Children were never part of my master plan. When I would think of my future it simply did not involve children. No, I didn't hate kids but I certainly did not enjoy their company. My niece, who is three, has terrified me since she was born. I suppose that makes motherhood a little more difficult for me to take joy in. Many women long to start a family and find such happiness in the thought of it. That is something I simply have never understood. But, to make it through many days, I had to figure it out. I had to find the joy.
At this moment I am looking down at my daughter as she grunts and wiggles in her sleep. I can't help but think that she is the most beautiful baby in the world. I'm grateful and proud of the days when those emotions overtake me. However, it does make me all the more frustrated with the days when it doesn't. Those days are fewer and farther between but it has taken several weeks to get to that point.
I've found that the trick is to not be ashamed of it. To not be ashamed of being beyond irritation and completely at wits end with a tiny baby that certainly didn't choose to join this world. It's not her fault as she screams out at the world. She did not decide to come into this world completely helpless and in need of someone to care for her. I brought that on her. I had to learn to set aside the frustration I was feeling more and more frequently and just love her. Love her without remorse or guilt. To look into her eyes as she cries out to me in need and only feel love. People told me this would just happen. They were wrong as nothing "just happens". It takes a conscious and ongoing effort. It takes a strong will.
Finding the joy in parenthood can be a taxing and sometimes overwhelming ongoing challenge. I know there will be days ahead when I just want to curl into a ball and block out the world but I will conquer those days.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Hello, my name is Mother
The frustration that has bothered me most the last couple of weeks is losing my sense of self. The last few days it has absolutely consumed me.
While pregnant you read all of the articles and other literature on how to be a successful parent. Then, when you sit there holding that squirming and adorable little baby in your arms, you come to realize how absolutely useless it all was.
For instance, the ridiculous notion of "sleep when the baby sleeps." To put my thoughts as kindly as possible, what the fuck? If you sleep when the baby sleeps then you will never get a chance to shower, eat, clean up, go buy diapers/ other infant flotsam, and that laundry pile will soon engulf all available space in your home. Whoever first uttered that phrase needs to be strung up and dropped down (if you take my meaning).
My life has become so consumed in taking care of this child that I have completely lost my sense of self, the meaning and enjoyment I had in my life before has been buried in a damp grave never to see the light of day again. I look at my bookshelves in longing as I am once again nursing the baby with one hand while trying desperately to eat a few bites of my dinner with the other. I glance at the drawer of dust rags and yearn to clean my home as I'm rocking back and forth while singing random show tunes trying to make the crying stop. My running shoes sit in the corner collecting dust, the piano rests under the window tuneless, and the book I've been struggling to write has lost all of it's pzazz.
Every moment, awake or asleep, is now completely engulfed in taking care of this child. I no longer have a sense of self. I'm simply Mother. I'm the diaper changer, baby feeder, and singer of random show tunes (as I do not remember the children's songs of my youth). I lack all personality, all qualities that make one unique. I take no joy from daily activities and do not rest at night. I am no one. I am simply Mother.
While pregnant you read all of the articles and other literature on how to be a successful parent. Then, when you sit there holding that squirming and adorable little baby in your arms, you come to realize how absolutely useless it all was.
For instance, the ridiculous notion of "sleep when the baby sleeps." To put my thoughts as kindly as possible, what the fuck? If you sleep when the baby sleeps then you will never get a chance to shower, eat, clean up, go buy diapers/ other infant flotsam, and that laundry pile will soon engulf all available space in your home. Whoever first uttered that phrase needs to be strung up and dropped down (if you take my meaning).
My life has become so consumed in taking care of this child that I have completely lost my sense of self, the meaning and enjoyment I had in my life before has been buried in a damp grave never to see the light of day again. I look at my bookshelves in longing as I am once again nursing the baby with one hand while trying desperately to eat a few bites of my dinner with the other. I glance at the drawer of dust rags and yearn to clean my home as I'm rocking back and forth while singing random show tunes trying to make the crying stop. My running shoes sit in the corner collecting dust, the piano rests under the window tuneless, and the book I've been struggling to write has lost all of it's pzazz.
Every moment, awake or asleep, is now completely engulfed in taking care of this child. I no longer have a sense of self. I'm simply Mother. I'm the diaper changer, baby feeder, and singer of random show tunes (as I do not remember the children's songs of my youth). I lack all personality, all qualities that make one unique. I take no joy from daily activities and do not rest at night. I am no one. I am simply Mother.
Monday, October 28, 2013
And Then There Were Three
When I initially started this blog I wasn't sure what it was going to be about. It has sat here several months now with "no posts" staring me in the face. I had no idea what I was going to do with it.
Then, one chilly October evening while I was sitting awake for the seventh night in a row trying to calm my newborn screaming baby, it came to me. This blog was going to be a way for me to keep my sanity.
You see so many "new mom" and "mommy" blogs out there talking about how wonderful and rewarding motherhood is. Very rarely do you see one and go, "Yup. She is being completely truthful." They seem to only focus on how great breastfeeding is, the repetitive struggles with their mother in law over what is best for the baby, or how great their kiddo was while they baked apple pies to feed homeless people on Thanksgiving. You get the drift. They all make me have a bitch please moment.
