adjustment is hard

It is an understatement to say I have a hard time with change. Adjustment to just about anything is slow and painful. (Well, not anything. I do love to move the furniture around.) Especially when the changes come in multiples - not good.

This past weekend the new Swiss student arrived. Roxane is her name and she is very nice and pleasant to be around. This arrangement is ostensibly to lighten my load and provide me with company, but it is also change adjustment someone new in my house and in my family. AND the very same day she arrived... the snow melted. All at once. All of it.

For just about everyone I know here in Western NY, snowmelt is to be celebrated. It means spring is (sometime in the future, after we muck through the season of mud) on its way. We didn't have a ton of snow this year, and much more cold rain than I would have liked, but the snow was enough that the rain didn't wash it away; it just packed it down and turned it into a kind of snow cement, a white covering over all the ground.

Snow literally changes the structure of our yard. There are shoveled paths where there use to be open space. Garden beds are covered over and cease to exist. Small mountains spring up on either side of the bottom of the driveway, mountains that are good for sledding down and hiding behind and bouldering over. Snow forts and snow walls are built, then shrink and shift and are rebuilt.

Then the snow melts.

The snow melts and the old yard is revealed. Hello garden. Hello dog poop. (seriously a lot of dog poop hidden under the snow.)

There's not really a way for it to happen gradually. One day the snow is there, and the next it is gone. The piles at the end of the driveways stay for an extra day or two (and the gigantic mountains in the backs of the parking lots could possibly stay til July), but all the expanse of white, the crunch and spread of it, all that has been visually stable for the past several months - it all just vanishes.

It's too jarring for me. I was not ready to be done with the snow. I am never ready, turns out. Nonetheless, the snow is gone, and a new person is here, and adjustment is hard. I spent the last few days in a dramatic kind of space, weeping and lamenting the change, though I have faith it will be great for everyone eventually. It will come, the settling. And then you know what will happen?? She will leave, and it will be change adjustment someone gone from my house and family, and I will fall apart for a spell. 

drama trauma

I'm having a nervous breakdown over here. Sudden sobbing, unexpected hollering, weeping in the cereal aisle at the grocery, general disinterest in showering or dessert. And dessert is important.

Karen's leaving has been pretty traumatic for me. She was so lovely and easy to be around, an actual adult in the house for company, and she became a real part of our family. But also, I don't think I can overestimate the help she was to me as a parent. WE ARE NOT MEANT TO PARENT IN A VACUUM, THE WAY WE DO. I think it's as simple as having support - when she was here I had regular daily support in parenting, and that's gone. Gone gone gone.

Still, I was doing pretty well, enjoying having the kids one on one and getting into our rhythm. Then. This:

Frances and I are leaving at 6 am tomorrow for a funeral in Tennessee. My great uncle just died - fungal meningitis, can you believe? He had a steroid injection in Tennessee, clearly from the contaminated batch of steroids; have you been listening to this mess in the news? He was perfectly well 2 weeks ago. Even though I hadn't seen him in years, the sorrow I feel is tremendous. It all seems so pointless, so useless - to die from medicine you take to help, medicine that is supposed to be relatively innocuous, medicine that is contaminated by some stupid fucking error. I can't stand it.

It's all just so stupid and unnecessary and tragic.

He was the youngest brother of my granddaddy, and my grandaddy was the oldest of ten kids, which is to say my uncle was about 20 years younger and not too much older than my mother. (following?) His kids are my age and they were the cousins I played with when I visited my Grandparents in the summer. His dying is the end of a generation, and that makes me profoundly sad. So Frances and I are leaving on a flight so early tomorrow tomorrow that it might kill me. That's all the bereavement fare would offer. Leaving before dawn, coming back at 11pm Sunday night.

I hope tomorrow morning I'm not so off balance. I kept having to apologize to the kids today for my hysteria and ensure them that it was okay, it was okay for me to be crying like this, I was okay. What will it do to them to see me like this, so completely out of control? Don't anybody answer this.

