This shouldn't be easier

Fishbowl of life. This fish watched me my entire dinner.  So weird.

I had my wisdom teeth removed last Friday and spent the weekend in an opiate haze I struggled against despite having spent the better part of my undergraduate college career looking for exactly that sensation.  Hawk was supposed to be back in my arms on Sunday, but there was too much pain and too little thought process to make that happen, so he went back to Rooster on Monday and I missed out on 3 wonderful, little-person-filled days with him.

So there I was, toothless, kidless, and jobless all last week -- friends called on me, the internet entertained me, I scoured the internet for jobs whenever I was sober enough to do so -- when I got involved in conversations about balance, life, motherhood, relationships, and self.  Luckily I was 100% sober by then.

I'm miserable, but I'm also extremely happy.  Rooster and I are very certain this is the right thing to do, and as we proceed with all the divorce minutiae I wonder why the price has to be so high for this feeling of individuation, freedom, and excitement.  The weeks I don't have Hawk I am Jessica: all me all the time and it always felt utterly out of reach when I was in a pair.

I come and go as I please; see whomever I choose for however long I like; wake up and go to bed as I see fit; eat ice cream for dinner and stay up till 3 watching Murder She Wrote.

It's not as if I didn't or couldn't do these things when I was living with Rooster, I just never gave myself permission.  Why does it seem like couples worker harder and get less relief with two adults in the house than single parents on their own?? 


I have a theory on this (of course).  Lauren of Hobo Mama happened to post an article yesterday that really spoke to me.  I've been harping on the isolation of a SAHM for a while (how a mother is isolated, has no sense of self in this economy, all the while being pitted against other mothers), so it's always a boon for me to see it in published form and embraced by the general public.  So that's what's going on for the mama in the pair.

But here's the thing.  I don't want women the world over to have to separate from their partners just to get some breathing room and to feel like a grown up.  There has to be a middle ground and clearly Rooster and I had no idea how to make that happen and neither do any of my friends.  It wasn't until I left the building that he was able to spread his parenting wings and really take over for me.  I get that marriage and relationships are hard, but are we making them harder than they have to be by simply not giving ourselves permission to leave the house if that's what we really need to do? 

Or maybe it was a product of my personality and relationship... I don't know... what I do know is y'all are working really fucking hard and now I feel like I'm cruising.  Sure, I'm crushed with fear and stress about my employment situation, but over all, I am free.  And Rooster is free, too.  He can go mountain biking whenever he wants, or go for long rides on his motorcycle with no fear of my reproach because I want him home due to exhaustion.

I guess it's all about permission.  Couples need to embrace the idea that their partner has varying needs and then take it a step further and give them permission to pursue satisfying them -- whatever they may be.  Some mothers might need a lot of socializing time outside of the home and her baby; another might need to earn money; a father might need to be able to sit in his underwear and watch the game uninterrupted for an entire weekend.

We have to give everyone permission to find relief or else.  Literally.  There is always an "or else."  Not necessarily divorce or separation, but damage is done, certainly.

All this from listening to and watching my fellow friends struggle under the [self-inflicted and socially adopted] oppressive demands of being a parent.  It's not just the mothers who are suffocating.  I know the fathers are, too.  I'm here to tell you, though, that by 3 years old it does get better.  The kids might be ready for a pre-school or other organized activities (if that's gonna be your route) and you can breathe lighter and spread your adult-wings.  And I'm also here to beg you to find someone to watch your child overnight so you and your partner can go out and just be John and Peg, or Sally and Sarah, or whomever.  Not Mommy, not Daddy, not a butt-wiping, life-saving, cooking, cleaning, thinking-five-steps-ahead-at-all-times, parent.  Just. YOU.

It's such a weird position to be in these days, an outside observer of the nuclear family.  I get the definite sense my partnered friends look at my life with envy -- and I do, too.  Of course they also look at me with pity, and -- quite frankly -- I do, too.  Guilty on both counts.  In any case, we all need to look more closely at our system and our relationships if what I'm doing feels better than what I had.  It shouldn't.  It just shouldn't.

Today, I left him at daycare

 

Hawk is in yellow.

This is the moment he realizes we're gone; before the tears and sobbing, after the elation of being there with his beloved "Scoops."

Rooster bore the brunt of his three-year-old terror of being left behind since his car was parked close to where Hawk was standing.

I walked stiffly to my car, out of sight, willing the sounds of sobs out of my ears and my own out of my throat. I stood morosely by my car and waited as Rooster rolled by.

He rolled down the window, his face splotchy, his eyes red, "Yeah, that sucked."

"Yep," I said. "It'll be ok."

He nodded and drove off.

I climbed in my car and watched as a teacher came to comfort Hawk. He stood there as she offered gentle consolation for 2, maybe 3 minutes. Then he was out of my line of sight.

I drove forward so as to turn around and leave and I could see he is back at the tractors; hunched over diligently scooping away.

I'm gonna be ok.

Wrung out

I've been crying off and on for 24 hours - not usually my thing.

Normally I'm stoic, but ever since the weekend when I stared at the pile of gifts Rooster gave me I've been attempting to actually feel them when they bubble to the surface.  Gone are the days of stamping them down.  I know both personally and professionally what a mistake it is to completely ignore pain.

I want Hawk to see me work through the spectrum; I want him to see the process and that I can survive it and that it's acceptable.  I  often feel like a lopsided adult with only half a round of emotional ammunition at my ready and I feel at a communicating disadvantage .  Actually letting him see me hurt is almost as hard as it is to feel the hurt in the first place, but I'm determined.

When Hawk sees me cry, his questions about my sadness spurn me on to understand it myself.  "Why you so sad, Mommy?  Me make you sad??"

"No, baby.  Mommy's just sad today.  She had a conversation that made her sad.  That happens to grownups sometimes.  I'll be ok, though."

"Me make you happy??" he hugs me fiercely, holds my face in his hands and kisses it all over, just like I do to him, "You feel better now?"

I don't want him to feel responsible for my feelings so I tell him I like his loving attention, but that he doesn't have to make me happy.  Then, I think, "Wait, people need to feel as thought they can make a difference to those they love and care about," and so I tell him it does make me feel better.  And he gives me even more.

The reasons I'm crying are many fold and, I think, pretty obvious.  Then this morning I read this blog post written by my friend, Brie:

I woke up tired on Sunday. My body was tired, but my spirit was tired too. Tired of everything. The constant going and moving and never stopping. The constant demands and pleas and negotiations. Tired of all of it. The constantness of motherhood.

And again, I started to cry.

I feel like it's all too much.  The life upheaval, the constantness of motherhood, the pain of divorce.

One minute I'm one thing, another the next.

Hawk, being just barely 3, is all over my shit from the moment he wakes up till the moment he goes to bed if we're in the house (out of the house, and it's awesomeness).  I don't have to tell any of you how exhausting that is.  I can't make a phone call, write, do life-business things, look for a job, take a shower, or ever put my makeup on without him, literally, clamoring all over me, yelling at me, running into me, or damaging something to get my attention.  The only relief is TV (le sigh).

Add two geriatric dogs I'm dog-sitting for 3 weeks who need in and out 100x a day, to be fed a special concoction, and whose water dish is never full enough, plus two cats who never know if they want in or out and never seem to have enough food or water themselves, and I feel as though I'm drowning.  I'm surrounded by things that can't take care of themselves 24-freakin'-7.
 
I had The Family Guy on last night and on my way outside to enjoy the night air I caught this snippet between Lois and Stewie.  Stewie had been having separation anxiety and wasn't giving Lois a moment of rest.  Check it out.  It's actually freaking hilarious.

