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

My water broke at 10:00pm. It was the first sign that my son was ready to make his entrance into this world. My husband and I quickly gathered our pre-packed hospital bags and headed straight for the hospital.  Sixteen long laboring hours later, little Gooby made his debut. When they placed my baby on my tummy, having just exited my womb, my first thought was “He is so warm!” As I examined him through the tears in my eyes my second thought was “He looks like a little rhinoceros!”  I know, it’s a strange thought to have about the looks of your first born child, but his skin was a bluish-gray, much like the color of a rhino. The medical staff immediately whisked Gooby from my arms as the cord had been wrapped around his body like a “sash”. They were concerned about his color and whether he was receiving enough oxygen. But judging by the sounds of his cries, I knew he would be just fine. I was even more amazed that if I called to him, or if my husband spoke to him, Gooby would immediately calm down. He absolutely knew us. We were already a family, and had been so, long before Gooby first felt the world’s cold air on his skin.

My mom stayed with us for 10 days to help us transition into our new roles as parents. Like all new parents, we were exhausted. We dealt with so many brand new issues like Gooby’s dehydration while we waited for  my milk to come in, and the fact that once my milk did arrive, I had no idea how to breastfeed. Also? Gooby would not stop crying. I know, I know! You are going to say all babies cry. But having had two children by now, I know that not all babies cry like Gooby did in his first months of life. Around the time my mom was preparing to leave us, she gently raised the idea of colic. I had a panic attack. Why? Because I am solution oriented. And for colic, there is NO solution. Zero. Zip. Nada.

When my husband and I went to Gooby’s 2 week check-up, we mentioned his un-ending crying. Our pediatrician casually said “Yes, he may have colic. It will subside around month 3 or 4.” My husband and I looked at each other and said “What?! That’s like forever away! How are we supposed to survive?!” When we returned for our one month appointment, our pediatrician prescribed baby Zantac. He saw that we were desperate for some cure to the colic and thought maybe Gooby had reflux. The Zantac did very little to quell the crying. He cried so much, I had no idea if his cries were because he was in pain, if he was tired, if he was hungry, or if he was just pissed. It all sounded the same to me. I cried a lot too, and around the same time Gooby started Zantac, I started Zoloft to treat the post-partum depression that had taken hold of my very being.

Being solution oriented, I sought other ways to regain some of the control we lost when Gooby joined us at home. Enter these two often controversial books: On Becoming Baby Wise and Secrets of the Baby Whisperer. I needed help, and these books provided it. Gooby was what the books called “Spirited” or “High Maintenance”. Both books preached putting baby on a predictable schedule – E.A.S.Y (Eat. Activity. Sleep. You.). YOU! After being so utterly focused on anything but myself, this sounded awesome, and it was! Instead of me trying to figure out Gooby’s impossible cues, I showed Gooby what we were going to do next. This meant he and I both felt more in control of our lives.

By the time Gooby was 10 weeks old, my post-partum was being successfully managed by the Zoloft, and I had finally started to figure out my kid. By 12 weeks old, Gooby’s crying began to dissipate, and he was sleeping up to 6 hours at night. Thank goodness, because at 13 weeks old, I had to go back to work. I remember telling a former neighbor of ours that I thought it was cruel that just when I was beginning to enjoy being a mom I had to leave my baby. My neighbor, a wise veteran dad, said “Yes, but you were able to be there for him when he needed you most.” It was true. I feel like we went to war and back together, and through our experiences Gooby and I had formed an unbreakable bond. He is my best friend. My little buddy. The little person that taught me how to be a mother – my most important accomplishment to date.

Over the last 3 ½ years, Gooby has shown himself to be precocious, funny, imaginative, smart, talkative, happy, loving, and a fantastic big brother.

