On [Not] Keeping Score

Not too long ago, I had this really bad habit of keeping score. Here's what I mean. In my head I kept a running list of all the stressful events that had occurred in my life over the past five years or so. It was a breathtaking list, too, that involved moving out of state twice, dealing with a major death in the family, buying a house and undergoing therapy for nerve pain. Anytime anyone asked about my life or my stress level, they got a full rundown of the list. In detail.

Surely no one else had endured so much stress in such a small space of time. It was almost like a competition: look how crazy my life is! Or maybe, I hesitate to admit, it was a plea for sympathy or attention.

I used the list to justify bad attitudes and reactions to stress. I used it to assure myself that I was doing ok...under the circumstances. I used it as a cosmic scorecard. Ok, I've had my fill of stress now. Time for a break. 

Then I miscarried. I started to add the event to the list. And then, I started thinking: Why am I even keeping this list? 

Why don't I have a corresponding list in my head of great memories I've made over the past 5 years?

Why don't I tell people about all the cute stuff William has said and done?

Why can't I remember half the cute stuff he's said and done??

Why am I always complaining and painting a tragic picture of my life?

See, right after the miscarriage, I had a dream. One of those realistic dreams that wake you up from sleep. In this dream, I was wearing my wedding dress at some kind of event. Calvin was in a suit. And we were spinning across the floor, dancing and laughing. Carefree. Obviously deeply in love.

I was watching myself from the sidelines. Watching that young woman I was with the glowing eyes and beaming smile. She looked at me as she whirled by, so young, so beautiful. She said something to me as she passed. I'm not sure what it was. But I think it may have been, "Look at what you have."

So I did. And I discovered something. I have so much. Not just food on the table or cars in the driveway. I have the love of my life right here with me. I have a wonderful child with this man. I have a heart that's full of love and peace. Enduring a parade of stressful situations has been worth every minute I get to spend with these people I adore. I have no reason to keep score.

So I'm throwing away the scorecard. No more complaining. No more dwelling on the past. I need room in my head for all the great memories we're making.  

Finding the Value within Myself

It's been two weeks since the loss of my pregnancy, and I think I may be finally coming to terms with it. Of course, that has involved a lot of gardening...and writing...and jewelry making. Anything that isn't crying. Not that I haven't cried. I have.

It's not just that I wanted this child and lost him. It's all the other emotions that come with it. I had to adjust to the whole idea of becoming a mother again after deciding I wouldn't. Plans to get a job were interrupted, rearranged. William and I talked about the baby, especially when my belly started to grow. I had just bought maternity clothes, had just got over the persistent morning sickness. The baby's heartbeat was strong at 10 weeks. My big ultrasound to confirm the gender was only three weeks away. I expected to feel the kicks at any moment. And then I go to the doctor to find out that the baby had been dead since week 13. Now I'm back to square one, unsure of how I will move forward. My mother-in-law calls it "emotional whiplash."

I think that description is quite apt.

It's amazing the kind of clarity that can come out of these situations. For instance, working as a way to cope with my pain has shown me exactly how much I am still capable of doing. Being stuck in the hamster wheel of housewifery for the past three years had made me think I had lost the energy, creativity and initiative that I possessed in college. Now I know that it's still inside of me.

I think it's very difficult for young women to realize the full extent of their value. Society says women are basically useless unless they're bringing home a paycheck. The problem is, even when we are bringing home a paycheck, our work isn't as appreciated. Women still earn 77 cents for every dollar earned by a man. And for those of us who stay home to raise our kids, the enormity and (sometimes) drudgery of what we do is overlooked. "Oh, well YOU didn't have to battle morning traffic, or sit through a boring meeting, or miss lunch because an overbearing client was breathing down your neck," husbands will say. No, but I spent the day wiping up urine and puke, wrestled a cranky toddler, and ate a sandwich that had fallen on the floor. Sitting through a boring meeting sounds like heaven. Do you get to pee there without someone watching you, too??

So how do I cope? I find the value within myself.

And that's hard to do when people's expectations of what you should be doing are numerous and unrealistic. Breastfeed until your child is 3. Socialize this many times per week. Cook breakfast for your husband (or you don't really love him). Iron his underwear. Shine his boots. Don't let your child cry, ever. Use that degree you earned. Work off that belly fat. No VOCs. No GMOs. Organic only. Co-sleep. Don't co-sleep. Use only rear-facing carseats. And for heaven's sake, no more than an hour of TV per day. Really, WHAT do you do all day?

I could go on. But here's the thing: life is more than living up to arbitrary standards of perfection. And that's a HUGE admission coming from a self-proclaimed perfectionist. Just because I'm a wife and a mother doesn't mean I stop having my own dreams and goals. I need to learn, to try new things and fail at them, to be a human being. It's through exercising my talents and pursuing the unique opportunities available to me that I find a life worth living. In that regard, I'm no different from a man. My child is not going to remember in 10 years whether he ate homemade baby food or not. And he's not going to feel less loved because I bought him Gerber peas instead of growing my own in the backyard. What he will remember is the time we spent together. And whether I was a happy, secure, fulfilled individual or not.

