Tag: parenting

Motherhood

The Addition of All the Many Moments and Sum of All Their Parts

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on The Addition of All the Many Moments and Sum of All Their Parts

There will come a time when I won’t care what others think, or what I think for that matter. That time may be coming sooner than I think, for I’m far too tired to care this much for much longer. It seems caring about much of anything puts me at a disadvantage in the grande scheme of things. I still watch in awe how the confident function, and examine my reflection in the mirror and attempt to gaze back with half that confidence. I always end up half laughing , half crying. I’ll never be that.

It is difficult living in this bubble of brilliant type As with a few amongst them who have figured out how to play the game and get ahead. I’m trying to do just that. My head keeps spinning. I don’t know why I can’t think like everyone else thinks. Logically. In a structured way. There is structure in there somewhere, past the swirling seas of patterns and potential. I’m trying to find it. Structure, and release. How to offer high quality with little emotional cost. How? I don’t know yet. People do it, so it must be possible.

I feel guilty I have little emotional energy to spare for the actual state of things. I read election news and social media feeds and catch up quickly on how fucked up the world is and hope that maybe despite being so fucked up things will eventually in due time (maybe 10 days time) hit a wall and swing back the other way. Though the Supreme Court is now stuck without questionable intervention due to questionably rushing a nominee through. Yet some people really will be happy and benefit from a conservative government in power—I don’t agree with those people, I don’t think it’s fair that many must suffer to support their views, and yet some people will be happy. Those who prefer a woman to die than to abort her child. Do they not deserve happiness too? I don’t know. Who really deserves happiness? We are all pretty awful creatures and in the end to ashes we go. So, if anyone is happy at any given time even for the worst of reasons, isn’t there some sick beauty in that? I don’t know. I’m trying to see the rusted glass half full.

I hope Biden wins.

I guess we will find out soon. I am grateful my children will be too young to remember much of this presidency. I don’t want them having a picture of “Presidential” as this. My oldest will be 6 if Trump gets another 4 years, so there will be some memories — but mostly of the joy of seeing him out of office (hopefully) as he concludes his second term. Frankly I’m concerned if he doesn’t win this time he will continue campaigning for the next 4 years and run again in 2024. Everything is going to so much shit right now a part of me feels like we are best off letting him destroy us so we can properly rebuild, vs handing this mess to Biden (who he will continue to blame) to fix. Hmm.

It’s unfair of me to think these things. I can survive another 4 years of Trump, probably, but many others cannot. And his administration just announced they gave up on managing the virus. Entirely. What? Just let everyone die? I guess so. Just 1% of Americans. Sorry if you’re one of them.

The whole pandemic lifestyle is getting to me. The first few months I enjoyed—no longer having to commute to an office. Working from my bed in my pajamas. Going for long walks in the late afternoon vs sitting in 45 minutes of traffic to drive home. No having to come up with something awkwardly witty or say or ask at the water cooler. Just me, my family, my apartment, and my food delivery people who I never met other than by name in Instacart.

But now I miss people. I do. I miss being around people. Hearing them. I miss all the things I haven’t been able to do with my son like take him to dance class or little gym or the zoo or go on vacations and show him new things. I’ve invested all the extra free time in buying and now renovating a home, so at least it has been productive (I can’t imagine doing this in a normal time.) There are plenty of positives and yet—I miss my family. I miss my occasional happy hours with coworkers. I miss even more occasional massages and pedicures. I miss getting a professional haircut. It has been almost one year since I’ve had one. I cut my hair myself a month or two ago. It’s time to do that again soon.

I struggle in knowing many aren’t social distancing as much as my family is—and wondering am I giving up too much of my life to hide from something with a 99% survival rate? I mean, not that I’d be attending maskless indoor parties or anything. But what if my son went to daycare to meet other kids his age? What if I took him to the zoo or pumpkin picking? Or to ride the outdoor train that goes down to Santa Cruz that I always wanted to do once I had a child.

