And God Said: "You're Not the Boss of Me"

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." – Jeremiah 29:11

Do you know what's good for you? If you are like me, you think you do. You know that if things could just be... everything would be just fine, am I right? The Bible passage I quoted comes up frequently in my small group discussions. Often we talk about how God always answers prayers, but it's not always the answer you wanted.

I had a moment this morning when I woke up next to Little Kidlet where it was as if a veil obstructing my understanding had been lifted and I realized something important. In making my way through this postpartum depression, I have fixated on the fact that Little Kidlet would not sleep neatly and compliantly in the wonderful and comfy little co-sleeper I had set up next to my bed. I lamented to myself, and yes, said prayers, that if this child would just sleep where I needed him to sleep (emphasis on I) then I would be better rested, my husband less cranky, etc., etc.

I didn't set out to bed share with my children, although I wasn't opposed to it...up to a point. With my first child, he hated the bassinet, and ended up sleeping with us for several months, but ultimately we transitioned him to his own room and a crib by the time he was six months old. The transition at night was just fine, although daytime took several more months. We had no need of even contemplating the loaded and loathed method of "cry-it-out," and nor would I have pursued that option. In fact, I took pride in honoring my mother's instincts and after attending a "sleep specialist's" talk to my local moms' group, only going because daytime sleeping was an issue, I flatly rejected her proclamation that I could never expect my son to be able to sleep interchangeably in the bed and crib--it had to be one or the other. I went back to the drawing board, tuned into my son, equipped myself, and in time he did just that with no draconian methods employed. He's been a "good sleeper" ever since.

When number two was imminently arriving, I made plans to be able to have the baby with us as we had had my oldest, but with an added measure of safety with the co-sleeper. The Husband doesn't sleep as soundly because he was/is paranoid that he will roll onto the baby. Ultimately "the plan" was to transition Big Kidlet into his "big boy bed" and have the baby join him later in the room in the newly available crib. I figured by six months, we should be fine. Cue laughter of the reader to this obvious example of "the best laid plans" of an overachieving delusional mother. I blame it partially on my background in management. I was used to people doing what I (benevolently) directed them to do.

To say that parenting has been a "humbling" experience in this regard would be a massive understatement.

So when Little Kidlet had a different agenda, in my fog of exhaustion and depression, I cried out to God, "Can you help me out with this? I need this kid to give me some space, I'm drowning here!" And He didn't answer this perceived need, at least I thought he didn't, until I awoke this morning.

When I woke this morning snuggled to my child I realized that God had given me exactly what I needed. Because, I was drowning, and I needed a life preserver...a little warm bundle of life preserving wonder that would not leave my side...even in the dead of night, or the deepest darkness of my depression.

God blessed me and answered my prayers for help, but not in the way I directed Him to.

Photo by woodleywonderworks

When Enough is Enough: Post-Partum Depression

This weekend was rough, no two ways about it. While we all eagerly awaited the arrival of The Husband from "The Business Trip That Would Not End," I decided in my desperation to leave the house, and my bull-headed determination to attend the HUGE children's consignment sale I had had on my calendar for months, to load up the kiddos and bring them with me into bargain hunting mayhem. I felt wildly guilty bringing them, felt the sanction of the other veterans there for even thinking of it, much less attempting it. I mean "what kind of woman brings a 3 year old boy and a 6 month old infant to a cramped, slightly avaricious exercise in economy?"

A desperate woman, that's who.

I already felt like a crappy mother for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was subjecting my sweet Big Kidlet who just wanted to go and see the promised horses (conveniently nearby at the fairgrounds) to the melee, when the woman at the checkout (who wasn't even my appointed cashier by the way) with the ROCK that said "I don't need to bargain shop, I just volunteer for all the poor souls that do," didn't need to speculate aloud, "that baby's (the one I was carrying all snuggly warm against me) head looks cold." I was a bit aghast, so I made her repeat it, feigning not understanding what she had said. Um no lady, he is just fine thanks. It was her entree into expressing her derision. I shut her down. I will confess I worked the "poor dear obviously must be a rookie" assumption to allow myself to score getting my stroller to seat my rambunctious, but really doing pretty awesome considering, 3 year old while waiting in the line. (Strollers are a no-no due to the space constrictions, although the veterans get around that by buying a stroller for sale inside.)

What was I thinking? Clearly I was out of my mind you are saying?

You would be correct.

