Archive for the ‘Parenting’ Category

I take an awful lot of pictures of my kids while they’re sleeping.  Looking back, 20 years from now, they might wonder if their entire childhoods were spent sprawled across their mattresses, limbs askew.

Given the amount of time I spend getting them to fall asleep each night, you might think that those photos are my trophies, my way of celebrating another successful bedtime battle where I won and they lost.

But no, I don’t think so.  I think I’m trying to capture the way my heart feels when I’m awake and they’re asleep.  It’s this mixture of love and pride and nostalgia.  Of holding on and letting go, remembering what was and looking forward to what’s ahead.  There they are, asleep and growing.  Always growing.  Up, up and away.

As each evening draws to a close, I plan to fall into bed as soon as they settle down for the night.  But instead, my mind moves from the necessities of the day to other things.  When the house is quiet and the kids are asleep, I find myself suddenly and inexplicably wide awake.

My mind fills with so many thoughts, but I can’t put them into words.

So I sit there in the dark and watch them sleep.  I listen to their little girl breaths and watch their little girl chests rise and fall.  I reach out and touch their smooth little girl cheeks, soft as a feather.

After a time, my mind quiets itself.

And finally, I sleep.

                   

Those three own my heart. 

They occupy every nook and cranny, day and night, awake or asleep.  My every breath, my very soul is consumed with them.  I know no other way.

And so, of course I will miss them when I go to San Diego this weekend with my sister and our cousin, Jenn, who happen to be two of the funniest people I know. 

I will miss them while I’m laughing and sipping wine and lounging on the beach.

I will miss them while I’m eating tasty food and doing all kinds of shit without interruptions.

I will miss them while I’m sleeping in and taking a long, hot shower.

I will miss them, yes I will. 

But I have to trust that they will take care of each other while I’m taking care of me, myself and I.

I was Alison’s age when my mom left. 

That’s all I could think about when I walked out the other night.  I left the kids in the bath, their hair full of shampoo.  I’d been trying to rinse them when they thought it would be funny to kick their legs and drench me as I leaned down over the tub.

It was just too much.  Too much disrespect, too much neediness, not enough appreciation, for days and days on end.  In that moment, water dripping from my face, I felt defeated.

And so I walked away.  Left them to their dad, who was so horribly sick, he hadn’t been able to get out of bed by himself in over 24 hours.  All I could do was put one foot in front of the other.

I was Alison’s age when my mom left. 

I remember her saying that it wasn’t anything I did, she was just overwhelmed and needed to get well.  But I stood there, my hand on the front door, my keys in my hand, and I wondered if she knew, back then, how much I appreciated the things she did for me.

But did I?  Did I appreciate how hard she worked?  All the sacrifices she made for me, for us?  When she was having a bad day, did I shower her with hugs and kisses and give her some space?  Or did I pick a fight with my sister, tell her I hated what she made for dinner, refuse to go to bed, splash her as she tried to rinse my hair?

If I had paid a little closer attention, shown a little empathy, treated her with more respect, would things have been different for her?

One day, she was gone, and we had to figure out how to live our lives without her there.  Without her to clap with joy for something done well, without her cool hand in mine as I crossed the street, without her gentle voice as I fell asleep.  I never even knew she was struggling, never even noticed.

I was Alison’s age when my mom left, and I walked out the door, anyway.

But instead of getting into my car and driving away, I went to the backyard and picked up a puppy.  I breathed in that scrumptious puppy smell and rested my face on the little guy’s head and I closed my eyes.  My tears fell on his soft fur and he snuggled into my chest.

I thought of the way Alison smiles when I sing her favorite song.

The way Blythe’s eyes sparkle when we dance.

The way Jeremy takes care of me when I remember to tell him that I need help.

My girls came to find me, dressed in their pajamas, damp hair a mess of tangles down their backs. 

“We’re sorry we splashed you, Mommy,” Alison said. 

“I don’t like to make you sad, Mommy,” said Blythe.

They hugged me tight, wiped my tears and I told them that I love them.  They are kids, being kids.  Sometimes they are ornery and ungrateful, but other times they are thoughtful and kind and giving.

