I felt the urge to write today. It's 3:54 and I've been home for 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, I've attempted to settle Claire in for a late afternoon nap, sorted the mail, let the dog out, started the dryer, emptied bottles and arranged them carefully on the top row of the dishwasher. I should change clothes and prepare for dinner, should tackle the bulging file folders in my school bag, should dig out coupons for the shopping trip I need to tackle when Jeff gets home, should start the myriad of small tasks associated with my sister's upcoming bridal shower and bachelorette party this weekend.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Only One Way Off This Ride
I'm cleaning closets like a madwoman.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The New Mile High Club
Well, I did it.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
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