So for my own sanity, and the health and well-being of my child and husband, I'm going to tell it like it is. I will spare you not of my thoughts during the 3am diaper changes involving projectile poop, my personal frustrations during breastfeeding, or my insensitivity by not making baked goods to feed the homeless on family holidays. While this is my outlet to retain some of my sanity, perhaps it will help some other new mom who also has read those uppity blogs and wants to smack those happy-go-lucky pie bakers in the face. With a brick.
Okay, maybe not a brick, but the irritation at those women runs deep.
That is my adorable baby girl. Only a week old in that picture. Before I get any further I want to make it perfectly, and absolutely, clear that I love my girl more than anything else on the planet. I would kill, or at least seriously maim, anyone that tried to hurt her. No questions asked.
But, no matter how deep my well of love may be, it does not eliminate the frustrations that I've discovered come along with raising a child.
I'll spare the details of her birth because, really, if you've gone through it you know of the pain of which I speak and would rather not relive it. Ever.
Where I would really like to start this discussion is about the fear of going to the bathroom. No, not about the adorable little poop machine you have just brought into the world, but about the absolute fear of using the restroom. If after birth you had to have stitches you know the fear of which I speak. It doesn't even occur to you the first time you drag your tired, sweaty, battered body to the bathroom. But as soon as that first dribble makes contact with the suture area you know a fiery pain that you have never experienced before. The nurses don't warn you of this, they just leave a little water squirt bottle on the handrail by the toilet and assume you'll figure it out. Ladies, that squirt bottle is now your life line. If you leave the house, make sure it is in the diaper bag. Before you go to the restroom, make sure it is filled with mildly warm water. Never, never, find yourself in need of a pee without this bottle. The fun part? You will continue to need to give your undercarriage a shower at tinkle time, every time, over the next several weeks. It burns like the Phlegethon going into Tartarus. I don't think I will ever look at the bathroom without a quick spurt of fear ever again in my life.
What gets me is you hear about it being horrible to have a bowel movement of the firmer kind after birth. Honestly? It wasn't that bad. Why don't they warn you about what really hurts? The Terror of Tinkle Time. It could be a really bad B-rated horror film. Or one of those creepy children's cartoons about teaching kids to use the bathroom, but, that is a rant for another day.
In conclusion, fear the bathroom. Fear it.
Then, one chilly October evening while I was sitting awake for the seventh night in a row trying to calm my newborn screaming baby, it came to me. This blog was going to be a way for me to keep my sanity.
You see so many "new mom" and "mommy" blogs out there talking about how wonderful and rewarding motherhood is. Very rarely do you see one and go, "Yup. She is being completely truthful." They seem to only focus on how great breastfeeding is, the repetitive struggles with their mother in law over what is best for the baby, or how great their kiddo was while they baked apple pies to feed homeless people on Thanksgiving. You get the drift. They all make me have a bitch please moment.
So for my own sanity, and the health and well-being of my child and husband, I'm going to tell it like it is. I will spare you not of my thoughts during the 3am diaper changes involving projectile poop, my personal frustrations during breastfeeding, or my insensitivity by not making baked goods to feed the homeless on family holidays. While this is my outlet to retain some of my sanity, perhaps it will help some other new mom who also has read those uppity blogs and wants to smack those happy-go-lucky pie bakers in the face. With a brick.
Okay, maybe not a brick, but the irritation at those women runs deep.
That is my adorable baby girl. Only a week old in that picture. Before I get any further I want to make it perfectly, and absolutely, clear that I love my girl more than anything else on the planet. I would kill, or at least seriously maim, anyone that tried to hurt her. No questions asked.
But, no matter how deep my well of love may be, it does not eliminate the frustrations that I've discovered come along with raising a child.
I'll spare the details of her birth because, really, if you've gone through it you know of the pain of which I speak and would rather not relive it. Ever.
Where I would really like to start this discussion is about the fear of going to the bathroom. No, not about the adorable little poop machine you have just brought into the world, but about the absolute fear of using the restroom. If after birth you had to have stitches you know the fear of which I speak. It doesn't even occur to you the first time you drag your tired, sweaty, battered body to the bathroom. But as soon as that first dribble makes contact with the suture area you know a fiery pain that you have never experienced before. The nurses don't warn you of this, they just leave a little water squirt bottle on the handrail by the toilet and assume you'll figure it out. Ladies, that squirt bottle is now your life line. If you leave the house, make sure it is in the diaper bag. Before you go to the restroom, make sure it is filled with mildly warm water. Never, never, find yourself in need of a pee without this bottle. The fun part? You will continue to need to give your undercarriage a shower at tinkle time, every time, over the next several weeks. It burns like the Phlegethon going into Tartarus. I don't think I will ever look at the bathroom without a quick spurt of fear ever again in my life.
What gets me is you hear about it being horrible to have a bowel movement of the firmer kind after birth. Honestly? It wasn't that bad. Why don't they warn you about what really hurts? The Terror of Tinkle Time. It could be a really bad B-rated horror film. Or one of those creepy children's cartoons about teaching kids to use the bathroom, but, that is a rant for another day.
In conclusion, fear the bathroom. Fear it.
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