My son doesn’t seem to mind that he’s missing out on some aspect of his childhood. He doesn’t know what he is missing, though I suspect he has some idea when I grab him away from other children who come running up to him at the park. In the rare chance we go to the park. How will I, after a vaccine is introduced, teach him it’s ok to socially interact with other kids? Will he easily adapt? Will he shy away from socializing because that’s what he knows? I worry.

At least soon he will have a little brother or sister to play with. I mean, in a year or so when that baby is more than a blob that poops and cries. One day. You know if said blob and I survive childbirth. Which we probably will. I expect this time to be equally as scary as my last birth. Or worse. Or maybe it won’t be. I read a lot about traumatic births. So I’m scared. Women who have survived but who have hemorrhaged. Or who had an emergency c-section where the medication didn’t work. Who can blame me about worrying a bit?

In 13 weeks I’ll have another baby. That’s just three quick months. I am looking forward to it. Not the birth part. But the part after. Not being interrupted from my half sleep in the middle of the night after my child is born to be informed my father died. Not having to beg so many wonderful friends and family to help my husband survive with a newborn as I took a flight across the country, terrified of my blood pressure spiking or blood clotting, to attend my father’s funeral. Maybe some time, this time, to feel happy despite the typical positive birth exhaustion blur. I just want that. I don’t deserve it. No one deserves anything. But I hope I get that experience. A baby that comes out breathing. Who isn’t whisked away to the NICU. Maybe a “normal” birth and a breathing baby and things to go right for once.

I can’t let myself get too optimistic for anything. I thought my father was doing better and would make it three months so he could meet my son at Thanksgiving. I could see how happy he was holding my son for the first time. Laughing and joking with him. Telling stories about when I was a child. How my son reminds him of that. Singing to him and reading to him and having all those stolen moments that will never be. I don’t like to get my hopes up anymore. It doesn’t seem worth it. But it also doesn’t seem worth it to live a life always expecting the worst.

So I guess I have to figure out how to fill the glass a tiny bit more so I don’t have to make a judgement call on how to describe it’s respective volume.

Motherhood

Pregnant in a Pandemic

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Pregnant in a Pandemic

I had always planned to start trying for my second child 18 months after my first was born. I figured, like my first, this whole miracle of life thing would take months and require medical support like the creation of my first child. At age 36 I didn’t want to look back and think I waited too long to try. I wanted to give my son at least one sibling, maybe two. After my father’s death two years ago, and overall being so far from any family with children my son’s age, and growing up in a large extended family, it hit me hard how important it was to make my own little big family if I could.

Then, a global pandemic happened. In case you haven’t noticed.

I wasn’t in denial of what that meant. I weighed the pros and the many cons. I didn’t mind the idea of not seeing people during my pregnancy or missing things like baby showers and such. If it had been my first pregnancy I would be missing all that but been there, done that, and ok with hibernating these nine months. But I was expecting it to take a while to get pregnant—putting me at a late spring or summer or fall due date—after the second and likely worst peak of the pandemic had past. But the pandemic and my body had other ideas.

In March, I either had COVID or some form of debilitating anxiety where I couldn’t eat. The reason I think it was COVID is that my go-to when I am anxious is eating. But in a month, I lost 8lbs. I also had a lot of lung issues and ended up getting an inhaler and feeling liquid in my lungs for a while. It could have been bad allergies (I don’t have allergies typically) or maybe I was just losing it—but nonetheless I ended up eating healthy/less and with the massive reduction in social anxiety (not having to interact with other humans was just a huge relief, esp coming off what might have been an actual manic episode the prior fall and early winter) my body apparently said “ok, you are ready to be a mom again.”

With my first son, I took my pregnancy test on my 34th birthday. With this one, it was Mother’s Day. I figured my life is secretly scripted so of course I’d find out on mom’s day that I had rapidly reproduced this time around. I used a cheap-o test at first and there was a very very faint line. My text to a friend confirmed it was there. The more expensive test I took a few minutes later said it definitely was there. Pregnant. In a pandemic.