Vidivodo.com : family guy stewie mama  Etiket: watches family_guy mama

It made me laugh and cry simultaneously.

Lucky for me I have pockets of relief scattered about and they are like so many blossoms in an otherwise dried up bouquet.  I question everything I'm doing, but when I am able to wake up smiling I brush the doubt away and rise to the occasion and plan for more.

*sigh*

Keep striving.  Keep digging.  Keep working.  It's all worthwhile.  All of it.  This is just part of the process and a year from now will be a whole different world.  These feelings are temporary and necessary.  I just have to keep pushing.


[I just want to say THANK YOU to everyone who emails me and who leaves such tender, smart, supportive comments.  I'm sorry I haven't responded to each of you like I normally do, but know that your words help me tremendously.  This weird blogging world is so much more than just a hobby.  It's a circle of friends.  Thank you again.]

Embarrassed to be a stay-at-home-mom?? Yeah, me-f'ing-too

Meh.

Fuckin' A.

The other day I met another woman who has three kids and runs a business, ostensibly out of her home, but also away from it a large portion of the week. Her kids are in a daycare or school, I'm not sure which, but the point is they're still small(ish), not teenagers. When she found out I was a SAHM she very emphatically said, "I could never do that."

Now, this has happened many times over the last 2 and a half years. Me, a stay-at-home-mother, rubs elbows with a working mother, and it's like we're lions and tigers: the same genus, but not compatible somehow. I don't totally get how they "do it" and vice versa. But I also feel ashamed for not feeling the same way about motherhood and my life as they do. I'm not a fulfilled adult. I am just a mommy.

I want to make it very clear: This other woman was wholly NOT judgmental. This is about me and my reaction to a working mother. I felt like a country mouse next to a chic, city mouse. Working moms, to me, are seasoned, well-balanced, intelligent, sexy, hard-working, and stimulated. They are go-getters. They are powerful and strong. They are amazing.

I see women out and about sans children and I'm jealous of their freedom and choices. I'm sure they see me with mine and wish they were with their little ones all day long fielding tantrums and kissing boo boos. It's fucking nuts.

I'm curious as to why I'm still hesitant to admit that, despite all its drawbacks, I really, really love my job as a mother.

Of course, the biggest con of being a SAHM is the isolation and lack of adult stimulation we often - nay - almost always find ourselves in. It's stifling, really. But other than that, it's a pretty bad ass gig.

And so, to seem cool to this other (working) mother I sort of scoffed at myself and said that I wasn't loving the SAHM thing so much right now and I was definitely trying to get out of the house, too. To find some part-time work so I could stay happy as an adult, and, in effect, throwing my entire happy little life under the proverbial bus so I wouldn't seem simple to my new city mouse friend. That was my goal in telling her that I was looking for work: that I really couldn't "do it," either. That I was just like her.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Who the fuck am I, anyway?? Do I not know myself?? I'm a smart, educated woman who is damned lucky enough to not be required to work and who can apply 100% of herself to tasks at hand. I'm good at being a mother. It comes naturally to me, and yet here I was playing it off like I couldn't wait to get out of my life.

The truth is, as you all know from my bitching and moaning the past several months, I do want to get the duck outta fodge a lot of the time, but that's just because my life needs more seasoning. The basic recipe can stay the same, I just need a bit more coriander to fill out the flavors, or maybe a little nutmeg, or some cumin. You get my point. Some pep.

So besides feeling like a country mouse and uncool in the powerful shadow of a working mother, I also felt suddenly like a traitor to my sisters the spectrum-over. Not just mothers, but all women who fight to be heard and respected and seen in whatever it is they do. I had just fed into the notion that women doing traditionally female things aren't as sophisticated or "sexy" as those who do traditionally male activities.

I have nothing to be embarrassed about except my shitty ass attitude and I need to work on it.

Everyone, including myself!, gives being a SAHM incredible lip service: it's the hardest, most important, most rewarding, most crucial job in the world, but I still don't feel it when I walk out my door. Am I just not seeing it? Or does it really not exist out there beyond my doorstep? Do other people really think of me as trite or is that my internal voice after a lifetime of being told that you are more important/special/intelligent/worthwhile the higher up the ladder you are? the more money you make? the more you're in charge of? that staying home with children is boring and mind-numbing?

(If you have 15 minutes to burn, read this inflammatory NY Magazine article from almost two years ago. I think it pretty much proves I'm not making this shit up.)

I feel like I'm shrouded in bullshit. I can see through it, there are gaps and holes where I can see clearly, but I'm still struggling under a male-dominated view of what a successful, meaningful life looks like. It just surprises me, that's all. I'm sick that I continue to feel embarrassed about my choice to stay home when really, I should be feeling like a goddamned goddess.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this. What have your experiences been like when approaching your life in comparison to others'??

The nuclear family is not my friend

I have so many posts I would rather write than this one, but I am overcome with desire to pour my heart out instead; to process my hurt and confusion, my bitterness, my anger, and my sadness.

I don't think anyone knew what the nuclear family would really do to families, I mean, it sounds so great on paper! Self-sustaining! Independent! Privacy! But really, it just breaks us up, isolates us and makes maintaining connections of the daily-variety with peers nearly impossible.

It doesn't matter if you're in or out of the house, if you're the main caregiver of children you're doing it alone and mysteriously so. No one sees the machinations of a working mother or a stay at home mom. We don't know what her days and nights are made of. How she balances her needs with those of her family. We are separated from our larger communities on a basic level I'm not so convinced is totally natural and are left to recreate the wheel. Women are essentially robbed of other women and learning from their experiences first hand.

In our current nuclear set up women who leave the house to work are revered as super-women, often trying to do it all and often to their own detriment, and women staying home with children seem to be looked upon with both disdain and an odd kind of admiration for turning down the chance to earn cash. - Oh, how many times I've heard from working mothers, "I could never stay home with my children all day long! I wouldn't know what to do!" As if I somehow have a secret weapon they don't know about it. My only weapon is sheer grit and determination, honestly, and even that is waning in the harsh light of my unhappy reality. [Ed. note: the opening paragraphs were changed to better match my feelings of this particular post. My earlier version wasn't as well connected to my thought process.]

The nuclear family, something right-wing conservatives are trying so desperately to "protect," is eroding our families. This whole "someone leaves the house to make money and the other stays behind and tends to the children and the house" thing or the "both adults leave to make money, check the kids into daycare or school, come home and try to squeeze an entire day's worth of household duties into 3 and a half hours" thing SUCK. They plain S-U-C-K.

There are no helpful aunts and uncles and cousins galore to help tend to things every woman has to take care of. There is no moment where she can engage and talk and recharge while in motion. Everything must keep going. When I am with friends and family with Hollis I let go. I find myself completely disengaging for that 30 minutes or an hour and allow the other adult to relieve me of some of the burden of tending to a small, but extremely busy, tornado. I often wonder what kind of mother they think I am because I will all too happily sit in front of the TV or the computer while they tinker away with the boy.

I know for a fact that Anthony worries that I put Hollis somewhere below priority #1 because what he sees, and all he ever sees, is me taking a step back to relieve myself of the intense pressure and emotion I feel every second of the day when I'm with him. How often does your child EVER leave your mind completely when you're alone with her? Even when she's asleep I bet you go and make sure she's still breathing and snugly covered up. Your ears are trained to find "suspicious" silences, your eyes honed to notice the smallest pinch of the lips that tells you to make her spit something out, your lips finely tuned to the tracest change in body temperature, the pads of your fingertips sensitive to any new cut, bump, or rash.

