Motherhood Monologues #5: Honesty

There are very few secrets in my life, and most of the secrets I guard are not, in fact, my secrets, but the secrets of others.  Thus it becomes a hard task to break open the honesty box and pull out a story.

Pregnancy is hard for every woman. That's a fact. It's also a fact that it is hard in different ways for every woman. I feel like I've tried to be honest with my motherhood experiences, but I know that there are times that I need to open myself up more in order to be entirely truthful.

My two pregnancies have been very different. During the first one, I was nauseated constantly. I had never felt so physically ill in my life. During my second pregnancy, I was depressed constantly. I have never felt so mentally and emotionally ill in my life. Although I have struggled with anxiety since I was a child, that was the first time that I was able to recognize the dark clouds hanging over my head for what they were: depression.

I felt so low, so tired, so worthless. And though I was meeting with doctors on a bi-weekly basis, not once did any of them ask about my mental health. Perhaps I would not have shared if they had, but part of me knows all I was waiting for was someone to extend a hand to my drowning self and say, "it's okay. There is help."

That hand didn't come until a few hours before we were discharged from the hospital, my infant son in my arms. A blonde nurse dressed in maroon scrubs looked over the survey I'd filled out and with kindness and understanding in her eyes told me that my answers indicated I was at risk for postpartum depression. "It's nothing to mess with," she said. "I've been there. You don't need to be embarrassed." She encouraged me to ask for help, and six difficult, tear-filled weeks later, I finally did what I should have done years before.

Although my son is well past the baby stage, I still struggle. Daily. Medication helps heal my mental state, but not as much as knowing someone cares and that I am not alone. A hug, a text, an email, an honest conversation with a friend--these are the things that have the power to heal emotionally.

Motherhood Monologues #4: Prepare

I feel as if I should put a disclaimer on here, and an apology to all those who get my posts emailed to them. Please don't feel you have to read every single one of these. I am mostly writing them to get me writing and putting them on my Thursday blog seems like the best way to store these thoughts. So feel free to delete and be on your way. Or read them. Whatevs.

I've always been a worrier, but lately I find myself worrying extra about my daughter.  As time moves forward and she gets further into preschool and the process of growing up, I am seeing more and more evidence of those lost eight weeks in my womb. As a baby, she moved through milestones at an average pace and after about nine months, you couldn't really even tell that she is a premie. Certain skills took her longer to master, like crawling and talking, but once the process clicked in her mind, she quickly mastered each task and moved on to a new one. I never overly worried about her. We narrowly escaped that "special needs family" label, and that's something to be grateful for.

Somehow, in my mind, that sort of equated to "we won't stuggle." But we have. And every experience, like every choice, has a consequence. Most days we don't even think about her time in the NICU, but those memories linger like shadows in her bedroom. And I worry, am I prepared to handle all of the challenges that will come as she moves forward in life? Can I, with my limited experiences, help her navigate the mountains she will have to climb? Will I ever gain the patience to deal adequately with her struggles? Has my life prepared me enough to be her mother?

Last weekend, as we were driving home, she started to get excited and said to me, "Mom! I didn't have any issues today!"

I laughed. She might be able to get through a day without issues, but her mother has them on a daily basis.

Worrying? It doesn't get me anywhere. I often tell myself that if I can take our days situation by situation, then we will be okay. Sometimes that means making a healthy choice for a snack when it would be easier to grab a cookie from the pantry. Sometimes that means ignoring the dirty bathroom in favor of reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? for the sixth time. Sometimes that means taking a deep breath and instead of angrily reacting to a meltdown, holding her close and whispering calming words of love and strength so we can get through today's challenges together.