It was no longer a — well maybe I’ll get pregnant and maybe I’ll have to deal with the tail end of the pandemic in a while and maybe that will be difficult. It was—you are delivering in January. The exact month the pandemic will probably be at its actual worst, after a summer of people flouting the rules, after nearly a year of people saying they just want to get back to normal life. Oh, and for fun let’s make your due date two days after the inauguration what will likely be the most contested election in American history, when our prior president may refuse to leave office should be not get re-elected. Why not?

There are definitely pros to being pregnant during a pandemic. For starters, being able to work from home my entire pregnancy is a blessing. As I’m older now, this pregnancy has been a bit harder on me. I think part of that is because I’m not moving enough (which means I would be better off going to an office dusky) but being able to lie down and work, or sit down and wait for a wave of nausea to pass without getting any weird looks at the office is one of the best things about this specific situation. While last time I felt I had to push myself to not be disabled by pregnancy (working up until my due date with horrible carpal tunnel at the end and eventually being diagnosed with gestational hypertension and needing to be induced) I can take this pregnancy easy. Ish. I mean as easy as one can take a pregnancy with no childcare and a two year old wanting attention all day.

Yes, a negative of the pandemic has definitely been the loss of childcare. Prior to the pandemic my FIL came to watch our son four days a week. He enjoyed it and it worked out well for us. But then with COVID we couldn’t risk getting him sick—even though we immediately went into isolation and were being as careful as possible, I had to go to a few doctors appointments so we had to stop seeing my in laws for a while. My husband, who works flexible hours, stepped up to take on the bulk of the childcare. At first, that seemed to work well. I was thriving at work, sleeping well, able to focus without the commute and anxiety of judging myself so harshly for every movement around others. For a few months, I felt, hey, I can get the hang of this pandemic life.

My husband was definitely struggling, though, and as my pregnancy progressed the sleep I was getting turned into random wakings in the middle of the night. I began to be sad overall about the pandemic—about how my son cannot play with other kids, about how my mom can’t see her grandchild until who knows when, about how my sister and my son’s only aunt may not see him for years. We eventually made the choice to see our in laws again, but only 2 weeks after any in person doctor’s appointment. We have completely isolated otherwise, except for going around with our realtor looking at empty houses as we wanted to buy and move before baby number two. I think that little socialization and activity kept me sane these past few months. Oh, and we bought a house (also known as baby #3.) So we have been keeping busy. My son seems ok as he doesn’t know what he is missing. He is now used to mommy grabbing him when we are out and an older kid comes too close, like at the empty park the other night when an unmasked pre-teen came storming out of nowhere and sat right behind my unsuspecting son. Now that some parks are open we will go only when they are empty, and we wash hands after. It seems low risk. But who knows. We do our best. But like everyone else we can still get sick.

Pregnant women are much more likely to end up on a ventilator if we get COVID-19. I would very much prefer to not end up on a vent in my third trimester or ever. I’m scared now, a bit, but being as careful as I can be. I have only a handful of in-person doctor’s appointments left. I’ll go and wear my mask and try to stay far away from other humans and hope I can stay healthy. I worry about what happens when I go to the hospital to give birth. I worry about wearing a mask while in labor when I am already panicked and finding it hard to breathe. I worry about looking at every nurse and doctor who helps me while in the hospital and wondering — do they have COVID? What if I get COVID while in the hospital? Should I have a home birth? Should I get to the hospital so late I give birth in the parking lot and am close enough if anything goes wrong they can whisk me or baby inside and save our lives? What if I get sick at the hospital and die a few weeks later, leaving my kids with no mom? What if I get my husband, who has some high risk medical conditions, sick and leave my kids without a dad—and me without a husband?

But I keep reminding myself pregnancy is a risk in and of itself. Everything in life is risk. So I just need to be as careful as possible, keep calm, and carry on.

