Sometimes it feels as though having a toddler is the same thing as being held hostage by a terrorist. I say this after almost two months of having not a single night of solid sleep. Each night seeming worse than the last, I have grown accustomed (though not fond) of piecing an hour here, three there (if I'm lucky)...with the end result totaling around maybe four hours of sleep per night. Not exactly an optimum situation.
The problem: I am being awakened every night by my child. My toddler. A two year old. A terrorist. And, though I have tried all methods of parenting possible (punishment, bribery, forced understanding, forced patience, only to resume begging, pleading and yelling), nothing seems to work. More than being at a total loss of solutions, I am slowly fading away into the worst possible thing - a person who is giving up. On everything. I no longer believe I will ever sleep again; and, in turn, I no longer believe I will ever be the kind of mother I want to be. So, how can I escape from this reign of terror?
After having asked mothers who have experienced similar things and have made it out to the "other side," I have been given insights and hope that the situation will find its natural end. My only problem is knowing when the end will be near. I, as of yet, haven't seen the slightest signs of any alleviation. So, I sit beside myself in melancholy, wishing for a liberation.
But, what if it doesn't come in time? My fear of all fears, I worry that I will devolve more quickly than Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" - believe me, some nights (like tonight, in particular), it's not that far of a leap. After all, I am not the most patient person in the world. I don't dangle my dreams on the notions of things working out on their own. I have always been the type to make my own destiny. If something doesn't work out, I chalk it up to personal failure...but, in the end, whatever I have achieved has been because of the fact that I have gone out and made it happen. I have never allowed things to take a so-called "natural course." So, with that said, this is the most challenging of all efforts.
The thing about life, I suppose, is that sometimes there are no answers. None apparent, anyway. Being a parent doesn't make me more wise or patient or accepting of the fact that "my way" is no longer the path of my life. It more just makes me yearn for the days of ease, before taxes and stretch marks and life with a toddler who displays no remorse for bad deeds. It makes me miss the simplicity of single life and the ease of childhood. It creates much more of a sense of gratitude for my parents, who I am certain had their share of dilemmas with me. And, it makes me wish I were the type of person who could better handle things that don't go her way. But, I'm not that person.
I no longer have the life of my past. All I have is this moment in time, when the crying child has finally fallen asleep, when it will soon be time for the household to rise and another day will pass with my glazed-over sleep-deprived eyes having discovered that hope does not lie on the horizon. It only lies in the past. If I can make it out of this slump alive, I will cherish the fact that I found enough inner-strength necessary to survive this time. But, only if I can find such strength. And, until I see such a day, I will continue to disbelieve its existence.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Common Misconception - The Perfect Mother
A few days ago I had a particularly bad day, largely in part to my lack of sleep the night before. My daughter had some vivid nightmares and woke up screaming my name. The jarring noise of a loud yell and traumatic tears is not how I prefer to be awakened. I am known to be a person who adores the veil of sleep more than most. It is easily in the top two list of my basic needs in life. I would more commonly pass up chocolate, trinkets and money in the pursuit of slumber; but, duty called and up I rose. Angry. Tired. Removed from a pleasant dream. A parent's job, proverbially, never done. Not even at night.
As luck may have it, my daughter went back to sleep quite easily after both events. The first was at 12:30 a.m. The second was at 6:00 a.m. The in between time, however, found me, with my delicate and very specific needs, unable to sleep - something for which I am always afraid. I tossed, turned, arose for innumerable trips to the bathroom, returned, re-tossed, repeated, countless times. Unsettled. Awake. Not happy. Stewing in this unhappiness.
The next day, therefore, found me as a wreck. Anyone who knows me, knows how truly worthless I become when I miss a night of sleep. Even skimming a couple of hours off of my normal night finds me less adequate in my tasks. No sleep = no good. So, I plodded around the house, sulking in my misery, cursing parenthood and all of the seemingly endless aspects for which my fondness had waned. And then, I did the worst possible thing a mother can do (besides leaving the T.V. on all day - which, on that day, I assure you, I was guilty of doing). I yelled at my child. My little angel. The one, single person in this world that I love truly, deeply, beyond belief. I yelled, like a tyrant; not for any particular reason. There was no just cause. I was just yelling for the sake of yelling. And, I felt like I spent the whole day carrying on that way. I yelled about inconsequential things. Things that didn't matter. I carried on like a crazy person.