We have noticed some unique attributes as well. Like the fact that Gooby never wakes up happy – instead, his day starts with a good cry. His tantrums, while normal for this stage in development, can last up to 2 hours. He is terrified of anyone touching his face, especially the doctor using a scope to look in his ears or in his mouth. This means I have avoided taking Gooby to the dentist. This leads me to Gooby’s unusual strength. He is like Incredible Hulk strong. It can take up to 4 adults to hold Gooby down for any examination. He is also floppy. When he hugs me, instead of just wrapping his arms around me, he more like melts into me. He is clumsy and somewhat uncoordinated. Last Tuesday he fell and hit his head while trying to get down from the breakfast table. He required 8 stitches, but in order to give him stitches, we had to sedate him in the ER due to his fear of anyone getting near his face. Perhaps most significantly, Gooby has trouble eating. Not only is he a messy eater (he still has to wear a bib); Gooby also stuffs his face to the point of choking. We have to watch him carefully and cut up his food up into very small pieces. And still, he chokes. He avoids tasks that require use of fine motor skills like writing and drawing, unbuttoning his pants or getting dressed or undressed himself. He has boundless energy – it feels like he goes and goes until he simply runs out of steam. And finally, at 3 ½ years old, he still drools. He drools so much that his preschool teachers change his shirt at least once per day. And no, he is not still teething. I personally do not know another 3 year old who drools like this.

It was regarding the drooling that I found myself searching, for the one millionth time, about how to help Gooby stop christening the world with his saliva. It was during this most recent Google-fest that I found a link discussing oral hypo sensitivity. An electric shock went through my body when I read this page, because Gooby fit all of the attributes described under hypo sensitivities. Why hadn’t my doctor mentioned this to me before? I mean, I’ve discussed my concerns about the drooling countless times and was told to “just wait it out.” While on this same website, I became intrigued by the other information available about Sensory Processing Disorder. After reading through various checklists, I determined that Gooby possessed enough attributes of the disorder to warrant a visit with his pediatrician. From what I understand, there is a spectrum of severity described on the website. In my opinion, Gooby is mildly affected by the symptoms he matches, though he is affected nonetheless. After reading more of the website, I started to cry. I was scared, and left wondering whether my child may have special needs.

So many people will read what I’m describing and write it off, saying things like “Oh, he is just a boy!” Or, “He is a typical preschooler.” And in so many ways, these statements are very true. But I always say a mother’s instinct is never wrong. With our pediatrician’s support, we are now embarking on a journey of discovery. A journey filled with speech and occupational therapists who will determine whether my son does in fact have a special need. I have no idea what adventures and challenges are beyond these initial evaluative steps. But I do know that I am a fierce advocate for my child, because the bond we developed in his formative first few months of life is, as I described, unbreakable. I will go to every length to ensure Gooby’s ultimate happiness in this world, and I have faith that I will succeed.

I was asked by a good friend the other day while we were watching our sweet girls play together if it is ever hard to see Mom’s who are pregnant with their second. I had never really thought of it. I remember feeling very discouraged when I was trying for my first and I would hear of a friend who was expecting. It was horribly painful to attend baby showers, that I just stopped going all together. I remember after my IUI and having to wait those two very long weeks, my dear friend was to have her baby shower the same day I was going to find out. I remember feeling so selfish thinking that if I wasn’t pregnant that I would have to skip it, and if I was, I would go. I think I have gained perspective this time around that everyone’s timing is different and mine is definitely not on the fast track and I’m really okay with that.

I know a lot of women struggle with comparing and wanting so badly to be pregnant that just seeing another woman pregnant is so incredibly painful. I’ve been there and it’s tough. There’s still a twinge of pain when I see an announcement on Facebook, but the pain is duller and I’m stronger. A part of me is thankful that I get all of this time with PJ to love on her and only her. She get’s my full attention, my everything. My husband and I do laugh, though, that she really does need a sibling! She’s getting a little spoiled lately with all of our attention.

Remember, that comparing during this tough road of infertility is only going to make it harder. Sometimes we can’t help it when it seems that everyone around us is either pregnant or giving birth. I have to go back into my thought process and bring myself down to earth and tell myself that the timing for me is slower but it doesn’t mean it will never happen. When I stop comparing and start living life knowing full well that I’m the luckiest person in the world for what I’ve been given, it makes the waiting process so much sweeter.

