return to present day

Last week, I took a vacation from work. We all have a preconception of what "vacation" is supposed to be. Going places, doing stuff, relaxing, adventuring, getting away from everything.

There is no such thing as getting away, not for me, not right now, because I won't take any real breaks from my responsibility to my child.

What's preventing that is the fact that I don't want it to be like my child is only along for the ride. He isn't an accessory. It is essential that he be an equal part of the life we're building, always.

Being the parent of a tiny person means, to me, giving up my independence for a time. It's the hardest thing about being a parent right now.

But I'm stubborn and won't change my mind on that point.

Eventually, as my child gains his own independence, I'll take mine back.

Although I didn't "get away," I had a glimpse of something during my vacation. Each day, there would be maybe two hours, a small window of precious time, that I was alone and not needed. And if I closed my eyes so I couldn't see the disaster my house has become, it felt like stepping into a time machine, back three years or more, to a place where decisions took into account me and that's all.

Me.

This type of time travel is bittersweet, almost dangerous in its seduction. It weakens my resolve and makes the return to present day an internal battle between my will and my capacity. This lifestyle will continue no matter my capacity to handle it, until the time comes that it's best that I take my step back.

Priorities. I am far down my own list. For two years, I've been below even the cats. That, at least, will change soon no matter what anyone thinks. Letting go of the guilt and the worrying about what other people think is one way, at least, to make a little room in my capacity to deal with life.

It's a good thing I don't wear makeup.

Just when I think I have everything under control, I seem to fall apart.

Having a big sobbing cry the moment upon arriving at work on a Monday morning is not a good thing.

I'm trying to separate myself from this feeling and take a serious look at it, like a scientist would. Put the slide under the microscope, get answers.

Stress. Trying to conceive, trying to sell my home, trying to be a worker, trying to be a wife, trying to be a mother. Getting a speeding ticket I can't afford.

Failure. I'm not getting pregnant. No one's buying our home. I stare at my computer at work like I've forgotten how to use it. I don't think I'm the wife my husband deserves. I'm screwing up our insurance with my speeding ticket.

Guilt. Because of the failing. And I don't want to hurt the people I love with the blinking vacancy sign I carry with me everywhere.

Fatigue. I'm not even sure I should get pregnant if I'm this exhausted all the time. Why? The fatigue is unwarranted. After all, I'm not pregnant, and I get around 7 hours of sleep at night.

I think I could sleep for 12 hours. And if not, I'd have no problem with just laying there if that were possible.

But it feels like there's so much to be done (and really it's just basic stuff, shouldn't be hard). Have to shop. Have to cook. Have to take care of the child, who happens to be my Big Love, my reason for living. Have to. Have to.

Have to open my eyes, move my legs, stop crying.

I have a lot. More than a lot. I have everything. Still, I feel like M'Lynn in Steel Magnolias, except I'm not sure what died. I wish someone would explain it to my heart.

I might talk to a professional, except I have better things to do with that time and money than to find out that I'm being a crybaby. (This is my history with doctors: Hi, my wrists kill me and I can't use my hands. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, I can't get pregnant. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, my back has me in absolute agony 24 hours a day. Oh, I'm just out of shape? Right, thanks, bye. AND I PAY THESE PEOPLE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS. I'm now tapped out and hate doctors.)

Although I'm tired always, I only feel down like this now and then. PMS is a definite trigger. Maybe this is PMS. Heaven knows, I'm aware of the power of hormones.

Writing it out here helps. I still love to read. I still want to write. It's hard not having the time to do the things I enjoy doing. At least I know I still enjoy them. I need to find my inner strength. Embrace the cry when I need to cry. Be good to the ones who love me. Find a way to move, do things, even though my feet are trapped in sand.

* * *

The essentially selfish nature of people has bothered me for a long time, in the sense that I'm bothered by "the world" and "the way things are." How petulant of me.

Knowing I'm one of those selfish beings is the worst part.

All of my problems stem from my selfishness -- mostly, wanting more. Wanting more never ends well. And my biggest problem, the thing I constantly want more of, is time.

I crave time like a drug. It's why I have a speeding ticket. It's why I get angry and almost physically ill at the necessity of employment. It's why I don't want to bother doing anything or going anywhere or knowing anyone.

It isn't healthy.

But at least I know what I'm looking at in that microscope now.

Chef Boyardon't

I go home on my lunch break to test just how short one hour can be.