[I must add here that it BREAKS MY FUCKING HEART to know that Anthony looks on my mothering with even the tiniest sliver of disappointment and skepticism. It's such a volatile topic for me that I feel fangs grow and my irises turning red when he broaches the topic of, "Is this what it's always like with Hollis when I'm not around??" There is literally nothing else he could possibly say to me to get me to shut down so emphatically and completely while simultaneously enraging me. Ever heard of don't poke the bear? Well, this is more like don't poke the starving, sleep-deprived, angry, cannibal bear.]

It is so wholly exhausting to be in charge of someone's life. I finally get it; how to explain it to others. Being alone, fully responsible for another person's life, personality, development, health, growth, and happiness - all while basically directionless and alone - has done me in.

This is what is so singularly hard about being a stay at home mother in a nuclear family. I can't believe it's taken me so long to finally get it. I've felt horribly guilty about finding it so hard because I had no schedule, no one to tell me what to do and when. I was my own boss and I was doing what I loved: raising my son. - And only one son! Not 3 or 4 or 5 kids. I've often wondered if I were busier I might not notice how shriveled up as an individual I've become, but I suppose eventually the shit hits the fan. So why not now?

I can't speak to working mothers' experiences, obviously, but I'm sure it's a shade of this for them as well. Like they can't imagine doing what I do, I can't imagine doing what they do, either: working so hard in an office then having to come home and cook, clean, love, maintain a marriage, a life, sanity, friendships. Jesus Christ. I'm overwhelmed thinking about it.

I hate to bring this up because I feel like such a fucking whiner. Some of you may be nodding your heads thinking, "Yes, she is whining. She's got it so much better than me!" and to you I say that everyone's experience is different and our hard wiring makes everything even more experiential and personal. I even look at myself and think I'm a big baby, but I can't change how this life is affecting me. I've tried.

I am so sick to death that I have to fight for live interaction with other adults. I struggle with it every day as I wander through the hours trying to keep Hollis engaged, happy, stimulated, and loved. Where are the villages of parents and friends I keep hearing about? They're like goddamned Big Foot to me at this point.

How did we let it come to this??

And I ask that question of myself and of society at large. Obviously, it's mostly rhetorical, but seriously. When did it become cool to bend over a barrel like this? And suffer and be lonely and have to sign up for adult interaction on internet websites in the form of a mommy group??

I am a swirling mass of frustration, confusion, and sadness. I wanted this life so badly and now that I have it I am drowning in it. I feel like a massive ingrate and a weakling. I am so awed by the women who have figured out how to make this work for them and humbled when they share their struggles with me. But the nuclear family is still not my friend. If it had a Twitter page I would unfollow it; a Facebook page I'd unfriend it.

Of course I don't say all this without having a plan. I always have a plan. I'm working towards happiness. I really am. Like my last post suggests we do, I am changing things and I do know how to change. I have goals to do some part-time work soon. I made a schedule of activities for me and Hollis next week which fills me with relief to have some structure. I will soon have my husband home again for a full week.

I really wish I could share everything with the Ether, but I can't, I'm afraid of some of it myself, but this is the most I can put out there while still protecting myself. I hope it's enough to pull back the curtains a bit and shine the light on the darker corners of our middle class Western family culture - and even more personally, me. Take me as I am or not at all, I say... thanks again for being here for me.

Holla, Hollis! (And Holla, Jess! too)

A tomato that got caught in toddler cross-fire.

Hollis is roughly 2 years and 3 months old. I know from reading other blogs with two-year old stars that he's a pretty average little boy, but I have to tell you that I often had to fence with doubt about his language skills.

It wasn't that he wasn't communicating. Au contraire, he did that impeccably, it was just that he was full of barely coherent one-word commands and names when other boys his age (and younger) were well on their way to three- and four-word sentences.

I routinely told myself that nothing was wrong (and there isn't) and that I would let him just BE. If he was going to take longer than other kids, then so be it. My job isn't to rate him against others or check things off a list, it's to protect him and give him space to grow. I'm not concerned with raising a genius or arming him for excellence in pre-K. Seriously. I trust that whatever intellectual gifts he has will come out with or without my coaching.

Having said all this, I am greatly relieved to be in the midst of a true word explosion. Something happened in his little two-year old brain, a mysterious pow-wow of synapses and neurons, that has catapulted us into a new realm of family life. No longer can Mimi say, "Fuck!" and expect little ears (and mouths) to not instantly regurgitate. (And imagine my great amusement that grandma was the first to be mimicked in the cussing department and not Potty Mouth Mama! Oh, the irony!!)

I can trace the magical moment to the visit with my friends in Houston before Christmas. He hung out with two 8-year olds and an 11-year old and almost upon contact he was saying new words and commands.

Watching them together I realized how much Hollis needs other children. I'm lovingly parenting him with attachment and kindness and thoughtfulness, but I'm no replacement for little grubby hands and a shorter shadow on the playground. Being a kid means being around other kids, too.

He plays with whatever is in reach: the cat that was colored green.

I keep saying it (and you all keep helpfully giving me ideas to change my situation): I need to get out there and make friends with children. I'm in a book club with a local mommy's playgroup (I know, that's more for me, but hey, I'll be more likely to go to the kiddie things if I know some of the mothers there) and my neighbors' kids are getting to the playing age, too, so I'm working on it. I can just sense that more kids are coming into our lives and I'm so excited. I'm sure Hollis would be, too, if he knew about it.

Also, I'm going to start putting feelers out for part-time work in a month or two and lil' ol' Hollis will be in part-time day care.

Whoa. Now that's some big news, right?

And goddamn does it feel good to know that I'm taking care of the Jessica part of Mommy and not trying to force my square self into a round life. I already feel lighter, smarter, happier, and more satisfied with my life. This nuclear-family, no-tribe-having, alone-due-to-a-traveling-husband, running-out-of-ideas-by-4 o'clock-bullshit is ovah. Did I mention that in my resolutions? If I didn't, I should have.

Hollis is growing. So should I. I want him to have a mother who doesn't martyr herself "for the family's sake." That's just about the worst message I could send him. He could either a) end up doing the same thing himself, or b) think that's how women are supposed to behave in a relationship - or how a child-rearing partner should behave.

He's learning new language to navigate his world and it's time I learn some new tricks, too.

Pretty soon, I'm sure we'll be able to chat about our day over coffee. Well, not really "soon," but you get my drift. He's busy moving forward and I'm going to join him.

Obviously, I'm in a funk

I don't think it'd come as a surprise to anyone who cares to read this that I'm in a funk. I have been since mid-summer, probably before that, too, but I distinctly remember thinking, "Holy shit. I'm not cool," somewhere around August.

I've struggled with the concepts of my marriage and reconciling them with who I am and who I used to be, being a stay at home mother, boredom and balance, exhaustion, loneliness, how much I hate Texas, getting some time to myself, giving myself a break, feminist mothering, and that [never really mentioned] infertility issue.

I can't believe that even ONE person has continued to read what I've written. What a freakin' downer I've been.

Thanks for hanging around, really.

Every once in a while someone writes a blog post saying, "I don't like posting sad/depressing/upsetting things because you can find that anywhere and I want to put positive things out there," and I think, "Gee. That's never even occurred to me."