Motherhood Monologues #3: Engage

I think the activities and people that "drain" me the most are the ones with which I don't feel I have a lot of control. Negotiations with my small children can definitely leave me feeling that way, as can online encounters where my beliefs and opinions are belittled. People that make me feel as if I have to explain my every move and decision can also deplete my inner batteries and leave me feeling less than I am. Most often, those activities that I allow myself to engage in within my own head are the most draining ones of all: comparing myself to other women, thinking about what I don't have instead of being grateful for what I do, making rash judgements about others, justifying bad or unkind decisions, talking down my strengths and magnifying my weaknesses.

I think any time we engage with any person or activity we give away pieces of ourselves, and that can definitely deflate us, but it can also help us renew ourselves. The trick is to place our own limits and build our own walls. Sometimes this means blocking someone on social media, other times it means learning to say "no" when we truly should not extend ourselves that far.

A few years ago I did a personal experiment. For one entire year, I made it a goal to say yes whenever I was asked to serve someone. Rarely did this deflate me. Instead, I found that I gained friends and blessings I would not have otherwise experienced.

This year, I have tried to disengage from pointless arguments. Sure, this sometimes leaves me feeling as if my thoughts and opinions haven't been represented, but usually it keeps me from feeling negative emotions toward others and myself. Mostly I have started cutting myself some slack and giving myself room to spend time on those things that renew me without feeling guilty. I have picked up some new hobbies and skills, spent more time outside pushing my children on the swings while ignoring the weeds, stayed up late to finish a book, I am already starting to tell the difference between quiet time that truly has been wasted and quiet time that has given me a rest and allowed me to push forward.

Motherhood Monologues #2: Choose

I often feel that my choices in life are limited. That is, my main choice to stay out of the workplace and in the home often defines many other choices that I might have had otherwise.

Just a few days ago a friend posted on facebook that her employer was looking for freelance writers. I asked for more information, but as soon as I read her message, the message from God was the same as it has been for the past four years: "No. Not right now. Your children need you."

I often think that, since I am distracted by my phone, computer, and social media anyway, I might as well be earning money, right? But everytime I start to think that way, the Holy Ghost pulls on the reigns and I am reminded, once again, that being a mother--just a mother--is enough in and of itself.

What am I afraid of losing by choosing to not work? Myself--the person I once thought I could become.

And what do I gain by choosing to follow the Lord's counsel to me? Myself--the person He wants me to become.

Motherhood Monologues #1: Breathe

From now until the beginning of May, my favorite blog is running a series of Motherhood Monologues with a writing prompt for each day. Since I desperately feel the need to do more writing in my life, I've decided to complete these daily prompts and post them here. Welcome to Day 1.

My oldest is a very light sleeper. I was able to check on her when she was smaller, and I often did, especially in those days when we first brought her home from the hospital and the act of breathing was still something she wasn't excellent at. Gradually, the oxygen went away, and my nightime and naptime visits to her room decreased in frequency until they had all but stopped. When we moved into our new home, these visits really did stop because there is a creaky floorboard right in her doorway now, which means that unless I conquer stealth mode (me as a ninja=current failure), I don't often get to watch her breathe. I do, however, occasionally pull out some yoga moves and hang on to her doorway to peek in and watch her sleep in all of the crazy positions she gets from me.

My son sleeps a bit deeper, but I don't often take the time to watch him sleep unless I have to go in and wake him up. I treasure those small. 30-second pauses, watching his chest rise and fall and wondering what sort of wonderful dreams he is having and if I am part of them before I interrupt him and bring him back to reality.

A wise woman once told me that if you want to find good kids, you peek into their rooms and watch them while they are sleeping. Somehow, the act of sleep can turn a terrorist two-year-old into the most innocent, sweet little lamb. I've tried to remember this advice and on the particularly tough days, I try to take a small peek at my little ones while they are in their angelic state. Somehow, the act of watching them in their most helpless state is enough to fill my motherhood canteen with love and give me the courage to try again tomorrow.

The Threenage Year(s)

My baby turned four this week. Not my baby baby, I guess I don't have one of those right now, but my first baby.

