I've ever seen.  She is happily married, and they both have good jobs, and a comfortable home.  Yet, at Christmas last year, her mother asked when they are planning to have another.  My cousin began with, "We're not, Mom," but my aunt continued.  Finally, after a particularly long line of questioning, my cousin retorted, "Perhaps when I've grown all of my hair back and paid off my medical bills."  Yes, this mom was pressuring her daughter to have more children, mere months after she had gone into remission from cancer.

And finally, the reason this is a personal pet peeve: Miles is an only child.  He will probably remain so.  Why? Because we do not feel the need, the desire, or even the slightest inclination to have another.  So please, please, stop asking when we're going to have another.

Never.  That's when.

Beeeeep

Greetings!

You have reached the voicemail of a Bad Mommy.  She is currently out of* communication until next week, as she enjoys a lovely vacation with her family.

Or she's trying to enjoy the 14-hour car ride with a teething, possibly screaming toddler.  Even odds, really.

Leave a comment at the beep, and she'll be sure to respond when she returns.  Provided her brain hasn't drizzled out of her ears by then.

*her mind

Bad Mommy Mondays

I am a Bad Mommy.

But you already knew that.  That's why you're here.  Because you love reading this, secure in the knowledge that you are (or will be) better at this whole parenting thing than me. :)

I have given you lots of reasons that I am a Bad Mommy.  Lots of things I've been judged for.  So many insecurities, all tied up nicely into weekly lists.  You may also have noticed that these lists have become shorter, and less frequent.  That's because of: a) modern medicine doing its part to combat anxiety, b) a lack of time to devote to caring what other people think, and c) a realization that all parents make mistakes and choices that other people will judge.

That being said, I am still human (and female), so I still have tons of insecurities.

I am a stay-at-home mom.*  Popular culture has two ways of viewing moms like me, whose primary job is caring for our homes, and our children.  The first paints us as ugly, honorable martyrs, working our days away scrubbing floors, and wiping snotty noses, but always putting on a smile because we know we're 'doing what's best'.  The second depicts us as beautiful, lazy, free-loading wives who spend their days watching soaps and eating bon-bons while our children run wild without supervision.

Let me tell you this right now: neither of those pictures is even close to true.  And yet, both have elements of truth.  We do have the ugly job of scrubbing floors and wiping noses twenty-four hours a day.  Sometimes, we do it with a smile, and other days, we just want to throw all of the good China at the wall rather than wash it one more time.  Some days, we never get out of our pajamas, and spend the day trying to relax, and not getting much accomplished.  But, even on those days, we are rarely just sitting and relaxing, because, let's face it, children don't really allow that for long periods of time, unless they're up to something.

My point, I guess, is that each of us approaches motherhood in a different way, and yet, we are all just struggling to do our best.  I have to keep telling myself that on days when I feel like I'm getting nothing done.  When I feel like Miles hates me.  When I feel like the housework keeps piling up, and I just don't have the energy to even bother with it.  When I feel like a Bad Mommy.

If you've read this far, congratulations.  You have managed to wade through my self-doubt and analysis, hoping to find a point.  Well, here's what brought all of this up.

I'm in the process of enrolling Miles in daycare next year.  It's only one day a week, for five hours a day, but it makes me feel like a terrible mom.  Not because I'm putting him in daycare, but because I don't have to.  I know several working moms who hate dropping their kids off at daycare, and would love the opportunity to stay at home with them.  And here I am, enrolling my son in daycare so I can have a day off once a week.

There it is.  My primary reason for feeling like a Bad Mommy this week.  Lame, no?  Aren't you all disappointed that you bothered skimming that, now?  Well, you shouldn't be, because you're about to be rewarded with cuteness.

Hopefully, tomorrow's post will be better organized and less stream-of-consciousness. :)

*Goodness, how I hate that term, but that's another discussion for another time.

Bad Mommy. Bad Wife. Bad Blogger.