I don't know if I'm selfish or if my craving for interaction is such that I am forced to put myself out there in all degrees of mood. I don't really care. I just try to be as real as I can without betraying my marriage or Anthony or any of my close loved ones. Everything I ever put here I've already said out loud to someone else; it's my insurance that no one will be surprised (Mom, really, I'm doing fine - please don't talk to me about any of this.)

Today's been odd. I feel aimless and my head is killing me. Tomorrow morning I catch an early flight out to Phoenix for my grandma's memorial. Truth be told, I'm not really going for the memorial. Those are for the living and she's gone, so what would be the point? I'm going to help my uncle and family friend go through her things; all her precious things she'd collected over the years and ensure that someone who appreciates them gets them. It'd have broken her heart to know that her treasures were sold at a rummage sale. If my aunt wants everything in her apartment, then I will happily box everything up for her. I expect to leave with nothing, but am hopeful that I will be able to save some of her things.

Anthony asked me the other day if I was nervous about going. I'm not. I don't feel anything about it. This will be the first trip I've made in years without my sister and I will be alone with our extended family. I've got a job to do and I'm going to go do it. Period. I was thinking earlier that I can count on both hands how many times I've seen each of them. My dad was close with all of them, but it didn't extend to either me or my sister.

Sure, we got cards and random gifts from some of them over the years, but our lives were never involved. I imagine it was a product of their relationship with my father rather than anything my sister or I ever did - of course, we were just children - but as adults, we've left our relationships as they started: no where, really. And I'm ok with that. It's difficult talking to them anyway when they always bring up these rainbow-and-puppies memories of my dad, so different from my own. I've never felt it was my position to correct them and explain to them why we were such "bad daughters" to him, so the happy Rob stories continue.

At some point, I will have other things to talk about than my own ennui. I'm sick to death of it. I really am. So, here, to cleanse your palette of my bitching, here's a couple of pictures Anthony took the other night of us on our walk with Hollis. A neighbor's lawn ornaments entranced Hollis for minutes on end. I gotta say, the skiing polar bear is pretty amazing.

When 100% might be too much

My butt's not nearly as muscular... but you get the gist.

I am detached and lost.

How can that be? I also feel extremely happy and grounded, and yet, I continue to have this out of body sense, too, that I'm not all here.

Is it because of Hollis' developmental stage? My own peculiar form of malaise? What is it? Am I harming my sweet little baby by feeling this way? Us? Me? My life? Our life?

Lately so many amazing things have been happening and while they register with me, I still feel separate from all of it.

Anthony got a terrific raise and promotion. Hollis' language is motoring on in leaps and bounds. My marriage is more solid than ever. I'm more certain of myself as a parent than ever before. Perhaps it's because these things are safe and taken care of that my mind has turned inward; I have more mental real estate to play with, so to speak.

I don't know.

Some moments, just mere moments, I catch myself feeling bereft. They flicker past like a blink, a twinkle in the distance, and I'm left wondering what just happened to me.

I look back on old pictures of me with Hollis and I almost don't recognize that girl for I feel so utterly different today. I was consumed with my baby and trying to figure out all that went along with caring for a helpless human being. CONSUMED. Today, I am consumed mostly with my own longings and tribulations and it feels wholly wrong. I should be concentrating on Hollis and his needs, wants, and desires more. I don't know what it may look like to the outside world, but to me I feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about myself.

The old days.

For example, right now I've finished eating therefore I'm writing and he's propped up in front of the TV watching The Little Mermaid and eating leftover pizza. A year ago TV didn't exist in our house and I would have been feeding him directly or eating with him, or at least waiting for him to finish.

I think it's important to make a disclaimer here. I love to hate myself. I get that. It's my thing. It's why I'm 20 lbs over-weight, why I over-spend on occasion, and why I sometimes imbibe too much. If I didn't have those things in my life, then what on earth would I hate on?? Ten years of therapy aren't all for naught. I at least know the cross I bear in great detail. No one could ever accuse me of not having insight, it's just the wherewithal to change it permanently that's my Sisyphus.

Every day I pull myself out of my reverie to look into Hollis' bright, blue eyes and feel his presence. I take him everywhere with me, I breathe in his scent as if it were the most potent drug, I listen for all his cues of need. Perhaps no one could ever tell how I'm feeling on the inside, much as Cave Mother writes about here, but I feel at war with myself practically every moment of the day. It's exhausting.

A dear friend of mine from my childhood recently called me because my note about the balancing act we mothers strive to achieve "pained" her. She's a newish mom who has a 7 month old in an attachment parenting day care full time. Her attorney duties keep her away 40 hours a week, but she's within driving distance and she often volunteers as a helper so she still feels connected. She also has a "deal" with herself that she won't do anything that will take her away from her sweet little one more than two times a week in the evenings to do errands, etc. And it seemed to me while talking to her that she was really and truly happy. No, it wasn't easy and no, it wasn't perfect, but she's clearly hammered out some things I'm only just now facing.

What pained her to read about my struggle was that she feared I was being too hard on myself. "All jobs have crap associated with them and it doesn't mean you're a jerk for thinking that about your job as a stay-at-home-mom."

Wow. What a powerful thing to hear and from another momma and I've really, really been thinking about it ever since. I've said the words, "my job is being a mother," but I've never allowed myself to let the thought, "and this job has some crap features," to ever cohabit my thoughts. I've expected absolute perfection from myself, and only pure, sweet thoughts. Otherwise, somehow I felt that I was a lesser mother and when you say "lesser mother," it doesn't just mean you suck at a job, but you suck at being a mother. Something so enormously more important than any old job that it's nearly impossible for any of us to detangle the web motherhood weaves about us.

And isn't that what this is all about? I have let my own identity and self-worth become tied to motherhood, something I set out to avoid with all the ferocity I could muster. I am careful not to over identify with Hollis and his emotions: he is entitled to push me away, swing at me, be mad at me, whatever and it's no reflection on me as a person whatsoever. I've got that nailed, but when it comes to my own perceived presence of mind I am treading dangerous, landmine-filled ground. Obviously.

If I don't keep a perfect house (something which has nothing to do with mothering per se), then I am a bad person. If I am not 100% present with Hollis, or come up with good ideas for play, or tune him out I am also a bad person.

I've taken the negative space of the chair and beaten myself with it.

My friend was also concerned with my line of thoughts regarding what a "good mother" was. Did I think she was less of a mother because she was willing to go back to work and put her son in daycare when I so clearly feel I don't have that option because I want to be a "good mother"?

I was so keen to not over-identify with mothering itself and burden Hollis with a mother whose emotions were ensnared with his own that I have caught myself in a different kind of net. A net of utter mothering and wifing perfection which includes 100% round the clock attendance by me and no one else. No wonder I can't seem to bring myself to be "100%" available these days, I was giving more than I should have all along. Maybe 75% is still really fucking good, you know??

I dunno.

I know a lot of you have already gone through this and figured it all out. I appreciate everyone's thoughts and advice on this.

PS: I've been trying to get pregnant for over a year. I'm pretty certain this has something to do with all of this: I'm ready for the next level of parenthood and I've been unable to attain it. I am so effing ready to add to my family. Soon, hopefully, I'll look back on the last six months of boredom and frustration with a laugh at my simpering, brooding mood. Wish me luck.

Balancing act

No one is going to feel sorry for me when I say that I am bored.

It sounds privileged and snotty even to me, but there you have it. I am.

I am on average either completely alone (someone's napping or asleep therefore leaving me by myself) or with a 2-year old the majority of my day. I get adult interaction for roughly an hour in the morning consisting of, "What do you want for breakfast?", "Please take the trash out," "Don't forget your lunch," and "Bye, love you!" kiss, kiss; and for approximately 3 hours in the evening, which then includes "How was your day, dear?" "Do you want wine/beer/seconds?" a walk around the block and a [usually] quite pleasant chat about who's going to launch the bedtime sequence followed by a little Hulu or a movie or a nightcap.

