I never thought about what I would do with this blog once the hubster returned. It seemed like I would be spouting on here for an undetermined time. And yet here we are, 21 Sept, and this is my last post. No sadness here though!
My beloved returns today (technically early tomorrow) and I'm sporting my gray, not so attractive welcome home t-shirt for this momentous day. I never put much thought into what this day would look like. I daydream all the time about being in the gym and hearing the words, "You're released! Go enjoy your family!" and waiting to spot that cute face through the crowd and running into his arms - as fast as one can with a 3 month old attached to the hip. But the actual day before the ceremony? No idea what I'm supposed to do. I have a mile-long to do list, but really, none of it matters...it's all just filler.
I'm thinking back on this year and wondering if it was all filler...if I was a static character or a dynamic one. All praise to God I can thankfully say I'm a dynamic one! One might not think it by reading my posts here, but I enjoyed this year. Of course I missed my husband and I cried a lot and I wished he was sleeping next to me each night. I had many hard moments and many times being mad at him because I had to put something together by myself or take out the trash in the pouring rain while 6 months pregnant. Yet, looking at the entirety of it all, I had a pretty remarkable year.
I traveled all over: Michigan, Arizona, Florida, Oregon. I read a lot. I knit a lot. I lived with family and got to be back in high school, or so it felt. I got spoiled. Somebody else folded my sheets...especially the fitted sheet, bane of my housewifely existence. I ate dinners with friends, took home their leftovers, got to help kiddos with homework as I camped out at their house (literally). Enjoyed morning brunches and coffees with other amazing women. Took more naps then I'll ever be able to number (I dream about those now). Got involved with causes, efforts, and people. Cooked a lot of meals. Shopped a lot at Babies R Us. Grew in my faith. Met new people. Sat on my knees before Christ. Was devastated by loss. Laughed until I peed. Mastered a couple of puzzles. Found that God truly is sufficient for all things.
And here I am. Checking the clock and counting down the hours until it's all done. I'm in a joyful delirium as I look at this apartment and my chubby-cheeked son. The apartment will change once Phil steps through the door...somehow transform into a different space as I'll say adieu to my bachelorette pad. So here's to the end of finishing a great but long chapter and starting a fresh new one. I have no idea what it will look like, what conflicts these characters will face or what awaits them, but I'm ready for the adventure and I pray for guidance and grace from God through it all.
Thanks for taking this chapter with me.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
And so it begins
There's a new kid in town and I am his proud momma!
To preface this post, it seems to me that everything on the subject of motherhood and children has been said, written, and sung about, and it's taken me this long to even desire writing about diaper changes, spit ups and nighttime feedings. But since my child is uniquely mine and my experience mine alone (and my blog for whatever I want!), I'm sharing my 5 weeks worth of motherhood.
Nothing will prepare you to be a parent: not a certain number of books, not all the parenting classes available, not interviews with all the moms in your town. As my previous posts will suggest, I felt confident and knowledgeable; I knew there would be some bumps in the road but I was ready for them.
Yikes.
Ethan has been an incredibly good baby, therefore I have no horror stories of him screaming through the night (yet) or tales of the non-latching baby. So even with him being a great baby, the past five weeks have been crazy tough. We got off to a rough start at the hospital and spent a grand total of five days there rather than two. My birth plan went right out the window as soon as my water broke and I realized holy crap this hurts like no other (God bless epidurals) and went even further out the window when the doctors came in and said - out of the blue - hey we're going to do a c-section in about...2 minutes. Thankfully I didn't have to get one but I DID get the pleasure of meeting a metal friend called forceps (again, thank God for epidurals). The doctors called Ethan's birth a distressed one, and therefore everything took him a couple extra days to regulate than most babies. Needless to say, Phil and I had many slow walking trips down to the NICU to visit (and attempt to feed) our boy.
We finally came home and discovered that we had no idea what we were doing and why in the world did the hospital send a TINY PERSON home with us?? Every little cough, burp, diaper, red spot, and facial expression warranted a call to the hospital (well, it would have had Phil not talked me out of it) and every question I posed to Phil - "Is he supposed to ___?" - was answered with raised eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders - "I don't know!"