Interestingly, the thing that pushed me over the very tippy edge was the arrival of new furniture. I bought a dining room table! And 6 chairs although I probably eventually want 8! And a bed frame for the master bedroom! It looks like adults live here now. And somehow this was just too much for me. Plus of course the guys were supposed to be here between 9 and noon and didn't actually arrive until 12:20 when I was supposed to pick up Clark at 12:30.

All right. I have to go to sleep. I'm setting my alarm for 4 tomorrow. Ugh. I hope the weather in Tennessee is lovely.

Blessings to you all. Kiss your loved ones.

truth telling

Have you read this blog yet? It's just recently gone viral. I've been sent links to it a couple of times but only recently explored past those specific posts. It's got me thinking. Thinking about my purpose as a mom, as a human, and about the purpose of this here blog of my own. Because the truth telling issue (as in this post) is the point of my blog too. I believe that truth telling can be revolutionary. When I started the blog it was because, as a new mom, I felt SO MUCH PRESSURE to feel specific things ("Isn't it WONDERFUL? Don't you just LOVE being a mom?") and some of them, dammit, I wasn't feeling. Sometimes I didn't just love it, sometimes I felt exhausted and overwhelmed and trapped. And doomed. It's a sinking feeling, doom. There's no air there. And when I expressed these feelings out loud, other moms opened their eyes wide in shock that I would dare utter it, and then they nodded and shared their feelings of doom too, and their feelings of inadequacy for feeling doomed in the first place. Like something was wrong with them, with us, for not feeling what we were "supposed" to be feeling a hundred percent of the time.

I decided it needed saying, the truth. I needed to explore how to do this seemingly impossible mom thing. There was some time, early on when I had a smidge of postpartum depression, when I worried I simply did not have the stamina to do it, to be a mom. Where would I get the inner resources? But they're there; they're there. Sometimes the way is dark and foggy, and it's frightening.

But lately I feel the blog has stalled. My babies aren't babies anymore; they're little children now. And dealing with them takes different resources, ones I'm not sure I'm able to convey well here. Now, instead of exhaustion and spit up and exploding diapers, we have relationships. Relationships by their very nature are complicated. When you have relationships rather than techniques, the issues become the realm of fiction, of poetry and rhyme. Only, I'm not in the fiction writing business these days. (Though, you may or may not know, that is my degree: fiction writing. Still, I'm out of the business for now.)

So what does this blog mean to me now? What is its purpose? And - one big thing - do I still tell the truth here? Sometimes I don't. My friend Erynn calls me when I go too long between posts, because she knows that means I'm not doing so well. During those times, often my mom experiences are ones I don't want to write about. When I scream hysterically at my kids, when I completely lose my patience, when I feel like the job I'm doing is not good enough. But maybe they are exactly the ones I should be writing about. I don't know.

Like last Sunday. Mitch and I had an argument the night before and then Sunday morning he left for work. I don't know why it undid me so, but it did. I spent most of the morning trying not to cry, then thought going out in the world would help, so I loaded everyone up in the car. The kids were just being themselves, not overly loud but certainly not quiet; laughing and playing as they waited for me in their seats, but it was too much for me. As I got in the car Clark said, "MAMA! CAN YOU TURN ON THE KID MUSIC?" and I just lost control of myself. I spun around like a complete crazy person and shrieked "NO! I CANNOT! I CANNOT TURN ON THE KID MUSIC! I CANNOT!!!" then immediately got out of the car and burst into tears. But not before I saw the looks on their faces.

After such behavior on my part, there's so much self loathing. I'm a bad mom, I'm a bad human, I don't know how to function in basic social ways, how can I possibly be allowed to be in charge of other small helpless humans? I'm supposed to be teaching (modeling!) them how to behave in this world, forcryingoutloud.

