Drowning. Funneling. Spiraling out of control. Down the tubes I go.
This is something that happens to other people, not me.
I’m highly self-aware. I go to counseling. I write about my feelings. I am immune.
Or am I?
How far down must we go before we reach out for help?
I hit my lowest point a few weeks ago, when at 1 AM, I looked out to the water and wondered what would happen if I just slipped in quietly, and disappeared.
It’s hard to admit, even harder to type, but that thought went through my sleep-deprived brain. Followed immediately by the remaining tiny fragments of my healthy mind reminding me that by doing so, I was only transferring my hurt and pain to my loved ones.
So instead, I wrote. I typed out my deep, dark thoughts on a sticky note in my phone as I entered the fifth hour of non-existent sleep and waited for morning to come and save me.
How far must we go before we set aside our pride and shame and liberate ourselves by calling it what it is?
I’ve suffered in silence but now, I am reaching out. Recognizing I cannot do this alone. Holding the hands of others who suffer and holding onto those who lift me up as I sink.
Making it through breakfast. Making it to lunch. Making it to dinner. Through bedtime. Until Midnight. Repeating until I rise again, from my bed, from this darkness. Reclaiming my stride, my identity and my purpose as a writer, wife and mother.
I can feel it. A change is coming and just like the rain, there’s not much I can do about it.
My eldest will enter her first year of all-day public school next week, guaranteed to create a lasting domino effect in our household.
The dynamics between the inseparable two eldest will shift. My second-born will gravitate towards her younger sister in the absence of her idolized older sister. The eldest will return home, tired and yet frustrated at her replacement. The third sister will resent being dismissed as soon as school is over.
There will be sickness, spread like wildfire. Long, sleepless nights. Trips to the doctor. Boxes upon boxes of tissues.
And then there’s the worry of releasing my 6 year-old to the big, ugly world. The one where bullies exist and feelings get hurt. Out from the shelter of her mother, her home and her little private preschool, she will be vulnerable to the wolves.
I can only hope I’ve taught her well.
To be kind.
To be tough.
To be happy.
It began with that first cut of the umbilical cord. Little by little, I’ve witnessed her venture further from my womb. Becoming less of me and more of her.
We’re on a precipice and there’s no turning back. And the view, albeit daunting, is invigorating.
Realize you are hungry and contemplate what you’d like to eat.
Break up a fight between the 2 & 4 year-old.
Look inside the fridge for your lunch.
Listen to the demands of the 2 & 4 year old who appeared out of nowhere (seriously, there must be an embedded sensor to let them know when the fridge door opens).
Give the blessed children the yogurt already!
Grab the bread to make your fantasized sandwich.
Attend to the crying baby in the back of the house.
Whisper-yell at the two year old to close the ever-loving door while you nurse a, now, distracted baby.
Frantically search for your phone to ascertain whether it is time for you to pick the 6 year-old up from her sleepover. Breathe a sigh of a relief when you read a text announcing they are keeping her until after lunch.
Calm the frustrated 4 year old who can’t figure out how to turn Paw Patrol on.
Return to the kitchen to grab the turkey, hummus and veggies to make your sandwich.
Assist the two year-old who announces she needs to go potty, now!
Nod your head yes that it is, indeed, lunch time. Abandon your sandwich attempt to heat soup, chicken nuggets, cut strawberries and put together a PBJ.
Blow on the soup until you feel dizzy. Curse at yourself for forgetting that 1 minute in the microwave is too long.
Spread the hummus on your bread. Cut your veggies and layer them, alongside the turkey.
Recognize the sound of the ending credits of Paw Patrol and seize your chance to put the two year old down for her nap. After all, it’s the “magic window” and thus, now or never.
Walk the two year old to look out the windows and doors from all sides of the house to reassure her there is indeed, no thunder today.
Change her into a diaper, turn on her noise machine, remind her that if she gets out of bed, you are closing her door and you mean it, today!
Take a bite of that big, beautiful sandwich.
Help the 4 year-old change into jammies because she wants to nap today since her big sister isn’t around to play.