I know.

Not all that bad, right??

Well, here's the thing: I don't really know who that person is. This woman in a box. I can coerce friends to hang out with me and my little 2 year old pal about twice a month. If you multiply that by maybe 2-3 friends, that's maybe 6 adult interactions, which last no more than 2 hours each. That's 12 hours of grown-up time on my own terms (and even then that's being largely generous for two reasons: 1) "my terms" aren't even remotely close to what I have and 2) I think I usually see one friend once a month - the other numbers are purely fantasy). Add to that Anthony's travel schedule and for a large part of the time I'm 100% on my own.

Today I ran errands and kept seeing UPS trucks zipping around. Their drivers so full of energy, things to do, places to go, deadlines to keep, and I was jealous. Jealous that I have to scramble to fill a day with a wonderfully precocious, inquisitive little boy in order to do right by him. This should come easily to me, right? If I were a good mother, I wouldn't have to work so hard to be present or real or energetic. I wish I had a schedule of deliveries just like those men in brown.

I know there are some of you out there rolling your eyes at me as you juggle full- or part-time jobs, exes, and multiple children and you think I'm spoiled or just plain ridiculous. But here's the bottom line: I have too much time on my hands. When I was working, going to school, being pregnant, decorating a house, nursing an infant, raising a baby, whatever, I was so busy that I didn't even think about boredom or loneliness. There's a reason why so many people bury themselves in work/their kids/whatever: it's distracting from the rest of their lives and they don't have to feel badly about themselves.

I don't have that luxury. Hollis is so easy, and leaping into full-blown independence. My marriage is intact and a safe haven. My family is nearby and supportive. My health is solid. I don't have anything to immerse myself into anymore and I am adrift and overwrought with time, plain and simple.

If I were simply trying to survive this wouldn't be a problem. If all I did was think about how to connect the next dot this wouldn't be a problem. But I don't, because I am privileged. My partner makes plenty of money for me to stay home with Hollis. I am a minority. I am oh, so lucky. I am also, oh so confused.

I've seriously been considering getting a job, but we plan on leaving the state soon and so that's an obstacle to work; we're also planning on expanding our family which means that starting a career here is a little less than futile. I'm also not entirely ok with the idea of putting Hollis into daycare just because I'm having a hard time - never mind the fact that what kind of work could I possibly do that would pay for the day care?? Anyway, you see where I'm going with this. Yes, I'm privileged to stay home, but we really can't afford for me to work only part-time or make less than a full-blown salary, either.

Being a stay at home mom is a balancing act of finesse, skill, determination, and intelligence and right now the scales are tipped off balance leaving me restless, bored, sad, and guilt-ridden. I love Hollis more than anything else, adore what I do with him day in and day out, but I am left somehow hollow. How can this be??

I don't know what else to say except that, again, I am struggling. Confused. Restless.

Always fucking struggling. I'm so tired of this.

I wish a UPS truck would just come and deliver me. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just for a weekend. I feel like if I could just get a weekend by myself, as myself, I could feel right again. I just need a tracking number...

1734 words to say, "I'm a work in progress"

Boom.

Ok, so I'm sitting here on a random Wednesday afternoon and I feel like my thoughts are clouds in a thunderhead.

The more intense my feeling about something the more remote location I give it in my mental real estate. As in, WAY the fuck OUT THERE. It's not real, it's not that big of a deal, it'll go away, etc. Yeah well, that only ever works for so long before the shit storm hits. And it's here now.

I've written before about the concepts of feminism and motherhood, although not at great length (here and here), but they're always there on my mind. I live and breathe feminist mothering. I can't not. Although, honestly, I'm having a hard time applying it to myself and my own situation.

Let me back up a minute and explain what I believe feminist mothering is. It's all the usual feminist ideas and ideals (women are as capable as men at intellectual pursuits and are righteously due equal opportunities and pay for their skills and work in addition to protection of these rights), but it's also about the lens through which I teach and raise my son. Although I am in a traditional role, my husband and I are equal partners in our relationship and life; I am not subordinate to his work-outside-of-the-house role in our lives. My son will grow up knowing this. He will see me as a powerful force in our family. He will also see me being proud of being a woman, embracing all that comes with it, and believing that partnerships are born out of complementing one another, not dominating. And, maybe most importantly, it's about instilling the belief that mothering and all things associated with it are high in status and equal to work not related to mothering.

It sounds lovely, right? But, despite pretty much living up to my intellectual belief system, I am having an extremely difficult time getting what I need by staying at home with an almost 2 year old.

I am certainly not short on meaning in my life or pride in my work. I'm all full of love and wonder and happiness and [mostly] confidence on that front. However, I am also lonely, uninspired, unstimulated, and a little bored.

All these feelings have been on the horizon of my mental grasp, too difficult to bear, until recently when I had a come to Jesus moment and questioned the very foundation on which all of my current life is based: my marriage. I questioned the logic of relying on one person for everything for the rest of my life and realized what a red herring argument that was. It's not my marriage - no one person can possibly be my everything - it's ME.

I've let myself down completely and now I am virtually stranded alone with a toddler day in and day out. No friends, no support system of peers, nothing. And I love this toddler with every fiber of my being and it breaks my heart to say that caring for him is not enough for me, but there it is. Somehow it's just not. And my imperfect marriage is also not the cause of my unrest, isolation or sadness. It's me and the fact that I've abandoned myself.

My biggest mistake has been my attempt to do everything perfectly all the time at the very high price of losing myself (not a very feminist thing to do, I might add). I am housekeeper (lo, housewife soldier), financier, teacher, social planner, mother, daughter, sister, and wife extraordinaire all the time. Rain or shine, happy or sad, willing or unwilling. No where in all of that have I given myself a moment to reclaim Jessica in any form, past or present.

I have a couple of theories on why this has happened and it's based on not only my experience, but those of my friends as well. First, women, because we must prove we are as good as men and as deserving as men, work twice as hard in all aspects of their life. And second, I'm tired of getting hurt and so have shut myself in.

Every woman I know, working or staying at home, drives herself like a lowly beast to be a better mother, a better cook, a better student, a better partner, a better everything. She sleeps and exercises less. She beats herself up on the rare occasion she goes out with friends or takes a run. And God forbid she nap (although, some women are certainly gifted at taking a nap, I don't know many that feel truly deserving of one and guilt-free when she wakes up).

On the other hand, men, who are raised possessing a self-confidence and acceptance of the validity and stability of good things in their life (as in, no one's going to leave him if he gains 50 lbs or he's not going to lose his job to a younger, better looking woman) are afforded an incredible ability to just let others handle things while they take care of their own needs: they nap, they shower, they eat, they exercise. They retain a strong desire to protect their personal needs from attending to family and work.

Obviously, I'm generalizing on all sides here, but the fact remains that the majority of the population can relate to these caricatures of gender, and you know what they say about stereotypes being a reflection of reality. And I know I'm all over the place, but hang with me...

I've mentioned it before, but I'm going to say it again: the feminist movement forgot something in their plight for equal recognition, rights, and pay. That the work women do in relation to child rearing and home management is as important as what men do outside the home. Because let's be honest, women bear the brunt of household work in most cases even if they work full-time (and then some). They come home and make dinner, shop, take care of the house, bills, kids, bath time, night time, middle of the night wakings and on and on.