Then you read that newborns eat a lot and so get prepared to be up in the night with them. Oh and ask your partner to participate so that you're not doing it alone. Do you know how TIRED you get at 11, 1, 3, 5, and 7am?? And that the two hour feedings go from the time you start to the next time you start with feedings taking up to an hour...so really you get an hour "sleep" between feedings. And you wake up your partner for support only to realize there's nothing he can do and you're getting mad at him because he's nodding off as this small mouth is attempting to extract liquid that isn't there from a raw cracked nipple while you're thinking things like, "My life is over."
This is all sounding dramatic though and really, it was two weeks of this...two weeks out of my whole life. Every parent goes through this and like I said, mine was easy compared to some people's experiences so I'm not going down that road of trying to make my story sound like the most pathetic. It wasn't too bad, I always had people there, he was/is super cute and he slept a lot.
The other things that books, classes and conversations don't prepare you for is the emotion you feel for this bitty boy immediately. I know some parents it takes a while for them to feel that love and they're not sure how they feel about their baby...not me. As soon as I saw that wrinkled up face pulled out from me and heard his loud squawking I knew I couldn't love anything else exactly like I loved him. And it's just gotten better as he's grown.
He makes this pouty face when he's so tired from crying and he juts out his bottom lip as every line in his face scrunches up...only to let out this sad half cry...breaks my heart and makes me laugh all at the same time. Or when he's feeding (yes, we finally got that down after two weeks) and he's looking at me sideways with his little mouth moving up and down as milk dribbles into his BAZILLION neck folds. Or his big eyes, wrinkly forehead and cheerio-shaped mouth as he stares up into the light, holding his big head with his strengthening neck muscles. I can't even invent adjectives and verbs to describe how these things make my heart feel...and you can't either until you have one - simply amazing.
The first month went by so fast and he's grown so much (11lbs already after weighing in at 8, 3!) and I love his personality that's starting to show. He loves to cuddle, he hates sitting in a wet diaper, he's alert after bath time, and he needs his hands up by his face when he sleeps. I'm still waiting for him to smile or giggle - soon I hope! - and we're working on tummy time and head support...he's getting there. And he doesn't look like a sea monkey - he really is cute! I don't think people are lying to me when they tell me that (or else there are a lot of liars out there). He's a good blend of Dad and Mom but right now he's got a teensy bit more Mom than Dad.
He's met a lot of the family so far, and I'm so blessed that Phil was able to get home before the birth and be there for everything. He was an awesome support and I couldn't have done it without him. He's coming home soon (September!) and I'm so anxious for him to get back on our journey together. I'm glad I have Ethan here to keep me busy because I think I would be a lot sadder after R&R...but again, 7 more weeks (ish) so we're almost done. Phil is an adorable Daddy and I can't wait to see him with his boy as Ethan grows and can do more things. It was a joy to see how sappy Phil was with him and how comfortable he was holding him...I was nervous he'd be all thumbs and always be passing E off to me. I was in the kitchen that first week home from the hospital and Phil was changing him in the other room. I heard uncontrollable laughter and went in to find a straight line of poop across the entire changing table and pee whizzing through the air...Ethan as calm as can be and his Daddy laughing. I knew then that Phil was a good dad.
To repeat my thesis....nothing prepares you. And yet it's the greatest joy I've known and the most rewarding thing to go to sleep each night knowing I survived another day, my baby is still alive and dry, and even in the exhaustion, I'm happy.
To preface this post, it seems to me that everything on the subject of motherhood and children has been said, written, and sung about, and it's taken me this long to even desire writing about diaper changes, spit ups and nighttime feedings. But since my child is uniquely mine and my experience mine alone (and my blog for whatever I want!), I'm sharing my 5 weeks worth of motherhood.
Nothing will prepare you to be a parent: not a certain number of books, not all the parenting classes available, not interviews with all the moms in your town. As my previous posts will suggest, I felt confident and knowledgeable; I knew there would be some bumps in the road but I was ready for them.
Yikes.