I woke her up by singing the birthday song. She smiled, then asked if she could sleep longer (despite the lure of sprinkle pancakes). While I went to do some small odd job, her little brother came in and succeeded in what I could not do: awaken the dragon. (I can say dragon, because she was born in the year of the dragon, so it makes it okay to refer to her as my dragon child, right?) Pretty soon I heard screaming and crying from her and silence from him, which means that he had given her the first birthday gift of the day: the gift of sharing things you don't want to share with people you don't want to share with.

Aside from our morning screamings and non-existent snuggles, we managed to have a most beautiful, happy day. Those are rare around here. Three has not been kind--is three ever kind? I though three was supposed to be a magic number. Well, magically, the Year of Three made me question everything I thought I knew about myself, mothering, and humanity.

But we survived. And today my little girl put on her fake pearls and headed off to preschool with curls bouncing, dressed to the nines in her favorite outfit and polka-dot tennis shoes.

Today, I caught that glimpse of the little girl that I have always known is in there: kind, brave, friendly, joyful, courageous. She said thank you and played independently and asked if she could help make cupcakes. Aside from decorating several of our nicest children's books with Berenstain Bears stickers, she was an angel today.

Or maybe she was an angel today because I wanted her to be one--because I spent the whole day for her and about her, minus the twenty minutes I spent holding teething Sly while we watched Daniel Tiger, but she was at school during that time.

I am brought back to her first birthday--the one where her pigtails were barely an inch long, and her thighs still had baby chub, and she couldn't walk so she crawled everywhere. She dug into her cake without worrying about sticky fingers, barely cared that there were presents, and was mostly just overjoyed at the sheer amount of grandparents in our apartment. There were dozens of balloons, alluding to her "UP!" theme. Happy Birthday Kevin.

Her second birthday was a little different. By then, much had changed in our family. This was our first birthday in our new home. There were leftover balloons from the year before and everything was decorated in turquoise and pink--leftover from my sister-in-law's baby shower two months before. I spent weeks trying to find the perfect baby doll; one with real hair and eyes that opened and closed and a soft body, so Kevin could cuddle her. We had only a small dinner party, as that was about all my pregnant body could handle, and we were all looking forward to Kevin's promotion. Happy Birthday Big Sister. 

And although it was only a year ago, I don't remember much about her third birthday except the vast amounts of purple. That's the only theme we had that year. Purple, purple, purple. At the last minute I ordered some Daniel Tiger figurines off Amazon to decorate her cake with. Her cake was purple, her dress was purple, her presents were all purple. I suspected then, and know for certain now, that her demand for purple was merely the beginning of my daughter becoming her own person. Happy Birthday Little Girl.

This year, I was given a theme: Rapunzel and Fancy Nancy. I planned the party, but she made the requests. I think it was the first time this whole year that we collaborated without having to negotiate. There was no sass and no impractical demands, just my imagination and her imagination working together to create something both of us loved. I didn't even actually go birthday shopping for presents--I have so many "extra" things that I bought for her at Christmas that I simply chose four things out of the stack in the closet. One thing I've learned about my daughter in the past year: she's about as easy to buy for as she is hard to put up with. Yes, the Year of the Threenager just about did me in.

For the past week, we've been commenting to her about how fast she is growing up and how big she is getting. Her response has always been: "My body is just letting me."

For this, I am grateful. I want her to learn and to grow. I was sad to leave her babyhood and toddlerhood behind, but her to threehood I am more than happy to say "adieu!" (that's fancy for GET OUT OF HERE!)

I was so optimistic that today would be end of the threenager that I forgot one important law of childhood: children don't grow and develop on a rigid time schedule. They do their own thing in their own time and, as a parent, it is my job to hurry up, to slow down, to hurry along, and to coach her to her milestones, but I cannot get her there. She must do it on her own.

When I tucked her in, surrounded by her favorite doll, five soft toy "friends", a stack of books, her brother's forgotten Pete the Cat doll, and twenty glow sticks leftover from the paper lantern "floating lights", I kissed her forehead, looked into her eyes, and said, "I love you sweetheart."

