Lessons for the New Year

Caelin is finally asleep. I had to let her cry it out. She's 22-months old and lately has not been sleeping well. Sleep regression. Who's regressing? She's sound asleep now. Peace . . .

I sit here with laundry that needs to be dried and folded, dishes that need to be put in the dishwasher, rooms and bathrooms that should be cleaned.

My nails should be filed and painted (forget about the toes), my hair should be blow-dried and flat ironed. Oh, I should really get to at least 7000 steps. I'm at 5707. Why don't I get up and walk around the house for 10 minutes. Remember when my body was tight after doing Barre three days a week last summer? What about that? How did I make time for that then? I miss those arms.

By the way, I need to be more creative. Take 15 minutes each day doing something creative. Too tired? Not an excuse. Creativity should be like breathing. No, I cannot watch Mariah's World tonight. Okay, maybe I can, but do I really want to spend $1.99 to watch it on Amazon Prime?

Speaking of money, we aren't saving nearly enough. And we should really pay off the credit cards. We shouldn't carry a balance on those things. What's our plan? Will things always be this way?

Nothing is getting done tonight. I thought about writing about my New Year's Resolutions, but that's not getting done either. 

You see, before I became a mother, I learned a rather tough lesson about trying to control things. Now, my precious time and all the control and order I thought I had is out of the damn window. I had grand plans this past weekend, but Caelin spent the last day of 2016 with a bug and I spent the first (2nd and 3rd . . .) with a bug as well and my plans all went out of the window. I had no choice. No chance at productivity. I was a zombie. 

So now I sit here. I have to return to the grind of work tomorrow and there's a billion things I need/should/oughta do, but I'm not doing any of it. Today I did manage to straighten up a little and run to Target (still feeling like quite the zombie). That's enough.

I'm going to sit here on this couch and let my clothes get wrinkly, leave the dishes in the sink and I'm going to chill the fuck out. I'm going to buy Mariah's World and no one is going to tell me any different.

There's my lesson today. And there's my 15 minutes of creative expression. And no, I am not getting to more than 5807 steps today and that's quite all right with me. 

June. Blues. Roses.

The other day while on a walk with my daughter, I pointed out some roses to her. Oh, right! It's June. Roses. I love roses. I forgot it was June. I forgot about roses. I've been so busy with a new job, long commute, trying to sell our house, trying to spend time with my husband and daughter that I've literally . . .wait for it . . . I've literally failed to stop and smell the roses. 

Oh my god, my life is a cliche.

What is wrong with me? Life is hard. We miss out on things sometimes. I know this. I live this. I breath this awareness of time and yet here I am - not stopping to smell the roses. Well, guess what? This stops now.

It's 3:45 AM and I can't sleep, but I promise that tomorrow I will stop and smell some roses.

Cliches are unbecoming.

Songbird

This morning we woke up to our daughter singing. It's the little things. Miracles. Amazement. It's all true.

On inspiration and writing

When you've faced demons that used to haunt you and accepted your imperfections, what the hell do you have to write about?

I'm not saying I want to be unhappy or depressed, but I do want to be inspired or compelled.

Motherhood is amazing and there's so many new revelations I've had since becoming a parent, but do people REALLY want to read about that? Do I really want to read about that? (No.)

Yes, I know Grief uncomfortably well (an unwelcome friend that visits us all), but I don't want to write or read about that either.

I guess I have writer's block or something, but this has lasted for years. I used to have endless ideas and time. Now, I have neither. It's kind of depressing.

Am I still a writer?

Late

We brought our daughter home 1 month later than we thought we would. Or rather, when I thought I would. My husband put no timeline on when she'd make an appearance. I was the impatient one.

I delivered our daughter 11 days after her estimated delivery date - a somewhat arbitrary date based on the first date of a woman's last period before pregnancy. Approximately 4% of births actually happen on that exact date.

After a long, complicated labor that ended in an emergency c-section, my little girl was admitted to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (a scary place that no one warns you that a full-term baby may end up) due to a bacterial infection. She needed antibiotics and had to be monitored for two weeks. The doctor miscalculated her doses and we had to wait 1 extra day for her to come home. During our daughter's time in NICU, I couldn't wait to go to sleep every night because I knew I'd wake up being one day closer to bringing my baby home. This extra day seemed like an eternity.

"What's one more day?" was something we heard continuously.

Perspective.

Some people wait months before they can bring their child home. Some babies die in NICU. We were lucky.

Doctors don't apologize. A nurse sort of apologized. You can't go around expecting apologizes in life. If you do, you'll be really disappointed.

I'm glad I realize this now. Better to realize this late than never.

Something bigger

I'm a mom now. What does this mean? Does my baby know who I am? Is it just purely biological? I love her, but does she love me? Is she capable of that at 10 days old? Right now I provide nourishment and comfort to her, but is that it?

I'm alone. No, not really alone, but alone. Isolated, but not alone. She's being taken care of in NICU due to a bacterial infection that she probably contracted from me. I just want her to come home.

I seek something bigger. We are all so alone. I am so alone. I've never had this urge before. Religion? A connection to something more. I yearn for the yoga mat. Meditation. A connection . . .

A simple analysis would be that of course I'm feeling this way. Hormones, yeah? And my childbirth experience didn't go as planned. And I don't have my baby home with me. My own mother passed away three and a half years ago. Of course I am feeling this way.

I owe it to my daughter to look her in the eyes and tell her she isn't alone. She isn't. My mother told me the same thing, but here I am. Feeling alone.

Search for something bigger because you can't really rely on anyone completely in life. Not even your own mother and father. Not even your devoted husband. Not even your dearest friend.

We're all just getting through life the best we can.

The waiting game

Okay, I'm a big mess of emotions right now due to the impending delivery of my first child. The baby is now only one day late, but it is torturous for me. I have such anxiety about so many things - some understandable and some insane. From taking leave from work to fretting over my daughter's astrological sign (the sensitive Pisces) to wondering if my body even KNOWS how to go into labor. 

It occurred to me last night during a breakdown that this is the time when I need my mother. I need to ask her questions and have her encouragement. She knew me better than most. I don't have that and there's a big void. I ask women I know about the birth stories of their children, but the one woman whose experience is the most relevant to me (because of, you know, genetics) is my mother's. Her experience is the one I must piece together with fuzzy conversations I had with her. I wish I paid more attention.

I also really wish I had at least one attentive parent. My father has not been incredibly supportive during my life changes as an adult. I definitely know that I am a 30 year old woman capable of living my life without proper parenting at this point, but damn it, I still wish I had my mom around for having my first kid. There's no shame in that. She was the one who was always there emotionally and unselfishly for me and my brothers. She was a great mom.