Ethan has been an incredibly good baby, therefore I have no horror stories of him screaming through the night (yet) or tales of the non-latching baby. So even with him being a great baby, the past five weeks have been crazy tough. We got off to a rough start at the hospital and spent a grand total of five days there rather than two. My birth plan went right out the window as soon as my water broke and I realized holy crap this hurts like no other (God bless epidurals) and went even further out the window when the doctors came in and said - out of the blue - hey we're going to do a c-section in about...2 minutes. Thankfully I didn't have to get one but I DID get the pleasure of meeting a metal friend called forceps (again, thank God for epidurals). The doctors called Ethan's birth a distressed one, and therefore everything took him a couple extra days to regulate than most babies. Needless to say, Phil and I had many slow walking trips down to the NICU to visit (and attempt to feed) our boy.
We finally came home and discovered that we had no idea what we were doing and why in the world did the hospital send a TINY PERSON home with us?? Every little cough, burp, diaper, red spot, and facial expression warranted a call to the hospital (well, it would have had Phil not talked me out of it) and every question I posed to Phil - "Is he supposed to ___?" - was answered with raised eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders - "I don't know!"
Then you read that newborns eat a lot and so get prepared to be up in the night with them. Oh and ask your partner to participate so that you're not doing it alone. Do you know how TIRED you get at 11, 1, 3, 5, and 7am?? And that the two hour feedings go from the time you start to the next time you start with feedings taking up to an hour...so really you get an hour "sleep" between feedings. And you wake up your partner for support only to realize there's nothing he can do and you're getting mad at him because he's nodding off as this small mouth is attempting to extract liquid that isn't there from a raw cracked nipple while you're thinking things like, "My life is over."
This is all sounding dramatic though and really, it was two weeks of this...two weeks out of my whole life. Every parent goes through this and like I said, mine was easy compared to some people's experiences so I'm not going down that road of trying to make my story sound like the most pathetic. It wasn't too bad, I always had people there, he was/is super cute and he slept a lot.
The other things that books, classes and conversations don't prepare you for is the emotion you feel for this bitty boy immediately. I know some parents it takes a while for them to feel that love and they're not sure how they feel about their baby...not me. As soon as I saw that wrinkled up face pulled out from me and heard his loud squawking I knew I couldn't love anything else exactly like I loved him. And it's just gotten better as he's grown.
He makes this pouty face when he's so tired from crying and he juts out his bottom lip as every line in his face scrunches up...only to let out this sad half cry...breaks my heart and makes me laugh all at the same time. Or when he's feeding (yes, we finally got that down after two weeks) and he's looking at me sideways with his little mouth moving up and down as milk dribbles into his BAZILLION neck folds. Or his big eyes, wrinkly forehead and cheerio-shaped mouth as he stares up into the light, holding his big head with his strengthening neck muscles. I can't even invent adjectives and verbs to describe how these things make my heart feel...and you can't either until you have one - simply amazing.
The first month went by so fast and he's grown so much (11lbs already after weighing in at 8, 3!) and I love his personality that's starting to show. He loves to cuddle, he hates sitting in a wet diaper, he's alert after bath time, and he needs his hands up by his face when he sleeps. I'm still waiting for him to smile or giggle - soon I hope! - and we're working on tummy time and head support...he's getting there. And he doesn't look like a sea monkey - he really is cute! I don't think people are lying to me when they tell me that (or else there are a lot of liars out there). He's a good blend of Dad and Mom but right now he's got a teensy bit more Mom than Dad.He's met a lot of the family so far, and I'm so blessed that Phil was able to get home before the birth and be there for everything. He was an awesome support and I couldn't have done it without him. He's coming home soon (September!) and I'm so anxious for him to get back on our journey together. I'm glad I have Ethan here to keep me busy because I think I would be a lot sadder after R&R...but again, 7 more weeks (ish) so we're almost done. Phil is an adorable Daddy and I can't wait to see him with his boy as Ethan grows and can do more things. It was a joy to see how sappy Phil was with him and how comfortable he was holding him...I was nervous he'd be all thumbs and always be passing E off to me. I was in the kitchen that first week home from the hospital and Phil was changing him in the other room. I heard uncontrollable laughter and went in to find a straight line of poop across the entire changing table and pee whizzing through the air...Ethan as calm as can be and his Daddy laughing. I knew then that Phil was a good dad.
