The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.  I could literally feel the bad mood heavy upon my shoulders – and yet, it was a force that I couldn’t shake.  Sometimes, just being aware that something exists isn’t enough to chase it away.  And sometimes still, willing it to go away just isn’t enough either.  So, rather than expending energy that I didn’t have trying to chase something away that wouldn’t budge, I just decided to let it linger.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tart that I’m eating while I write this, however, is making great strides in taking me to a happier place.

I am going to begin by blaming my Grumpy Pants on raging hormones.  I just read that in the third trimester, mood swings make an ugly reappearance.  This is a legitimate fact, straight from babycenter.com.  And now, I am going to hop off the passive, I-have-no-control train, and take some responsibility.  In between bouts of wanting to rip someone’s eyes out, and wanting to pull the covers tightly over my head where no one could witness me eat an entire box of cookies (which I don’t actually have in the house, and that’s really pissing me off!) – I have been analyzing why this mood might be.

Here’s the deal.  I’m tired, and I am carrying around a boatload of guilt about being tired.  I woke up exhausted this morning. I am no longer sleeping because my hips ache, my lower back is on fire, and my groin feels as though it’s been held in tact by a fraying fiber.  Tossing and turning all night doesn’t just mean moving from one side to the other – it means rearranging a fortress of pillows around me at each wriggle.  When the 7:00 am request for cartoons came blaring out of DJ’s mouth, I felt myself slither under the silent question, “REALLY?”  Really? Already? Cartoons again?  Caillou?  Caillou whose parents make me feel inferior in every episode due to the extreme patience they exhibit?

I wanted to wake up to silence.  I wanted to pour a cup of decaf, turn on something like the Today show, and totally veg out in my PJ’s until the smell of my own coffee breath finally forced me into the shower.  I wanted to be on my own agenda.  However, anyone with a toddler knows – it’s their agenda….all the time.  So, Caillou it was.  Did I mention that I loathe Caillou’s parents?

By 8:00 am, I got a burst of motivation and decided to do some cooking. I made a batch of mini-quiches, and hadn’t realized it in the moment – but that was my attempt to get some time alone, in a creative capacity, lost in my own thoughts over a cheese grater.  It lasted only briefly, until DJ insisted on dragging a chair to the kitchen sink (naked with just her rain boots on….which, I admit, provided some much-needed comic relief) to wash her plastic animal toys.  Oh, right, there is a two-year-old reigning queen in this house.

After cooking, I decided to spend some time on the computer.  I wanted to post a few recipes to my blog, order the wall decal for our nursery, update my Paypal account so there’d be nothing standing between me and my Etsy purchases, and maybe – just maybe, if there were time….check Facebook.

Just as I settled into my chair, and DJ was seemingly distracted by who knows what, she decided that I had to find her “little mouse.” After digging through her bottomless toy bins, followed by a search through both the cats’ and the dogs’ toy collections – I realized she was referring to a tchotchke my husband picked up a Design show.  Quite literally, a tiny computer mouse.  Once I found it and handed it over, DJ crawled up into my chair, plugged in the mouse and directed me as to what she wanted next…”Videos of baby me.”  And there we sat, watching baby videos for what seemed like an hour.  I somehow managed to order the decal, and update my Paypal account – but that was in between “Can I have some chocolate milk?” “Can I have some toast?” “Can you make it louder?” “Can we see that one again?” Up and down, up and down, filling orders and pressing my groin to it’s limit.

The remainder of the day has followed suit.  I took a shower while sweet little blue eyes peered at me from behind the curtain – sporadically being hit in the shins with launched toys.  I spent my lunchtime at DJ’s preschool (where I’d normally commiserate with other moms in a separate room) sitting beside her on a teeny tiny plastic, orange chair (which did wonders for my expanding butt complex).  I spent DJ’s otherwise independent outdoor playtime pushing her around a cement track in a plastic car.  And, I have spent the greater part of her nap lying beside her as she clutches my hair because, today, she just won’t allow space between us.  Of course, on a day, when I need nothing more than an independent, deep breath.