I mourn all the things I am missing out on this pregnancy. There has been little time to celebrate my growing bump. I am sad for the weeks ahead, after birth, when I can’t connect with other new mothers as I did last time. I worry for all the pregnant woman and new moms who are essential workers—or married to one—who aren’t able to lock themselves away from the virus.

Overall I, personally, am doing well. My concentration has gone to shit these past few months, but I’m surviving. After a few solid months at work when I was doing well, I came crashing down with the exhaustion and anxiety that is life these days. I keep reminding myself that just surviving—and doing the best I can (as long as I can keep my job, hopefully)—is enough right now. Gone are my fantasizes of thriving in my career, moving up the ladder, what have you. I can be a good employee and a mom and I don’t have to be a leader or brilliant or whatever it is that is worker bees think equals success. I am in a very good place if I can just hold it together mentally, and physically. I can have this baby and experience all of that and see what life looks like on the other side of it.

For now, I’m so grateful for the last months, for working from home and being able to see my son grow up. I didn’t see him much in his first year. I don’t have time or energy now to see him as much as I would like in a more present way, but I’m here nonetheless. I’m here to see him wake up and for a quick lunchtime cuddle and afternoon laugh. This has reminded me of how much I was missing. It really had made me realize what matters in life. In a sense, I think there is something to be said about being forced to hole up and slow down. And, assuming WFH will stick for a while, I look forward to being able to breastfeed longer versus having to sneak away to the mom’s room to pump every few hours. To not have to drive to the office in those first months after maternity leave when I almost got into an accident too many times to count because who sleeps with a <6 month old?

So I’m focused on the positives. And survival. And trying to move on to this next home-owning, mom-to-two, mentally stable (hopefully) phase of my life. I’ll do my best, but for the first time in my life, maybe I won’t give it my all. And I’m ok with that.

Mental Health

Let’s Write a Happy Post

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Let’s Write a Happy Post

It has been a rough… I don’t know… nearly 37 years. But compared to most 37 year stretches of human life it’s been good. Solid. Not so bad.

The challenge is slowing down and not feeling like I have to prove something. I don’t even know what I want to prove (other than, at this point, that I can consistently pay my mortgage for the next 30 years), but I think I’m finally letting go of this innate drive to be somehow special. Even over the desire to be recognized for being a proper cog. And a good mother. Not an amazing one or anything. Just a standard, run-of-the-mill, cares about her kids mom who occasionally treats herself to a (post covid) mom’s night out.

Aging is tough. Not just my own aging but experiencing everyone else go through it. Knowing 40 is just around the corner. Watching my mother having 70 around the corner. Still feeling sore from the midnight call two years ago, a week after giving birth, and in a bit of a delusional state to begin with, when I was informed my father passed away. Being concerned about other family members every time they feel ill as youth no longer is on their side and statistics suddenly look less promising.

Oh, but I promised to write a happy post, didn’t I? Well. I don’t know if happy is the right term but I feel rather satisfied that I managed to make it possible to purchase a home. Yes, there was some luck involved, but even more so tenacity and semi frugality and years of saving and investing and wondering if I might possibly ever have enough to buy something remotely worth buying. And despite my mental health challenges, my ups and many downs, I’ve done it. I am a home owner.

In home ownership, I also feel like I made and continue to make a lot of good decisions. In a high cost of living area the price tags on houses are insane, as are the monthly mortgage payments. But I’m happily welcoming my in law to share our new home, and with his contributions can also keep the monthly payment down enough to make me a tad bit less worried about losing the house if SHTF. We didn’t buy the cheapest house, but we definitely didn’t extend ourselves anywhere near what the bank was offering. The home, while not the cheapest house on the street, still seems to have potential for value growth. I feel like after 2+ years of looking, and finally compromising on the location quite a bit, we made the right choice. I made the right choice. A smart choice. A grown up one. And one that is going to be good for my family.