In a week I will be taking a pregnancy test, so by my next blog I might be announcing some exciting news OR I might be getting ready for another month of trying. Either way, I’m thankful & my cup is full.

I am amazed at the relationship between my two kiddos…they love each other, fight with each other, laugh together, fuss at one another, snuggle together (sorta), wrestle together (thats more like it), and cheer one another on. Though they know each other well, I wouldn’t necessarily say they are “close”…there is a pretty good age gap, gender differences and overall personality difference. (Mostly, she would like to be the boss and what big brother really wants to be told what to do while playing “family” …again?!) I always pray for this relationship to grow and for them to always ‘be there’ for each other. How are some ways that you encourage/ teach this to your kids?

I am nervous.  I am not sure how “future child” will fit into the equation.  The kids are so excited to share their rooms, their toys and help out, but I know growing a relationship takes time.  It takes many shared experiences to grow trust.  It takes time to understand what another person likes/ dislikes. I understand that bonding is a big piece of adoption. I am not really sure what we are in for, but I still want to jump in with both feet, unreserved.

In honor of my boy’s upcoming 8th birthday, I asked my daughter some fun questions to get her thoughts on her Big “Bubsy”. It was so sweet, that I cornered Brother Bear during snack time to interview him as well.  Her responses are first.  His are second.

I know that it will take time, but I do look forward to the day when that child who is yet unknown to us, will come into our home and be known, and that trust will grow, memories will be built and perhaps a year from now (?!?!) we will have one more response to the following questions.

1. What are some reasons you love your sibling?

A: He loves me. He loves Jesus. He plays with me. He is crazy.

 

L: She is funny.  She is crazy.  She likes watching me play baseball.

 

2. What is your favorite game to play with him/her?

A: Chutes and Ladders.

 

L: Mickey Mouse Clubhouse

 

3. What is your favorite article of his/her clothing?

A: His Banana Underoos

L: Her blue flower dress from Mexico

4. What is the funniest thing that he/she does?

A. When he picks up the doggie poo!

L: When she copies the things I say or do. Like yelling, “Dad’s home!”

5. What is your bro/ sis going to be when he/she is all grown up?

A: A Chicken Wing! (Come on, for real.) A policeman to protect me.

L: A mom and a sports newscaster.

6. What is her/his favorite place?

A: He loooooves Totos! (True, we love our neighborhood pizza joint!)

L: Hop and Play (True, she asks me about every week to go there!)

7. If you could pick who they marry, who would you pick?

A. I want him to marry Ella, because she wants a big brother. (You know that would make him her husband, not her brother, right?)

L: She should marry Jackson. (I agree!)

8. What is your favorite thing about his/her bedroom?

A: His lizards!

L: Her bed. Its big!

9. If you could make one wish for her/ him, what would you wish?

A: That he had a telephone so that I can borrow it and play games on it.

L: That she would get into the Olympics and WIN!

It’s no secret that the adjustment from one child to two, has been nothing short of….challenging.  And just like most surprises in life,  my expectations are to blame for my misguided fantasy of what our reality would be.

I have often written about how inherently sweet DJ is.  I have shared before that I prayed for her tender temperament the whole time I was pregnant – and truly believe those prayers were answered.  DJ is always the first to notice the sound of a crying child, and is also the first to lend comfort to that same child. So, naturally, I thought she’d be a wonderful big sister – and she is.  I thought she’d slip right into the role of helper – and she has. Kinda.

But, she’s also 2 1/2.

While I knew that having another child would be a big adjustment for DJ, I hadn’t anticipated how the emotional impact of that adjustment would manifest as super duper not-at-all-like-the-DJ-we-know naughty behavior.  I had also failed to anticipate how the “Terrible Twos” would make this transition all the more difficult. Silly me.