I feel like I've hit a major milestone with this epiphany. I have value within myself that's not defined by a paycheck or a pat on the back. What I do matters to me, and that's what ultimately matters to those who love and depend on me.

Life Overwhelming

I haven't forgotten about my blog. I think about it once in a while: "You know, I really should post something." And then I think of a dozen other things that need doing and put it off yet again.

You moms that have multiple kids: I don't know how you keep up with your blogs.

I logged on and realized I hadn't posted anything since February. Which is good, because I was thinking it had been a year. Go me!

William is now two and a half. And I'm 15 weeks pregnant with his sibling. My husband and I weren't going to have any more kids. But things just happen sometimes.

My husband (Calvin) now works about 90 hours a week. He's rarely home, and that's hard for me. Especially since William needs a strong male figure around. Calvin tries to spend good quality time with Will, but he often comes home to a lawn that needs mowing, cars that need washing, walls that need painting, and a half-dozen other chores that I can't do on my own.

I mowed the backyard last week after my morning sickness had subsided just a couple of days before, and I shouldn't have. My nerve pain got all flared up, and it took me two days to recover.

My feelings about the new baby are mixed. On the one hand, I really am excited. William is such a sweet boy; I think he will enjoy having a sibling. On the other hand, raising two little ones on Calvin's insane work schedule won't be easy. I can deal well enough with taking William with me on errands, but I don't think I'll be able to do it with two. I know other moms do, so I guess I'll just have to figure it out.

I really, really want my husband around more. This schedule is killing us. Calvin often comes home so exhausted that he spends half of his first day off sleeping. Thankfully, we just have to put up with it until February 2014--because that's when his contract with the Navy expires. Go Navy. Go away!

It's a Complicated Life

Sorry I've left all my dear readers hanging for so long. I'd have written sooner except my laptop died, and now my only computer access is limited to the room off of the kitchen--a place that is currently unfit for my child to play while I write.

Depression? Well, it's sometimes still bad. I've cried in bed a couple of nights thinking about the relationship between past hurts and current problems. Life has also been very stressful. My husband is not at all enjoying his job. He hates it and complains about it greatly. Yesterday, he was kept at work after 7 p.m. He's supposed to leave at 3 p.m. And he has duty today, which means he won't be coming home until tomorrow evening.

Even though my husband could potentially receive a bonus of $75,000 for reenlisting with the Navy, he's decided not to do it. That was tough to accept at first because he had been trying to reenlist for months and we had planned to pay off some bills with the money. A friend of ours in the same division reenlisted and received half of the money last week. Now I listen as his wife talks about her various shopping sprees, thinking, "We could have paid off my car! Put $10,000 in savings! Replaced all the ancient, broken windows in our house!" And then I want to shake her because she's talking about having bought a third set of dishes and now doesn't know what to do with the first two sets. But reenlisting even for that kind of security just isn't worth having a husband who is stressed, unhappy, and often absent from our son's life.

Now that I know money will be somewhat tight for a while, I've decided that I probably can't afford to go back to school for my Master's degree and teaching license. It's not that affording tuition is a problem--because I can get good financial aid--it's the childcare. My last sitter charged $9 an hour. That was fine when the hubby and I needed only a couple of hours to go on a date, but that adds up quickly when you're talking about attending classes full-time. So I've decided to put off school and look for work until we've paid off some of our bills. But even then, my husband and I aren't fully comfortable with leaving William in someone else's care all the time, and the situation is further complicated by my husband's wacky work schedule. Should I just be content that we're getting by for the moment and wait until William is in school to pursue my career? These are the questions that plague me. And it's tough because I'm used to working and finding fulfillment in achieving concrete goals.

Meanwhile, I picked up my Bible a couple of weeks ago and read Romans 8:5-6: "Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace." Peace. That's what I need. Peace for this mind that is so troubled by pain, fear, and uncertainty. I have been meditating on this scripture at times, studying what it means to desire what the Spirit of God desires...and in doing so, I have found myself less focused on past wounds. Even though churches, pastors, and many Christian friends have failed me, nothing they have done has negated the power and truth I find in scripture. This is how my faith has survived even when others have given up theirs. Perhaps, if you are interested, I shall share my insights with you sometime, dear readers. Until then, enjoy this glorious spring.