So there it is. The things I'm dealing with these days. And even when I'm not publishing here, I'm still writing. Often writing and then deleting, or writing but never publishing. Or at least thinking about writing even when I instead play yet another game of Bejeweled Blitz. I've gotten it together enough that I'm not bursting into tears daily, thank goodness.

The same blog listed above has another post that I can't put my finger on right now, but in it she talks about what she calls "mommy meltdown", a dramatic bout of weeping in which you complain that you just can't take it anymoooore. In her house, she claims, it happens about once a week. I do not have mommy meltdowns. I simply feel overwhelmed and it builds in me and builds in me until it bursts out in anger, sometimes actual rage, or at least certainty (and then some form of pathetic resignation) that my life is horrible and I'm trapped in it forever. Then I remember the families I saw in huts in India last summer, which just makes me feel spoiled but no less depressed or trapped. What occurs to me now is that a mommy meltdown could be just the thing I need. If I had a weekly release of melodrama in the form of tears I could possibly avoid the rage that I generally direct at my family, poor undeserving creatures that they are. I always fear my rage does immeasurable damage to my children, but Mitch feels it does not; its damage will come in the deterioration of my relationship with the kids. And THAT thought makes me sad beyond measure.

I wonder if I can implement regular meltdowns, perhaps schedule them in. Country music may have to be involved. Oh, and here's the blog post I mention above - found it. 

bbbbbetter

Turns out that particular freak out had much to do with hormones. Did I mention I got the IUD with the hope of eradicating PMS? Oh well, it's early; my body is still adjusting. And currently I blame the IUD not only for the hysteria itself but also for its wacky intensity, because it was way wackier than my usual PMS episodes. Hormones are strange things. Anyway, things are much improved over here, and I'm a much saner person.

In other news: Clark has a stutter. It's kind of cute, though am I allowed to say that? It started maybe 2 weeks ago and the past few days have actually been better. It's only the first sound of a sentence, and as he tries and tries to get it out, he gets louder and louder until he's shouting and red in the face. After about a week he realized he could speak clearly if he whispered, which I found to be pretty nifty of him. But then he started to stutter in the whisper.

It's a normal thing for kids to go though, I know. They say there's only need for concern if it goes on 3 months or longer. I'm not worried.

Also, Frances is a gem right now. Which is particularly fabulous given the terror that is my son. She's so helpful and patient when I have to deal with him. She's also very very affectionate, kissing, hugging, generally wrapping herself around me, telling me she loves me, wants to play with me, wants me to be with her. Aaaah, at least they're not horrible at the same time. (I probably shouldn't write that. My next post could be about what kind of padded cell they're going to put me in since they've both become intolerable.) For now, though, I can at least see that my patience comes and goes, rather than is gone. I was really worried for a minute. Thanks for all the concern and the love. It helps--really.

Plus, I bought a big fancy camera. Results to come.

my undoing

I have no dishwasher and no camera. Damn the modern need for this gadgetry! It turns out I live in a very fragile and procarious tower (midieval stone and tiny window variety) where one brick goes and the whole thing tumbles down. I'm falling apart over here. I couldn't even get it together enough to go vote. And I really wanted to vote.

At first I thought it was the dishwasher that put me over the edge--the final straw--, or simply the snowball effect of sitters who cancelled and Mitch's migraine that put him completely out of commission for bath/bedtime routine the night before my embarrassing emotional collapse in the middle of the gym (while on a machine, no less. I had to flee to find a more discreet place to disintegrate). But it wasn't the dishwasher. It's Clark. Clark Clark Clark, who used to be my sweet baby, my agreeable one, the easy going, the less intense, the one who could adjust and flex and roll. I somehow thought his personality would allow him to bypass this developmental stage. How silly of me.

Let me be clear. He is no longer a sweet baby. He is two and a half, and he is a monster. MONSTER. Perhaps we are at the height of the thing? The most intense it will get? Perhaps he's not still building to his full monsterdom? Oh please let that be so. For everyone's sake, let that be so, and let this peak not last long, let us soon come down the other side oh so gently.