I’m a stay-at-home mom, so my breaks from the über taxing aspects of parenting are non-existent. At any given moment, I am simultaneously managing any of the following tasks: Calming a tantrum, changing a diaper, reading “Fancy Nancy”, breastfeeding, playing blocks, feeding dogs, feeding cats, writing a grocery list, wiping a bum, doing laundry, removing jelly beans from nostrils, etc. The list goes on, but I can already feel your eyes rolling as you cue the violin notes. I have never said that I’m not lucky to be home with my children – but I also don’t think I’ve ever outwardly acknowledged just how hard it is. It’s hard.  Really hard. And I realized that I needed more help.

Enter my gratitude for technology. Since having Baby Z, my husband and DJ have naturally grown closer. She is learning to depend on him a bit more as my availability just isn’t what it used to be. As a result of her growing adoration for her daddy, she is listening to him much more intently, and obediently, than she does to me. This is great when the hubs is home, but what about the majority of each week that he spends at work?

FaceTime.

Yep, hubs has made a habit of calling DJ a few times each day on FaceTime. He calls my cell phone, and they chat face-to-face for about two minutes. He asks her if she’s being a good girl, if she’s been controlling her “freak outs,” if she’s listening to mommy, etc. He then ends the call with a promise to give DJ a treat when he gets home if mom (that’d be me!) gives a good report. And yes, we are bribing our child with things like candy and new crayons – but it works, and right now, I’m just trying to survive.

This concept of “virtual parenting” is new in our household, but it’s effective. Sure, DJ and her daddy have always Skyped when he’s had to travel for work, but this is different – it’s actually active parenting. DJ is learning that although he’s out of the house, her daddy is ever-present.  She’s learning that she has two parents with equal authority, and that she can’t get away with bad behavior just because I am being pulled in a million directions.  Someone else is holding her accountable.  And someone else has my back.

Believe it or not, this has also done wonders to bridge the daily gap between DJ and her daddy as she misses him at work each day.  Because they get to check-in throughout the day, there’s not that awkward period of getting reacquainted every night.  It’s kind of a win win.

Once Baby Z and I fall into a rhythm and I have a better handle on….life, then perhaps we’ll be able to say au revoire to the man behind the curtain, but for now – this is working, and why fix what ain’t broke?

This is going to be a short blog, many apologies.

I think my husband is going to sue me for textual harassment. I sent him 24 text messages in less than an hour. Based on that alone you may think he has a pretty good case, but let me present my defense.

It all started with this email exchange:

To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:40pm

Thinking of taking the kids to Pasta Primavera for dinner, do you want to meet us?

———————————–
To: Kirsten
From: Jay
Subject: Dinner, 4:42pm

Sure — what time?

———————————–
To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:46pm

Will probably go pretty soon — Anders is teetering on the edge of losing his s#*@ and now Macy is crying because I told her to stop reading over my shoulder.
———————————–

Pretty innocent so far. I knew I was taking a gamble bringing three tired and cranky kids to a restaurant, but the place is pretty family friendly and I did not feel like cooking. I also went into this knowing that my darling husband has a pretty hard time managing his time. I always add anywhere from a half an hour to an hour to whatever time he tells me he will be home.

My texts below are in bold and Jay’s are in italics.

5:10pm  We are on our way to the restaurant.

5:11 pm Leaving now

If he was leaving his office, it should take him about 30 minutes to get the restaurant. When we got there I looked over the menu and found what I thought he might want to order.

5:20pm Do you want us to order you the salmon… artichoke hearts, capers, roma tomatoes, pasta with lemon?

5:31pm  How far are you?

5:33pm  How far are you?

5:35pm  How far are you?

5:39pm  You’re coming to Pasta Primavera in Our Town right?? Not Pasta Pomodoro in Next Town Over.

5:41pm  They are not bringing my food until you come.

5:42pm  How far are you?

5:50pm  Please answer?

During this time the waiter brought the kids food and they were just about done eating. They were already tired, so I knew I didn’t have too much longer.

5:55pm  Kids can’t last too much longer, how far are you?

6:00pm  I would like to eat soon?

6:01pm  How far are you?

6:02pm  Hello??

6:10pm  Please tell me your ETA?