Close her door and open door to now, awake baby.
Completely forget about sandwich.
Pick 6 year-old up from sleepover.
Take girls outside to play.
Give girls a bath.
Look at the clock that says 5 PM and laugh at the stale sandwich.
Alternatively:
Make Sandwich.
Let baby cry, toddler pee her pants and skip her nap, and listen to four year old tantrum until you’ve finished eating.
I can feel it. My blood boiling. My muscles tensing. My heart pounding and head spinning. I can’t get her to stop crying. I can’t get them to stop fighting. I find myself screaming, “CALM DOWN!” and then internally chuckle at how ironic I sound.
Mirror.
Ghandi said it best. “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”
I walk away. Take a deep breath. Regroup. Resurface. Kneel down to her eye-level and offer what I could use right now. A hug.
She cries.
I stay silent and rub her back, allowing her the time and space to release her tension.
We look at one another and crack the hint of a knowing smile.
“You matter. Your feelings matter. I’m here.” I whispered to my fragile four-year-old after a meltdown over a band-aid. A band-aid.
It took me a moment to realize this had nothing to do with a band-aid and everything to do with being the middle child. Forgotten. Lost-in-the-mix. Something I swore would never happen.
Her older sister demanded attention based on personality alone. Her two-year old sister threw daily tantrums to keep us occupied. And the newborn baby was a constant presence.
Harper had merely slipped through the cracks. Behaving, going-with-the-flow like she had never done before. And before we knew it, 15 weeks had passed without much fanfare.
Until tonight. Until I looked into her little face and realized how long it had been since I had truly looked at her. Held her. Told her just how very much I adored her.
She wept. Released the dam of tears she’d held back for so long. I rocked her and cried right along with her, realizing my ignorance.
Four daughters. One mother. So little time for any one of us.
A survival technique, part of our evolution as a growing family, these stolen moments sustain and fulfill us.
It began with an infatuation.
Absorbing one another like the Vitamin D saturating our skin on those endless beach days.
The dust settled in my apartment as my toothbrush claimed precious real estate on his bathroom sink.
His place became ours.
Time passed, my belly grew.
Date nights peppered our calendar, gradually lessening in frequency as my belly grew, grew and grew again.
We treasured time together on the couch if we managed to get all of them asleep before we turned in, ourselves. If not, a quick kiss or a lingering hug sufficed.
Time with mommy became time with sissies.
Mommy & Me music class turned into a dance party after breakfast, time at the salon to painting nails on our bathroom floor.
Time with mommy became precious.
Not as long, no. Not what it used to be.
Instead, richer, full of more hearts, sharing the beat of the same bloodline.
Stolen moments layering the patchwork of our years.
I checked the bag three times before I left: Extra diapers, wipes, water for me, a burp cloth and even a nursing cover. I was ready to head to the doctor’s with my eldest and my newborn, or at least I thought I was. That is, until I realized, too late, I had forgotten my nursing pads. Milk saturated the right side of my shirt while the baby nursed in the waiting room. I positioned her to burp but before I could get the burp cloth situated, she vomited an entire cup of spit-up on my stomach and lap. Hot, sour milk saturated my shorts and coated the inside of my thighs. It was then that she exploded from her other end and it was then that I laughed and laughed.
Because, seriously. What the hell else are you going to do in a situation like that?
If I had a dollar for every time my mother preached about “choices” during my childhood, I’d be rich. Bottom line, no matter what life hands us, we all have a choice in how we respond. As a young girl, “She made me feel” was met with “You chose to feel” and “I can’t”, “You choose not to”.
It’s all about perspective.
So when I announced to my husband that I had shaved my legs for the first time in a month last night (my modern day attempt at foreplay) and he looked at me as if to say “Do we have to?” I laughed and announced, “You’re not hurting my feelings if you want to take a pass!” He chuckled a sigh of relief. We’ve had four children in 6 years. We’re, understandably, exhausted. Our energy focused on soaking up every moment with our children during the days and surviving the nights.