Yeah! we get to slave at a desk job just like our male counterparts, but oh yeah, we also get to come home and KEEP DOING EVERYTHING WE'D BEEN DOING because no one thought to tell men they should be doing them too! Men are typically done when they get home. Women are just beginning their real work. And I've bought into this bullshit somewhere along the line even though I'm not leaving the house to work. I must take care of everything all the time. Do, do, do! Work, work, work! Push, push, push! I must prove to Anthony that I am busting my ass! Wha-?? How the hell did that happen? (And like Anthony even doubts it??)

And now here I am questioning what my life would be like if a) I worked outside the home in order to feel smart, intelligent, pushed, challenged and otherwise embraced as an adult as opposed to just a mother and wife and b) what would it be like if I never even had those aspirations in the first place? If I had been born 200 years ago and mothering and house management was the only role I could fulfill? Would I be happier if either of those things happened? Is the possibility of me doing even more work and being separated from Hollis really the answer? Is the possibility of just ignoring all my emotional and intellectual needs to only mother my son and wife my husband the answer?

No. And what stupid questions! I should be asking myself: How can I get more opportunities to recharge? What can I do to feel connected to people, adults again? Where can I go to find some solace? How can I carve out some balance in my every day life??

My mom bought me a book at Barnes & Noble the other day. It's called, "Stay Home, Stay Happy: 10 Secrets to Loving At-Home Motherhood."

Ugh.

It's not just a little bit embarrassing that my mother bought me this book, but I understand why she did. She knows I'm floundering a bit and wants to help. The thing is, I don't think it's the SAHM thing that I need to get happy with. I'm certain I need to give myself more credit for the work I do, but I really and truly am honored and happy to get to spend this time with Hollis and craft a loving, trusting relationship with him in the exact way I want to. What I really need is a book to tell me how to be a SAHM and still get the kind of stimulation I was used to (and needed!) for 30 years as a non-parent. "Stay Home, Stay Happy, Stay Sane: 10 Secrets to Loving At-Home Motherhood and Still Feeling Relevant as the Human Being You Are."

The other theory I have on why I'm angst-ridden and upset is because I don't want to get hurt by anyone. And by that I mean, "I don't want to put myself out there and get shat on by 'friends'." It's pretty straight forward. I'm a sensitive son-of-a-bitch and over time I've stopped putting myself out there for reasons of self-protection. I think it's time to put the armor back on and get my ass in the game. For my sanity's sake.

After mulling over on this for weeks now I feel confident in my new plan of action. I've joined no less than three Meetup.com groups for moms and parents and even went to my very first last week (it was a quick playdate at a nearby park and it was lovely and exhilarating). I'm at least aware of my feelings now and am questioning my standards of work and giving myself more slack (that's right "at work," as in here at the house). Anthony and I have spent hours talking about my malaise and unhappiness and he is actively changing his at-home trajectory for which I am eternally grateful and now feel more hopeful about our future as a cohabiting pair. And I've begun to open up to other friends and moms about my situation and feelings and have found that I am so far from being alone it's not even funny, and knowing that relieves some of my loneliness and makes me feel much less crazy.

So, there you have it. A lot of words just to say my head's up my ass and I'm painfully aware of it. I'm definitely a work in progress.

Anyone else feel this way??

Surely I'm being tested

OW.

Overcome with exhaustion I had to lay down. Eyes closed, my breathing steady, one ear on Hollis playing with books and climbing on the bed to kiss me I rested.

Fifteen minutes pass this way and I seem to be becoming more exhausted, and paradoxically, more relaxed with each breath.  Until, suddenly, I hear a loud crack and feel an alarming pain on my
left eye socket, near my temple. The pain so sharp I inhale with a hiss and cover my eye.

"Hollis!" I exclaim. He's standing next to the bed, shirtless, clutching his blankie and eyes so wide I could dive right in. "Oh, Hollis, you don't throw things at Mommy."

I groan in pain and take hand away to see a spot of blood. I'm BLEEDING. And my eye throbs and stings with sincerity. When I look in the mirror a deep red trickle is making its way toward my cheekbone.

I take Hollis' hand and lead him to his room, gently place him in his crib and grab a tissue (I wasn't bleeding all that quickly so I took my time).  In the bathroom I see a deep little gouge and some discoloration already, and goddamn it fucking hurts! At that very moment a wave of exhaustion hits me again and I want to lay down on the spot. - I'm so goddamned fucking bone weary tired and my kid just hurled a toy at my head in my desperate and pitiful attempt to recharge in his presence.

I should have known better.

And so I started to cry.

And then, because I think I have a month's worth of tears in me and no time for my driveling I distracted myself by picking up all the books Hollis had strewn about my room, while holding a bloody tissue to my head and listening to a sweet little voice from down the hall call out, "Boo boo! Boo boo!"

This is like the shit cherry on top of a screw-you summer.

I don't know how all you moms out there do this with multiple children and for longer stretches. I feel like such an asshole for even feeling the way I do.


Now excuse me, pity party is over. It's bath time now.

And in other news: I dream about sex

(Let me make this perfectly clear that I am not joking when I give the following warning)
FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Ok, so here's the thing. I'm a housewife, right?? I've been a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever for almost two years. I don't go out. I rarely see my friends. I rarely want to see my friends. I rarely drink. I rarely get dressed up. I rarely meet new people. I rarely feel beautiful - and I mean, really beautiful like, "Damn, girl. You are so fucking sexy I can't keep my hands off of you"-beautiful. I rarely feel worthy of anyone saying that to me even when they do (well, when he does, not "they" - oh, if only!). I rarely feel interesting to anyone. I rarely feel like a prize.

And when I say "rarely," I really mean "never."

Because, you see, being a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever means that I am home-bound. Not just because my office is my house, but because my priorities have changed. I'm married, I have a son, I have a sense of self and purpose outside of trolling Austin for hot guys and a good buzz (or a hot buzz and good guys). I can't wear stilettos to clean the house or a revealing top to hang with my mom. I can't flirt with the most titillating person at the table because I can't: I'm married. And happily married.

And, yet, I am chafing under this self-imposed isolation of self and soul.

I am becoming restless and antsy. I am becoming THAT housewife. The one who pours over her romance novels like they're more than just smut in paperback, as if they might be real...somewhere. The one who can barely stand the raw hotness between a pale ass, teenaged, vampire and his just as pale assed teenage girl obsession. The one who is living in hot, sexy dreams with men she's known (and not known - hey, Bill, drop me a line) and memories of my hedonistic past like Al Bundy and his high school football days.

I have such ardent dreams I wake up feeling guilty. GUILTY! I probably make Anthony an extra egg or give him my last piece of bacon on those mornings. I mean, does he even know the things I'm doing in my dreams to other men?? Seriously. Anne Rice has got nothing on me - well, ok, she's got a lot on me with her sexy-time books, but you get my drift. My dreams are very adult, very explicit, and very nice.

And I'm wondering if all my recent malaise isn't somehow tied up with this stagnant perfume I'm wearing. What do I expect to have happen if what I do each day is summed up by 1300 square feet, lots of cooking, lots of cleaning, and little, to no interaction with real live adults?? I am utterly fulfilled and beyond happy growing my little person - absolutely not one regret there, truly - but I am regretting this hole I've dug for myself.