I guess it all goes hand-in-hand. :)

This week has been crazy-busy with work, Festival commitments, temper tantrums, and meltdowns.  Which leaves little time for things like taking Miles to the park.  Or buying a Father's Day gift for Patrick.  Or blogging.  Oops.  At least you have Friday Photos to look forward to.

If I have time to post them . . . :)

I'm Self-Unaware

When I posted last week about my bad day, I had a couple of people wondering why I don't talk about these things in real life.  Here's why:

I'm bad with words, in real time.  And I'm worse with understanding and putting words to my emotions.

Writing here is not simply a safe place, though that's part of it.  It's also a place where I can take the time to sort through what I feel, and what I have felt, and find the proper words to explain myself.  Writing opens my brain, allows me to analyze myself in ways that are simply impossible when I'm in the moment.  When I am struggling, my instinct is to do whatever I have to in order to get through the day.  It's not until later, when I have a quiet moment, that I am able to work through why I'm struggling.

In other words, I'm just not good at understanding what goes on in my own head.  What you read here on those occasions is the result of self-analysis.  It's not that I don't want to talk about these things out loud, or that I'm afraid to.  I simply can't.

So, there's your annoyingly long explanation.  Here's a cute picture of Miles to make up for it. :)

Can't Keep Up!

Too many awesome things have been happening recently, so the updates you have read all week are usually at least a week old by the time you see them.  In an effort to catch up, here is another of my (in)famous lists.  I think I shall title this:

Cool Things That Have Happened This Week:


Saturday: Stacey and I hosted a baby shower for our dear friends Bethany and Shelby (whose mysteriously-named little boy is due in August).  The games were hysterical.

The cake was beautiful and delicious.

And the parents-to-be seemed to enjoy themselves.

All in all, a good day.

Sunday: I slept for an indecent number of hours, then spent hours playing with Miles, before wrapping up with dinner with Paul.  Not a bad day at all, I must say.  Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures worth sharing. :(

Monday: Took the Boy and met Bethany for brunch.  We had a marvelous conversation, and Miles was (for once) perfectly behaved the entire day.  It was glorious.  Even better, he fell asleep when we got home and napped for over three hours.  Then, we went outside to play, and he showed off his belly button:

Tuesday: Playdate at the Children's Farm with several friends and their kiddos.  A beautiful, relaxing trip which was sprinkled with lots of praise for my once again perfectly-behaved son.  I'll admit, I basked in it. 

Yes, that is my very active toddler, waiting quietly and patiently for his friends to arrive. *mommyglow*

Wednesday: After a week of playing around, Miles and I decided it was time to actually do some work.  Miles ran around playing nicely while I worked for almost an hour and a half straight, before he started getting cranky.  When asked what was wrong, he signed, "Food, please," so we ran to Arby's and grabbed some roast beef sandwiches (which he inhaled).  After lunch, he crawled up in my lap, gave me a huge snuggle-hug, and asked for his pacifier.  When I asked if it was naptime, he floored me by responding, "Yesh" and signing 'please'.  I rocked him for two minutes before he passed out.  I once again beamed with the delight of mommy pride. :)

And a bonus list, just for you loyal readers, who love them oh, so much, I'm sure. :)

Good Things I Discovered This Week:

• Something is working.  Whether it's medication, my renewed commitment to taking care of myself, a widening circle of wonderfully supportive friends, or maybe just the onset of an easier stage in Miles' development*, I have actually felt like a good mom a lot this week.  And that feeling has allowed me to remain calm and collected over things that usually throw me into a tailspin.  Hurray for a sense of normalcy.
• I have started to enjoy being around other people's children again.  Since I became pregnant with Miles, this has been a continuing struggle for me.  There are a few kiddos who have managed to endear themselves to me, but for the most part, I have had little interest in any kid except Miles.  This week, I found myself delighting in the antics of strangers' children for the first time in recent memory.
• I can be around babies without having a panic attack.  Even tiny ones.  And I think they're cute.  Which is good, since every freakin' woman I know is having a baby this year.
• Rather than freaking out at the thought of leaving Miles for even a few hours, I have started planning outings without him.  I have a date night with my charming hubby tomorrow, and a girls' night next weekend.  And I'm excited about it.
• And most of all, I've realized that, for the first time in a long time, I am content.  Thanks in no small part to all of you, who have supported me on this journey, and allowed me the room and given me the push I needed to get here.  I am so blessed to have each of you in my life.  Yes, even you, random internet stranger. ;)

*Please, oh please, let this be true!!!