We will make time for one another again sometime soon, but the baby is only 8 weeks old and God willing, we’ve got a lifetime ahead of us.
Perspective.
I could have cried (rightfully so) in that waiting room and I could have been offended at my husband’s less-than eager reaction but instead, I listened to what my mom has been teaching me all along- I made the choice to make the best of it and I’m happier for it.
Welcome to the world, Elizabeth Joy! Our fourth daughter arrived two weeks ago, abruptly ending months of anticipation and successfully shifting the dynamics of our new “norm”.
We’ve experienced this change before. Beginning with the dance of labor, the rocking, lunging, swaying back and forth. The sensation of extreme heat immediately followed by chilling tremors of apparent sub-zero temperatures. The digging-in, the roaring-out. My arms, wrapped around my husband’s neck. My doula’s steady hands, applying counter pressure to my spine; propping me up, when all I want to do is fall.
Yes, we’ve journeyed along this road many times. When one is too weak to stand, the other is there to hold. And yet, what do we do when we are both weary, unable to withstand the weight of another in addition to the weight of the things we already carry?
My husband and I found ourselves in that position just a few weeks before Elizabeth’s birth. I, carrying an extra 30 pounds on my front-side, preparing for our fourth child’s arrival while trying to maintain a sense of normalcy for our 2, 4 and 6 year-old daughters. My husband, juggling pressure from work and the sense of urgency to complete any and all major house projects before the arrival of our newborn.
Our tempers were short, our stress, high. We refrained from burdening the other with our concerns, afraid that our additional weight would throw the other over the edge.
Withered and worried, along we trudged until we simultaneously erupted, hurling accusations and proclaiming “I’m doing the best I can!” Our molten lava seeped from our mouths until there was nothing left to say except, “I know.”
Too weak to stand alone, not strong enough to carry another, we leaned-in. And it was there, forehead to forehead, hands to hands, we discovered that together, we were strong enough to hold.
It amazes me how much we take for granted on a daily basis. It isn’t until we injure our toe that we recognize how much we failed to appreciate it fully-functioning. The same could be said for a heater in winter or a dependable car. But perhaps the thing we take for granted most is our voice.
Recently, my girls and I visited a children’s play place. I typically only frequent these madhouses during “off” times- anyone interested in a 3 PM dinner? See you at Chick-Fil-A. My strategy is part small-talk avoidance combined with reduced noise level and chaos for my 2, 4 and 6 year-old girls to navigate. Nonetheless, there’s no way to totally avoid socialization unless we stay home and since I’m not trying to raise my daughters in a bubble, I embrace these encounters for what they are: learning opportunities.
So when an 18 month-old recently took particular interest in my social-anxiety-ridden 4-year-old, I prepared my lesson. To any outsider, it was adorable. A little blue-eyed, towheaded boy recognized himself in our Harper’s similar features and grabbed a hold of her hand. To her credit, Harper attempted to roll with it until he refused to let go and followed her no matter how far she ran. With pleading eyes, she looked to me for help.
A few weeks later, in a different establishment, I was alarmed to hear my two-year old crying for the third time in twenty minutes. Since the play place was three stories tall with covered tube slides too small for my 9 month-pregnant butt to crawl into, I couldn’t figure out what had happened during the first two instances, but at the third outburst, the sibling of a child explained her sister had pinched my little Emma, for no apparent reason. Later, in the car, after discussing it with my older two girls, it was revealed that this same child had hit my four and six year old on the head at the bottom of the slide.
I asked what they did in response and they said they ignored her and kept on playing.
Although I’m proud my girls aren’t tattle-tales who cry over the smallest infraction, I immediately thought of the #metoo movement and recognized how imperative it was for me to ensure my girls knew that it is OK and IMPORTANT for them to use their voice.
I could see it in Harper’s face- she didn’t want to hurt the little boy’s feelings by asking him to stop holding her hand. And I knew my eldest didn’t want to disrupt the balance of play by complaining about the head-hitting but isn’t this what the #metoo movement is all about? Women afraid to speak up because of the potential repercussions?