To repeat my thesis....nothing prepares you. And yet it's the greatest joy I've known and the most rewarding thing to go to sleep each night knowing I survived another day, my baby is still alive and dry, and even in the exhaustion, I'm happy.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Remembering Mac
This is a little overdue, but here goes.
On Memorial Day, I agreed to go with my dear friend to attend the Memorial Day Service at the cemetery as well as to see her husband's grave. I had never been to see his grave in the 8 months since he's been gone, nor had I ever gone to a ceremony on Memorial Day. I wasn't sure what to expect or what kind of emotions would hit me, and since she acted as though it was a normal thing, I decided I needed to as well.
First of all, veteran cemeteries are such quiet battlefields. To walk among the headstones and see the names of men and women, young and old, serving from previous conflicts to the present one was like walking on pages of my high school history book. As we arrived at his particular grave before the service started, I slowed my pace in the muddy grass while the rain thumped on my rain jacket. His site is on the corner of a large plot of other graves, all lined up with such precision you could measure angles by them. Others had already left mementos for him: a single yellow daisy on top, a grocery store quality bouquet laid on the grass in front, a red flag with the letters "KIA" being soaked by the rain, a red white and blue pinwheel on the other side of the stone. His wife with their 3 month old daughter strapped to her front leaned down to place her bouquet of red roses front and center, commenting earlier how she, "should've gotten something more patriotic looking," instead of roses.
I clicked photos of the three of them, she bending down to be at his level, and I could only think, something is so wrong with this picture. He shouldn't be down there while these two beautiful girls are up here. I looked up and down the rows of the fallen and wondered if he was truly glad he sacrificed as he did. If he knew how much his baby had his forehead or opened her eyes wide like him when she jibbered...if he knew how much his wife cried when the house was quiet...would he still have given up his life so willingly? Would he have made comments like, "If I die when I go out there today"? Would he have taken more care in filling out the worst-case-scenario paperwork before he deployed?
We continued walking in the pouring rain down the boulevard lined with limp American flags until we got to the service site. A community band played off to the side, old men stood in ill-fitting uniforms smiling to themselves, kids ran around in their galoshes splashing through puddles, and flags with eagles, ships, stars, and anchors hung about the stage. Other women supporting my friend found her and pointed us where to go, googling and ahh-ing over her little one, and we stood under a giant golf umbrella in the rain as the ceremony started.
I don't remember much of what was said or it being anything of grand significance, but the scene is stamped in my brain. Spouses' arms around one another; hands over hearts as songs and pledges came over the sound system; the sun shining through for about 8 minutes; an eagle soaring overhead with his familiar cry. And at the end when they read off the KIA servicemen names, I touched my friend's arm as his familiar name sounded like glass being dropped on concrete.
We walked back to the car in the rain and as I saw families walking through the graves with their young children, it hit me. This is a day that no longer means barbecues, camping trips, swimming, or a nice long weekend to do yard work. This day now means a time to honor those who gave up so much, like a sweet young wife and adorable baby girl. I've only gotten a glimpse of what being a military family is like, but the respect I have for the men, women, and children who call this their life...who risk everything to serve ungrateful Americans...who are easily forgotten after the evening news reports of their death...I'll carry that respect forever.
God is calling my family to something different and that means leaving the military after my husband has served so faithfully for all of his adult life. I can only imagine the feelings that he will go through during that transition, but I can speak for myself and say that I will never look back on our time in the service as a black spot in our history. I never want to say, "So glad THAT'S over with," because look how much being a dependent has taught me. Look how much I've learned about all those who are lifers. Look at how many amazing opportunities have been given to me. I would have never met the group of people that I now call my best friends nor would I have appreciated their struggles as I do now. I am privileged and proud to say my husband is in the U.S. Army, even with all of their shenanigans, backward philosophies and low pay. I am proud to be an Army wife and proud to live in this country, as Toby-Keith-cliche as that sounds.
