sueeeus

At some point early on, the notion formed that I had to do something meaningful in my life, something BIG; I couldn’t just be.  Later, I reformed the notion from having to do something meaningful, to wanting to do something meaningful.  As time progressed, the notion fell further and further behind, buried somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind.

I haven’t given much thought to mortality for quite some time.  In my twenties I had a dream in which I died, and it was all so clear and unterrifying.  From that point on, I no longer feared my own death.  Nor did I think of it (not that I’d given my demise that much thought prior to the awakening).  That is, until I became a mother.

Suddenly, I am keenly aware of my mortality.  I have children to raise, and I want to see them to adulthood.  The recent loss of a dear friend amplifies the awareness further still.  In less than two months, she went from the vibrant friend I’ve known for the past twenty years to a memory.  Cancer exposed its ugly face and devoured her, and just like that, she is gone.

I’m very goal oriented, so I tend to focus on the destination more than the journey.  Even in the most literal sense, as a traveler, I’m the one saying, “Are we there yet?” rather than, “Hey!  Look at that!!”  Thus far, I’m not very good at the journey.  My life has been a series of goals; it’s how I survive.  Get a job, get a home, get a car, get out of debt.  Those are the easy goals.  Those are the goals over which I have control.  Then there are the personal goals.  Find true love.  Build a family.  Live happily ever after.  Find inner peace.  Live a meaningful life.  These are the goals that challenge me, because these goals require me to focus on the journey.  I need to learn to enjoy the journey.  I need to just be (to the best of my ability).  I need to convince myself that it’s okay to just be.  It’s okay.  I don’t need or have to do anything big.

It’s all about the journey.  I already know that’s the answer.  Somebody with far more wisdom than I have already went through the effort to find that.  Live joyfully.  Go thy way, eat thy bread with  joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart.  Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.

New goal.  In the morning, when I rise, I shall ask myself, “How are you going to love today?” and in the evening before I sleep, I shall ask myself, “What did you love today?” In so doing, I live a meaningful life.

Hello there, my Beautiful Boy!  You are such a fine young boy.  I love how you say, “I don’t know ever-fing, cos I’m just a booooooyyyyyyy.”  You look so grown up!  You sound so grown up!  You are quite the conversationalist, and I’m often astounded at the things you say, although we all could have done without you matter of factly calling your dad an SOB last night, because he wouldn’t let you have your way.   We knew it was a matter of time when you’d try that one out.  Sometimes your antics drive me batty, and I have to remind myself that you’re only four.  You are as sharp as a tac, and because of that, you keep me on my toes, always!  You are very very good at behaving badly, and how can I fault you when you explain that “it’s fun for me-eeeeee….”   I’m so challenged, finding ways to explain to you how to behave.

I love the way you talk to me in the morning, after you’re refreshed yourself with a good night’s sleep.  Often you lift your sweet face to me, and say, “Mommy, I’m sorry I acted up last day.”  We talk about you working on your attitude and your temper, and you promise to try harder.  It’s so hard to be four, isn’t it?!

You are a light in my life, my Beautiful Boy.  You have a big, beautiful, loving heart.  I love the way you hug and kiss your little brother.  I love that you still like to snuggle with me.  I love the way you spontaneously wrap your arms around me and bury your face in me.  I love the way you kiss me goodbye every morning when I leave you at daycare, and the way you always turn the last kiss into a big raspberry.  I love your sense of humor.  I love your sense of compassion.  I hope and pray that I can always be for you the mother you need me to be, to nurture you, guide you, teach you, and raise you to be the best  you can be.

I love YOU, my Beautiful Boy!  My beautiful, four year old boy.  Happy Birthday.