Then, as all moments have their crescendos, I ended my symphony of rage with some tears. Buckets of them, rivers of them, enough for us both to swim in. I never wanted to be this kind of mother. I had read all of the books that noted this behavior as traumatic to the child - something that a good mother would avoid. I told myself before she was born that I would resist all of my own temper tantrums for the sake of her emotional well-being. And then, with all of my other great intentions in life, those pretty affirmations flew away like a bird - a mockingbird, mocking the fact that I had failed. I was far from being the perfect mother I had aspired to be.
Then, in the midst of my tears running, my child did the most poignant thing. She grabbed a tissue and began to wipe my eyes. She patted each one as delicately as I would have wiped hers. Then, she dabbed the trail beneath my nose and looked at me with a smile. This smile wasn't her typical, impish smile that hinted at mischievousness. Instead, it was a smile of an old soul, gazing right into my eyes, offering her forgiveness and the cherished fact that she would love me no matter what. I was her mother, imperfect and (at times) immature; but, she loved me regardless of my faults. So, why had I gotten so worked up? I had completely forgotten about the lack of sleep. I was just focusing, instead, on my perceived failure as a mother. But, if my child could forgive me my faults, why couldn't I do the same?
I started thinking about motherhood - its images as they are perpetrated by the world, by fellow mothers, by Hallmark and the Lifetime Channel - and I realized how we are often misguided in our interpretations of what a good mother should be. The typical image is that of a nearly-perfect, kind being who has no thoughts, goals, feelings or needs. Essentially, a non-entity. Just a person, quiet and sincere, always ready to serve and support. No yelling. No bad words. No frustrations. No fatigue. No frowns. No tears. Just endless happiness and euphoria over the presence of her family. After all, what more could a mother need?
I don't know exactly who pinned this ideal in my mind, or where I was influenced to believe that this is the definition of a perfect maternal figure, but there is no simpler way to put it - she is a false icon. Similar to the tooth-fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus and the like, she doesn't exist. She is a concoction of all of our collective hopes and dreams; but, in her "existence," she serves only to make us all feel less than adequate in our daily realm. In other words, with reality in mind, no mother could possibly rank to the levels of perfection as it is outlined by any society. We all fall short; and, in so doing, we all feel like failures (at least, at some point or another).
Living with that in mind, I decided that I would stop reading those books on parenting. Stop watching those movies. Stop believing the myths that other mothers perpetrate. Stop examining every moment of my life as though it were a sports match, foul points mounting, time ticking away on the clock. Stop viewing "perfection" as the goal. And, most importantly, stop being so unrealistic in my life. So, I had a bad day. It happens. It will most assuredly happen again. But, instead of getting hung up on those moments (thinking that I am certainly scarring my child for allowing her to see me, "warts and all"), I decided I would gauge my quality as a mother in one way - by my child. She is a happy girl, lively and full of spirit. Shy to strangers. Sweet to those who know her. Eccentric in her demands and desires. Kean and clever. Funny, even. And, oh so kind. She wiped my eyes when I cried; she's only two. I know I am far from being a perfect mother, but I am honest in the fact that I am trying my best. And, I have decided that just might be the real definition of perfection.
As luck may have it, my daughter went back to sleep quite easily after both events. The first was at 12:30 a.m. The second was at 6:00 a.m. The in between time, however, found me, with my delicate and very specific needs, unable to sleep - something for which I am always afraid. I tossed, turned, arose for innumerable trips to the bathroom, returned, re-tossed, repeated, countless times. Unsettled. Awake. Not happy. Stewing in this unhappiness.