Gimme Three Steps

So I've been battling it out the past few weeks with a pretty bad bout of depression, and I think I'm finally starting to come around. The relief I felt after my floor-mopping therapy lasted a good full day, and then I was back to wanting to put my head through a window. Thank God for my best friend who helped me through it, despite being a thousand miles away in Chicago. What saved me after that was a cold I caught from my husband. Sounds silly, I know, but finally getting several full nights of sleep (thanks to NyQuil) did wonders for my state of mind. After that, I decided to let family problems work themselves out.

Now I'm back to working my way out of the fog. Except I get about three steps forward before I'm ready to take a couple of steps back. When did life become so scary? Why is it so hard to make decisions these days? Case in point: I'm right back to square one when it comes to my career. Again. This is quite literally the umpteenth time. I have a choice: I can find a good day-to-day job with the qualifications I have now, or go back to school for two years and try for a teaching position. Choice one means my best skills will probably be underutilized. Choice two means adding the expense of college tuition to babysitting fees for William's care, plus risking that a teaching career will be less fulfilling than I expect due to state budget cuts to education and the stress of teaching to standardized tests. This may be one of the most agonizing decisions I've ever made, and it's made even more agonizing by the thought that it should be an easy one. I just want to work and be happy.

Meanwhile, William is learning to walk. So far, he's managing about one step at a time, but two nights ago he struck out with three whole steps. I know he'll be off any day now, and it's so exciting. Just gimme three steps, baby!

An Eve of Mourning

It is a new year. Normally, I would be celebrating. I like new things, including years. It's a chance to leave the past behind and make a fresh start. It's a time to make new goals and look forward to exciting possibilities.

I sorely wish that were true this year.

Shortly after Thanksgiving, the past came back to bite my family. The fallout has been devastating, and the situation continues to unravel, even if slowly. At times when I think it couldn't possibly get any worse, it does. Right now, I honestly don't know if I could be any more frustrated. Grief has me in a vise. All I want to do is sleep and stare at the walls. I'm lost in an anxious fog. I'm powerless, and I don't know how to cope. If it seems I have been remiss in my writerly duties, this is why. My mind can hardly form a thought.

The only bright spot has been my son, who knows no grief. He is getting close to his first birthday now, and he is rapidly transitioning from babyhood to boyhood. About a month ago, he came off the bottle completely and started taking liquids through a straw. He feeds himself with amazing dexterity, and will eat just about anything. He can play peek-a-boo with me by raising and lowering a blanket in front of his face. We can spend the day playing games, and he loves every minute. He is here, in this form, for such a time as this. I don't know how I'd stay sane any other way.


He simply embodies happiness.

Eventually, I will have to make a decision about my family as far as what my relationship with them will be. That decision will depend on what happens in the next few weeks and months--and what I work out in counseling. As of now, though, it is not a new year for me. It is just the turn of the calendar, a strike of the clock. The sense of newness has been tarnished. Forgive me.

Old World Suburbia

At last, after three weeks of moving and settling in, my life has reached a state near enough normalcy to write. For a moment there, I didn't think I would survive. Here's how the move went down:

Since we were moving only six miles, my husband decided to save a few hundred bucks and borrow a friend's pickup truck for the move instead of renting a moving truck. This translated into three days of many small trips between the house and the apartment. Not bad, except I'm slow at packing and the apartment had collected lots of piddling items that didn't seem to go together in any box. Not that it mattered to my husband, who threw them together into boxes anyway...and didn't label them. Then, he spent the next two weeks asking me where everything was. We still haven't found my $100 sunglasses that I bought a month ago. Yep, he packed them. Somewhere.

Three days before we had to relinquish the apartment, my husband informs me that he has duty the day before we have to be out, which means he won't be able to help with the last two days of moving and cleaning. It's all up to me. And I'm in therapy for my back. The nerve pain in my leg has flared up so bad at this point I can hardly stand. I have William to take care of, too, and his response to the move is to cry and whine constantly. During the whole ordeal, I had thoughts of "I'm not going to make it." And then I did. I pulled it out somehow, and turned over a spotlessly clean apartment with hours to spare. Some nights I fell into bed so stiff that I could hardly move, but I managed to get the last of our stuff over to the new house. And now, we're never moving again.

Last night, we handed out candy for Halloween in our new neighborhood, and some of the neighbors came over and introduced themselves. They're all a few years older than me and my husband, but nice. At the same time, I got a vibe that this neighborhood might be secretly hosting its own version of Desperate Housewives. Two of the women were drinking wine while escorting their children around the neighborhood, and one of them looked like she was on her third glass. Not to judge, but most of the people I know don't get hammered while outside with their kids.

The elderly gentleman to our right has a lawn that hasn't been seen since the Garden of Eden. It's greener than most golf courses. I wonder if he shoots people who walk on it.

The family to our left appears to own five cars, at least one with huge chrome rims on the tires.

Things could get interesting around here.

I Haven't Fallen Off...

...I just haven't had the mind to get on.