I recognized right then and there that being encouraged to use their voice was something that had to be explicitlytaught at a very young age. I was struck at the realization that I had assumed my girls would know what to do in those situations and cringed at the thought of ever telling them to “ignore” or “get over it” and keep playing.
I looked at my girls square in the face and explained, “Your body is YOUR body. It belongs to you. If someone ever hits you or touches you in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable, you must use your VOICE to tell that person to stop.”
I continued with an example.
“When that little girl hit you, you had every right to say, ‘That hurt me. Do not do that again. If you do, I will not play with you.'”
Simple. And yet why does it feel so hard to stand up for ourselves? I explained that if the girl or hand-holding little boy continued, then my girls should find an adult to help, just as a woman in a workplace should seek the assistance of her boss.
These things we take for granted must not be overlooked any longer. I feel so fortunate that my daughters are growing up in the midst of the #metoo movement, when women are empowered to come forward after years of silence. The fact of the matter is, though, many of these women did go to their bosses and were punished as a result, taught to remain silent.
No more. No longer. We will teach our children to use their voice so that silent acquiescence becomes the thing of generations past.
“Another thing,” I told them. “We are a family and we stick together. If you ever see your sister in trouble, you stand by her and help. You are not alone.” With this, my 6 year-old’s precious lips turned upward into a knowing smile. Empowered.
Previously a fourth-grade teacher, I once considered myself a master at classroom management. It was both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because my students were well-behaved even with substitutes and a curse because I was assigned the most behaviorally-challenged students, since I could handle it.
Then I had my own children.
I’m currently 9 months pregnant and managing a classroom of 20 behaviorally-challenged students seems like a cake-walk compared to the daily task of getting a 2, 4 and 6 year-old fed, dressed, and out-the door. I might as well be herding cats.
As my due date draws near, I find myself more-easily exhausted and while I appreciate the offer of help from friends and family to help out with meals and running errands, I don’t think there is a perfect solution to the daily challenge of managing three small children.
I’ve created morning checklists combined with incentive-charts to help the two eldest manage their routines but I still find myself saying things like, “We don’t talk about poopy-heads at the table” or “She doesn’t want to be picked up” and “brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth”.
The more frazzled I become, the more braxton-hicks contractions I have, but how does one “let go” and still get out the door?
It’s not just a daily struggle, it’s a minute-to-minute battle to SURRENDER ALL. As soon as I claim victory for getting socks and shoes on the four year-old, the two-year old has replaced hers with rain boots, complete with an umbrella opened inside of the house. Bad luck? Oh, well.
Last night, I described, to my husband, the beginning of each day as a full water balloon. By the time he comes home, a thousand pin holes have been pricked in that balloon and I’m drained. Attempts to plug and patch the leaks are fruitless, a waste of precious energy.
Instead, after Kindergarten drop-off this morning, when the two-year old dashed out of the mini-van to bask in the rain with her umbrella and boots, I grabbed mine and joined her. Dishes? They’ll still be there. Sanity? It’ll be gone anyway.
I like to think of this early-childhood phase as practice for what is to come in the adventure of child-rearing. We can prepare our children with access to support and resources and still watch them struggle to take responsibility to make something of it.
At some point, there is only so much we can do before we have to let go, surrender all and have faith that we are all doing the best we can in that very moment.
In the meantime, we can grab our boots and umbrellas, lift our faces to the sky, and dance in the rain.
I checked the bag three times before I left: Extra diapers, wipes, water for me, a burp cloth and even a nursing cover. I was ready to head to the doctor’s with my eldest and my newborn, or at least I thought I was. That is, until I realized, too late, I had forgotten my nursing pads. Milk saturated the right side of my shirt while the baby nursed in the waiting room. I positioned her to burp but before I could get the burp cloth situated, she vomited an entire cup of spit-up on my stomach and lap. Hot, sour milk saturated my shorts and coated the inside of my thighs. It was then that she exploded from her other end and it was then that I laughed and laughed.
New Leaf Parenting 