Next year I want to start the tradition of visiting soldiers' graves or going to a service, even if Ethan is too young to understand. I want him to know why there's a day set aside and why it's important to our family and to so many other families. We will barbecue and swim and pull weeds, but we will remember our dear friend with a bouquet of roses on his grave and his daughter who will continue his memory simply by smiling.
On Memorial Day, I agreed to go with my dear friend to attend the Memorial Day Service at the cemetery as well as to see her husband's grave. I had never been to see his grave in the 8 months since he's been gone, nor had I ever gone to a ceremony on Memorial Day. I wasn't sure what to expect or what kind of emotions would hit me, and since she acted as though it was a normal thing, I decided I needed to as well.
First of all, veteran cemeteries are such quiet battlefields. To walk among the headstones and see the names of men and women, young and old, serving from previous conflicts to the present one was like walking on pages of my high school history book. As we arrived at his particular grave before the service started, I slowed my pace in the muddy grass while the rain thumped on my rain jacket. His site is on the corner of a large plot of other graves, all lined up with such precision you could measure angles by them. Others had already left mementos for him: a single yellow daisy on top, a grocery store quality bouquet laid on the grass in front, a red flag with the letters "KIA" being soaked by the rain, a red white and blue pinwheel on the other side of the stone. His wife with their 3 month old daughter strapped to her front leaned down to place her bouquet of red roses front and center, commenting earlier how she, "should've gotten something more patriotic looking," instead of roses.
I clicked photos of the three of them, she bending down to be at his level, and I could only think, something is so wrong with this picture. He shouldn't be down there while these two beautiful girls are up here. I looked up and down the rows of the fallen and wondered if he was truly glad he sacrificed as he did. If he knew how much his baby had his forehead or opened her eyes wide like him when she jibbered...if he knew how much his wife cried when the house was quiet...would he still have given up his life so willingly? Would he have made comments like, "If I die when I go out there today"? Would he have taken more care in filling out the worst-case-scenario paperwork before he deployed?
We continued walking in the pouring rain down the boulevard lined with limp American flags until we got to the service site. A community band played off to the side, old men stood in ill-fitting uniforms smiling to themselves, kids ran around in their galoshes splashing through puddles, and flags with eagles, ships, stars, and anchors hung about the stage. Other women supporting my friend found her and pointed us where to go, googling and ahh-ing over her little one, and we stood under a giant golf umbrella in the rain as the ceremony started.
I don't remember much of what was said or it being anything of grand significance, but the scene is stamped in my brain. Spouses' arms around one another; hands over hearts as songs and pledges came over the sound system; the sun shining through for about 8 minutes; an eagle soaring overhead with his familiar cry. And at the end when they read off the KIA servicemen names, I touched my friend's arm as his familiar name sounded like glass being dropped on concrete.
We walked back to the car in the rain and as I saw families walking through the graves with their young children, it hit me. This is a day that no longer means barbecues, camping trips, swimming, or a nice long weekend to do yard work. This day now means a time to honor those who gave up so much, like a sweet young wife and adorable baby girl. I've only gotten a glimpse of what being a military family is like, but the respect I have for the men, women, and children who call this their life...who risk everything to serve ungrateful Americans...who are easily forgotten after the evening news reports of their death...I'll carry that respect forever.
God is calling my family to something different and that means leaving the military after my husband has served so faithfully for all of his adult life. I can only imagine the feelings that he will go through during that transition, but I can speak for myself and say that I will never look back on our time in the service as a black spot in our history. I never want to say, "So glad THAT'S over with," because look how much being a dependent has taught me. Look how much I've learned about all those who are lifers. Look at how many amazing opportunities have been given to me. I would have never met the group of people that I now call my best friends nor would I have appreciated their struggles as I do now. I am privileged and proud to say my husband is in the U.S. Army, even with all of their shenanigans, backward philosophies and low pay. I am proud to be an Army wife and proud to live in this country, as Toby-Keith-cliche as that sounds.
Next year I want to start the tradition of visiting soldiers' graves or going to a service, even if Ethan is too young to understand. I want him to know why there's a day set aside and why it's important to our family and to so many other families. We will barbecue and swim and pull weeds, but we will remember our dear friend with a bouquet of roses on his grave and his daughter who will continue his memory simply by smiling.