• Perhaps I’ll start weaning at 6 months.  EPing is a one-day-at-a-time thing.  Perhaps by six months I’ll be in some kind of a groove where I’ll be happy to continue.  Perhaps not.  The wake up at midnight sessions are brutal, especially when I have to get up for real at 5:30.  Every day I run through mental calculations of how much I need, how much I can store, how long it will last, how much it will take to just sustain, and so on and so forth.  Luckily I’ve found a forum/community of other EPers; women who are just as, if not more, neurotic than I am over this whole lactation gig.  If I do continue the current rate of production, and the current rate of consumption remains the same as well, I can go until 8 months and have enough stash to coast through the remaining 4 months.  That’s my lofty goal, and it’s 4 months less pumping than I went through with BB, so surely I can do this.  Surely?  Except I may not have enough freezer space.  In which case I go back to recalculating.  As I do.  Every. Single. Day.
• I’m thinking more and more of that Zoloft, waiting patiently in my pantry, calling to me ever so softly.
• Part of my problem, I’m nearly certain, is the lack of sunshine in my neck of the woods.  According to climateZONE , we have 308 cloudy and partly cloudy days a year, and 155 days with precipitation.  Oi.  Recently, way too much precipitation.  The flooding has been crazy.  So many people have lost their homes and possessions.  So many roads are damaged.  It’s awful.  Why do I live here?  Oh.  My job.  And those 57 sunny days, that are simply stunning.
• Last week was very hard on me.
• I’m doing much better this week.  I’m handling the daycare-wrenching-my-children-from-my-loving-embrace thing, and thankful for a little autonomy, even.
• I’ve lost a blanket.  I don’t know HOW I could have managed such a feat, but I have.  I’ve looked everywhere (except of course where it is, wherever that may be).  Of course it’s my favorite.
• Tonight I plan to make pork chops, and cook enough to last for the next three days, as I will be too tired from the office and commute to cook.  By Thursday, or even Wednesday, Gadget will probably be making excuses not to partake.
• If it weren’t up to me, we’d live on pizza, pasta, and enchiladas.  I really should not give in so much, and just make what I like and tell them to “like it or lump it.”  That’s what my mother told us when we made complaints about the menu.
• I love love LOVE those donation trucks that come by and take away all the crappe I don’t want anymore stuff I leave on my front porch.  (It’s not all junk.  A lot is almost new, maybe worn only once, such as my ‘nursing’ clothes — the mama pajamas with matching baby jammies, and all the nursing-friendly tops.  I had high hopes.  At least I didn’t spend a fortune on nursing bras.)  BB is very lucky that the toys I confiscated yesterday didn’t end up in that truck.  They’re in purgatory, for the time being.  If he doesn’t notice they’ve gone, then they will shortly disappear for good, but if he does notice, then he will have to earn them back.  I was SO tempted to put them out on the porch with the other things, though.
• LB’s hair has grown long enough to overcome its natural tendency to spike, so he looks completely different.  He’s not my fuzzy monkey any more.  But he’s still my snugglebear.  My snugglebear with what looks like the beginning of a molar protruding from the side of his upper left gum.  My slobber-faced snugglebear.
• I am still plagued by the phantom and nearly constant smell of second-hand smoke.  I’m the only one affected, and it’s driving me batty.
• In an effort to assuage the above, I’ve just pumped two reservoirs full of saline solution through my sinuses, using my Grossan tip thingy.  Now I feel dizzy, as one does, when one is not accustomed to having clear sinuses.
• Why is dinner time such a struggle with a 4-yr old?  Oh.  Because he’s four.  Where is that Zoloft?

Finding the bright side

I really like being at the office, in the flesh.  I like seeing the people, walking down the hallways exchanging hellos, sitting at my desk and hearing the buzz around me.  It’s a boost.

I like that LB is such a laid back little boy.  He’s happy to see me when we get home, and he doesn’t appear to hold anything against being left with a caregiver all day.  I hold him and he stands on his strong little legs and gives me that, -I’m the coolest thing ever- look.  He is just so pleased with himself and his new discovery that he can use his legs for more than kicking, and it’s literally written all over his face.  I love that.  LOVE IT.

I like that, since LB is an every other day pooper, and generally a daytime pooper, I have very few poopy diapers to contend with.  Nice!

Daycare is frighteningly expensive, and I’m still getting used to the thought of it, but I can afford it, so I’m grateful.  The part about having to pay for it whether or not we actually go still bothers me, but I have to remember that our caregiver’s living depends on contracted service, and it’s not her fault if the roads are flooded or frozen or otherwise impassable.  Also, if we didn’t contract, then we wouldn’t be guaranteed placement, and that could be far worse.

Even if all this adjustment makes me dry up (the supply has plummeted this week, which in itself freaks me out which then causes it to dwindle further; it’s a horrible, vicious cycle -I was three ounces short in just one pumping session, this morning, which is SUBSTANTIAL), it won’t be the end of the world to have to switch to formula, and I can still be grateful that my baby has gotten over 4 months of breast milk and all its benefits.  I still hope I can recover (which is why I’m spending all this time trying to think of the bright side of things and get my head into a better place).

The yin

(Why is it that the negative and dark yin is the feminine attribute, whereas the positive and light yang is the masculine?)

The other morning while I was getting everything ready (even though I’d gotten as much ready the previous night as possible, there is still a lot to do in a morning before getting out the door), BB kept asking, -Mommy, why are you running so fast everywhere?-

I tried a new tactic of feeding LB as much as possible just before I went to bed, to try and hold him through the night.  He would only take 5 ounces, and by morning there was a smell to the remaining 2-3 ounces, so I had to dump it.  I can’t say how wrenching it is to have to dump that substance for which I work so hard and sacrifice so much!  Maybe it was still okay, but normally I can barely detect only the slightest sweet scent, and I’d rather not take any chances.

Part of me wouldn’t be too heartbroken to wean at this point, but the better part of me is concerned about the hormonal effects and the appetite effects.  I’m a bit leery of sending myself into a psychological tailspin by rocking the hormonal boat, since I can feel myself teetering as is.  And as far as appetite goes, I’d hate to find myself sustaining a large appetite without having my body work some of it off in the milk factory.  I’ve put on some belly fat since having LB, and am somewhat afraid of exacerbating the condition.  Okay, terrified.