My husband and I are set to close on our house Thursday. So far, I've only packed two boxes and one Rubbermaid container with books. I could easily pack another six boxes with books. I think we have more books in this apartment than we do anything else. They're taking over EVERYTHING! They're stacked on my husband's dresser. They're piled in the top of William's closet. Books coming out of every nook and crevice.

I need more boxes. And about three more bookshelves for the new house.

I'm excited about the move, but I've had a tough time coping with stress this past week. Part of my struggle has had to do with William. He recently went through another stage of growth and development, and this one was a little rough for him. He whined almost constantly. The slightest bump on the head sent him screaming. He didn't want to be held, put down, or left alone. Nothing made him happy. Now, thankfully, he seems to be better, but for a few days there I considered throwing myself through the apartment window to escape him.

Because of all this, I went into another "blanking out" phase several days ago. I've discovered this is how I function: periods of high efficiency and productivity followed by periods of almost brain-dead behavior. Since realizing this, I've been able to channel my energy more effectively. For instance, I spent much of my recent "blank out" working on my second novel. (I have about 15 pages now.)

I've also been able to manage my time and behavior better this time so I can still fulfill my responsibilities. If I know I need time to relax or escape, I take it. In exchange, I set deadlines for meeting my obligations so I won't procrastinate indefinitely. So far, it's working. I just hope I can keep it up. I still need to pick out paint colors for the house!

Bittersweet

After all the frustration my husband and I have suffered while trying to purchase our first home, it finally appears that we will succeed. A few weeks ago, we put in a bid for a beautiful 1940's house in the historic district of our city, not far from the shipyard where my husband's ship is stationed. After much haggling over the contract and a few bumps in the process, everything is set to go through. The house passed inspection and is being appraised today. All that is left is to sign the final papers, which should happen at the end of this month. One of my joys lately has been dreaming about that house and all the room William will have to play in it.

He needs more room. He is crawling much faster, pulling up to low surfaces, and getting into everything. Watching him has become exhausting. I've had to remove him countless times from electrical wires (which he LOVES to play with), fish fuzz and rug fibers out of his mouth, and comfort him from all the times he's fallen or crawled head-first into the coffee table. I'm pretty much confined to the living room while my husband is at work, unable to let William out of my sight for more than a handful of seconds. A designated play area just for him would be a godsend.

But there is a cloud hanging over me as we prepare to transition to our wonderful new home. I finally saw my doctor concerning the physical strain I have been suffering, and the news is not good. I do not have all of the information yet, so I do not know how serious my condition is or what my treatment will be. But the initial diagnosis has me pretty devastated. There's a reason I feel like I'm 27 going on 80--it's because, in a way, I am. That's all I feel comfortable saying. For now, I'm just waiting until I can get more answers, which should happen in two weeks--and trying to keep my head together.

The Wonder of Discovery

I finally put my finger on what is so special about being a mom. It's seeing my child discover his world and his abilities.

Every day I place my son on the floor, and he crawls toward the first thing that catches his interest. It may be something he played with the day before, but he wants to check it out again. He claws at it. He waves it. He puts it in his mouth. He pushes it across the carpet. The whole time, I can see his little mind working behind his eyes, trying to grasp the definition and purpose of said object. He pulls himself up to the bottom shelf of my bookcase, and he positively beams at his tiny accomplishment. I push new foods into his mouth, looking for his reaction to an unfamiliar taste. It's a wondrous time.

I believe it's the excitement of discovery that makes life full and worthwhile. It's the source of butterflies when a young couple falls in love. It's the rush I feel when traveling to a new destination. It's why parents take their children to zoos, amusement parks, and space camp. It's why people get such a thrill out of giving and receiving gifts. Experiencing something for the first time is special, but it is even more special to create a first experience for a child, spouse, or friend.

I imagine this is the main reason so many parents struggle with raising disabled children--for them, discovery is limited. Depending on their disability, they may never feel the sense of pride at learning to walk on their own, the thrill of competing with their peers, or the pleasure of falling in love. Having the burden of caring for an especially dependent child minus the reward of seeing him or her develop and discover in normal ways, I imagine, must be crippling for those parents. My heart goes out to them.

Yes, parenthood is still mundane at times. Scrubbing plum stains out of my baby's clothes isn't the most stimulating task. I'm still looking forward to going back to work full-time after I earn my teaching license. But at the moment, watching my little boy learn and grow in these little ways makes the days go by just fine. And I am thankful.

P.S. I hope you like the new blog design. Let me know what you think!

Under the Bus

I feel like I haven't slept in a week. Probably because I haven't...much.

The past two times my husband has been on duty, I've stayed up until one and two in the morning. Something about turning out the light in a big empty bedroom just isn't appealing. On top of that, William has woken up a few times in the night on more than one occasion, which has robbed me of sleep. Then on the one night I seemed set for uninterrupted rest, the fire alarm in our apartment malfunctioned, sending us outside at 3:30 a.m. to escape the deafening noise. Now we've just made an offer to buy a house, and I keep tossing with restless dreams about everything that could go wrong.