I am grumpy because I have one child literally growing inside of me, and I have another child clinging to my every appendage. Aside from this heavy thing sitting on top of my neck, called a head, I am pretty certain every ounce of me has been overtaken by kid’s needs.  Wait, I take that back – last night DJ got a comb stuck in my hair, ripping strands from my scalp.  Lord, even my head has been sacrificed in the name of Motherhood!!!  My poor husband…..after a long day at work, all he wants is a kiss hello when he walks through the front door – and all I want is to peel one person off of me, hand her over, and reclaim (if even for a moment) my own body (in between baby kicks inside my belly, of course).

I have not been carving out enough time for myself – and it’s become very apparent today that I need to.  I need to let go of the guilt that says my job is to be a stay-at-home mom, which means making every moment of every day about my kids.   I need to release the guilt that says another baby is on the way, and I must devote every second to loving DJ up before that adjustment occurs.  However, when you leave no time for refueling, there’s no means of giving left – there’s just no way to give your kids 100% when you’re running on fumes.  I am learning this, painfully.

Needing time away from my daughter certainly doesn’t mean that I love her any less. It just means that I’m important, too.  It means that I’m not just a shell of a person, but an individual – a woman. Not just a mom.  Not just a wife.  A woman.  I think it’s important for DJ to see me take time for myself, too.  She needs to understand that separation is only temporary – and that reunions are really, really sweet and special.

So, with that said – tomorrow morning I am dropping DJ off at her Noni and Papa’s house, and I am going to (in this particular order) get my eyebrows waxed, soak in a candle-lit and lavender bath at the spa for 25 minutes, enjoy a prenatal massage and then treat myself to some indulgent lunch which will likely include a shrimp cocktail.  Or an apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.  Or a giant burger topped with mushrooms and crispy onion strings.

And then, I will pick DJ up from her grandparents house, and will likely squeeze her too tight from having missed her all morning – and Mrs. Grumpy Pants will be held at bay for another several weeks while I coast on with renewed energy and an awakened sense of self.

Is it tomorrow yet?

The whole time I was pregnant with DJ, I prayed that no matter what her personality developed to be, that there’d be an element of unwavering sweetness and compassion underneath it all.  Well, we’ve truly been blessed because even on her most dreadful days, she’s still worried about the crying baby in the grocery store.

DJ is always the first kid to offer another child a kind pat on the back if she witnesses them fall down.  She’s the first kid to stop whatever she’s doing, follow the sounds of distress and quietly say “It’s OK,” while looking the upset person right in the eye.  She is drawn to kids who are smaller, who seem quieter, and who are a bit different.

Last week I took DJ to the park.  It was one of our warmer January days, and we hadn’t been out to play in what seemed like a really long time.  Once on the playground, DJ quickly observed a little boy who was about her age.  He had hearing aids, thick-rimmed glasses, and wasn’t as stable on his feet as other children his age might be.  His mom was keeping a watchful eye on him, and several times, acting very sweetly as an advocate for him.  “Well, he let you play with his chalk, it would be nice if you would allow him into your fort,” she’d say to the other kids who had already assembled themselves into cliques.

DJ of course, was drawn right to this little boy.  She asked to play with his chalk, and watched him carefully – not as if she noticed anything different about him, but more out of concern that he, too, was enjoying the park.  I made several attempts to spark up conversation with the boy’s mother, and arrogantly felt proud of my daughter for the ways she was naturally keeping him included in her play.  Unfortunately, the other mother just wasn’t interested in talking with me.  I immediately judged her.  With a killer body like that, she must be a real snob.

Anyhow, about an hour or so passed by and DJ had found some other area of interest, and the little boy was happily off blowing bubbles with his mom.  I noticed that his mom had warmed up to another playground mom.  The other mom had two small daughters – one about DJ’s age, and the other just learning how to walk.  I felt a twinge of jealousy.  What did this mom have that I didn’t?  What did her daughters have that DJ didn’t?  How come the boy’s mother got friendly with her, and not me?  Man, was I in high school again or what?