The next day, therefore, found me as a wreck. Anyone who knows me, knows how truly worthless I become when I miss a night of sleep. Even skimming a couple of hours off of my normal night finds me less adequate in my tasks. No sleep = no good. So, I plodded around the house, sulking in my misery, cursing parenthood and all of the seemingly endless aspects for which my fondness had waned. And then, I did the worst possible thing a mother can do (besides leaving the T.V. on all day - which, on that day, I assure you, I was guilty of doing). I yelled at my child. My little angel. The one, single person in this world that I love truly, deeply, beyond belief. I yelled, like a tyrant; not for any particular reason. There was no just cause. I was just yelling for the sake of yelling. And, I felt like I spent the whole day carrying on that way. I yelled about inconsequential things. Things that didn't matter. I carried on like a crazy person.
Then, as all moments have their crescendos, I ended my symphony of rage with some tears. Buckets of them, rivers of them, enough for us both to swim in. I never wanted to be this kind of mother. I had read all of the books that noted this behavior as traumatic to the child - something that a good mother would avoid. I told myself before she was born that I would resist all of my own temper tantrums for the sake of her emotional well-being. And then, with all of my other great intentions in life, those pretty affirmations flew away like a bird - a mockingbird, mocking the fact that I had failed. I was far from being the perfect mother I had aspired to be.
Then, in the midst of my tears running, my child did the most poignant thing. She grabbed a tissue and began to wipe my eyes. She patted each one as delicately as I would have wiped hers. Then, she dabbed the trail beneath my nose and looked at me with a smile. This smile wasn't her typical, impish smile that hinted at mischievousness. Instead, it was a smile of an old soul, gazing right into my eyes, offering her forgiveness and the cherished fact that she would love me no matter what. I was her mother, imperfect and (at times) immature; but, she loved me regardless of my faults. So, why had I gotten so worked up? I had completely forgotten about the lack of sleep. I was just focusing, instead, on my perceived failure as a mother. But, if my child could forgive me my faults, why couldn't I do the same?
I started thinking about motherhood - its images as they are perpetrated by the world, by fellow mothers, by Hallmark and the Lifetime Channel - and I realized how we are often misguided in our interpretations of what a good mother should be. The typical image is that of a nearly-perfect, kind being who has no thoughts, goals, feelings or needs. Essentially, a non-entity. Just a person, quiet and sincere, always ready to serve and support. No yelling. No bad words. No frustrations. No fatigue. No frowns. No tears. Just endless happiness and euphoria over the presence of her family. After all, what more could a mother need?
I don't know exactly who pinned this ideal in my mind, or where I was influenced to believe that this is the definition of a perfect maternal figure, but there is no simpler way to put it - she is a false icon. Similar to the tooth-fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus and the like, she doesn't exist. She is a concoction of all of our collective hopes and dreams; but, in her "existence," she serves only to make us all feel less than adequate in our daily realm. In other words, with reality in mind, no mother could possibly rank to the levels of perfection as it is outlined by any society. We all fall short; and, in so doing, we all feel like failures (at least, at some point or another).
Living with that in mind, I decided that I would stop reading those books on parenting. Stop watching those movies. Stop believing the myths that other mothers perpetrate. Stop examining every moment of my life as though it were a sports match, foul points mounting, time ticking away on the clock. Stop viewing "perfection" as the goal. And, most importantly, stop being so unrealistic in my life. So, I had a bad day. It happens. It will most assuredly happen again. But, instead of getting hung up on those moments (thinking that I am certainly scarring my child for allowing her to see me, "warts and all"), I decided I would gauge my quality as a mother in one way - by my child. She is a happy girl, lively and full of spirit. Shy to strangers. Sweet to those who know her. Eccentric in her demands and desires. Kean and clever. Funny, even. And, oh so kind. She wiped my eyes when I cried; she's only two. I know I am far from being a perfect mother, but I am honest in the fact that I am trying my best. And, I have decided that just might be the real definition of perfection.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
So it begins...