6:12pm  Um, how far are you?

In normal time, about 50 minutes have passed from when we arrived at the restaurant. But remember, I was on three tired kids in a restaurant who have already eaten time. So it was actually two hours or so. They were starting to entertain themselves. This involved spoons, straws, ice cubes and tiny pieces of torn up paper napkin. I was on my second glass of wine.

6:14pm  We are in Our Town at Primavera.

6:15pm  Where are you?

6:16pm  We are going to leave soon. Please tell me where you are.

6:17pm  Not doing this again.

6:18pm  Kids food is boxed and I have not eaten yet.

I ordered each kid a gelato. They had already had two popscicles before we even left the house and I made it pretty clear before we left that we would not be ordering dessert. My credibility is now shot.

6:19pm  Where are you?

6:20pm  If you don’t answer me, we are leaving…

6:21pm  Without your food.

He finally arrives and I was not surprised to see that he walked in with his phone next to his ear. Usually he stays in the car if he’s on a phone call before he comes in the house or to meet us. But I imagine he had to weigh his option here… stay in the car and endure more text messages or come in and stop the madness. Guess what he picked.

6:22pm  Get off the phone or I will take your picture!

While we wait…we will wonder…or worry…or whatever. (don’t you just love alliteration?)

I woke up to a surprise when I attempted to take a nap last Saturday.  I skipped out of my boy’s baseball game because I desperately wanted needed a nap.  I told my sweet girl that she could pick a long movie (as apposed to a 22 minute Peppa Pig) and that she could only wake me up in a true emergency (“No, announcing to me that you have to use the potty is not an emergency, just do it, ok?”)

Well, the boys left, and I snuggled in and fell fast asleep.  But, our dog, Sproutie, moved to the front couch, where she can watch out our window and therefore about 45 minutes later she starts barking up a storm.  I awaken enough to realize that I do not hear Ariel singing her tunes and wonder why the movie is already off.  (Luckily) I chose to get up and check on my little stinky pot pie who had lined up all our bleach filled cleaning supplies on our back couch and was using all sorts of different sprays on different parts of the house. Naturally, I launch into a huge lecture about how she knows not to touch these and now is no longer allowed to be left alone for a quiet time except for inside her bedroom (where no bleach is stored there, obviously.) She is crying and I am wallowing in a good dose of Mom Guilt for having completely crashed out instead of my half-awake nap I generally take with one ear “open” to catch even the faint sound of windex on my dishes.

I stop to listen to my child who is crying and hear: “I only wanted to be like the Berenstain Bears!” Huh? “They surprised their mommy by cleaning up.” Hmmm.

Now, I grew up loving the Berenstain Bears (my first real “series”…followed by others like Anne of Green Gables and Narnia ) and since having kids I have loved sharing these treasures with my own Brother and Sister Bear.  Last summer we joined two library clubs and read twice the books and raked in twice the prizes and I have good authority to report that the mother load of BB books is at the Burlingame library.  But, I did not suspect that my little girl would choose my precious nap time to re-enact the story in our home.

So, expectations got the best of us both.  She expected that I’d be thankful and pleasantly surprised.  I expected that she would be all snuggled up enjoying the big privilege of watching a whole movie.  And, If I am honest, expectations always get the best of me: in my marriage, in my parenting, with my extended family, with my friends.  I constantly am having to check to make sure that I am not expecting something of someone else that is unfair. My hunnie says: “I never “should” on anyone!” Yet, that is exactly the way my thoughts go…I should do this….You should do this…they should do that.

Becoming a mom for the first time 8 years ago felt a little lot like this quote to me:

“What did you expect, a walk in the park?

not a carefree stroll, but this is like being mugged in the park!” (We need to talk about Kevin, by Lionel Shriver, p92)

This was such an interesting book …crazy theme and characters, but so well written and so many good quotes to get you thinking. Here’s another one that hit home for me the idea of expectations:

“I wanted what i could ot imagine. i wanted to be transformed; I wanted to be transported. i wanted a door to open and a whole new vista to expand before me that I had never known was out there…expectations are dangerous when they are both high and unformed.” (p92)

Now, as we prepare for our adoption phone call, I find myself with expectations and too many “shoulds” along with some positive wonderings and some negative whatifs.  Similar to when I was pregnant, I wondered…

I wonder what my child will look like?