I eavesdropped only long enough to hear the two talking about some sort of testing.  I honed in because I am smack in the midst of hormonal, pregnancy-induced anxiety and I feel myself listening to any and all stories involving children’s health.  And then I heard, “Most all infertility issues are directly related to low sperm count.”  Oh, ok – they weren’t talking about anything I needed to know.  Clearly, my husband’s sperm is working just fine.

Then, BOOM – the most gut-wrenching line came spilling out of the boy’s mother’s mouth swith as much anger, sadness, and truth that she could express, “I’m sorry for venting, it’s just that I see all these pregnant bellies around me, and it is so frustrating.”

That was just it.  My husband’s sperm was fine.  And, what did that other mom have that I didn’t?  Regular jeans.  I was, for that discouraged woman, just another reminder of her struggles with infertility.  It’s not that she didn’t like me, or my compassionate child – it’s that my over-the-belly elastic pants struck a chord in her that provoked deep pain and palpable resentment.  She desperately wanted what I had.  My story didn’t matter much to her, all she knew is that the end result was a rotund tummy.

For a moment, I felt guilty and selfish.  I was immediately taken back to some of the hardest moments that I’ve had in friendship.  Some of my best girlfriends have experienced miscarriage and infertility, and while they’ve literally been doubled over in despair, I’ve heard myself make them promises like “It will all be ok.”  What a shallow bit of encouragement to offer to someone whose entire world feels bleak, robbed, and short of what’s meant to be.

I cannot pretend to understand the struggles of infertility, and no matter how hard I try to approach such issues with tenderness – I am still a reminder to some women of how unfair life can be.   This tears me up inside because it’s not a deliberate comparison, it’s not an illustration that I can control or temper.  It just is.  It is my life, in parallel with the lives of other women.

So, to the mother of the boy in glasses – and to all the women out there who can relate to her, you are heroic.  You are heroic for getting up every morning, and stepping out into a world where harsh reminders of what your soul cries out for, surround you every day.  You are heroic for choosing at least one person, be it a stranger in the park, or your best friend, whom you share your candid thoughts with.  You are heroic for blowing bubbles in a park, filled with children, when you want nothing more than your own babies.  You are even heroic for protecting your heart in ways that feel necessary – even if that means avoiding certain people just because they represent something that causes you pain.  You are heroic for not losing hope.  Don’t lose hope.

I am reminded that we all have something that someone else potentially longs for.  I have caught myself dreaming of what it would be like to be this person or that, to have so and so’s problems (or, in my mind, lack thereof).  I have spent too many moments thinking that if I just had this, or that, then I’d really be happy.  But, what I am learning is that we all struggle.  We all have broken hearts, and delayed dreams.  We’re all just trying to survive some days – and that they very things we seemingly take for granted, are the very things that can make or break relationships.

While we shouldn’t be ashamed of our blessings, we should always remember that everyone has a story.

So here’s the thing. I hate crowds. I really, really hate crowds. I hate crowds the way I hate sites like Groupon and Living Social. I like a bargain as much as the next person, but I hate the feeling of “OMG, I have to buy this oil change for my car and $20 worth of drinks at a bar that I have never been to rightthisveryminute before the deal passes me by!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!” It’s why I will never, ever be caught dead at a Black Friday or even a Cyber Monday sale. Crowds and the frenzy of people searching for DEALSOMGDEALS!!!!! is not for me.

Well friends, yet another chapter closes in this adventurous book called “Life.”  Last week I transitioned out of the part time position managing a Silicon Valley entrepreneur’s calendar, which I’ve had since April.  It was a bittersweet time – though admittedly, aired on the sweeter side.