A MONSTER. It's gotten to where I don't want to go anywhere--the library or the carousel at the play museum or the hardware store--because there is a 100% chance he's going to be incredibly difficult about something. Getting in his carseat. Getting out of his carseat. Which carseat to sit in. Which song is on. The fact his blankie fell on the floor.

He's got a terribly traumatic life.

But the thing that undoes me is the 100% chance that once we get to the bagel shop, farmer's market, grocery store, he's going to throw a fit about something he absolutely cannot touch, climb, hit. Mr. Destructo coming through! I simply cannot take it. So we go nowhere.

He still throws fits at home, of course; about my telling him he can't throw Little People at the dog, or hit the cat with the wiffle bat, or climb daddy's dresser. Today we had a fit with Every Single diaper change.

It exhausts me.

It's not that I'm embarrassed about his displays in public. It's not that I feel like an incompetent parent because he's delivering them. I know it's a stage and it will (eventually...!) pass, but somehow the shrieking or the flinging--or something--has tripped my panic button and I don't know how to turn it off. I feel like a crazy person. (A couple of days ago I seriously wondered if I could come back from it, thought maybe we'd have to hire a full time nanny for a month or so, so I could lie in bed and read The Age of Innocence and the New York Times Magazine. I'm way behind on current events.)

I'm trying. I'm doing all the right things; going to the gym, being social, doing laundry. I have absolutely no motivation to organize and prepare food, and that's a bummer for everyone. But a few dinners of mac and cheese never hurt any kid. And a few dinners of cereal for mom and dad never did either. Hopefully the tide will turn and my energy will come back, my motivation will return. This hideous gray rainy weather isn't helping I'm sure. I'm holding out for the pretty white snow...

perspective from below

My son is in love with a pinata. It's a Dora pinata (rather large) and he drags it everywhere behind him by a string.

And I'm depressed.

Those are the main news items coming over the reel.

I hate that I get depressed. It's just a part of my life, something that comes and goes, and these days as long as it doesn't hang around for too long, I can ride it. I've been so tired, so tired all the time. I thought at first it was because I hadn't been exercising, but then several days of 40 minutes on the elliptical at the gym didn't seem to change much.

I'm having trouble keeping in perspective that I won't have a 2-year-old forever. One day, no one in this house will scream at the absolute top of his lungs anytime he disagrees. Somedays I feel like this, this, is my world forever and ever, packing snacks and cajoling into carseats, wrestling hollering toddlers to the ground simply to change a diaper, pulling dimes out of mouths to screams of protest.

But then there are clear moments when I can see my life in a long flat plane, and I realize that This Time--with babies--is a distinct phase, and one day (and not that long from now) I'll look back on it as some previous lifetime. When I think this way it all feels so sweet, their chubby little cheeks, their tight hugs, the way Clark smashes his entire face into mine. There are people, certainly, who are best cut out for this work, who in previous eras served as wet nurses and nannies for an entire career lifetime. Though I sometimes wish I were, that's not how I'm built. And, frankly, I suspect most women aren't built this way. Isn't that the trouble, though? That we all expect ourselves to be good at all the jobs, or at this one in particular? We think we are somehow less if we can't easily do this mom thing.

But all that is another issue. For now, I just try to see them. (They are both so sweet. Yesterday Clark brought Frances his own cherished blanket when she hurt herself, because we were at a friend's house and it was the only blanket available. He tucked it under her chin and then patted her back.) I focus and feel my smile every single time Clark says "No dis going," the cutest phrase ever, which means several things from "this toy isn't working" to "I can't get the lid off the applesauce." Cute cute cute stage (except when it isn't), even when he's mad. One of my favorite moves of his right now is his hollering: MOMMY! BAD! GIRL! when I lose my cool and holler at him for hollering at me. Nothing like being called flat out on your stuff.