I wonder what his/her temperament will be?

I wonder if he will be a busy sports- loving boy?

Or, I wonder if she will be a prissy, purse carrying princess?

I think these “wonderings” are normal and fine as long as they don’t become expectations that will leave me (and everyone around me) frustrated if (when) things turn out different.

A small step away from wondering, are the “whatifs”…I will differentiate between the two: “wondering” is a more hopeful openness to whatever will be, whereas, “whatifs” center around a worry or fear of the unknown.

What if future child is not responsive to us, and has a hard time bonding?

What if my kids lives are turned upside down by a court process, or an emotional season that ends with us having to return future child to his/her birh parent after a period of time?

What if I say the wrong thing?

What if I never sleep again?

What I am  trying to do is work on that subtle shift away from worry and back to hopeful.  What I am also trying to do is recognize those enemy expectations and set them aside.  What I am really want to do is just experience all today has to offer, with a thankful heart, and deal with tomorrow and the realities that just ARE when I am there.

Saturday was one of those days that Seinfeld episodes are made of.  It was an entire day about nothing more than annoying irony – where all of our greatest intentions were met with ridiculous opposition.  If it wasn’t our life, we’d probably laugh at the poor suckers who kept falling victim to the universe.

Because we have a 5-week old at home, and we’re trying to obey doctor’s orders about keeping her out of enclosed, public places for the first 3 months to avoid airborne illness, and with all the recent rain, our family outing options have been limited.  (“On the brink of insanity by way of solitary confinement” will be a future post).  So, long story short, on Friday night we had set the lofty, but totally attainable, goal of attending the Taco Festival in San Jose on Saturday.  Live music, food trucks and copious amounts of handmade tortillas?  We were thrilled!

Come Saturday, it all went to hell in a hand-basket. I’ve actually mentally blocked all of the absurd happenings that stood between us and the pollo asada we were salivating over, but let me tell you this – our day was comprised of toddler tantrums, tears, time-outs, swear words, breastfeeding and poopy diapers, breastfeeding and poopy diapers and more breastfeeding and poopy diapers. Needless to say, our grand plans never materialized, and my husband and I were totally bent out of shape about it. Totally.

The rest of our actual day was an attempt to compensate for the “fun” day we had missed. But, with each new idea came a new reason for a tantrum – naturally.  So, by bedtime, we were spent.  I can guarantee that at one point or another, both my husband and I had secretly thought, “I cannot believe we had kids.  What were we thinking?” We were both short-fused – impatient, angry, resentful.  We were each one tantrum, one misstep, away from abandoning ship.  So, you can understand why I did what I did next…..

DJ was hanging out in our bed way past her bedtime (time flies when you’re shaking your tiny toddler fists at the world all day!) She was waiting for daddy to finish up brushing his teeth so we could begin story-time.  I was feeding Z (of course, cause that’s pretty much all that I do these days!), and DJ grabbed a glass half full of water off my nightstand.  I couldn’t reach for her, or it, because I had a baby attached to my boob. Instead, I very sternly said, “DJ, if you spill that, daddy is going to be so mad.” And then, she spilled it.  All over our sheets. At 9:30pm, when not a soul on earth wants to be stripping a bed.

I heard my husband finishing up in the bathroom and DJ asked, with concern in her voice, “Daddy going to be so mad at me?” and in that moment, I decided to lie to my husband.  “I am going to take the blame.  I am going to say I did it.” I knew that DJ doing one more thing to set our family off course would be the end of him (as it would’ve been for me, too).

“You did it or I did it, Mommy?” “I did it.” I was hoping that I could somehow convince her that I was actually the one who reached for the glass, who spilled the water.  Maybe I could recolor her memory so there’d be less of a chance of her ratting me out.  “Go put on dry pajamas right now.”. I was able to get DJ out of the room before my husband came in – and I was pretty certain I could quickly tell my lie without any interference.