Over the last month or more of super charged emotionalism (more than usual), over the top hypersensitivity (view some of my recent posts on friendship struggles), and misconstruing each time my son declared in all his toddler asserting-independent-control glory, "Mommy go away, I want Daddy!" as a clear sign of rejection that would land him in juvenile hall down the line for having such an abject failure for a mother, I thought this is not normal. You think?! I am given to a certain degree of, um, shall we say "dramatics," but this was topping all previous benchmarks for absurdity.

And it was rapidly getting worse. Bella Swan in Twilight tells the morose hero Edward, "Your mood swings are kind of giving me whiplash." My mood swings were heading towards a crash that could possibly do a little more physical damage.

It was in the shower, when my son was throwing an epic fit because I was the one showering with him and not his (much missed and recently home) dad, that I had a breaking point. And the hell was further scared out of me when the voices and images in my head started to get, well scary. That was when in yet another irrational crying jag that I pulled myself up short and really let myself acknowledge that post-partum depression had returned, and stronger than after the birth of my first son.

So I got proactive, because I love these little boys and my husband and I never want them to have to live in the aftermath of something like I witnessed after a friend suddenly and inexplicably took her own life violently earlier last year, leaving two young children under five.

Gratefully, also over the last few days God has made sure that little beacons have been placed in my path. People whom I read regularly, who have never previously written about ppd, posted on the subject, emails appeared in my inbox on the subject. That alone gives me the resolve to rise and meet this latest struggle with the pernicious "D." Hopefully, I do that for someone else as well. A resource that I'm finding helpful: UppityScienceChick.com. When I want to figure something out, the nerd takes full control.

The first step is I told people I trusted that I am not o.k. From there I am grabbing on to the rope they have thrown to me, and my own resolve and moxie, and I'm grabbing and pulling myself forward, one step at a time.

Another step...sleep.

Photo by wonderbjerg

This has been an anthem of sorts at periods like this over the years. Just ignore the bad 90s pop vibe...in fact you know just close your eyes and listen. :)

Mama Take Note, There is "Fun" in Functional

A good day. I don't mind saying I was a little scared, given how things have been lately to send off The Husband for a few days and go it solo. But I'm happy to say that more than halfway through and everyone is still in one piece, and in fact we have been... enjoying each other. I know, right?!

The thing about having a big challenge in front of me is that I seem to just gather myself, shelve my, well you know, and stand up to meet it. Because my husband isn't around to help, I've had to anticipate and plan better today, and consequently have been able to head off most issues before they blew up. Because he wasn't around, I had to be both functional AND fun mommy; usually it's mostly about functional, because daddy is decidedly more fun than mama. Last night I rolled around on the floor and let Big Kidlet blow strawberries on my tummy, which he of course loved, and I did to. But despite our relatively smoother sailing I will be extraordinarily happy when The Husband walks back through that door.

I tweeted something that pretty much covers it:

"Held a toddler mommy summit and we agreed on a constructive 2 part plan to cease aggressive maneuvers: He'll listen more & I'll play more :) "

A good day. I'll take it.

Photo by sean dreilinger

On Scarlett O'Hara, Attachment Parenting, and Prayer

Oh Scarlett O'Hara in all her crazed and delusional glory would be so very proud of me. I've been "After all...tomorrow is another day"-ing myself silly these last few weeks. We, and by "we," I mean Big Kidlet and I, have hit a mother of a rough patch and we are keeping our seats, but just barely. Each day as the sun sets, I resolve to try again the next day to navigate the deep and treacherous ruts on this particular fork of the road we find ourselves on, and not fall prostrate in the mud, thrashing and flinging it all about (metaphorically speaking of course, but hopefully you get the picture).

I should preface the rest that follows with the statement that I am a praying woman of faith. At this point I'm not so much an "evangelical" in my Christian faith, as I am a "searcher." I don't pretend to have the answers, nor do I discount the wisdom of other traditions. However, for me, since I was a small child, Jesus has always been there--He just makes sense. Never more tested has my faith been than in the difficult moments with my children, so you will understand me when I say that this morning, it was literally by the grace of God that we made it.

Big Kidlet's trigger to full scale, intensely angry, meltdowns is very very fine at the moment, as is mine frankly. As closely as I can tell, the novelty of Little Kidlet's arrival has definitely worn off, and behaviors I was relieved to not have seen early on, such as trying to hit his little brother, have emerged when he is in the throes of a temper tantrum. I get this much clearly...the little man is really pissed off when he has to do just about anything any other way than he decides to do it. Control, oh brother do I get it, he doesn't like being controlled. One of these days he'll come to the fundamental question of life that I encountered as a young college student, studying Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales: "do we act of our own free will, or are we acted upon?" Ah, I could go on about that for an age, but I'll spare you.

