My former self was a
morning person. Having enjoyed a full night’s rest, snug between my adoring
husband and two bad dogs, wearing matching pajamas and a coordinating hair
wrap, I’d bound gleefully from bed, bright-eyed, perfectly highlighted, filled
with joyful exuberance, ready to delight in whatever my day had in store for
me. Lattes from Starbucks. Pastries or cookies from my favorite french bakery.
Coach accessories. Strolling through farmer’s markets. Enjoying workouts and
movies and happy hours with friends. Lazing about in hammocks, admiring the
herb garden my hubby added to our handcrafted deck, just for me. Even getting
dressed each morning was an absolute joy for me, as Mike had lovingly gifted me
an entire room in our house for my personal use as a closet. My shoes lined the
floor, all neat and tidy. Dresses hung below shelves of purses, scarves draped
across rows of hooks. And I felt loved. I had created a perfectly perfect life
for myself, full of friends and love and abundance and indulgence and
happiness.
Even my pregnancy was a
magical experience. I learned I was expecting just after an incredible weekend
with my bestest friend in the whole wide world, eating, shopping, skating and
theater-going in New York just before Christmas. We’d stumbled upon a
hole-in-the-wall Irish pub to celebrate our last evening in the City, after
channeling our inner Grace Kellys and savoring a pre-theater dinner at 21. My
last hurrah couldn’t have been more appropriate- cocktail after cocktail
purchased for me by new admirers, devilish confessions shared between my friend
and me, photographs with the bartender to document our debauchery. And then I
came home, celebrated the birth of baby Jesus, and learned my own precious
child was on the way. I spent 9 months joyfully converting my closet to a
picturesque Pottery Barn nursery, attending prenatal yoga classes and showing
off my expanding girth with adorable maternity dresses. We took a romantic, relaxing
Babymoon to the Florida Keys, where I received maternity massages and took
baths overlooking the ocean and sampled all things yummy and floated, carefree,
in turquoise water, dreaming of the miracle to come and the perfectest of
perfect childhoods our girl would have. My bump gift was a ring with a stone
that mimics the water and when I wear it, I can still hear seagulls serenading
me on those last few lazy afternoons.
The day my Amelia Rose
arrived, I changed into my own gown, a colorful halter Pretty Pushers dress
with matching headband, dutifully filled my pink x’s and o’s patterned ice pack
and allowed myself to be induced. I labored a bit, got my epidural, napped, woke
up refreshed and had time to re-apply lip gloss before pushing my Milliebug out
to the tune of Salt and Peppa’s push it. Or it might have been Pink’s Get This
Party Started. I had lengthy “pushing playlist” after all. We posed for our
first family photograph, and I am still the only mama I know who is happy with
that I-just-had-a-baby-OMGOMGOMG photo. It took me a while to realize that life
as I knew it was so over.
Mamahood was the great
equalizer for me, the nittiest of grittiest things that could ever happen to
me. The designer rose-colored glasses through which I viewed the confection
that was my life were in actual fact, knock-offs- and in any event, they were
shattered. No question, Millie was amazing. I cannot believe, to this day, that
God has trusted one of his most precious creations to my care. But until she
arrived, I believed that I would get all of the wonderful and none of the hard
that comes with mamahood. There would be no financial burdens, no disagreements
on child rearing, no difficulties beyond the occasional sleepless night from
growth spurts and teething. My parents had relocated to the area to watch her
when I returned to my awesome role as industry relations manager at the local
visitors’ bureau, a position in which I flitted about the country talking up
how awesome all things Gainesville were, intermittently entertaining travel
writers and hospitality professionals, trying new restaurants and attending
shows all within the scope of my job. I had all the support I ever thought I needed.
There was only the
dimmest of warning signs, sometime during the summer preceding Millie’s
arrival, that perhaps the life I imagined myself living wasn’t real- and in
this admission, you’ll see how deep the depth of my denial really went. Because
there are parts of my story that aren’t really mine to share at all, suffice it
to say that in my family, there is addiction. Food, alcohol, tobacco, shopping-
we each have one to call our own. And I had a glimpse of how I may have to
actually address those addictions- that I would be unable to stop myself from
addressing those addictions- that the primal Mama Bearness I was already
feeling toward my girl would make it impossible for me not to fiercely protect
her in ways I’d never protected myself, if I felt like she was in danger
in any way. And yet, because I wanted so desperately to believe that the people
in my life could be, and would be the people I wished they were, I wagged a
stern finger at the tiny voice heeding warning, slipped those designer rose-colored
glasses back on and traipsed about prepping for Baby Girl’s arrival joyfully.