When my husband came staggering in, exhausted from 14 hours of really, really difficult parenting – he saw me toweling off our sheets.  “What happened?” he asked.  “I spilled water.” “Did you spill water, or did DJ spill water?” GULP. “DJ spilled water.”. And just like that, I was called out on my big lie schemed at saving the night.  Suddenly, I realized that protecting my kid at the risk of compromising one of our main family values, honesty, was a really poor decision.

When DJ came back into the room, my hubby had already walked out again (likely to grab a paper bag to breathe into). As DJ watched me blow-dry our sheets (seriously), I knew that I had to take full advantage of everything she had just witnessed and create a “teaching moment.”

“DJ, come with me.  I need to apologize to daddy.”. So, we walked down the hallway toward the living room and with my tail between my legs, I sat beside my hubs on the couch – putting DJ up on my lap.  “Honey,” I started out, “I told you that I spilled the water, but really, DJ did it.  I am so sorry.  I shouldn’t have lied to you.  It was wrong. Can you forgive me?” My dear husband, catching on to the “teaching moment,” replied, “Of course I forgive you.  You should know that I will never get angry if you just tell the truth.” Then, I turned to DJ, feeling very pleased out how I had turned this moment of weakness around so positively, and I asked her if she’d also like to apologize to daddy?

“Daddy, I so, so sorry.” “What are you sorry for, DJ?” “I so sorry I forgot to put my Princess panties on under my jammies.”

Fabulous, clearly another lesson well-learned. My job here is done.

Parenting in general is kind of a booty kicker.  This is not new information.  Usually, I am in a mindset that keeps me prepared for the marathon.  The occasional sprints of hard times are taxing, but they end and I get a chance to regroup, breathe and head back into the fray.

It doesn’t happen very often, but some days I loose sight of the end goal. Today is one of those days. I had an appointment with my son’s therapist for goal review and to polish our game plan.   We have been working extra hard to help him with his overwhelming anxiety, his inability to have healthy relationships with his parents and siblings and his general need to sabotage himself every time his happy brain kicks in.  Much of this is a result of his biology and effects of his adoption, but it absolutely falls in the special needs category.  He is angry.  He is mean.  He is emotionally lashing out at his sisters and he doesn’t really seem to care.   He only feels safe when he is in control, and for him, control means being angry and aggressive.  As it stands, all our extra work and energy isn’t doing much.  He hasn’t made any forward movement, and to be honest, we have moved backwards in several areas.

I am tired.  I am worried.  I am terrified that we will keep working and working and it WON’T MATTER.  He will not be able to heal. He will not be able to bond. I project into the future and all the terrible things that could happen if he continues on this path.  And then I start to think about the time and money that goes into trying to help him heal (the hours and hours and hours) and feel like I just want to quit. If it’s not going to work anyway, I just don’t want to do the work.

I have been on this path long enough to know that I will pick myself up, take a deep breath and keep moving forward. I have no choice.  I can’t allow the worry to take over. It serves no purpose to give up before the fight is over.  I am a woman of deep faith and I truly believe that with the help of my God, all things are possible. Today, none of that seems to matter.  Nothing feels stronger than the fear that none of this will be enough to turn it around for this boy.  This is a reality in all parenting, and special needs parenting is no different–the difference is in the details.  I am going to give myself to day to grieve and worry and then go to bed early and try again tomorrow.

I post this so that other parents can know that its OK to have days when you want to give up.  I don’t feel that it is lack of strength or character.  It is reality, my reality anyway.  I think that others might assume that I feel this way all the time, and I really don’t.  Just like parents of typical kids, I spend most days feeling hopeful for the future, excited about the progress that is made and ready to keep plugging along.  The days when I STOP feeling that way are especially scary to me because I know that if I don’t do everything in my power, every day, the consequences are enormous.  I am the mamma bear. I am the advocate. No one is going to love a kid that refuses to be loved more than I do. The days that I am struggling to like him are extra hard.