My husband and I appear to be reconnecting--probably because house hunting has put us back on the same page--but not all is entirely well with me. William is becoming increasingly more active and mobile. I recently spent an entire day removing every electrical cord in the living area from William's mouth four times over. (The drill has been as follows: remove child from problem area, place child in a central location near toys, sit down for five minutes, get up, remove child from another problem area, repeat ad nauseum.) Naps are getting shorter and feedings are becoming messier. Thank God he's happy and manageable most of the time, or I'd lose it. I love my son dearly and don't regret becoming a mother, but I realize now that I'm not meant to have a house full of children.

There are other things weighing on my mind that I'm not ready to share. But I will say that one of the reasons William's care has become a little troublesome is because of a physical strain I am experiencing. It has me very concerned. Hopefully, I'll be able to see a doctor soon...and maybe get some sleep, too.

Thanks for reading.

To All the Young Ladies

On my recent vacation to Tennessee to visit family, I had the pleasure of visiting some long-time friends. This particular group of friends is a married couple with five teen-aged children, one of whom is completely smitten with her first boyfriend. (Boy, do I remember those days!) Of course, I had William in tow, so the conversation turned to perspectives on motherhood. The girls wanted to know the best and worst of raising a child from a new mother and an outsider, and I was happy to oblige.

Becoming a mother changes your lifestyle, your body, your perspective, your priorities, and your marriage. Any pre-child goals and ambitions are not necessarily put out of reach by having a child, but they become much harder to achieve. Your time is no longer your own to use as you please. Be prepared for interrupted phone calls, TV shows, and movies.

Not only is parenthood an adjustment for the mother, but for the father as well (when he's in the picture). So while you're dealing with fluctuating hormones, increased demands on your energy, intensifying emotions and an uncertain future, he's struggling to cope with your evolution and discover his role as a parent. On top of that, both of you will have different ideas of what childcare is. It takes a strong, committed couple to successfully negotiate the chaos.

Being a mother is a full-time job. There are no days or hours off. Even if you get a babysitter for a day, you're still on call in case something goes wrong. Even if you don't get a call, you're wondering whether your child is well, protected, and behaving. If your child wakes up crying in the middle of the night, you're getting up to comfort him or her.

Even when both parents are in the picture, babies are most dependent upon their mothers for their comfort and care. As a mother, you will be most intuitive to your baby's needs and, therefore, will most likely seize the responsibility for meeting them.

Motherhood, while rewarding, is dirty. Prepare to scrub runny poo out of carpet and puke out of your car's upholstery. When your baby begins teething, your most interesting accessories will end up wet and slimy with drool as everything goes into the baby's mouth. You'll end up canceling shopping trips because your child spit up on his, or your, last change of clean clothes.

There are no trophies or awards in parenthood. No one is going to hand you the "Patient Mother of the Year" award for enduring a three-hour scream fest. Your child will be years old before you hear a genuinely thoughtful "thank-you" for all the work you have done to care for him or her.

Having a child just to have someone to love you is a huge mistake. Young babies can't reciprocate love. They don't know what it is. For the first month of their lives, they can't even smile on purpose. Again, your child will be years old before he or she can say "I love you."

In short, motherhood is tough. All the magazines of celebrities toting around their offspring would have young women believe that motherhood is a glamorous situation. It is not. Babies are not accessories; they are completely helpless, totally dependent individuals who require constant care and attention. Nothing on earth can fully prepare you for the physical and emotional wringer of motherhood.

Why do I say this? Because young women need to see the whole picture. My advice: consider motherhood very carefully before taking that leap. Once you hear the words "You're pregnant", life changes forever, even if you choose abortion or adoption. If you have ambitions--like traveling or attending college--do some of those things first. I did, and I now have those memories to look back on and feel good about. They have made me a more well-rounded person, which has helped me to remain stable as a mother. They are memories I will share with my child when he is older.

Do I regret motherhood? Absolutely not. When my baby smiles, the sun shines in my world. But I'm thankful for every opportunity I took early in adulthood to pursue my dreams before William came along: time to work, to establish my marriage, to discover more about who I am.

And now, I'm looking to the future. I have more goals that I have yet to reach. That's why, for now, becoming a mother for a second time is on hold.

Why I'm Angry

I've done much soul-searching to try to get at the root of my anger. For the past few months, I haven't really understood my anger. Sure, I could recall instances in my life that have made me angry, but I'd eventually conclude that I was over the hurt and had forgiven all parties involved.

But now I'm not so sure. I mean, in 99% of those instances, I feel like I have forgiven all to the best of my ability. But the anger is still there, ready to spring up without a moment's notice. And today, I'm going to be brutally honest and tell you, dear readers, why I'm angry.