Friday, June 4, 2010
A+ Mom
I am going to be the best mother.
The end.
(What if I ended the post right there?)
No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.
Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.
I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."
Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:
You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!
Then the caps lock thoughts:
JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!
Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.
Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.
I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.
But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.
Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.
(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)
I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.
I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.
That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.
The end.
(What if I ended the post right there?)
No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.
Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.
I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."
Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:
You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!
Then the caps lock thoughts:
JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!
Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.
Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.
I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.
But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.
Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.
(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)
I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.
I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.
That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Ok seriously...
After browsing over my last few posts, I freak out/whine/spazz/complain regularly (ie constantly). It's time for change! (For real...not Obama change)
The biggest topic of discussion -- literally -- is my pregnancy. Still pregnant (36 weeks!) and although all of my previous complaints are still true and worse, I'm getting used to it. My outie is a proud figurehead on this ship of a body; my nightly bathroom breaks help me know what time it is; after getting stuck in the couch last week, I am now a master of the "huh!" and roll...throwing myself off chairs, beds, and sofas. And my boob doesn't hurt anymore.
June is no longer a topic of anxiety. First of all, it's next week. Where did May go? I'm praying for some warmer weather, you know...above 55 degrees...that's a fair request I think. I have so many things left to do in preparation for Phil's return and baby's arrival -- curtains to be made, kitchen linoleum to be washed, car mats to be vacuumed, husband's hygiene products to be stocked (yes, he's very particular about his soaps and shampoos), propane tanks to be refilled -- that's a good week or two right there! THEN my mom and my aunt are coming out for a week right before my due date! I'm excited to have company who will double as cooks, cleaners, errand runners...and I have no shame saying that because I've been alone for 7 months...I will take whatever help I can get!
After breaking down I don't know how many times, I'm done crying, I'm done thinking myself into a tornado, I'm done bargaining with God and trying to twist His arm into doing what I want. Believe it or not, I'm not as persuasive as I think and He really doesn't play into my games...imagine that (more like thank God!). It's going to work out and in the end He will still be a good God and I will have reason to praise Him: I'm getting a son and my husband is coming home after almost 8 months!
So rest...that's the name of the game. Few more weeks...no more complaining.
The biggest topic of discussion -- literally -- is my pregnancy. Still pregnant (36 weeks!) and although all of my previous complaints are still true and worse, I'm getting used to it. My outie is a proud figurehead on this ship of a body; my nightly bathroom breaks help me know what time it is; after getting stuck in the couch last week, I am now a master of the "huh!" and roll...throwing myself off chairs, beds, and sofas. And my boob doesn't hurt anymore.
June is no longer a topic of anxiety. First of all, it's next week. Where did May go? I'm praying for some warmer weather, you know...above 55 degrees...that's a fair request I think. I have so many things left to do in preparation for Phil's return and baby's arrival -- curtains to be made, kitchen linoleum to be washed, car mats to be vacuumed, husband's hygiene products to be stocked (yes, he's very particular about his soaps and shampoos), propane tanks to be refilled -- that's a good week or two right there! THEN my mom and my aunt are coming out for a week right before my due date! I'm excited to have company who will double as cooks, cleaners, errand runners...and I have no shame saying that because I've been alone for 7 months...I will take whatever help I can get!
After breaking down I don't know how many times, I'm done crying, I'm done thinking myself into a tornado, I'm done bargaining with God and trying to twist His arm into doing what I want. Believe it or not, I'm not as persuasive as I think and He really doesn't play into my games...imagine that (more like thank God!). It's going to work out and in the end He will still be a good God and I will have reason to praise Him: I'm getting a son and my husband is coming home after almost 8 months!
So rest...that's the name of the game. Few more weeks...no more complaining.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
whine fest 2010
June will never get here.
I will always be pregnant.
Coffee never tastes like I need it to taste.
The Pacific Northwest is the wet blanket to summer.
I am not as strong as I need to be right now.
Stupid Army.
The end.
I will always be pregnant.
Coffee never tastes like I need it to taste.