So, I remind myself what I learned a long, long, time ago. Just because something FEELS hopeless, doesn’t mean it IS hopeless.  We do our best.  I keep doing my best for him and the other kids.  I pray each day that he will continue to do his best to face the scary feelings he has. I do my best to help my girls understand his actions and protect their hearts from the hurt he tries to throw their way.  I don’t know if my best is going to be enough, but that is all there is. So, we carry on.

P.S.  I wrote this earlier in the day, right after therapy. It is a tad dramatic, and I already have better perspective, but I decided to keep it the way it was, because the feelings are real, even if they were short lived. 

I sniff sniff sniffled as I watched my 3 year old son Gooby run down the pathway to our car last Monday morning. He was carrying his backpack on his back and it seemed as though it was enveloping his entire body. Gooby didn’t seem to notice though. He was more excited that he had his very own lunch zipped up inside the bag and, more importantly, that he was starting preschool that day. Just before I buckled him into his car seat I paused to take a picture to memorialize this momentous occasion.

We spent the last month counting down the days on Gooby’s superhero calendar in anticipation of his first day of school. To mark the big day, he picked an Ahsoka sticker from his Star Wars Clone Wars sticker collection. Every day in between was marked with various Marvel superheroes ranging from the Incredible Hulk to Wolverine. As Ahsoka day approached Gooby became increasingly excited. But just before we walked out the door last Monday morning, we had a total meltdown – “we” naturally meaning, both he and I.

I’m sure Gooby didn’t quite know why he felt such anxiety. But for me it was so many things. My baby is growing up! I am inviting more people than I have before into the shared responsibility of parenting and teaching my child. I am partial to my daycare provider with whom Gooby has been with since he was 3 months old. Over the course of the last 3 years, we have grown to love and immensely respect our daycare provider. She has played a central role in building our confidence as parents, and has allowed us to go to work each day knowing that Gooby has been cared for in the most compassionate way. She comforted Gooby when he was sick, kissed his ouchies when he fell down, and ran her fingers through his hair to help him relax before naptime. Our daycare provider changed nothing short of one million poopy diapers and was most recently the catalyst in our success in potty training Gooby this year. To put it mildly, our provider is incredible. So of course, with the start of preschool I worried that Gooby would never again experience the same love and care that he had with our daycare provider.

When we pulled up to Gooby’s preschool he launched out of the car and ran to the front door, leaving me in the dust. He made a friend (Nafan a.k.a. Nathan) instantly as I lingered around the cubbies nervously shifting my weight from one foot to another, biting the nail on my left thumb. Gooby’s teacher told him to say goodbye to me, which he did with great confidence and delight. Before I left I asked his teacher if she would help wipe his little booty if he happened to poop that day. Yah, that’s right. One of my biggest worries was whether the expectations of my baby would be, ahem, out of reach. As I went about my day I thought about Gooby a minimum of once every hour. I wondered what he was doing, if he was happy, whether he ate his lunch, if he napped, and if he had any potty accidents.

That evening, I nearly got a speeding ticket as I raced to pick him up at the end of the school day. When I arrived, Gooby was happily playing with his teacher and chit chatting with the cleaning staff who told me he was beautiful. He talked to me nonstop (no kidding!) the entire way home. He spent the evening in an unusually good mood and after dinner Gooby told me to close my eyes so that he could give me a surprise. I complied and, when instructed, opened my lids to see him proudly displaying the bits of paper he cut that day when he learned to use scissors for the first time. At bedtime I snuggled close to him in his little fire truck bed and asked him again to tell me about his day. He told me all about his adventures and, unprompted, told me that one of his “really nice” teachers rubbed his back to help him relax at naptime. It was in that moment that my anxiety lessened, and I was able to breathe a little easier. Apparently there are more people in this world interested in loving my child beyond my family and my daycare provider. While I know nobody will ever replace our daycare provider, I was heartened to discover that such love is still possible as Gooby’s world expands.