More on emotional exhaustion

I'm glad that Fletcher was born first and Truman second. I'm not picking favorites.

Being a first-time mom was incredibly taxing because it was so filled with uncertainty and adjustment. Every day was the first day of being a mother to someone Fletcher's age. Every one of Fletcher's firsts was a first for me.

It was only intrinsically hard, not extrinsically. Fletcher's cries mostly made sense, and I mostly had the time, energy, and attention span to totally baby him.

My entire opinion of motherhood was shaped by my relationship with Fletcher. Our bond was instant and focused and unhurried. At the time, I suspected he was either an easy baby, or my parenting method was really effective (answering every cry to build a kind of inherent comfort and confidence).

Yeah, no. He was an easy baby. *slaps first-time mom version of myself*

Truman came along and is testing all of us. Grandma Patty calls him her prima donna, and it's an apt description: an undisciplined person who finds it difficult to work under direction or as part of a team. Try telling him he's not in charge, though, and your laughter will devolve into pitiful sobs of exhaustion inside an hour.

I might not feel the same about motherhood had this been my first experience of it. This time around, my brilliant parenting method isn't physically possible. I'm close; I feed him as often as my body can, I hold him and carry him as often as my back allows. I give him more attention than I give Fletcher (which is another whole guilt-filled story). I can't help feeling, though, that quantity is hurting quality. I can't focus on getting to know Truman if I'm focused on helping him stop crying. I can't nurture the mother-baby bond if he's screaming at me like a teenage girl in a slasher movie.

(He's been a lot better recently, and I'm still knocking on wood. If he downs three bottles in a row and gets a decent nap in a dark and quiet place, we're good. Well, he is good. I am out of milk.)

Here's one problem: No one else is quite as affected by Truman's screams as I am. They bother me to the core. Because if he's crying, something is wrong, and by god I want to help him, even if it kills me. That's a mother's job, to do everything possible to care for her baby. And if Truman's cries are honest, I'm not doing a good enough job.

Emotional exhaustion from loving the baby: a good feeling.
Emotional exhaustion from being battered by the baby's cries: a terrible feeling.

This time around, parenting is extrinsically hard, not intrinsically. Had Truman been born first, I'm afraid motherhood would've been both.

He doesn't cry all the time, and I'm sorry to make it sound like he does. It only stands out because it's different from Fletcher. I'm so sorry for Truman that he'll always be compared to his big brother.

Now that Truman's personality is beginning to come through, it's becoming easier to focus on him as an individual. Just remembering the sound of his baby laughter fills me with warmth. I may not be rested or energetic or in control, but Truman has brought more joy to my life than I ever expected or could deserve.

I'm so in love with him. I don't want to forget his smell, the way he blows raspberries and squeaks when he's excited, the recognition in his eyes, how happy he is when he succeeds at putting something in his mouth, his giggle when I tickle his armpits, his amazement when he watches his brother.

What makes a mother's love special is that it depends on nothing and is affected by nothing. I will never stop wanting more time with my sons, never love them less, never stop living for them, and never stop wishing for more time with them.

40w2d overdue

The purpose of this blog was to record things I didn't want to forget and to help work out problems taking up too much space in my brain, like Dumbledore's pensieve. I'm not sure where this falls, probably somewhere between.

Of all the normal problems of pregnancy (and babies, for that matter), the reality of the not-sleeping cliche has to be the worst -- the way every time I get into bed, it's just a thin mockery of real sleep that keeps me there until 2 or 3 am when I give up. The thought that giving birth will do nothing to fix this doesn't comfort.

I will probably never be pregnant again. I wanted to enjoy what was left of my pregnancy, to focus on the magic of it. Sometimes I still do. The foot sticking out of my right side, the hard butt pushing out of the left side of the bump. The strangers stopping me in the middle of a K-Mart to offer unsolicited advice or bizarre stories. People telling me to "go for a long walk" to get labor started, because they don't realize how much walking and yoga and everything else I've been doing for weeks. The excitement of the unknown. The smell of the newborn diapers and tiny laundered clothes just poised and waiting for the sweet little boy to wear them. The way thinking about anything like this almost overwhelms me with emotion.

But god in heaven I am tired. I don't know the difference between the sun and the moon, and just holding my head on top of my body requires the strength of Hercules.

35w6d getting ready and wallowing

The edible comparison for baby is now a honeydew. Depending on where you look, he could be 5 pounds and 18 inches long, or 6 pounds and 20 inches long already.

Doctor says his head is quite low -- she was poking it. I'm one centimeter dilated and 50 percent effaced.

Baby's liver, kidneys, circulation, and immune system should be in working order. He's very close to being able to breathe on his own (that should be a week from now, when I'm considered full term).

I kept thinking that September would be a big month where everything in my life changed, but that turned out to be August. Andy had to switch to first shift, and I'm working some insane combination of first and second shift plus my second job. Fletcher is in daycare three days a week, and when baby joins him there, we'll be spending so much money on it that I won't know how to pay our mortgage.

I have only two emotional states. Complete lethargy where I'm only semi-conscious, and panicked mania where I'm convinced that I have to work - have to clean - have to accomplish every goal I've ever set for myself because when baby comes it's all over. The fear of losing our house adds nicely into that.

How much can one brain think about at once? A lot. Every minute is focused on baby, in addition to everything else in my life. The mental exhaustion is really something when combined with the worst insomnia I've ever had.

I won't even get into the physical exhaustion and pain. Suffice it to say that if Andy "jokes" any more about how he knows all about it (and has it worse) because he's heavier than I am, I'm going to punch him in the face.

I run through my list of blessings often. I haven't forgotten how lucky I am, how good things are, how sad I will be when my last pregnancy is over forever.

But I need permission to sit and wallow in how hard this all is. I have to give myself that.

Note from the Management

It's hard, it's so hard, trying to be the conductor, the director, the manager of every detail of our complicated lives, down to the minutes. Down to the seconds. It's the manager who is responsible, the manager who shoulders the weight of this heavy, heavy house of cards I'm balancing. And I'm just not stable enough, not tough and firm and sticky enough right now, to be the glue that keeps this card house from collapsing. If I can never voluntarily rest, the day will come when I involuntarily do. I don't know how my fall will manifest--add it to the very long list of things I just don't know.

18w 3d Letters from Lindsay-land

Dear Anxiety:

Leave me the eff alone. Just this once. PLEASE.

I can't handle you, not today. It shouldn't be this hard; I shouldn't hate Wednesdays like this. So what if the baby is at Grandma's house and my night with the baby is cut a little short due to driving there and back? Why do you treat that as an invitation to crawl around under my skin, making me itch and squirm and want to scream?

You are useless. You serve no purpose. Nobody wants you here. Go away.

Sincerely,

Lindsay

* * *

Dear Anxiety's distracting, evil accomplice, Exhaustion:

We know each other very well, don't we? We're almost friends, I'd say. Or maybe family, since I certainly didn't choose you.

I can't hate you, not really. Because my baby was the one who introduced us, so.

But could you just not be QUITE so debilitating? Could I have a little personal space, a little room to breathe? Could I at least be able to concentrate long enough to do things like match my socks? It would also be really nice if I didn't have to scour my brain for the instruction manual on how to open my eyes again after each blink.

I'm begging.

Maybe if the baby would stop inviting you over so often, I wouldn't be so put out with you. But the baby has reverted to eating every two hours. Literally. I'm a bit drained. And your little vacation in Lindsay-land is starting to feel like a permanent move-in.

I can't ever be put out with the baby. I love him more than I love myself.

I just can't say the same for you. Sorry.

Sincerely,

Lindsay