The Pacific Northwest is the wet blanket to summer.
I am not as strong as I need to be right now.
Stupid Army.
The end.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
crud at 1pm
I don't know why I enjoy setting myself up for cruddy days. Does the cruddy part come first so I go with it, or do I subconsciously feel it coming so I start acting cruddily, (yes, it's a word) thus perpetuating the cruddiness?
Today started off a great morning: my strawberry plant is growing, sunshine was warming through my blinds, my english muffin toasted up extra crispy, and I finished knitting a frog hat for E. Great day for success, I thought. I then went to Bible study and anticipated Phil calling so I had my phone on vibrate literally touching my leg so I wouldn't miss it. [Side note: it's funny how when your spouse is deployed, all social etiquette goes out the window. If someone had her phone on her like that during a Bible study, I would be thinking all sort of judgmental thoughts. Now when I excuse myself and whisper, "Sorry my husband from Afghanistan" everyone nods and murmurs their approval.]
To continue.
During prayer at the end (I know I know and I'm sorry!), I checked the screen and sure enough, 1 missed call and 1 voicemail. Really? How did that happen? I ducked out afterward and found out he was online even though I wouldn't be home for another hour. I decided to save face for about an extra half hour - because how rude would I look if I just left?? - then I booked it home. Thankfully he responded to my, "Are you still there??" and we got to talk for another hour and a half.
So this should be added to the Good Things to Happen Today column on my list, but it didn't. I loved talking to him and I'm so happy to know he's safe, but talking to him on certain days just makes my heart cringe up like a charlie horse. I share with him how busy I am, all the fun things I'm getting to do (setting up E's room!), and then as I'm smiling and typing, giant tears splash onto the keyboard.
Yesterday I had to move five giant tactical boxes in the baby room to other strategically hidden places in our apartment so E's room wouldn't look like a military training facility. These were heavy when I moved them way back in November, but now with a person sticking off my front and my ears constantly popping from heavy breathing, it took me an hour to scoot [at a snail's pace] these stupid black crates to closets. And of course, my budding paranoid mother side was screaming, "You shouldn't be doing this! Sit down! Call someone! E hates you right now!"
When I finished, I felt accomplished and proud to have done so much. But after talking to Phil today and telling him about it, I turned into a martyr..."oh what a hard life I lead, without a husband, having to do all of these life-threatening tasks without my burly man to do it." It's true to a degree: I do wish he was here and could see all of the soft, squishy and tiny things...and could have moved those boxes. I don't understand, however, how yesterday's high turned into today's crud.
Maybe I needed a good cry...maybe it's all a part of the daily "stuff" of deployment...but I don't like it. I hate that feeling of being able to cry all day. As I sat there talking with Phil on the computer, I realized yet again how frustrating it is to not be able to tell your best friend that you're sitting there weeping (he had no idea as I inserted lots of !! and smiley faces). It'd be one thing if he were at work, I called him crying to tell him about my crappy day, and know that he can say, "I'm sorry honey. When I come home tonight, we can talk more about it/I'll snuggle you/I'll make you dinner," all things he would say if he were here. But what can he do? Pray, write me a sweet email, call me the next day to check on me...yes...but not crawl into bed with me at night, kiss my cheek and tell me how he loves the baby room.
It sounds as though I'm writing this at the end of a long rough day and I will now sign off and go to bed, waking up to the blooming rhododendrons and possibly pancakes or some other carby deliciousness. Unfortunately, it's only 1pm. (A lot of emotions can happen in 5 hours!) So what now...
Well, I'll take out the trash and count that as my exercise along with the workout I had earlier when I moved the last 2 boxes...there's my 30 minutes. I'll wrap a cute baby gift for a friend with my best taping and folding skills. I'll start knitting another adorable hat (hope E likes hats), then make my way to a friend's house to bake, even though crawling into bed or watching a movie sounds more appealing.
This is normal life, and I whine a lot about it. It would probably be easier if I cut out the whining part and recognized it as normal life. Another thing with deployment: no one is bold enough to say to you, "Buck up. You're fine. Your husband is fine. Stop crying and make this day a good one, cruddy or not" because that would seem insensitive or somehow deployment gives you that right to be a pouty cry-baby. So since no one else will:
Al, buck up. This is life. Blow your nose and take out the recycle.