Confessions

Just a few things I need to get off my chest:

• I can never remember how old I am.  After turning 21, it just didn't matter that much anymore.  It is a tad embarrassing when someone asks my age and I have to do the math.
• I have a ridiculously intense sweet tooth.  There is not enough sugar in the world to satisfy it.  I have taken to hiding my favorite candy, so I don't have to worry about Miles trying to 'share' it.
• I'm pretty sure I enjoy Sesame Street much more than Miles does.  Except for Elmo.  I just don't get the draw of that annoying little monster.
• I used to daydream about what it would be like to have children.  Now, the one thing I daydream about more than anything else is sleeping for as long as I want without interruption.
• I hate heels.  Mainly because they make me walk like a drunk penguin.
• I am trying really hard to ignore the fact that Miles has taken to saying something that sounds frighteningly close to, "Oh, shit."
• I am addicted to Desperate Housewives, even though I know it's worse than any soap opera on daytime television.  I just can't get enough of it's cheesy, over-the-top drama.  And yes, I am totally biting my nails over every little plot hook.  It's pretty sad, really.

Perfect Saturday

Waking to bird song outside the open window.

Realizing that it's 9:00 am - a full hour and half later than Miles usually sleeps.

Spending a lazy morning lounging on the couch cuddling and wrestling with Miles.

Playing outside in the sunshine.

Playing catch with my son.

Just breathing and enjoying the day.

Notes to Self

1) Take your damned pills.  Every.single.night.  Failure to do so will result in multiple, uncontrollable panic attacks at extremely inconvenient times.  Like in the middle of a photo session with your son.  Not fun.

2) If you've forgotten your pills, and have barely recovered from your last, physically painful panic attack, going to a crowded buffet for dinner is a bad idea.  Seriously.  Don't do it.

3) Going to the craft store in the last couple of hours before they close, however, is a good idea.  The smell reminds you of happy things, and helps calm you down.  Also, the prospect of craft projects gives your mind something to focus on.  And so long as everything is on sale, you can even justify a smidge of retail therapy.  Which also helps.

4) Your husband deserves a medal for dealing with all of this, fielding Miles the entire time, and still being in a happy, upbeat mood.  Definitely a medal.  Or a cake.  He may prefer a cake.

Confession

I am in love with toddlerhood.   I was not terribly fond of the newborn stage.

I love that Miles has become so interactive.  I love that he will run up to me for a hug.  That he tickles me and grins about it.  That he can ask for things that he wants.  That he has his own wonderful personality that shines through more and more everyday.  That he dances like crazy anytime he hears music or a beat.  Or sometimes, just because he's happy.

I love that he has become so independent.  That he can carry his own toys and food.  That he learns to do new things for himself every single day.  That he can walk to the car and climb in on his own.  That he feeds himself, and drinks out of cups, and snuggles with me, depending on what he wants and needs.

I love everything about this stage.*  And I love that I get to be with him all the time, to enjoy every little minute of it.

Hooray for toddlerhood. :)

*Except, maybe, the tantrums.  I could do without those. :)

Goodwill Ambassador

I have to say, Miles has restored my faith in humanity.

You see, I'm from a small community.  The kind where people say hello to one another.  Or hold the door for the person behind them.  The kind of place where people kept an eye on other people's kids, whether they were asked to or not.  In short, I grew up in Small Town, America.*

Then, one scary day, I moved to the Big Bad City.**  People don't open doors for each other.  When you start to help someone else's kid on the slide, you're told to "Back off."  People don't say hello to strangers.  Heck, they hardly look you in the eye, if they can help it.  Honestly, it's depressing.

But that was before Miles.