The job was a great fit for me.  It’s an exciting start-up company, whose vision I truly believe in.  I was surrounded by really talented, and down-to-earth people.  Most importantly though, it served a great purpose in my life as it helped coach me through the identity crisis that I was having about becoming a stay-at-home mom.  It gave me an outlet – a place to be someone other than a mother, a place to think about things other than snacks, discipline, and potty training.  It gave me a place to be an adult.

However, it also helped me realize that my heart was at home.  As much as I thought I needed a place that was just mine, after several months of trying to fit working hours into my already full day, I realized that my special place was, in fact, found in motherhood.  I have often told people that when I decided to work part time, I hadn’t simultaneously decided to cut back on my hours of being a mom.  So, there was a constant conflict of interest – and conflict of the heart.  I never actually wanted to take time away from DJ, and slowly, I realized that my time with her was indeed slipping away.  It was time to make a change.  It was time to get back to the job I was really called to do.

On Thursday, after the final day of training my replacement, DJ and I went out for ice cream.  It was such a sweet time of celebration.  While she didn’t know what we were celebrating, I am certain that she felt my presence.  I was there, really there with her for the first time in several months.  I didn’t feel the need to pull out my iPhone and check my email as we were sitting there.  I wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts about which meetings I still needed to confirm.  I wasn’t in a hurry to get home to craft an email to someone before the end of the day.  I was just there.  Savoring every sticky bite, and hanging onto DJ’s every word.  Man, she’s a cool kid.

It was really important to me that I planned for alone time with DJ before our second baby girl comes along.  I always knew that I wanted at least one month of not working before my due date.  But, as the end of 2011 approached, I realized that one month just wasn’t long enough for me.  That’s when I pushed for a January transition.  And now, I am so, so grateful that I worked in a supportive enough environment that this request was honored.

As my due date gets closer…..less than 3 months away, I am sitting in the midst of the most precious season.  I am totally and completely committed to giving DJ 100% of my attention, while also earnestly awaiting the arrival of her sister.  I am teetering between a love that I know intimately well, and a love that I can only imagine.  I am realizing that this is an extraordinary and significant time of my life.  In another 3 months, I will be a mom of two.  I will be sharing my time, my heart, my patience, my strength, my dedication.  I will be raising two lovely girls – and I will, inevitably, wonder where I’ve gone at some point.  Sooner or later, I will dream about a part time job.  I will dream about a place that belongs to just me.

And then, I will remember this week.

I will remember the freedom that I have felt in leaving a job that I appreciated.  I will remember the look in DJ’s eyes as we sat and ate ice cream cones until her very last bite.  I will remember the weight lifted off my shoulders as I closed my laptop and didn’t feel the need to reopen it after dinnertime.  I will remember what it felt like this morning, to sit and watch the full 75 minutes of Milo and Otis with DJ without once checking email.

As I get more and more excited to meet this baby girl, I am also feeling more and more protective of my time with DJ.  I am realizing that the sacrifices of parenting never cease….that even when you’re blessed to be a stay-at-home mom, you still struggle to create more time with your children.  You still fight the distractions of every day life, the temptations that you’re somehow missing out on something, or that you could be happier if you were just doing more for yourself.

Last night, as I tucked DJ in and lied down next to her (yes, I still lay beside her every single night until she falls asleep despite all of the experts who tell me not to), she said “I want to go in your arms, mommy.”   So, I took her tightly in my arms, and she said “Keep me safe, mommy.”  I whispered back, “Always.”  In that moment, I knew that keeping her safe simply meant being present with her.  Whether holding her in my arms, or playing along with whatever her imagination conjures up, or listening – really, really listening when she talks….it is my job, and more importantly, my privilege to be present with her.

I am fortunate to get to be with her day in and day out.  I know that not everyone has this opportunity, and I certainly don’t take it for granted.  I am not claiming to be a better mom because I have more time with her.  What does make me a better mom (for DJ, not in comparison to others), however, is the ability and courage to end one chapter because I can see that the beginning of the next is so much more beautiful.