Today started off a great morning: my strawberry plant is growing, sunshine was warming through my blinds, my english muffin toasted up extra crispy, and I finished knitting a frog hat for E. Great day for success, I thought. I then went to Bible study and anticipated Phil calling so I had my phone on vibrate literally touching my leg so I wouldn't miss it. [Side note: it's funny how when your spouse is deployed, all social etiquette goes out the window. If someone had her phone on her like that during a Bible study, I would be thinking all sort of judgmental thoughts. Now when I excuse myself and whisper, "Sorry my husband from Afghanistan" everyone nods and murmurs their approval.]
To continue.
During prayer at the end (I know I know and I'm sorry!), I checked the screen and sure enough, 1 missed call and 1 voicemail. Really? How did that happen? I ducked out afterward and found out he was online even though I wouldn't be home for another hour. I decided to save face for about an extra half hour - because how rude would I look if I just left?? - then I booked it home. Thankfully he responded to my, "Are you still there??" and we got to talk for another hour and a half.
So this should be added to the Good Things to Happen Today column on my list, but it didn't. I loved talking to him and I'm so happy to know he's safe, but talking to him on certain days just makes my heart cringe up like a charlie horse. I share with him how busy I am, all the fun things I'm getting to do (setting up E's room!), and then as I'm smiling and typing, giant tears splash onto the keyboard.
Yesterday I had to move five giant tactical boxes in the baby room to other strategically hidden places in our apartment so E's room wouldn't look like a military training facility. These were heavy when I moved them way back in November, but now with a person sticking off my front and my ears constantly popping from heavy breathing, it took me an hour to scoot [at a snail's pace] these stupid black crates to closets. And of course, my budding paranoid mother side was screaming, "You shouldn't be doing this! Sit down! Call someone! E hates you right now!"
When I finished, I felt accomplished and proud to have done so much. But after talking to Phil today and telling him about it, I turned into a martyr..."oh what a hard life I lead, without a husband, having to do all of these life-threatening tasks without my burly man to do it." It's true to a degree: I do wish he was here and could see all of the soft, squishy and tiny things...and could have moved those boxes. I don't understand, however, how yesterday's high turned into today's crud.
Maybe I needed a good cry...maybe it's all a part of the daily "stuff" of deployment...but I don't like it. I hate that feeling of being able to cry all day. As I sat there talking with Phil on the computer, I realized yet again how frustrating it is to not be able to tell your best friend that you're sitting there weeping (he had no idea as I inserted lots of !! and smiley faces). It'd be one thing if he were at work, I called him crying to tell him about my crappy day, and know that he can say, "I'm sorry honey. When I come home tonight, we can talk more about it/I'll snuggle you/I'll make you dinner," all things he would say if he were here. But what can he do? Pray, write me a sweet email, call me the next day to check on me...yes...but not crawl into bed with me at night, kiss my cheek and tell me how he loves the baby room.
It sounds as though I'm writing this at the end of a long rough day and I will now sign off and go to bed, waking up to the blooming rhododendrons and possibly pancakes or some other carby deliciousness. Unfortunately, it's only 1pm. (A lot of emotions can happen in 5 hours!) So what now...
Well, I'll take out the trash and count that as my exercise along with the workout I had earlier when I moved the last 2 boxes...there's my 30 minutes. I'll wrap a cute baby gift for a friend with my best taping and folding skills. I'll start knitting another adorable hat (hope E likes hats), then make my way to a friend's house to bake, even though crawling into bed or watching a movie sounds more appealing.
This is normal life, and I whine a lot about it. It would probably be easier if I cut out the whining part and recognized it as normal life. Another thing with deployment: no one is bold enough to say to you, "Buck up. You're fine. Your husband is fine. Stop crying and make this day a good one, cruddy or not" because that would seem insensitive or somehow deployment gives you that right to be a pouty cry-baby. So since no one else will:
Al, buck up. This is life. Blow your nose and take out the recycle.
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