There is also a part of me that wonders if this stubborn and neurotic obsession with lactation is hurting my developing relationship with my child.  If I weren’t obsessing so much, would I be snuggling with him more?

In need of a paradigm shift

Paradigm in itself is a good word, but it’s been so abused in corporate circles that it is forever tarnished. Tarnished or not, I am in need of a paradigm shift.

It’s hardly the norm any more for women to be (just the) homemakers and men to be (just the) breadwinners, yet somehow it’s been etched in my mind that this is the ideal, the way it’s supposed to be (even with those commercials in the 70s where the woman, hear her roar, sings -I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan…Because I’m a woman, W-O-M-A-N…-)   And because of this, I have a tendency to resent the fact that I am the main breadwinner, when I should celebrate that there has been no glass ceiling for me.  I envy those women who get to be SAHMs in this day and age, or, gasp, SAHWs, yet at the same time I feel guilty that I am out in the paid work force eking out a living, as though I should give it up and buck it up and just find a way to live with the one (lesser) income, because I’m a mother and should be home with my children.  I tend to fall into the thought pattern that if I weren’t the main breadwinner, maybe I’d have more of a choice to be a SAHM.  Hence the resentment.  Poor Gadget.  He’s good at what he does, and he’d be a terrible SAHD.  Truly, the essence of this narcissistic spiral is that deep down I just want to be a princess, dammit, and spend my time leisurely kissing the children (while the nanny does the work), playing the spinet, and sipping tea from the finest translucent porcelain while my dear husband dotes on me and lavishes me with lovely gowns and jewels.

Then, because I happen to like my work, I feel even guiltier, because when it comes down to it, I get cabin fever when trapped home all day, and crave exposure with more people.  So I can’t win for losing, what with the tangled mess that is my mind.

I need to make peace with the fact of being a career woman.  I need to find a way to convince myself that it doesn’t make me less of a mother.

It may be PPD trying to get its grip on me.  I suppose, if I’d read through the convoluted diatribe I’ve just written, I’d concede that it HAS taken root, and just bust out my Zoloft, for God’s sake.

Of course I’m biased, but I think he IS the best baby in the universe!  His hair is finally growing long enough to fall over, rather than stand straight up in all directions like a fuzzy little monkey.  Except he’s bald in back from rubbing his head back and forth, which makes for a very funny profile.  He’s learning to use his legs more now.  He puts his weight on them and practices standing.  When he’s on his tummy, he scoots his butt up and sort of kicks his legs.  He may crawl soon, at this rate!

I’m feeling a bit anxious about next week.  LB begins daycare on Monday.  While I’m very thankful for the help, there is a large part of me that is sad to leave my baby in the care of someone else for the better part of each day.  He will have excellent care and attention, and I will have a little more unencumbered time in which I can do things like make mad dashes to grocery stores without wrangling car seats and unruly nearly four year olds.

I figure it will take me three hours from the time I wake until I make it to the office, on the office days, and that is also somewhat stressful.  Three. Hours. For. Goodness’. Sake.  I need time to pump, wash the parts, pack them up along with the pump to tote to the office, pack the laptop, get myself dressed and ready, get the kids dressed and ready, load up the car, drop the boys off at daycare, then head in to the office.  Work.  Arrive home in time to pump again.  Wash up, make dinner, get as much ready as I can for the next day.

Office days will be very long for me, and I’m sure I will value my telecommuting days all that much more.  It’s important for me to go back to the office though.  I need the adult interaction.  I need to sumberge myself in the variety of personalities.

Until it all becomes part of my day to day, I think I’ll find myself anxious more often than not.  Change tends to be stressful, but I know I’ll settle in to a routine eventually.

Meanwhile, LB is expressing himself more and more!  His hungry cry is NNN-GHEEEEE, NNN-GHEEEEE, NNN-GHEEEEE.  See?  It even sounds like ‘hungry’!  My kid is a genius.  Genius!  He’s showing more emotions and slobbering like a fiend, chewing on his fingers until he practically gags himself (not such a genius in that regard).

I think he may be going through a growth spurt, because he’s taking quite a lot more milk it seems.  Yesterday he had 31 ounces (waking every 2-3 hours, which is NO picnic for me), when I think he’s been averaging closer to 22-26 before that.  That’s another thing I need to figure out – how many bottles to send with him to daycare, and how much fresh I’ll have ready for him, and how much refrigerated, and with all that, the instructions for which milk is which and the order in which to use it.  So complicated!  Maybe I’ll number the bottles.  I haven’t paid all that much attention to how much he has each day.  I feed him on demand, and I’m making enough to meet his needs, with some extra to freeze.  So this weekend I’m carefully noting how much he has each day, to help me figure out how much to send with him on Monday.

So many things to think about and prepare, when one sends one’s kid off to daycare!  I think I should try not to worry about next week, and just take each day as it comes, and do my best to keep up and stay afloat.  And somewhere in the midst of all that I will need to get some sleep.