I'm angry because for nearly 20 years, I've felt forced to live in silence about a wrong I suffered during my childhood. I'm angry at my parents who have basically pretended, in the years since I've told them, that said wrong did not occur and have discouraged me from talking about it. I'm angry that they did not offer to take me to counseling, even though they knew I was hurting. I'm especially angry at my mother, who once implied that the wrong was not what I had said it was.

I'm angry that I've had to bear the weight of this wrong almost entirely on my own. I'm angry that there has been, up to this point, no safe forum for me to discuss this wrong, even in counseling. I'm angry at the law that says certain wrongs discussed with a counselor have to be reported to the authorities. I don't want to report anything; I just want to deal with my issues! I'm angry that no one seems to understand that.

I'm angry at the nasty, manipulative bastard who turned my best friend in high school against me to the point that she hasn't spoken to me in years. I'm angry that I never stood up to him and allowed him to treat me and my other friends like crap on his shoe. Just thinking about this guy makes me want to put my fist through a wall. A concrete wall.

I'm angry because I feel like I'm the only person in the world making an effort to heal, change, and forgive. I'm angry that I feel obligated to change while others remain the same sticks-in-the-mud they've always been. I'm angry at the times I should have stood up for myself and didn't.

I'm angry because I have to raise a child in a world that's full of evil, injustice, lies, ignorance, and violence. I'm angry at all the selfish pricks who take advantage of the innocent every day.

I'm angry because I don't feel I have a right to be angry. After all, others live in situations far worse than mine.

I'm angry because I don't have the kind of control over life that I want to have. I just want to wake up one day and be the right person, full of grace and serenity, but that doesn't happen most of the time. Sometimes I roll out of bed just to realize that I'm back to square one. That makes me angry, too.

I'm angry that I'm 27 and still dealing with some of these issues. I'm afraid I'll still be dealing with them when I'm 37. Fear angers me, and I'm afraid I'll always be angry. I pray to God that won't be the case.

Thanks for reading.

Thinking

So, my husband and I are talking about having another child.

I feel like I have another child in me, another little person waiting to meet me...waiting to add another dimension to my life.

But it's not that easy. We want the second child close in age to our current baby, which means trying for conception right away. That means putting off graduate school yet another year, and higher childcare expenses for when I finally do start school. Also, the pain and frustration of my first pregnancy is still fresh in my memory. I vomited every single day from week six to week 20, and then twice a week after that until William was born. My libido and energy were practically non-existent the whole nine months. I spent my last month in nearly constant pain. Recovery from the childbirth took weeks.

Also, having a child is always a gamble. My husband and I are blessed to have a healthy, pleasant baby. But we might not be so lucky next time. The next baby could be colicky, hyper, or just plain difficult to manage--or, God forbid, have a disability.

Then there's handling the pregnancy and new baby with William around. I saw a young mother in the local Target parking lot lose her grip on a double stroller (which then went rolling into traffic) because she was busy wrangling three toddlers, and I thought: I know how she feels. When William was born, I felt like I needed two extra hands to be able to juggle everything: baby, bottle, burpcloth, blanket, remote control, cooking spoon.... Sometimes you succeed, and sometimes the stroller goes rolling off into traffic. Sometimes you leave the house without enough formula. Sometimes you spend half an hour searching for an important item you had in your hand just five minutes before and you can't imagine WHERE IN GOD'S GREEN WORLD you might have put it, and then you eventually discover that it was in plain sight all along, or in the refrigerator. And it's your purse.

And yet...there's this other little person calling to me from the void, saying "I'm here, Mommy. Come get me." There's an image of two little ones running to the door to greet their father, home from work, at the end of the day. There's the promise of laughter and discovery between siblings, of crayon drawings on the refrigerator, of school, graduation, weddings, and grandchildren. So maybe the complications multiply with a second child, but what about the joys? I'm not sure I want to miss out.


I'll keep you posted.

Self Image

I've been feeling a little self-conscious about my body lately. (I'll admit, it's easy to talk about celebrating one's body when you're normally a size 6.) Pregnancy definitely did a number on me. Despite rubbing lotion on my belly nearly every day, I still ended up with a crazy amount of stretch marks. I've got love handles for miles. And I'm avoiding form-fitting shirts like the plague for fear that my mushy muffin top will be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public. Most of the time I can still feel good about myself, but lately I've felt deeply frustrated at my altered appearance.

But there's at least one person who doesn't see all those flaws: my son. He looks at me like I'm the most beautiful person he's ever seen. When I walk by, his admiring gaze follows me wherever I go. When I go to his crib every morning, his eyes light up. He has a special smile just for me. And my singing voice, far from refined or beautiful, always calms him when he cries. I've never known a human love that was so unconditional--or an adoration so pure and free from bias.