This morning was going fairly peacefully, and we shared a rare private breakfast together while Little Kidlet slept in. We were on track for an on-time departure for my weekly mother's Bible study and his playschool program. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have literally been counting the days and hours until this precious break; things have been rough and it is truly something I do for me that keeps me sane. The peace was broken when he was not invited (allowed) to come into our bedroom to bounce around and all over a just awakened Little Kidlet (that's a lot of energy to handle two seconds after waking up for an adult, never mind an infant). What followed was akin to what I think it might feel like to be caught in the whirling edges of a tornado, in other words, it royally sucked. No royalty is to lowly, I'd venture to say it biblically sucked. We needed God. Right. That. Second.

And that's what I did. I prayed fervently to God to still our hearts, and minds, and voices, and hands, and show us what to do. Although my son had been previously protesting that under no circumstances would he a. let me change his stinking-to-high-heaven diaper nor b. accompany me to Bible playschool, and we were so hopelessly late, so that it was highly doubtful that there would be room for him anyway, a voice urged me to try, to leave the house, and on the double. Miraculously it seemed my son stilled, allowed me to change his diaper calmly, get him dressed and in the car without further fuss, and finish loading us up. All the while I plotted a plan a,b, and c, but come, well, hell, or high water, we were leaving this house, and now.

When we arrived, I fairly sprinted in front of another late comer with a similar aged kid bound undoubtedly for the same drop-in playschool program. I prayed that God and this mother would forgive my selfishness, but this was a mayday situation, and I needed to get him safely cared for and away from his verging on speaking in tongues mama pronto. I still feel chagrined about that one, but we both got in, and I started praying that he would be OK as fragile as he had been acting all morning. I watched that pager like a hawk for the first ten minutes, but it never went off.

As is so often the case in my life of faith, serendipitously the study being taught by a friend that day was about "Learning to pray from 'The Lord's Prayer.'" I have loved The Lord's Prayer since I was a tiny child, and I kneeled with my grandparents each morning when I would visit them in the summers. My home with my parents was devoid of faith, or at least a "don't ask, don't tell," policy on the subject. But in my grandparents house, faith was the soft click of the clock that marked the passing of each moment of each day. Each morning was begun with the prayer of The Lord's Prayer. As my friend taught, the daily opportunity for encountering God in intimate relationship through this beautiful, but more importantly instructive prayer, made me understand the reasons that my grandparents began each day by praying it not by rote, but remarkably in sincerity.

Many days I struggle to practice attachment parenting principles with my children, but I continue to try because my faith leads me to feel this is the way I am intended to parent. I see a correlation to my mandate as a parent when God invites us into a close and intimate relationship, where we are encouraged to trust that we will be loved despite our flaws and foibles. I hear the truth of drawing my sons close, firmly guiding them in how to live a life lit by God and intended just for them, assured that their mother unconditionally loves them. I picked up my son from playschool and once again had the energy to love him just where he was.

In our discussion, we spoke about prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise, and here are mine:

• My prayer of puzzle is why when I so fiercely love these children it is so surprisingly easy to hurt them in my own brokenness.
• My prayer of petition is that God will guide my son in stilling his own anger and hurt even when his parents are not capable of guiding him.
• My prayer of praise is that despite my brokenness, in those frightening moments of despair, a voice continues to tell me to try.

What are your prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise?

Photo by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³

Everything is Just Fine (Sure It Is)

I've been delaying posting something all day, and now it's late and I'm telling myself I'm now to tired to do anything of quality. It's a perfectionist thing. But then I remember my commitment to just write something, good, bad, or indifferent. Here we go...

I took Little Kidlet for his well check-up this morning, something that gives me anxiety for days in advance. We do things a little more alternatively than our HMO would like, but we have about as wonderful a doc as one can get within such a system. But I fret nevertheless, praying that I will be able to properly articulate our positions on things when the touchy topics inevitably emerge. This whole dance is a loaded one for another time.

And there is another reason I realized I was dreading this particular visit--the new mom "state of mind" checklist questionnaire, intended to screen for signs of depression. I knew I was going to have to lie. I've had to acknowledge over the last few weeks that I'm indeed struggling with some post-partum depression. I am not someone who has chronic depression issues, mine have always emerged hormonally and situationally, both coming to bear right now.