Okay, so I am new to the whole blog world. I have never blogged before. Never followed a blog. Not particularly fond of the word "blog," in general, nor of the self-serving cyber-world in which one gets lost in themselves. However, after seeing a friend's internet journal about her life's work in food, I became inspired to get back on the proverbial horse and write again. The "again," of course, being the exaggerated term to describe the writing I have done in the past.
In my wild, artsy pre-married life, before I had a mortgage, a baby and enough chores to keep my legs in constant motion, I once pursued life as a writer. To be honest, in that time, my focus was more in pursuing my artwork (paintings and such)...but, even though the art was flashier, the writing was always a fond friend, waiting ever quietly in the background for my return. Throughout my life, it has always been something that I have come back to. My first true love.
I have wanted to be a writer since I was eight years old. And, in my life, I have had a few small pieces published. Nothing major. Some poetry in literary journals. Big deal. No one reads poetry. I admit now, I loathe poetry. I only tried to get that work published because of the ease with which it can be done. My first sell-out. As for the other essays, short stories and articles that were published, most of them remained in obscure postings and random nooks of, again, literary journals. Most readers never saw them or even knew where to find them. Limited printings and even more limited interest made way for these dusty archives to be all but forgotten. Oh well. If I could remember where they were printed, I would have the gumption to look them up; but, no matter. At this point in my life, I have taken to the Buddhist way of thought about attachment and the struggles it causes. I prefer, as the Buddhist monks do, to let go and release those things into the universe for better care.
Of course, I want to note, the one thing that was published in my name which had a larger audience was an article about my struggles with anorexia as a teen. The article was published in Twist Magazine, a magazine that actually saw the light of day in commercial stands at a store near you! I remember being in the Wal-Mart, opening the magazine, and seeing my story (and picture...yikes!) in full color on the glossy pages of the magazine. I couldn't wait to get it home and read my words. Yes, narcissism is a grand thing, indeed! However, I was a little disappointed when I did read the piece (which was "co-authored" by the editor of the publication). My words, the words that I had so carefully labored over, had been contorted and "twisted," shall we say, to fit a tween dialogue. There were so many prepubescent words ("like, oh my god!") that it was almost unreadable to me. Don't get me wrong: the editor was kind, the photo shoot had been amazing - it was truly an experience of a lifetime. But, that one little hang-up over the most important part - my words - made me a little disenchanted about the literary world, as a whole.
So, I wrote less. I painted more. But, neither avenue really panned out in the end. My eventual "failure" of not being about to make a comfortable living by selling my art didn't help my overall confidence. Nor did countless rejections in either the literary or art worlds. So, I did the sensible thing. I slunk into a part-time job that would grow to become a full-time job. I became reborn into the white walls of corporate America. I started earning regular pay-checks, paying taxes, buying groceries and gas like an adult, eating Ramen noodles less, nodding and bowing subserviently at my 9-5 overlords, fighting traffic, ironing shirts, waking to an alarm clock, doing these things in perfect formation five days a week, every week, all the time. And then, just like that, it all stopped.
My daughter was born over two years ago. I tried to go back to work part-time after her birth, but it just didn't seem to matter anymore. Not that it ever really did. But now, it mattered even less. To say that staying home with a baby is the hardest job in the world would be an understatement! It is bootcamp every single day, twenty four hours a day. No rest for the weary. Especially not for the breastfeeding mother (as I was). Yes, again I had been reborn from artist/writer, to corporate sell-out, to wife/mother/homemaker in only the short time span of a decade. And, in the process, with my head spinning, I have only recently gotten time to reflect on all of these changes and think about what it is that I want from it.
What do I want? Well, quite simply, I want a voice. Everyone else seems to have one, after all. The gallery owners and editors who rejected my work had a voice - a clear and discouraging voice. My old bosses all had voices; loud and commanding, for sure. My husband has a voice. My baby has a voice; hers can deafen the masses from miles, when it's her desire. So now, after a long silence, I return. Reborn again. A mother who matters, who desires an outlet and is grateful for her journey. A mother with a rusty pen and a desire to, once again, let the ink flow. Or, more aptly, let whatever it is that controls the flashing cursor of her computer screen to blink.