I once told another blogger that children make us face the worst in ourselves. But they also reveal the best in us, too. They show us what we can be, and what we should aspire to. I hope to always be the beautiful woman my son sees, both inside and out. I know it's too much to hope that he'll always look at me this way, so I will treasure the moment while I can.

And do some sit-ups.

Driven to Distraction

Well, I finally did it. I found a car I love! It's a silver 2007 Ford Fusion with black leather seats. It is SWEET beyond belief. Every time I climb in, I feel like a queen. Now if I could just figure out how to mount the baby mirror in the back seat....

I haven't been blogging much because, aside from car shopping, I'm making some much-needed changes to my first manuscript. So far, I've added about four pages of material, and I'm only up to page 70 or so in the tweaking process. After this, I'll print off two copies or so and begin querying literary agents again. I just about have my query perfected, too. The problem with this process is that it takes FOR-EV-ER!

Seriously, there are much better uses for one's time than writing books--not for J. K. Rowling, obviously, but for everybody else, absolutely. Getting published is like winning the lottery after busting your brains for 2+ years to buy the ticket--and then you must collect the money from the Italian Mafia. I'm not joking. It's THAT difficult. I could get near the end of this process only to discover that I've written a story no one wants to buy or read. My 260-page manuscript could end up on a shelf, unpublished, collecting dust for the next two decades. But for now, I can't think those kinds of thoughts. I've only queried 10 agents. Some writers wallpaper their bedrooms with rejection letters before they find someone who is interested in representing their work. That's the kind of effort I need to give.

The baby? Well, he's fine. He's been a bit fussy since getting his first vaccine shots. I think, though, that he's getting bored with playing on the floor all day. If I take him out for a walk in the stroller or bring him along in the car to run errands, he's a perfect angel. If I put him on his activity mat, he's fussing after an hour--not great for writing and studying. But I guess I didn't have him to help me with my writing, now did I?

Really, I can't remember why I had him...but I'm glad I did. His smiles make my days a little brighter. And now I'm thinking, maybe I should have another?

?!?

Speaking of babies, I'd like to say congratulations to my friends, Jessica and William, on the birth of their first child, a beautiful little girl. My husband and I met Jess and Will in South Carolina nearly two years ago, and Jess became my first follower on this blog. I know they are thrilled to be new parents!

Learning to Laugh

Sorry if it seems I've abandoned my post lately. The past ten days have been unreal. First, my husband sold his truck--which is kind of a good thing because I now get to choose a mid-sized car to haul William around in. I've spent all week test driving cars WITH LEATHER SEATS! However, the day my husband cleaned out his truck for the sale, he dragged into the apartment two large saws and three Rubbermaid storage bins full of stuff he had been storing in his truck. I flipped out, especially when he suggested using the nursery closet to store the tools.

I've got news for you, buddy. I just organized the nursery closet, and it's packed to the ceiling. Good luck.

Fortunately, he managed to fit it all into his closet instead. I'm just frustrated that this place is about to burst at the seams.

Next, the TV went out. Yes, the beautiful 42" HD 1080p TV that we shelled out a thousand bucks for 18 months ago DIED. Also, the warranty has expired, and to fix the problem will cost the same amount as buying a new one. I'm not happy about missing new episodes of The Biggest Loser. I'm also not happy about spending another small fortune to replace a TV that should have lasted for years.

Know what else died this week? The childhood pet my brother and I shared: a giant tabby cat appropriately named Mr. Big. He had been a part of our family for 14 years. Two days ago, our mother accidentally ran him over in the driveway. This occurred on the same day I took William to the pediatrician, where he received his first vaccine shots. My heart broke when I heard him scream from the pain. I think I would have hurt less had the nurse instead jabbed the needle straight into my breastbone, Pulp Fiction style.

When my husband arrived home the afternoon of the flat cat/poked baby fiasco, I recounted to him William's painful day, then tearfully filled him in on the details of Mr. Big's demise. He snorted, then started laughing. Which, of course, made me laugh, too. Call it the absurdity of death.

My husband's thought was that Mr. Big had had enough of being old and living with my parents, and had decided to hasten his journey to the big litter box in the sky. We joked about the cat lying in wait for the car to back down the driveway, looking for the right opportunity to throw himself under the tires. Granted, it wasn't a bad way to go for the old fellow. Animals don't die gracefully from old age; it's a horrific process that can take days or even weeks. Mr. Big shuffled off this mortal coil in five minutes.

My depression has been bad recently, so learning to laugh at these little situations helps. I'm also teaching William to laugh. Babies can't laugh at birth; the ability is a developmental milestone that comes around the time they learn to coo. I've been on pins and needles for weeks waiting to hear Will's first real laugh. It finally came about two weeks ago when I bounced him on my knee. If I could bottle up the feeling that sound evokes within me and sell it, I swear I'd be a millionaire within a week. It's more healing than Prozac and more addictive than crack. But while Will smiles in spades, his laugh is still rare. Every day when I see his eyes shine a little brighter, I hope for the connections in his brain that will allow him to laugh long and loud, and thus shed a ray of light into my darker days.