Six weeks into mamahood,
and life is (mostly) blissful, except I’m about to return to work. My parents
have moved here, and we are all preparing for the first day they’ll watch her.
I have been setting my alarm to wake up and pump so that Baby Girl has enough
breast milk to sustain her through those first few days away from me. My mother
and I have had several rounds of arguments regarding nursing. I forge on. The day
comes and I dutifully deliver my precious girl to my mama’s house and report to
work. Within hours, she has tossed 6 ounces of my liquid gold and mixed two
bottles of formula for my child. It is a huge betrayal to me, one that I still
share with my trusted mama-friends- an act that I felt represented any and
everyone who would question my parenting decisions, not just my own mama. We
argue some more. Somehow over the next two days, there is much anxiety, much
indulging in the various and sundry vices among my family members, and a
personal injury that culminates as the straw that breaks this mama’s back
(figuratively- the literal part comes much later.) By the end of the week, I’ve
found space in a daycare. The lead teacher in the baby room reminds me of Mammy
in Gone With the Wind and I resist the urge to buy her a red petticoat, as I am
about to be very poor from the cost of daycare, which is $819 a month. I break
the news to my mother, who promptly sends me on an all-expenses-paid-for-by-me
guilt trip to end all guilt trips about how they moved here to care for Millie
and now I’m dashing their dreams.
We cannot afford both
daycare and our mortgage, and we need my income too much for me to quit
working. We quit paying the mortgage instead. Within a year, my hubby has
declared bankruptcy, we’ve moved out of our house and into a friend’s rental
property, and I’ve changed jobs, under the presumption that I’m going back to
school for my Master’s degree, when in fact it’s because it’s hard to travel
about talking up your destination when your infant is out once a month from
daycare germies. We eventually must get tubes for the baby’s ears because her
tolerance for antibiotics has built up so much that even potent antibiotic
injections of Rocephin are powerless against her raging ear infections.
As I wean the baby from
nursing at 11 months, my hormones shift and I develop back problems. 6 months
of physical therapy later, I am diagnosed with a herniated disc and need
surgery. I can’t lift my tiny child for 6 weeks, and while I was touched by the
thoughtful meals that poured into my home during that time, I also haven’t
quite forgiven our golden retriever for eating my helping of Chicken Ritz as I
shakily escorted my caring friend to her car. 5 months later, I herniate
another disc and have my second surgery, which I am delighted is covered 100%
by my insurance since I’d already met my deductible. I find myself appreciating
all things grown-up like proper insurance coverage and out-of-pocket maximums.
.
I blame myself for all
of these hardships and convince myself that my hubby resents me, hates
me. I sell things, throw things away, deny myself small joys in which I used to
delight, punishing myself further for the wear and tear I’ve brought upon my
family. I absorb all the workload for our household, then allow my resentment
to creep up and start arguments. I do all the things. I cry. I gain weight. I
stop trying to talk about anything real. I am too exhausted to keep trying. I
need a haircut.
And then- I dig deeper.
I look back at how I’d gotten here, and realize that I’d begun denying the bad,
only letting the good in, when I was first living by myself at 22. With every
insecurity, every mistake I’d made, every time I felt abandoned in my life, every
time I felt like I wasn’t safe being myself, I’d turn to one of any
addictions around me- I smoked, I ate, I shopped, I drank. I drank and drank
and drank. I imagined myself to have many friends, I imagined it was all part
of being in my early 20’s in a college town. I embraced an unhealthy
relationship and I absorbed all of his interests, taking careful notes to
cultivate myself into his perfect mate. But, that never works out. At times, I
found myself alone without knowing what to do with the oceans of time that
stretched before me, and rather than dive in and learn the answers to the hard
questions, I allowed only the positive to rise to the surface, and hush the
negative. My beautiful, perfectly perfect life begins to emerge, only it is
skin-deep. Everything about me from my shiny highlighted hair to my pedicured
toes is a sham. A fun, lovely, delightful sham. I see how foolish I’ve been,
only trying to let the good in, because denying the bad eventually brought it
in droves, pummeling my doorstep until it finally broke through and engulfed my
family. I realize I never took the time to really get to know myself, and
here I have a hubby and a daughter and a net that I have cast wide, but
shallow. No one really knows me, because I am afraid if I invite someone all
the way in, and not just to the fun parts, they will reject the not-so-fun
side, and I will see my own rejection of myself reflecting in their eyes. I
laugh off any signs of weakness that accidentally show themselves. I am always on
the go, moving rapidly from one activity to the next when I’m not at work, an
over-scheduler because I don’t want to think the thoughts I have when I am
still. Thoughts like:
I am unloved.