Miles is a miniature goodwill ambassador.  He walks into a room, and people smile.  He waves hello to everyone.  A select few are graced with a high five, and a jibberish conversation.  If he's in a good mood, he dances.  If he's more mellow, he clings to Mommy and gives a shy smile.  Regardless, though, people respond to him.  They are nice to him.  I have seen cranky old men become children again, in his presence.  I have watched awkward, or sassy, teenagers become a sensitive and intent audience.  I have watched Miles do this, everyday, for almost 18 months, and I am always amazed at how much happiness he brings to people.  Even random strangers.

The Big Bad City doesn't seem so big and bad with Miles around. :)

*Apparently, in the 50's.  Geez, it was like Leave it to Beaver. :)

**Which, given its location in the midwest, is not really all that big.  Or so I'm told.

Time Changes Suck

For me, at least.  Miles had a short afternoon nap, then went to bed at the new 8:30 without a fuss.

I, on the other hand, can barely keep my eyes open.  I will write more in the morning.  Assuming I have time.

For now, good night, world.  I'm off to reset my internal clock.

Book Club

When I first moved to the city, after a lifetime in small towns, I was desperately lonely.  Never had I lived in a place where I knew so few people.  Sure, we had a few friends here, but they lived (still live) 45 minutes away.  I felt isolated, alone in a city where I felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, and yet had so little meaningful contact with any of them.  Knowing I needed something, I went searching, and after a bit of effort, I found a book club.  And I loved it.

We would meet once a month at a house not far from me.  From my first visit, I felt welcomed, and accepted.  I was surrounded by intelligent, witty people, and each had a very unique perspective to offer.  There was the Jewish couple who hosted, each quite well-versed not only in their own religion, but in several others as well.  There was the skeptic, an atheist who sat in the corner, and politely and compassionately argued his reasons for disagreeing with religion in general.  There was the girl who studied (and was quite good at) astrology.  The disillusioned Catholic.  The agnostic.  And me, the relatively new Catholic.

We discussed the books, certainly - classics, every one - but inevitably, that would be left behind, in favor of new topics.  Current events.  Random philosophy.  The merits of living in one place over another.  Cats.  Dogs.  Gardening.  Coffee.  Food.  More philosophy.  And, invariably, religion.  Given our sundry backgrounds, and the open-mindedness of the group as a whole, our religious discussions were my favorite part.  I gained invaluable  insights into aspects of religion that I had never considered before.  Sometimes, we talked specifically about Catholicism, or Protestantism, Hinduism, Judaism, Agnosticism, Atheism.  Other times, we merely discussed the need for the human soul to explore the realm of spirituality, and the interesting ways that people chose to do so.  Our discussions spanned centuries, the entire extent of human existence.  Or only the moment at hand.

Unfortunately, all groups have a way of dissolving sooner or later.  For our book club, that time came all to soon.  It fell apart because we all, each separately, managed to stretch ourselves too thin.  Until one day, we found that we had lost the time to read the books.  Then, we ran out of time to attend the meetings.  The hosts  ran out of time to host them.  Before long, the book club we had all enjoyed so thoroughly was gone.

But I shall never forget.  Because that group was the first place I felt I belonged in this crazy city.  And for that, I am eternally grateful for those moments in time, however fleeting they may have been.

Me Time

In the evenings, after the rush of bath time and bedtime, a hush falls over the house.  Patrick plays on his computer, or putts around the house, finishing up the odds and ends that come with daily life.  Stacey works on her sewing, or checks her e-mail, or reads quietly on the couch.

This is my second-favorite time of day.*  It's so . . . calm.  And quiet.  Sometimes, the TV is on, but the volume is low, and there is no other noise to compete with it.  Other times, there is no noise, other than the shufflings and breathing of other adults.  It is the sigh of relaxation after a hard day's work.

I spend my time, here, on the computer, tapping out my frustrations, my hopes, my love for my Boy.  Or getting advice from my mommy forums.  Or reading random things that somehow managed to pique my interest.  Most of the time, though, this essential bit of me-time is spent here, in the comforting glow of my little Daphne.