In the meantime, I've started a second novel. This one is a fantasy. But don't fret; I haven't given up on getting the first one published. I'm taking a short "time out" to perfect my query and make some small corrections on the manuscript. Trust me: when I finally snag a publishing contract, laughing won't be hard to do at this house.

Alone Again

Saturday. That's usually my day to escape for a couple of hours. It's the day I take beading classes at my local bead supplier while hubby watches the little one. Even if I've learned a particular technique before, the class is still fun. I get uninterrupted time to work on a project and great conversation with other women. Granted, they're always 20+ years my senior, but I almost prefer it that way. Older women generally have great life stories to tell.

Today, however, my husband is on duty, so no beading class for me. And William is driving me nuts.

I think the little man is teething. He's so young, though, that I can't give him anything for the pain. So I've spent the past three days listening to him fuss. And fuss. And fuss.

I'm going out of my mind.

It's not that the fussing is so disruptive. I can handle being interrupted during a beading or writing project. It's just that consoling Will is becoming increasingly difficult. I pick him up, he fidgets. I give him my finger or a toy to teethe on, he fusses. I put him down, he cries. And I have trouble telling the difference between his signals for teething and hunger. Sometimes he's screaming before I realize, "Hey, I should get the little bugger a bottle."

Why couldn't I have had just a couple more months of peace?

When I do get a quiet moment beyond the time I spend beading and pacifying Will, I continue looking into grad school. I've decided that I will apply next year in order to qualify for scholarships and additional grant money. Depending on how much aid I can pull down, I may be able to go to school for free. It's looking likely, anyway. I'll also be around the house a little longer to experience some of William's developmental milestones--like when he finally cuts that first tooth.

I'm a little nervous, though, about how much grad school might demand of me. I won't be overloaded with classes, but essays might be a different story. I'm also planning to do the thesis option in case I want a Ph.D. later on. That means TONS of writing and research...and less time for beading and blogging. *Sigh*

As we laid in bed the other night, my husband and I joked (somewhat seriously) about how the demands of grad school might affect our already-limited time together. I suggested that we may have to pencil in some intimacy in my weekly planner between my essays and Will's diaper changes.

No doubt, it's gonna be a wild ride.

Fleeting

Only two months ago was William a tiny bundle in his bassinet. Only three weeks ago did he require only formula for a meal. Only a week ago was he happily sucking at my breast.

I know why parents say children grow up so fast. They develop so quickly in the first year, going from tiny, helpless beings to walking, talking people.

I realize these moments with my son as an infant are fleeting. Already has his skin lost that incredible velvety softness it had when he was first born. He's outgrown half of the adorable outfits I received at my baby shower, going from newborn diapers to size twos in the blink of an eye. Today I kiss his soft, little head; who knows when it will be obscured by thick hair? His toothless grins melt my heart, but for how long? He's already teething.

Will I be able to recall these joys years from now? Will I remember the way he gazed into my face as I held him to my breast? Will I remember his first smile? Will I always have the memory of his softness and his sweet baby smell? I can hope.

Perhaps, however, some situations should be fleeting. My husband and I finally managed to work through the tension in our relationship. We once talked late into the night recently, and it was like having my best friend back. Now we're trying to spend more time together, even if it's just cuddling right before sleep. It's tough, though, with William in the picture and all the hobbies I have going. Plus, my husband's superiors ended up assigning his crew duty every other day after all. Not cool. Hopefully, the new schedule won't last long.

Speaking of Dissertations...

At last, I've finally made up my mind. I've decided to pursue a Master's degree in English. What did it, you ask? I found a graduate program through Old Dominion University that specializes in English composition. It also offers a certification for people who want to teach writing. It's absolutely perfect for me.

Now the real fun begins. If I want to start this fall, I need to submit my application, get letters of recommendation, take the GRE (Graduate Readiness Exam) and request my transcripts before June 1. If I can accomplish all of that in time and get accepted, then I have to start looking for childcare for William. The thought of leaving him in another's care, even to start this exciting phase of my life, is distressing. I know no one will care for him like I do. My husband informed me a few nights ago that he's taking me out to dinner for Mother's Day, sans baby, and he's arranging the childcare. I nearly freaked. But I know the day I leave William with a sitter must come eventually, and it will be good for me.

*Sigh*



He's just too precious.



The day is coming: tumbles, falls, bumps on the head, nightmares. I just want to be there for him. He cries, and I want to cry, too. But we both need to grow beyond each other. And I want him to know that I did everything in my power to fulfil my dreams and reach my full potential.