Why would I lie? For a few reasons. First, honestly I didn't want to be thrust through their protocol that gets triggered when you mark down such things. When I was pregnant with Big Kidlet I will never forget the fact that the combination of marking down that I had been in treatment for depression (saw a therapist a grand total of THREE times during a particularly difficult professional patch), coupled with a positive answer to the "have you had a drink since becoming pregnant" question (I had a SINGLE margarita before I knew I was pregnant) landed me in a prenatal counseling session, and a very uncomfortable prenatal visit with a substitute doc who assumed that I had "issues" based on the fact that I had had to have this prenatal counseling session. It was well intentioned, but I assure you anything but helpful.

And there is the issue of feeling, well, a little self indulgent. The narrative that runs in my head goes something like this: "c'mon drama queen, you're not depressed, you're whiny." Curiously this voice sounds very like my mother's voice. I can't imagine why. (Sarcasm intended) Suffice it to say that my emotionalism was one dimension of my person that made her muse often, out loud, how I could possibly be her child? It was not welcomed, and not tolerated. Consequently I don't have much tolerance for this "nonsense" in myself either, and feel that if I shake myself hard enough I'll snap out of it.

Except when I don't.

But a positive legacy of my childhood is that once I drop my denials, I get down to the business of accepting that I've got to deal with the demons pounding on my doors, and re-balance myself. Easier said than done with kids. Jobs, and sadly even husbands, can and are walked away from everyday. But for me, my family, the one I've created for myself, and especially those babies keep me in it, even when I feel like screaming that I want out, and it's just too painful to endure one second longer. When they aren't particularly nice nor gentle with me, take that feeling and add some exponential compounding to it. But, I also (try hard to) remain mindful that it's not their job to keep me here, it is always my choice and my responsibility.

I know I'm not alone in this little subterfuge. If I've read one obligatory quote from one celebrity new mother, I've read them all. The one that goes, "being a mother is amazing, I love it so much everyday." Right there, she just lied.

Photo by alibubba

Mommy, Mommy, Go Away, I Want Daddy Anyway

So, we're here. My almost three year old told me this morning that he doesn't "love mommy," and wants daddy to stay home instead. My friends and developmental bulletins have told me to expect this, and I "know"that he doesn't "mean" it, but it doesn't make it sting any less. If it were any other person other than my kid, the impulse would be to tell him some not so polite places he can stick those nasty words. He's not exactly my favorite person day in and day out either.

OK, lets be real, I still have the impulse, but, you know--I'm an adult, and clinging tenuously to that. My husband always tells me that because he loves me so much I can make him madder than anyone, faster than anyone.

My mother used to tell me something when I was a kid that sticks with me: "I will always love you, but I don't like you very much right now." I didn't get that as a kid...I do now.

How do you handle when your kids say hurtful things to you, whether intentionally or unintentionally?

Photo by Tom (hmm a rosa tint)

Mommy Needs a Punchclock

The house is dark, and while the Husband snores away, I see on the monitor that Big Kidlet is doing his best imitation of the stink bugs of my childhood spent in the desert, with his tush sticking straight up in the air. How he sleeps that way, lord only knows, but it sure is adorable. Here I sit, the dishwasher quietly humming, and although I would much rather be sitting here writing solo, with both hands for that matter, or maybe even the eyeglasses I've left on my bedside table, that's just not possible because I've got a Little Kidlet co-pilot who wants to alternate between nursing, gazing lovingly into my eyes, and talking my ear off at this late hour, in that order.

Who wouldn't love that? Well, I proclaim enthusiastically, I do, and also confess somewhat guiltily, I don't. By this time of day I'm ready to cry "I give!" and I gave, and now I need to be off duty. Except, you're never really "off duty."

This tweet caught my attention the other day, and which I re-tweeted:

"Having a baby dragged me, kicking and screaming, from the world of self-absorption."

Mhmmm, that about sums it up. But many days I'm still kicking and screaming.

Photo courtesy of the workroom

The Checkout Line: Bread, Milk, Cheese, Self Worth

I don't know if this is your experience, but I tend to reach for my writing pen, virtual or otherwise, most often when I'm not in a good place. I think overall it's to find a place to vent it, to look at it a little closer (read: over analyze it with a view towards blowing it into an international incident), or just to hear myself yell. It doesn't take a psychoanalyst to puzzle out why I use this device--as a kid if I uttered what I was really thinking and feeling I was liable to get smacked. Hence, railing somewhat uselessly at the blank page commenced early on. Nevertheless, the fact that I feel like I'm bitching so much really rankles me. Yes, I'm bitching, about bitching.