Her response?
"I know. Bye."

And thus the threenage years continue.
Happy Birthday, my girl.

"It Worked Out Well"

Last Saturday, Scott and I had the opportunity to go out to dinner with his parents and three of his four brothers and their wives. We went to a fancy restaurant, ate some yummy food, and spent two hours enjoying each other's company and sharing memories. Most of the meal was spent in the brothers trying to top each other's tattle-telling stories (who crashed the car worse and who got off with easy punishments and who punched a hole in the wall and covered it with a bandaid and a note that said "ouch"). Scott's mom laughed and his dad shook his head.  It's the first time in probably five years that we've gotten together as just adults.

Towards the end of the meal, my sister-in-law Tamsen shared her memories of the first time she met the Fowler family. She talked about how impressed she was at the way Clyde and Stephanie were engaged in their boys' lives, how they took time to get to know her and include her.

I spent much of the meal sitting back and listening. Officially, I came last to the family--the last piece of the spousal puzzle for the Fowler boys, the last daughter-in-law, the last bride. In reality, I came into the family long before they met me in person and discovered that I was not just a figment of Scott's imagination.

Scott and I met at age 16. We wrote to each other often over the next several years. It probably seems odd, then, that the first time I met his parents in person was at my homecoming. I remember him informing me that his parents were going to attend with him and if I didn't want them to come, I would have to talk his mom out of it because she was a pretty determined lady. Since that time, I have come to know that "determined" is an understatement. I was flattered that they would make the time and the drive to come hear me speak. I had no idea what they looked like, but I knew the kind of people they were because I knew their son's heart.

For the life of me, I couldn't write that talk. I tried and tried in the three days I had between getting off the plane and stepping up the pulpit, but it never came together. I knew what I wanted to say, but not how to say it, and so my notes consisted of one Texas proverb and three names of persons whose stories I wanted to share. I've never been very good at auditions, and I felt as if I were auditioning to be part of their family. This was a role I really wanted.

When I stepped up to the microphone, there were dozens of familiar and friendly faces, people who had come to hear me speak. Sitting in the center of the front row of the overflow was my love. Sitting next to him, dressed in a pink jacket and somehow looking exactly how I had imagined her and not at all how I had pictured her at the same time, was my 6'4" boyfriend's  5' 4" mother. Looking back, she was probably as nervous as I was, so I shouldn't have worried. Next to her was my now father-in-law, wearing a goofy grin that set me at ease. Kind of.

After I stumbled through my talk, after we shook hands at the back of the chapel, after they'd met my whole family at the luncheon, after Scott had driven them back to Logan and then come back to Richmond, after the crowds had cleared and he and I went for a walk around Richmond and I resisted the urge to knock on doors--after all of that, Scott informed me that his parents liked me.

I got the part.

For so many years, I was an observant outsider. Scott would tell me stories about his brothers--we'd known each other for three years before I stopped him and said I knew their names, he could just tell me which brother it was that had cracked the joke. I have letters memorializing the birth of every niece and nephew from 2003-2010. I have records of their family home evenings, their outings, the triathlons he ran with Dave and the tennis matches with Bryan and how he tried to throw Greg's kids in a garbage can but they wouldn't have it. I know the scares and surgeries, when Grandma Fowler died, when Scott and his parents went to Tennessee for a HOSA competition and he placed nationally. I know about the blind dates his brothers tried to set him up on. I know their names, their interests, their children. I couldn't have picked a single one of them off the street, but the Fowler Family was already part of my heart.

Nearly six years later, I have become part of the family. Though I still feel like the youngest sister, I am not afraid to tease and play games and tickle the grandchildren or walk around in my pajamas when we stay overnight. I'm convinced that Clyde has given me more hugs than some of his boys--I can't help it, I came from a hugging family.

And so I can second Clyde's surprisingly short summary of their marriage at the end of the meal: "It worked out well."

Yes, yes it has.