In the beginning of all of this I felt safer at home with Hollis and Anthony because I didn't have to worry about getting hurt by people or let down. I didn't have to worry about exerting my social muscles. I hung out here, invited people over, cooked for them, imbibed with them. But even that has trickled to an almost full stop. Most of my very favorite people in the entire world have joined the Austin Diaspora, but I'm still here, alone, and with a husband who's gone from the house for roughly 9-10 hours of a 15 hour wakeful day.

Add to this the fact that Anthony and I don't enjoy doing the same things. He doesn't like spending money out. He doesn't talk to strangers and he really doesn't like to go out on the town. He's a jeans and pub kind of guy. The fellow you're comfortable and easy with and who kisses you sweetly and passionately in the car away from watchful eyes.

I absolutely love this about him; I love our differences, the tension it brings and the compliment, but what am I supposed to do to get that old kick back in my life?? I can't go bar hopping to chat people up and be admired for my desirability (something I used to thrive on). And when I try for it with him our date nights are usually anxiety laden because of money issues and coming home to Hollis at a reasonable hour and reasonably sober. And I'm asleep in my coffee.

Am I supposed to exorcise myself of wanting to be wanted by others? to feel that rush and adrenalin of talking to new people? to use hours' worth of witty banter to woo someone to my side?

How do I reconcile all of this?

Gone, utterly, are the days of passion and fun and force and excitement. My life is predictable. Safe. Lovely. Full of strong, warm hugs. It's butterflies and sunbeams and nicely made beds and zerbert kisses. - And oh, God, I feel so guilty for even feeling this way when I can still feel Hollis' sweet little mouth on the tender skin of my arm, see the twinkle in his eye and sense the love emanating from his warm, pulsing body. It's as if I'm saying he's not enough, even though that's the last thing on earth I'm saying.

I just want to know one thing: How do I possibly add to my beautiful world all that raucous, powerful, cat-scratch, tobacco-laden energy from my past without actually sacrificing the present and future? How??

Am I alone in this??

Please, quick, someone tell me before my head fucking explodes and Anthony has to put me back together again...

Only 5 days, 8 hours, 59 minutes and 12 seconds until I get to see my honey and he can make all of this go away and assure me I'm not fucking bat-shit crazy and that I really and truly am everything I remember.

Hollis charges on, Mommy falls back

He's "vacuuming".

Vrooom!

That was Hollis and his development.

SPLAT!

That was me on my exhausted, worried face.

He's pretty much dropped the two-nap thing (as I mentioned before) and he is barreling on at lightening speed. His tantrums are coming at me like I'm tied in a chair at the wrong end of a batting cage. I can't keep up even if I tried and I'm racking my brain as to how to handle them better. Thus far I love and cuddle him and help him out in whatever way he needs. He's mostly frustrated beyond belief and I can relate. God knows how many times I'd like to throw a fucking fit every day.

It's part of the attachment parenting philosophy: to treat your kids with respect and to have reasonable expectations for their development. How many adults do I know who can't handle their shit and I don't hit them or punish them for acting out - so I wouldn't treat Hollis that way, either. I might not hang with that adult anymore, but I don't have that option with Hollis, so I just let him know I'm here for him and then we move on.

It still doesn't keep me from thinking I'm fucking it all up.

I mean, I feel good about how I'm treating him, but I'm thinking maybe I could prevent these spells somehow (??). Or is that a new mom mistake? Thinking I'm somehow responsible for this?

It's overwhelming, all this responsible-for-another-human-being bullshit...

On another note, last night marked the first time he went around the house deliberately touching things and asking for their names.

And although his language is progressing in as much that his vocabulary is growing, his pronunciation is still just consonants followed by a vowel - with the exception of "vroom!" and "boom boom!" (the sound motorcycles make and what we call me tossing him on the bed repeatedly, respectively). It's a big step!! Yeah! More consonants!! (As an aside, my cousin's son has a rare speech impediment called apraxia where he can only speak in mostly vowels - scary - so Hollis' speech development is always of great interest to me).

The child is also obsessed with vacuum cleaners and motorcycles. Basically anything that makes a lot of noise. He's even started helping me make his smoothies by pushing the blender buttons. It wasn't that long ago that his little face would screw up and he'd scream in terror at the blender... and now look at him. He's its master. I'm hoping to continue to nurture this love of vacuums and somehow get him to regard motorcycles with great respect. I'd love nothing more than a kid who loves to clean who wears safety gear every time he jumps on a death machine. I mean, really!

So that's the 4-1-1 around here.

I was asked this weekend by a dear friend what was new with me and I stupidly answered, "You're looking at it" as Hollis zipped around the backyard. I shorted myself in that answer. I have A LOT going on every day. I'm nurturing a small human being, a relationship with a big human being, running the business of several lives (as I like to say), concentrating on my health (both mental and physical), and writing a lot and loving it. I don't know why I couldn't come up with something better to say.

I'll have to work on that in the future. There's no reason not to lay it all out there. If someone isn't interested in Hollis' latest word, well, then, that's their choice. I shouldn't be afraid that they aren't even before I give them a chance, right? And I'm not going to buy into the whole "She's a mom and all she ever talks about are her kids" bullshit, because my kids are my work. It's as interesting to me as anyone else's life work is. Man... just when I think I'm making strides in this whole SAHM thing I take a step back. Oh well, it's all part of the process. I have to remember that.

PS: I love coffee.

Housewife soldier

Me.

Lots of things have been on my mind. Lots.

Wednesday night Hawk was in his play zone happily banging on pots and pans. I was split into about a dozen people, simultaneously making dinner, picking up toys he tossed over the edge, cleaning, thinking about my next 400 things I had to do. At this moment I happened to be wielding a knife. A big, fat dull knife. And a stubborn, slippery onion. You can figure out the rest.

Lots of blood, a good amount of pain, but nothing too horrendous. I didn't need stitches or a trip to the ER. As I ran my finger under water in the kitchen sink I spied the mess of rice under Hawk's highchair that I hadn't swept up yet. So, I quickly wrapped my bloody finger in paper towels and tape and swept up the rice one-handed.

I felt delirious. I had one hand held above my heart with a throbbing, pulsing fingertip and a broom in the other. Pans on the stove top, a vocal toddler talking to me, a hundred things going through my mind: what time will anthony be home? my feet hurt. the floor's a mess. is it bath time, yet? oh god, i'm still so sore. why am i sweeping when 30 seconds ago i spurted blood?? damn, my finger hurts! shit, i didn't finish chopping that onion.

Inside, I was laughing and crying like a crazy person. On the outside I was resolute and all business. I couldn't afford not to be all business. If I wasn't a housewife soldier I'd break down sobbing. For a moment I thought, "Is this really my life? Constant cleaning, cooking, laundry, shopping, cleaning, cooking, laundry, shopping?" Then, the requisite wave of guilt washed over me.  Hawk is here, sweet and pure. Cherub like in every way. I don't resent his existence even a little, but I'm beginning to resent mine.

I want a vacation from my life.

A place I can go where I don't have to clean up after my toddler tornado every hour of every day. A place where all I have to do is give him his food, not research it, shop for it, and prepare it. A place where the bed gets magically made, along with the floors cleaned, the fridge stocked up, and the dishes cleaned. A place where all the bills are paid for, the budget balanced for me. Just for a few days. That's all I want.

I want to be with my son and play with him and teach him and run around, but I don't want to have to worry about a goddamned other thing in my life.

I'm run down and disenchanted with what I've built for myself here. And I'm confused. How can I at once be content and unhappy? Because I am. I am wholly content with Rooster and our little family. We have money in the bank, a wonderful relationship, a great house, all the trimmings. We're just missing the picket fence. But yet, I'm unhappy with the repetition, the isolation, the burden of complete responsibility. I need a fucking break.