Lately, however, I have opted to shorten this nightly routine as I have rediscovered the unrivaled joy of reading.  It doesn't matter what it is.  It could be a light fiction written for teenagers, or a thick tome of Dickens' classics.  The only thing that matters is reading the words from the page, feeling the heft of the book in my hands, the smell of paper and glue that is so utterly comforting in every way.  The world as we know it fades away.  And I am whisked away.  Again.


*The hours between dinner and bed time are my favorite.

In case you're curious, I am currently reading the latest Terry Pratchett - I Shall Wear Midnight.  If you don't know who Terry Pratchett is, or what the Discworld is, I suggest you fix that post-haste.  Otherwise, I will be forced to . . . to . . . I dunno.  Something horrible, I'm sure. :)

This Tuesday?

I totally kicked its ass.  Miles and I had a great day, in spite of its Tuesday-ness.

Take that, Tuesday. Pfffft.

Ahh, Sunshine

How we've missed you. Thank you ever so much for returning, even if it was only for a couple of days, so we could play outside.  We celebrated by playing with the dog.

And taking a nice walk, enjoying your warmth.

And . . . shoveling non-existent snow?  Well, sure, why not?

Please come again soon.  We love you.

Sincerely,
-Us-

P.S. If you abandon us again, and allow that bastard Snow to come back, I will shank you.  Love and hugs!

Feel the Love

So, it's Monday, which generally means a list of reasons why I'm a terrible mother.  But, not today.  Partly because I'm feeling like an awesome mommy today (for reasons unknown - I've done nothing spectacular lately), and partly because I was lazy and didn't start the list early enough for it to actually be funny.  But, mostly, because it's Valentine's Day.

So, go tell someone that you love them (even if it's only your mom.  She'd probably love to hear from you.), and nom on some conversation hearts, and watch sappy movies.  Because regardless of how you feel about this holiday, it's never a bad thing to celebrate the love we have in our lives.

To all of those I love - whether we are related by blood, or by choice - I love you, and I am honestly flattered and humbled to have each of you in my life.  I have been blessed by each of you, and you make each day just a little brighter.

May your day be filled with joy, with laughter, and with love.  In all of its marvelous forms.

I Was Nerdy, When Nerdy Wasn't Cool

I have found in recent weeks, that somehow, I totally missed that 'nerdy' has become cool again.  I mean, I get it - tech is cool, right now, and the ability to use said tech makes you 'nerdy'.  Thus, nerdy = cool.  I just missed it, somehow.  Because, you know, I'm too nerdy to be aware of popular culture, apparently.

Anyhow, I realized this recently on one of my mommy forums.  I made some sort of amusingly self-deprecating comment about being a nerd.  Within moments, several women had hopped on to declare their supreme nerdiness.  "After all," one wrote, "we're all on an online forum."

And it hit me: she was right.  Here I was, feeling like the nerdiest person at the lunch table, and I was talking to a bunch of people I've never even met.  All of whom were proud to declare their nerd status.  Which is what I find amusing.

Fifteen years ago, I was being shoved into lockers for being a nerd.  I was locked in the instrument closet in orchestra for being a nerd.  I was ostracized, and I sat alone, reading during lunch, because I was a nerd, and therefore, untouchable.  I wish I could say that I didn't care - I liked being smart, and if that meant that others didn't like me, so be it.

But I did care.  I cared a lot.  And I would be lying if I said that I had never wished to be one of the pretty, popular girls.  Because I did.  But now?  Looking back?  I am really glad I was the nerd.  I'm proud of that awkward girl I used to be for having the guts to sit alone and read, rather than pretend to be something I wasn't.

And I'm so glad that being nerdy has become 'cool' again.  Because hopefully, when Miles tells his friends that he wants to learn computer programming or how to diagram a sentence, they won't laugh at him.  Hopefully, they will think of him as the cool, nerdy kid, and ask him to teach them these awesome new skills.

I know it's unlikely, but that would be my ideal world for my kid.