For many years now I've had an etched plaque with a saying that has sustained me through many a rough patch. In fact, when my husband and I were in our early relationship, going through some pretty world rocking stuff, I fairly drove him nuts with each and every utterance of this sage advice: "Very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." I'm sure he appreciated hearing it repeatedly very much, but we survived it, so, annoying--yes, but also useful. What you choose to give your attention to does often determine the direction of your life.

So today I want to bitch and moan about some pretty trivial, but nevertheless making me angst ridden stuff, but I choose to write about something else.

Today, I took Big Kidlet on a walk and I needed to go to the grocery store afterwards. He's not a nightmare in a grocery store, but it's pretty much like wheeling around a wild motormouth octopus some days. I've resolved to let up the reins a bit now that he's approaching three and is exhibiting some better listening skills, and a modicum of impulse control. In other words there is a slight stutter step while he thinks about it before he runs into traffic; a glimmer of a reasonable being is emerging. It's not easy for me. Did I mention that my mother thinks that really there was no problem using a dog run as a playpen when I was a kid? Yes, my example has been a clear owner/owned kind of paradigm, so although I resist it, I have to school the instincts every living day as I make my way through early parenthood.

Anyway, so back to the grocery store. As we approach the store he asks/tells me that he wants to "walk himself" today inside the grocery store. Previously my response pretty much can be summed up as an automatic with alacrity, brooking no argument whatsoever, "no way, no how, not gonna happen." But, these days I'm being a lot more aware of when I decide not to let him try simply because it might be a huge hassle for me. I'm looking long term these days. So I said, "sure, with a few ground rules," which we took a moment to review before we entered. To mark the occasion, I led him over to the "customer-in-training" mini shopping carts, which I previously had jealously eyed when other cute little children sedately (to my eyes) wielded them through the aisles after their (to my eyes) relaxed parents, and regarded as absolutely unrealistic in my lifetime for my spirited little boy. I can't describe the look on his face. I wish I could have a snapshot of it to remind myself each time I decide that he can't do something.

Aside from having a minor coronary every time he came in range of a wine bottle display (seriously this place seemed like it was wall-to-wall wine bottles!), he more or less walked behind me, full of pride, as I placed our groceries in his basket. It was a thing of beauty. He proudly stood in line , handed the groceries to the checker, and generally looked to stand about a foot taller.

It was a good lesson. For today that plaque in my mind says: "Very little is needed to make a happy kid, it's all within themselves, when they are allowed to try, and know they can."

Funny, all those little bitchy things I wanted to write down are like vivid dreams that become hazier and a vague echo upon waking and getting on with it. And my day with my kids has been a lot easier.

• Macro Goal: Be present for my kids, and do some personal remodeling.
• Micro Goal: Be aware that I and my kids are what I choose to focus on. Try and focus not on how much my kids need to test their boundaries can be a pain in my tuckus, but on how great it is that they don't have fear to do so.

Photo by beardenb

Show Don't Tell

Actions speak louder than words.

I had one of those "I'm a crap mother" days today. I've had an uncomfortable number of those lately. You know the ones: when you finally get your kid into bed and you feel about as good about yourself and your mothering as disgusting gum on the bottom of your shoe, and have a strong impulse to get yourself into the confessional booth (even though you're not Catholic), and better yet, if they could flog you a little bit, you feel that would be richly deserved. Yeah, that kind of day.

I wish I could simply say, "that's life with a nearly three year old," but I fear that places the blame in the wrong place. Sure, my kid is a "spirited" toddler, with a wicked stubborn streak (wonder where he got that from), but honestly, he's a good kid. He's really sweet-natured. He just wants me to show him that I'm interested in him and what he's doing. When he doesn't get that enough, he finds ways to get my attention, any attention will do.

Now visualize that old Ram truck commercial, where two rams crash violently into each other. Yeah, it was that kind of day.

Tonight at dinner, when my kid flung food on the floor (again), and said the obligatory "sorry, Mommy," after much cajoling from his dad, I told him, I'm ashamed to say more than a little passive aggressively, "actions speak louder than words." If he was really sorry, he wouldn't do it anymore. Gee, great job Mom! When you had him repeat the words back to you, and he got stuck on the word "louder," and each time you said "louder" trying to get him to say it, he just kept repeating "speak" in a louder voice, that should have been a clue.

Yeah mom, actions DO speak louder than words!

I sat by his crib tonight and apologized, held his hands, and told him I loved him.

He forgave me with his words. I hope his actions tell me he truly forgives his very flawed mom.

• Micro goal: I will spend more one on one time with Big Kidlet
• Macro goal: I will show him I love him as much as I tell him I love him

Photo Courtesy of fudj