In my wild, artsy pre-married life, before I had a mortgage, a baby and enough chores to keep my legs in constant motion, I once pursued life as a writer. To be honest, in that time, my focus was more in pursuing my artwork (paintings and such)...but, even though the art was flashier, the writing was always a fond friend, waiting ever quietly in the background for my return. Throughout my life, it has always been something that I have come back to. My first true love.
I have wanted to be a writer since I was eight years old. And, in my life, I have had a few small pieces published. Nothing major. Some poetry in literary journals. Big deal. No one reads poetry. I admit now, I loathe poetry. I only tried to get that work published because of the ease with which it can be done. My first sell-out. As for the other essays, short stories and articles that were published, most of them remained in obscure postings and random nooks of, again, literary journals. Most readers never saw them or even knew where to find them. Limited printings and even more limited interest made way for these dusty archives to be all but forgotten. Oh well. If I could remember where they were printed, I would have the gumption to look them up; but, no matter. At this point in my life, I have taken to the Buddhist way of thought about attachment and the struggles it causes. I prefer, as the Buddhist monks do, to let go and release those things into the universe for better care.
Of course, I want to note, the one thing that was published in my name which had a larger audience was an article about my struggles with anorexia as a teen. The article was published in Twist Magazine, a magazine that actually saw the light of day in commercial stands at a store near you! I remember being in the Wal-Mart, opening the magazine, and seeing my story (and picture...yikes!) in full color on the glossy pages of the magazine. I couldn't wait to get it home and read my words. Yes, narcissism is a grand thing, indeed! However, I was a little disappointed when I did read the piece (which was "co-authored" by the editor of the publication). My words, the words that I had so carefully labored over, had been contorted and "twisted," shall we say, to fit a tween dialogue. There were so many prepubescent words ("like, oh my god!") that it was almost unreadable to me. Don't get me wrong: the editor was kind, the photo shoot had been amazing - it was truly an experience of a lifetime. But, that one little hang-up over the most important part - my words - made me a little disenchanted about the literary world, as a whole.
So, I wrote less. I painted more. But, neither avenue really panned out in the end. My eventual "failure" of not being about to make a comfortable living by selling my art didn't help my overall confidence. Nor did countless rejections in either the literary or art worlds. So, I did the sensible thing. I slunk into a part-time job that would grow to become a full-time job. I became reborn into the white walls of corporate America. I started earning regular pay-checks, paying taxes, buying groceries and gas like an adult, eating Ramen noodles less, nodding and bowing subserviently at my 9-5 overlords, fighting traffic, ironing shirts, waking to an alarm clock, doing these things in perfect formation five days a week, every week, all the time. And then, just like that, it all stopped.
My daughter was born over two years ago. I tried to go back to work part-time after her birth, but it just didn't seem to matter anymore. Not that it ever really did. But now, it mattered even less. To say that staying home with a baby is the hardest job in the world would be an understatement! It is bootcamp every single day, twenty four hours a day. No rest for the weary. Especially not for the breastfeeding mother (as I was). Yes, again I had been reborn from artist/writer, to corporate sell-out, to wife/mother/homemaker in only the short time span of a decade. And, in the process, with my head spinning, I have only recently gotten time to reflect on all of these changes and think about what it is that I want from it.
What do I want? Well, quite simply, I want a voice. Everyone else seems to have one, after all. The gallery owners and editors who rejected my work had a voice - a clear and discouraging voice. My old bosses all had voices; loud and commanding, for sure. My husband has a voice. My baby has a voice; hers can deafen the masses from miles, when it's her desire. So now, after a long silence, I return. Reborn again. A mother who matters, who desires an outlet and is grateful for her journey. A mother with a rusty pen and a desire to, once again, let the ink flow. Or, more aptly, let whatever it is that controls the flashing cursor of her computer screen to blink.
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