I spent my childhood all
alone.
I am spending my
adulthood all alone.
I am not equipped to
raise this child.
I don’t want her to see
me unhappy.
She deserves better.
I have nothing to offer
anyone.
No one appreciates me or
cares about me in any way.
They neither appreciate
me nor care about me because I am not worthy.
They may be right.
Someday she may believe
that too.
About me. And about
herself.
Most of these feelings
surface in the morning. When the alarm is going off and I try to consciously
remind myself to follow Louise Hay’s advice and say thank you to the Universe
for all that I am grateful for, which despite these admissions here, is
plentiful- the job I have now, with my amazing, powerful, inspiring boss, whose
heart overflows with gratitude for the work I do. My gorgeous, brilliant,
funny, brave, defiant, curious, voice-like-a-songbird little girl. My creaky
1950’s home with its exposed brick walls and original hardwood floors and
chipped tiles and failing pipes. I cling to the gratitude, but then my husband
rolls over and puts a pillow over his head and proceeds to sleep until the
last.possible.second before dragging out of bed, taking a shower, getting
dressed, walking about asking where things are and making declarations about
his lateness, then departing, while I run from room to room, trying to dress
myself, dress the child, get her to go potty, feed her, feed me, feed the dogs,
find shoes, find phones, pack lunch. My mornings are filled with bodily fluids
that gross me out, and I consider, for a moment every day, the likelihood of
them finding me should I ever run away. I long for my former wardrobe,
hair products and clean countertops. I wish I could temporarily change my name
from Mama. I resent my job for its mere existence, for all the tasks waiting
for me there once I finally arrive, almost an hour late, and after a 10+minute
walk from the top of the parking garage since all the spaces are usually filled
by the time I drop Millie off at school. I glare at Hubby as he leaves, knowing
he’s about to enjoy a few minutes of NPR during his commute before pouring himself
a cuppa coffee and perusing the internet in the comfort of his office, whereas
I will still be negotiating which tennis shoes his daughter will wear to
school, before slipping on my own tired, overworn gray wedges.I close my eyes
and silently scream, WHY IS EVERYONE SO NEEDY?! And then,
miraculously, I stop. I open my eyes to look around. I see:
Hubby has made the
peanut butter and jelly for Millie’s lunch already and it is emitting rays of
sunshine inside the fridge as angels from heaven sing.
The jam inside said
sammie is strawberry, delish, and home-made expressly for me by my mama.
Tiny child is going
potty on her own, singing to herself.
The dogs are curled up
together on the guest bed, all cozy, and haven’t been bad all morning.
There is wisteria
hanging from the trees outside.
I have splenda for my
coffee.
The fitbit on my wrist,
a gift from the hubby celebrating my recent success in a 5k, saying I’ve
already walked 2,000 steps.
Millie’s overnight bag,
still packed from a sleepover at my parents’ house, where they cooked and
played and made memories together.
I see all of these things as they are, without rose-colored glasses, designer or otherwise, and they are all lovely. And I can see me, too, with kind, forgiving eyes, and see that the scattered toys, my sticky floor, my day-old ponytail, my tired eyes from staying up too late to watch a rare episode of grown-up TV with my hubby, are all signs of my chaotic, disorganized, perfectly imperfect, messy beautiful life, and that I am not alone, but rather am one of many with a pile of laundry, crumpled from me and Tiny Child curling up on top of it for a movie, taking up space on the couch. And I remember, mornings aren't so bad.
