Monday Music Mojo: Crazy as Me, Standing in My Own Way

.

Bronwen was up for hours upon hours last night with a deep, croupy cough.  It was loud and painful-sounding.  Once Bronwen settled, Jillson awoke and vomitted all over our bed, our floor, our bathroom, our toilet.

Today I am still in clothing that is unsuitable for public viewing.  I wore it to the bus stop. 

It is now nearing lunch time, still in said clothing, and I am preoccupied by embarrassing and small thoughts. Why am I not capable of accomplishing what others accomplish? When will I stop longing for more (of everything)? 

I have so many good days that when I have a tricky one I feel totally off-kilter.  Yes, I know I am exhausted.  I know this not only because of last night's escapades, but also because I do not have enough energy to ward off those insidious thoughts which come creeping in whenever I let down my guard.  I start doubting all of our choices. I start thinking the "what if it had been different" thoughts and I start comparing myself, my body, my thoughts, my skills, my kids, my very accomplishments, my husband, my "career," my house, my clothes, my everything to everyone else's.

Comparing is rarely helpful. It's like whining, masked by adult observations. (Amy Sorensen writes beautifully about this here.)  I think it is fair to compare if you need to state what you want, as a means to clarify your goals, as a way to help you get up off your duff. But after that it's just annoying and destructive.  I don't believe in whining or complaining unless you also take action to achieve what you want.

And I have no energy for the latter. Not today.

Don't worry.  I'm sure I'll be back to my happy-go-lucky, enthusiastic, just-go-with-it self by tomorrow, or maybe as soon as this afternoon.  No one needs to worry or talk me off a ledge.  I know that my life is full of many things that are perfect for me. And I know that focusing on what I do have will distract me from my selfish longing for things I do not have.

I'm just having a day of doubts and wanting it to pass.

Now. Because it's Monday, I'm including some songs I've been listening to a lot of late.  If you, too, are having a doubtful day, and need to cry it out, then this song is for you.  Just remember, you've been warned. This song is gorgeous but sad.

I love this part:

I still love what I know

I love to ride alone 

and sing a song 

and listen to the radio

That's some therapy right there.

Alison Krauss, "Crazy as Me."

But because, even on a bad day, I cannot walk away without leaving at least a little shred of optimism behind (you know me), I have another song for you.  This is an old standby which always helps me get up, get over myself, and carry on.  Many of you know this song thanks to Susan Werner, whose performance of it was my battle cry all through college and grad school.  (I'm almost certain I've posted this song to the blog before.) Below you can hear the original artist, Dana Cooper, perform his amazing song.

Dana Cooper, "Standing in My Own Way" 

I love this part: 

Here am I

Questioning where, how, why

Watching my life roll by

I don't want to blow it

EXACTLY.

And that's it. I need to get back to blogging more.  I feel so much better already.

One very good thing today: Bronwen's head smells like rosemary focaccia bread. I have no idea how or why this is happening, but the aroma verges on divine. It's all there: the rosemary, the sea salt, the olive oil.  (Did someone sneak into my house and rub her head with an Aveda product?)  The whole time I have been typing this (standing at the kitchen counter, pretending I am doing house chores), I have been wearing her on my front, leaning in every few sentences to inhale deeply. Aromatherapy; brought to me courtesy of my daughter's magic scalp.

Love,

the GM

The Job Offer

Last week, I was offered a job.  

There I was, flitting back and forth between making dinner and setting the kids up with crayons and paper, doing dishes, feeding the dogs, and putting Christmas decorations away, when d-d-ding! a new email made itself known in my inbox. 

The email was the job offer.

I will not lie: I immediately felt awesome. Someone wants to make use of my skills and my brain and my talents and my time and they want to pay me for it! No longer shall I be a mere scullery maid/chauffeur/disciplinarian/butt-wiper! I almost told the kids right then and there (but they wouldn't get it), called my parents, emailed the friends & colleagues who acted as references and cheerleaders during the job application process. But I didn’t. Though I wanted to share the news right away, I just cracked a smile and returned to my maid, I mean, maternal duties. I decided to tell my husband first. (Which I did, once we finally got a moment to ourselves. He was appropriately psyched, delighted, congratulatory.)

While I was waiting for him to come home, I continued my everyday chores feeling slightly more awesome by the minute. It has been five and a half years since I have worked (for compensation), but apparently I'm still desirable. I've still "got it." Go me!

Nevertheless, that feeling of bad-assery (to borrow a phrase) lasted, at max, about fifteen minutes, after which Bronwen stirred from her nap. When I went to her, she stared at me--a concentrated stare--and grinned. My heart soared and then it melted.  It practically floated with happiness. And then, with little warning, my heart felt heavy, really heavy, as though it were soaked through with emotion beyond its saturation point and bearing many times its own weight. It was all I could do not to start bawling. (But the kids wouldn't get that either.)

Here’s why. In order to do this job, which (as you will see) is pretty much ideally suited for me at this point in my life and stage of motherhood, I will need to attend training for it. The training is in Texas and lasts four days. 

Bronwen won't be tagging along.

Listen. I know I will go to this training, and I know I will be fine. The kids will be fine. Whatever craziness I need to accomplish between now and then (warehousing the breastmilk) and whatever craziness I need to endure while I am there (pumping and dumping eight times a day), I know I can do it.

The rational, educated, feminist, gutsy part of me knows all this.

During story time last night, the Gutsy Dad read to the big girls, while I nursed and rocked Bronwen. This is often how it is in the evenings, and these full-family times at the closing of the day are precious to me always, but especially last night.  I admit that I stayed and rocked Bronwen long after her big sisters had gone to bed and long after Bronwen too had fallen asleep, not wanting to let go until absolutely necessary.

