a mamma in the making

The cursor blinks and blinks on the page, like eyes that open and shut, waiting for something to change or appear or disappear.  I’m looking for words, wondering where my words have gone.  Oh, sure, if I lift the six piles of laundry there’ll be a few, and maybe some under the half eaten grapes and playing cards scattered on the floor, Jack of Spades’ face half chewed through.  Moustache stuck to my girl’s chin, her devilish grin growing as she stomps around the house with nothing but a dirty t-shirt (from one of the piles) draped over her head like a swami.  I want to ask her to tell my fortune, what our future holds.  I am stuck between knowing I ought to be present for what IS and wanting to push fast forward on this life, hoping that what’s ahead will offer more comfort, more ease, more grace. If I were brave enough I’d tell you that my words have gone into a deep state of arrest.  Too little time, too few moments of all-out joy.  WHy would I document the hollow and heavy blueness I feel?

I know a wise woman who used to say “you gotta go through it to get to it.”  Ironically, her nickname is MOMS.  It’s a weird place, this blah, mehh, shoulder-shrugging, uninspired place.   A crossroads between utter loneliness and chosen social hibernation.  The feeling that I have nothing to offer, that I am- gasp- boring.  How do you go through that?  And what will be on the other side?  What exactly will I be getting to?

Rob assures me that it’s just hormones.  And the toll of being so ill with the first trimester (now second) nausea hitting me hard.  ANd not getting any sleep.  And caring for a little one that is “ON” almost all day long.  I can only hope he’s right.   I think there could be nothing sadder than not caring much about anything.

I know I need to change my inner vibe.   I know I need to take better self care.  Carve out more time for me to do the things that give me lift.  Even if just a few times a week.

I suspect that’s why there’s not a lot of books out there on parenting with a baby and a toddler.  Who has the time to be an attentive parent AND write the nitty gritty truth of how it is?  Few, I suspect.   Though a little creativity goes a long way…. the babysitting trade I do with a friend allows me this precious time now to write, Seava gone to play with her 8 year old pal for the next two hours.

A friend told me before Seava came that I would get a lot of parenting advice, but the best she had to offer was this:  you will never feel like a good enough parent, and that once you accept that and get over it, everyone will be much better off.   Part of my blueness, I think.  I once believed I gave up Catholic guilt for New Year’s long long ago, but it seems guilt is a daily part of my regime.  Take, for example, this week’s earlier outing.  Riding the bike to do errands and then meet a friend, Seava decides to have a full-out fit while in her seat, wiggling and wobbling all over.  “Stop” I say firmly.  More wiggling, with deeper intensity and whines (oh dear god, help me with the whining).  “Cut the shit,” I say, half annoyed, half worried I’d dump the bike with us both on it. A driver in his car, with his windows rolled down, hollers out “Do you really talk to your child like that?” and then to the passenger in his car “DId you hear her?”.  Instant Shame.   I must be the most terrible mother in the universe.   ANd probably even more so when I share a sip of my cafe mocha and a little nibble of my brownie with her at the coffee shop where we meet my friend, and then saunter on to do the parenting radio show where I tout the importance of making wise choices with food for you and your family.

Sometimes I really do think I suck at all this.  It used to be when I didn’t enjoy something or I wasn’t especially happy or good at it, I’d give my notice and move on to the next thing.   HA!  Forget it.   Talk about a test in commitment and consistency.  No wonder so many parents are so tired.

I know I sound like IM the one whining now, which is why, even if I do have some time, I don’t write.  My own mother taught me “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”  But MOMS might be better onto something.  If you stuff all that stuff down, it doesn’t go away.  It gets bigger and more unruly and then starts rearing it’s ugly monster head with thoughts like “you suck” and “people don’t like you anymore” and “your life as you knew it is over.”

If you let all the heavy shit hit the page, then maybe you can find the words that are underneath, words that, yes, might be blue, but think of all the colors of blue there are in teh world, all the things that are blue and just maybe you could shift from that sort of blue that keeps you huddled up inside yourself and fly into that blue blue sky.  Just maybe you’ll trust that, yes, hormones are a powerful thing, and they are coursing though you at speeds you can’t keep track of, and one day, they’ll level out, or disappear, and the cursor will be blinking it’s squinty little eye, and you’ll arrive at the page again, with words that speak of wonder and love and excitement of what’s to come.