And while I’ve been pushed out of a role I aspired to be suited for at work, it is for good reason. It’s not a good fit. And what’s amazing is that I’ve been able to prove myself in another, tangential role, where I probably fit a lot better. And I’m being given a chance to really thrive in that position. Despite being sad my ADHD self couldn’t manage a seriously complex and collaborative role requiring equal parts project management excellence, influence building, and broad expertise, I am grateful and relieved to be off that boat, for the time being, and put on one where perhaps I’m not clogging leaks left and right all while trying to steer the ship safely to shore. I miss all the icebergs.

On paper, I’m incredibly lucky on so many levels. In real life, I am too. I’ve acquired some likely lifelong friends this year, successfully connected two good friends with each other across the county and now they’re in the middle of a fledgling romance that seems like it actually may stick. And for the most part I’ve turned the incoherent and at times terrifying energy of last year into something(s) productive and good this year.

I wish I could say I feel stable and life is just swimming along smoothly. It’s anything but. But. I’m starting to get into the grove of things, I guess. Of being a mom. An employee. A creative/ish. A near-40 nobody who can still be everything to my family. As my aspirations shift from stardom to all my loved ones surviving the next 5 years (and our country not falling into a devastating civil war), I find new stressors that are perhaps more real (and stressful) but at least make me feel somewhat sane to stress about. I’d take a do over of the last 12 months if I could have one—but since I can’t, I have to applaud myself for getting through whatever that was and for being able to be on the other side of it. I wouldn’t say I’m stable but I’m at least not presently captain and crew on a sinking ship.

Motherhood

Lockdown Day 22: The Bittersweet.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Lockdown Day 22: The Bittersweet.

My attempts were futile. No matter how many times I put the canopy over his head and tried to explain how it would keep him dry, he pushed it off gleefully to feel the rain falling on his head. Soon, he also felt the rain pouring on his feet, as he quickly clawed off his shoes and socks. This was moments after he realized, 10 minutes into our walk, that his father had not come with us. “Where Daddy go?” he inquired over and over again, frantically looking for my husband. “He didn’t come with us,” I attempted to explain to my 20 month old socially isolated son, who, after five minutes of repeating “where daddy go” finally got the memo and replaced his “where daddy go” chant with repeating, in the most adorably sad voice, “bye bye dada. Bye bye dada. Bye bye dada.”

The good thing about it being under 50 degrees and pouring on day 22 of lockdown is that no one in their right mind was outside, at least in our little apartment complex. Being so close to our front door, I opted to let my son–already soaking wet–run through puddles barefoot. This is what childhood is all about… except usually it’s with other kids. But my son, who doesn’t understand why “boppa” and “grandma” can no longer visit, who screams into my phone “call friend” so he can see another kid around his age who makes funny faces at him virtually, seems mostly ok with this whole lockdown thing. He might not realize he traded in friend and grandparents for more momma time, but I can tell he likes that I’m home.

But the days of working from home have turned into one big blur. I made a commitment to myself yesterday that everyday at lunchtime I would eat a super quick lunch, then take my son out for a short walk. It was definitely the perfect day to commit that to myself in an area that typically has nice weather, the day before it was 48 degrees mid day and pouring rain.

I hadn’t paid much attention to the weather (what’s a little rain?) and I asked my husband to get my son ready for a quick walk so we could get some fresh air. My son was already enthusiastically shouting “need go home a park go home*” (“go home” means “go out” to my son) when I opened the door and noticed the little rain was actually quite a lot of rain. I grabbed an umbrella, threw on a hoodie, and figured the rain would keep us safer. One might say my son could catch a cold from being out in the rain and getting all wet, but–he won’t catch coronavirus.