How does a stay-at-home mom get a break, anyway?? At what point did I learn that I had to do it all? And do it all perfectly? I'm running out of steam.

Rooster's always begging me to relax, to not multi-task, to just CHILL. I can't NOT multi-task. I can't NOT do, do, do. There are things to be done, damnit! At any given moment in the day I can think of a dozen things that need my attention. It drives him batty.

When Rooster's home, and he's not moving, he's napping. I call it Manertia (as in, Man Inertia). My step-dad has a similar propensity for napping, as does my sister's fiancé. I'm not throwing them under the bus, by any means, but it's certainly a difference between the women and men in my family. I have friends whose men do similar things. When Rooster isn't working or doing something around the house like mowing the lawn, he is napping. If he isn't moving his body to do some thing, whatever it may be, he's napping. I have hundreds of pictures of him asleep around the house: on our bed, the love seat, the floor, the couch, the chair, wherever he's overcome with the need to close his eyes he does.

And if he naps and awakens surprised that he dozed off he doesn't feel bad about it. He figures he needed it and goes about his day. When he's so tired he can't keep his eyes open he doesn't question his ability as a man, a father, or a husband. He thinks, "Hmm. Guess I was pretty tired," scratches his butt, sniffs, and goes on his merry way. - Well, not really. I added the butt scratching part.

It is such a gift, this idea we bestow upon little boys and young men, that they don't have to do it all and that it's ok; that their needs are legitimate and worth nurturing. Little girls are conditioned to take care of everyone first, themselves last. What they need and feel can always take a backseat to other things, like the dishes. To do so means you love purely, fiercely, and wholeheartedly, right? Well, yeah, ok, I guess, but what about me??

Why do I still let this be my m.o.? After years of feminist, anthropological, and sociological research and talking to every girlfriend I have who struggles with the exact. same. thing. You'd think I would have figured out how to slow the fuck down for myself by now. But you'd be wrong.

I wonder if it's as simple as taking a nap when I felt like it. If that could be my break. If I listened more closely to my body's cues for rest I might not feel so overwhelmed and run down. But then I think back to cutting my finger and sweeping up the rice. I had to sweep up the rice. I'm not willing to let that kind of crap just lay around on my floor. - See? The m.o. is still there.

...

Having said all this, I'm feeling better.Rooster  hasn't snored in three nights and so I've gotten large chunks of sleep as opposed to an hour here, an hour there. He didn't always snore. It's a new development in the last 6 months. I don't know how all those women out there can say, "I can't fall asleep without the sound of my husband snoring!" Bless their little hearts, 'cuz I want to push Rooster right out of the bed when he snores. I've been known to kick him out to the couch some nights. It's like having a newborn all over again. But like I said, it's been better the last three nights, so I feel a bit more rejuvenated.

And talking about this weight I've been feeling has helped immensely.Rooster  is a wonderful partner who always knows when to just hold me and say, "It's tough right now, but we'll get through it." He adds immeasurable contentedness to my life and I'm lucky to know him. Sharing my feelings means I don't feel quite as overwhelmed by a nebulous and secret dark cloud. I'm beginning to identify it. Now, I just gotta keep working towards sweeping it away.

I really think I suck

Waiting for our food.

And here's why:

Sometimes I ignore Hawk's attempts to get my attention because I'm doing something else - and not something else like cooking or driving where I really should keep doing what I'm doing - but things like writing, checking email, diddling with my phone. Basically, anything internet-related.

I feel badly about this when I do it during "Hawk time," otherwise known as any-time-NOT-sleeping. I should squeeze this stuff in while he naps, right?

I don't know how WAHMs do it. How can they possibly squeeze a full workday into naps? And what if they have multiple kids on multiple napping schedules?? Oy.

Today I've been feeling particularly bad about myself. This morning I woke up at 6 and instead of getting out of bed to workout I just laid there staring at the ceiling listening to my morning radio show (thanks JB & Sandy!). When I heard Hawk fuss at 7, I checked on him, made sure he had his paci and went back to bed. Of course I laid there and felt worse about myself for not getting up all the way especially since the lil' guy was up and at 'em. My hope was that he'd fall back asleep and I could workout. But that, of course didn't happen. He fussed for a minute or two then dozed and finally woke up saying, "Mama! Mama!" 20 minutes later.

My head stung from too much/not enough sleep and my whole body ached from working out the day before. I just wanted to sink as deeply into my mattress as possible, hope Hawk would be ok, and just be utterly lazy for a minute. My attempt at this was ruined by my own conscience telling me to get off my stupid ass and get my warm, sweet baby out of bed.

After breakfast, normally Play With Hawk Time, I sat down here, at the computer, and started checking in.  Hawk, good natured as usual, was running around touching things and playing with toys and then returning to my knee and patting it and putting his head on it as he mumbled softly, "Mama," and still I typed. I threw him a bone or two and rubbed his back when he'd be at my side, but I forged on in my determination to pretend he wasn't here.

Then, my conscience came back again - and my right mind - and so I closed out the computer and gathered up Hawk and headed out for some early morning errands. By the time I got home an hour or so later it was all I could do to take his shoes off, close his blinds, race through a book, settle him in his crib and sit - you guessed it - right back in front of the fucking computer.

It's been like a drug to me all day. I crave it like nobody's business. It's like some sort of island oasis of intellect and stimulation for me and while it's nurturing the big girl in me, I feel it's also shitting on the mama in me. I took the Facebook and Twitter apps off my iPhone because I found myself checking it obsessively throughout the day like a tweaker - like I'm so popular I can't wait to be at home to check the computer. I embarrass myself - I would be at the park, a bright blue sky above me, my cherub-faced baby before me, the wind playing with our matching hair and on my fucking phone. Who the hell do I think I am? Can I control time and think I can just rewind these minutes, these moments, and get them back any time I want??

Today wasn't a complete failure (or FAIL, as the case may be), I was able to pull my head out of my ass intermittently.  Hawk and I had our first lunch date ever, I took him to the park, I read to him before his morning nap and before bedtime when all I really wanted to do was plop him down in his crib and run.

A high point of today.

How the fuck to military mothers do it? With partners deployed for months or even years at a time? Being stay at home moms 24/7 all alone, presumably far from family and friends. I'm 12 days in and I'm going bat-shit crazy. And don't get me wrong, I LOVE being a round-the-clock mom - I mean, aren't we all? But with a partner, at least I get a sense of relief.  Rooster bathes him, might take a night-squawk check, changes a diaper, soothes a temper. Even if he is gone from 9-7 every day, he's still here in the mornings and evenings to share the load, to tell me I don't suck ass. I feel like a weakling that I'm so whooped. I'm struggling and don't really feel like it's justified.

It's only been 12 stupid days...

So, here's the deal: If I insist on feeling badly about something (because God knows I do) I'm going to make a point tomorrow to not let it be this. I'd rather feel bad that I let that receipt blow away in the parking lot yesterday or that I didn't recycle the cardboard toilet paper roll thingy. I'm going to focus on Hawk and on being present with him. It's all he wants in this whole universe anyway.

My attention is more valuable than any park I take him to or any toy I buy him. He only wants my arms around him, my eyes on him, and my energy with him. I think I can do that. No wait, I KNOW I can do that.

Do you ever feel shitty about how you spend your time spent with your kids? Am I the only one?? Or hell, this could even be about anything, not just kids. I used to beat the shit out of myself when I was in school - if I wasn't studying round the clock, then I was a bad student. *sigh*