Each of us moms has to figure out the right balance between work and home, both in terms of what our ideal parenting plan is and in terms of what makes sense or is feasible for our families financially. I know plenty of parents who work part or full time only weeks after their kids are born and they all (parents and kids alike) turn out fine. I know this first hand.

I also know I am extremely fortunate that I have not had to go back to work sooner than this. And I know that getting back to a state of employment will be very, very good for me. 

Further, I have no problem arranging childcare for Bronwen and whomever else needs it when I am here in town and will be working. 

But I am dreading those four days away. Sounds silly I know, but I just cannot imagine being away from them at night, not coming home to them. The first time I spent a night away from Jillson was when Madelyn was born.  The first time I spent the night away from Madelyn was when Bronwen was born.  And that’s it, folks. This is part of the reason I must write this, I suppose--to work it all out--to talk myself into a place of acceptance regarding the mini business trip I will be taking.

Feel free to roll your eyes. 

Heck, maybe a few nights away from the kids would do me good.  Maybe a few nights away from me would do the kids good.  Maybe it would.  But sweet Bronwen?  Even her?

Oh, man.

Then there’s this. I've been thinking this, too:

How in the hell does my husband ever survive his RLBTs, when I cannot even fathom four days?

Ah, it is just that my heart hurts thinking about being away from the kids, mostly Bronwen, for that long a time. Not because I think I can't do it, but because I think it signifies--in my heart--a breaking away from my kids. A breaking away from this time of pure motherhood.

What’s a soon-to-be working part time mom to do? Figure it out and move on. 

Be gutsy. Feel the part in your heart that is breaking, and do it anyway.

Don't Say Anything to Yourself

I've been beating myself up lately. Maybe you know how it is. Do you mutter epithets at yourself when you do something silly? How about when you feel like you dropped the ball? Or let someone down? How about when you can't stop yourself from eating eight cookies in one sitting?

Lately I've noticed that I don't speak very kindly to myself (in my head).

Trust me, I recognize that there is a place in this world for "being real" with yourself.  I don't think there's a place for sugar-coating in self-talk.  I know, for example, that the reason I cannot fit into my smaller pants is that I ate eight cookies in one sitting. On multiple occasions.

But I've been catching myself (in my head) being much meaner. (You ate the cookies because you are a fat, useless moron with no self-control or sense of dignity.)  It's been making me feel pretty bad about myself.

And I will tell you this. Eventually, if you beat yourself up too much it makes you really grumpy because you start to believe all those things you say. You start saying them out loud about yourself. In front of others. This makes other people miserable, too.

So today, while I was reading about running, I came along this fabulous quotation:

"Don't say anything to yourself that you wouldn't say to a friend."

Would I tell my friend that she has a fat ass? Never!  Would I suggest that the reason she can't control herself around food is that she is a worthless being who has lost her way? Um, no.

I might, instead, kindly suggest that she walk away from the cookies. I might remember to compliment her efforts when she actually takes action to counteract that growing arse of hers. I might offer to meet her at the gym. I might remind her that while some people get into pre-preggo clothes 2 weeks post-partum, for her, it really is quite something that she was able to don her non-maternity jeans today, 3 months post-partum. (No need to beat yourself up that you couldn't do it sooner.)

Seriously. Why would I ever want to treat myself worse than I treat my friends?

So starting now, and of course for the new year (for which I have about 7 million ideas brewing), one resolution is:

I will speak more kindly to myself.

TMI: The Post-Partum Body

Here beginneth the third chapter of the Book of Yoga Pants, wherein I battle back from my I-bore-a-baby body one final time. 

At the moment, my body is a strange assortment of lumps and bumps. There is dough everywhere. It is a study in fabric draping, except that it is not fabric hanging around, it is my skin. 

Until just a few days ago, my incision was still covered in steri-strips. There were so many of them that they looked like a row of long, skinny teeth smiling across my lower abdomen. It was a pretty goofy smile. Half cute, half horror flick. The strips itched like crazy, and I am so happy they are gone. My body is all mine again now.

The incision site is still a bit temperamental--stinging and pulling one moment, and then the next it seems to be without nerve endings at all, as though nothing ever happened. 

And yes, there’s a flappy underbelly thing going on. I know it will be with me for a long, long time.

My breasts are on fire a lot of the time. They weigh about 8 pounds each. They hurt so much and get so engorged that they are hot to the touch. Thankfully, Bronwen doesn’t seem to mind. I am fantasizing about the cabbage leaf and quark treatment. My chest pulls me over with its weight. It gives me headaches. Pumping helps.

The breast weight and my hesitancy to really stand up straight and stretch out my lower abdomen make me feel like I am walking around like the hunchback of Notre Dame. This, in turn, makes my back ache. I am trying to channel my two grandmothers and stand up tall and proud, rolling those shoulders up and back and down...

I long to exercise. I satisfy myself with meager walks around the neighborhood. 

I am attempting to make healthy eating choices, but I will be the first to admit that there are way too many carbs and sweets in the rotation these days.

I know, I know. I can already hear you. I'm not even three weeks post-partum. People tell me I'm looking great (and I love them for it), and for the most part I am in fact pretty well. But underneath the surface, underneath the clothing, is a body which is a foreign landscape to me right now. I am doing my best to be patient with it, but we all know patience is not my greatest strength.

I am trying to treasure all that comes with renewed mommyhood--and I really, truly treasure so much right now--but the physical limitations are making me crazy. Just a little. A manageable crazy. A typical "me" level of crazy.

Yours from the couch,

The GM