Take 20 minutes off for driving there and back.

Take 10 minutes off for helping to get Fletcher changed into a fresh diaper and outfit, and playing.

Take 10 minutes off for preparing my lunch and Fletcher's lunch, attempting to feed us both, and staining us both with Chef Boyardee's Red Sauce From Hell (or RSFH, if you will). I wipe it up and turn away to try to put a spoonful of food in my mouth, and Fletcher picks up his bowl and dumps it all in his lap.

Take 6 minutes off for changing his outfit and wiping the stains into his feeding chair and the rug under the table.

Take 3 minutes off for helping Fletch drink his milk.

Take 10 minutes off for Fletcher spitting up the RSFH while he's running across our living room, and we get busy wiping the stains into the carpet.

In the last minute, I get to say goodbye to a little boy who knows I'm leaving, who doesn't want to let go of me, who throws a fit if I set him down. During this last minute, Andy's doing what he can to clean the rug, the carpet, and whatever else was hit with the RSFH. And he's asking me why I'm not leaving.

When I walk out the door, it all stays with me. I don't take a "break" and leave parenting behind me for the afternoon. If those 60 little minutes were stressful, you can believe the rest of the day will be. I can't stop hearing his tantrum voice and wishing I were there to help clean up the mess.

Instead, I'm at work, where a slew of tasks waits. I'm here, with stained pants and an almost empty stomach, shirking responsibility for two minutes so that I can write this. It feels as though everything I want to do – personally, professionally – is all compounding on me as every moment passes, and it is too overwhelming to manage.

As I pick up my professional to-do list and my stomach rumbles, I'm wondering how hungry Fletcher is, and what his daddy will feed him while I'm away.

I'm guessing it won't be Chef Boyardee.

21w 3d stress

[To preview the photos from last weekend's photo shoot, visit Songbird Photography]

I remember a time when leaving work early meant getting some shopping done, a leisurely dinner, and sitting down with a book or a good TV show. It might be 20 plus years before I experience that again.

Trying to cram my work in before 2:00 p.m. today was a feat. The mad dash out of the office was followed by an idiot who had the nerve to drive the actual speed limit (preposterous!), followed by a half-assed attempt at five-minute-nursing (its effectiveness is in the same league as speed-dating, I think), followed by hopping into the car with baby for a drive to New Berlin.

Then came the appointment with the dermatologist, which was so full of long medical terminology that my brain went, "La, la, la, la, la, can't hear you," just like the immature wheel of cheese in the Cheez-It commercial. (Side note: Why do so many brands spell words in the product name incorrectly? Soooo annoying to me.)

The result of the appointment was that Fletcher is fine, er, maybe, because they want to see him again in two months after using yet another prescription.

Since becoming a mother, I've developed a nervous tic for whenever I'm handed a prescription. Gah! Prescription! Pharmacy! Wal-Mart! Gah! Not easy, not anymore.

So we went to Wal-Mart. A billion hours later, we came home. Baby flat-out refused to sleep, so... bath time! Time to be super duper careful cleaning him up, then use all these crazy creams we have for his skin! Yea, er, fun!

Finally, he's clean and he's freshly coated and I'm unfolding the diaper and... and... and... yes, you mothers of boys, you know what came next. Pee everywhere. On his chest, in his mouth, up his nose, in his eyes, all over his hair. Pee pee pee pee pee. Back in the bathtub. Only this time, Mommy thinks, "Hey! I'll rinse his face with water!"

It turns out babies aren't so good when it comes to water in their mouth and nose. Fletcher tried to breathe the water and, not knowing what to do, FREAKED OUT BECAUSE HE'S DROWNING. This was followed by me, FREAKING OUT BECAUSE HE'S DROWNING.

I pick up a soaking wet baby and try to get him to breathe-please-oh-please-cough-up-that-drop-of-water-oh-god. I'm soaked. He's screaming. And the screaming continued for a nice half hour before finally he gave up and fell asleep.

Um. I'm stressed out.

In lighter news, I got to experience the parental joy that is dressing your baby up as a cute little animal for Halloween.

I always did love tiny cows!

Moo!

This cow stands on two legs! A blue ribbon at the fair, for sure!

This is what the boys do at 5:00 in the morning when Mommy steals some sleep.

The five months present!

P.S. Thank you, Dieball, for nicknaming the baby "Fletch-a-Sketch." Just. Awesome.