After I quickly lost the battle of “keep the canopy down so you don’t get soaked,” I watched my son sit up in his stroller, uncovered, staring in awe at the rain, the heavy grey sky, and the sopping wet verdancy around him as he reached out with delight to brush against the soaking leaves–leaves only slightly less soaking than his outgrown brunette hair and fuzzy Elmo hoodie. Given he couldn’t get much wetter, I opted to take him out of his stroller to roam free. I questioned whether I was being a bad mother for letting my son run shoeless through puddles in cold-for-California weather, but I made the call to not care either way–he was having fun, and fun comes in short supply these day. Splash splash splash, he stomped, from one puddle to the next. I let him wander freely with the exception of keeping him far away from the postman and the construction worker who were having a socially-distanced chat by the mailboxes.

We weren’t outside for long. We headed back to our apartment to get warm and share all of our adventures with “dada.” I went back to my bedroom to resume work and prep for a call, and my son went back to the other room to watch too much Sesame Street. As I curled up in my bed and got back to work, I felt the same unsettling mix of deep existential sadness swimming through my veins in tandem with a tinge of peaceful delight that I’ve felt for days now. The deep pit of guilt for feeling anything positive in any of this, with so many suffering, and yet, finding so much of “this” is making me happier than I’ve been in a long time. The long focused periods of work where I can perform my best and not be distracted by severe anxiety. The getting to see my son for a few minutes on breaks and give him a quick hug or see the newest thing he has learned (or visit, after finishing one big project for the day, when I heard him giving dada a credit card and telling him that he wanted to “buy a mommy.”) The eating small portions when I’m hungry versus stuffing my face all day long with too much food. The being home and fully present when I’m done with work versus having to drive 45 minutes in traffic and arriving home too exhausted to do much with my family other than sit on the couch and survive social interaction before it’s time to go to sleep. Getting to see my son go down for his nap in my husband’s arms. Doing what’s best for my mental health and my professional productivity. Living a life that feels like I have a life… I mean, one where I can’t see other people outside of my family and where I’m constantly worried about my loved ones getting sick and dying… but a life nonetheless.

This weekend, as I roasted onions and garlic for fresh red pepper tomato sauce I was attempting to make for the pasta my husband found at the supermarket last week, I stood in the kitchen and let the thick, blood red aroma fill me. I reveled in the suspense of potentially cooking something edible, and the likelihood of it being barely that. Ultimately, the pasta was undercooked and the sauce too bitter, but that didn’t matter. I found joy in the process of making it. In the process of doing something just to try it out. Anything not entirely burnt was preemptively deemed a success by yours truly. And as I ate my pasta too-al-dente with sauce surprisingly flavorless and thin, I grew excited about what I could do next time to experiment and make it better. Because now, for the first time in years, I have the time to just be present in the world where the future is so uncontrollable I’m forced into sweetly hovering in the present. My anxiety still stabs my heart and takes my breath away at times, but lesser and lesser each day this lockdown wears on. I connect with a few friends and family members here and there, in text messages and on zoom virtual happy hours, but my contentment seems more to do with the semi-solitude that social isolation forces (and enforces.) It feels as if my little family of three is floating out amongst the stars, light years away from other sentient creatures, despite radio contacting others for comfort here and there. And there, amidst those stars, I finally am getting a taste of what happiness can be, and it tastes far better than my pasta sauce, though perhaps equally bittersweet.

Motherhood

Thoughts on Becoming a Mother

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Thoughts on Becoming a Mother

Some girls grow up from day one ready to take on the mother role. I was not one of those girls. Although I was attracted to the idea of having children — one day — one day seemed like it would be so far off it might never happen. And, had I not met a man who was clearly born to be a father, I may have never pursued the motherhood path.

It didn’t help matters that at 15, my doctor failed to diagnose me properly and told me that I didn’t need to worry about trouble having kids — as long as I had them by age 30. It was years later when my PCOS diagnosis led to answers in this process… and more questions. Would I be able to have kids? It certainly wouldn’t be easy, even before 30. Would I want to? That was another question entirely.

Continue reading “Thoughts on Becoming a Mother” →