    

It was just too much, in that moment, but the truth is, this isn’t about them.  It’s about me.

For three years I have struggled with some form of depression, and all that time, in the back of my mind, I’ve thought of how my mom had to leave in order to get better.  I ask myself, is it possible to give so much of myself to their needs, every moment of the day, and still have the strength to climb this mountain? 

In my darkest moments I wonder, am I destined to follow in her footsteps?  Will my kids one day look back and remember how old they were when I left?  Struggling to find balance in their own adult lives, will they wonder if they are strong enough to stay?  Or strong enough to leave if they need to?

I stay.  No matter how hard things get for me, how low I get when my hormones are out of balance and life is overwhelming me and I feel like I have nothing left, absolutely nothing left to give them, I know I will always stay, because I am working, constantly, to get better.

I know that the darkness will pass.  Because unlike my mother before me, I have someone who understands.  Someone who has been there and had to walk away in order to get better.  She reminds me, in those moments, that I am not alone.

I stay.  I stay.  I promise I will always, always, stay.

Alison’s cousin came to stay over the weekend, and I found myself exasperated at the child’s refusal to eat any of the food I had to offer.

She’s always been a picky eater, and believe me, I get the whole picky thing.  As a child, and actually through to my early twenties, my hypothalamus failed to notify me when my body needed fuel.  As a result, I never felt hungry.  And if food looked funny, smelled funny, or felt funny, I didn’t eat it. 

So, yeah.  I get it.  My history of pickiness is the reason we have a household rule that the kids have to try at least one bite of everything I put on their plates, healthy or not.

However.  In my opinion, this not-quite 7-year-old’s eating habits go beyond being picky.  She will not eat anything that is not deep fried, unless it’s ramen noodles or  a peanut butter and jelly sandwich – and even then, it has to be on white bread, no crusts. 

Her visit was unexpected, and so I had nothing to feed her int he pantry.  Blythe and I had to make a quick run up to the corner market, otherwise girlfriend was going to starve the whole time she was here.  And yes, I told her that I was not happy about spending $20 on “junk” because she won’t eat a damn banana or whole wheat noodle.

The child does not consume anything with any nutritional value.  N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

I know I go above and beyond when it comes to serving whole, nutritious foods in my household, and I also understand that not everyone eats that way.  If it weren’t for Blythe’s food allergies, I’d probably even allow my kids to eat a deep fried this or that on occasion. 

My in-laws insist that Alison’s cousin’s greasy food habit is normal, and my kids’ love of fruits, veggies, and whole grains is an oddity. 

It’s hard for me to believe that in this age of information, serving kids nothing but hollow foods is standard.  But then again, childhood obesity is at an all-time high, and you can’t go to a restaurant without seeing corndogs and chicken nuggets on the children’s menu.

So help me out, my friends.  Where on the spectrum does your family fall? 

Do your kids refuse to eat anything that isn’t fried or sugar filled?  Are your kids fruit and veggie junkies?  Or do they fall somewhere in between, in a happy medium?

It’s been six months since Blythe was diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder.

She’s made incredible progress.  A few set-backs, to be sure, but mostly progress.

I just realized today that I haven’t been taking advantage of all the resources available to me, to help her.  And in that discovery I was smacked in the face with something my best friend told me many, many years ago.

When things get tough, I invert.  I do things by myself.  I don’t ask for help.  I reinvent the wheel when there’s a perfectly good one sitting 10 feet away.

Why do I have to keep learning this lesson? 

I let myself get so overwhelmed by the heaviness of it all, never asking for help until I’m being crushed into the ground, like Atlas. 

Why am I so afraid of letting others help me, or in this case, my daughter?

Why haven’t I connected with the many people who have offered support with Blythe’s special needs?

Why didn’t I assume there was a website dedicated to clothing for kids with SPD (many thanks to Heather for the link)?  So many simple solutions to problems we face every day.  Why didn’t I at least do a quick internet search?

Why did I take it upon myself to research every possible preschool for Blythe, instead of calling our county’s office of education for recommendations?

Why haven’t I hired a housekeeper?

Because I do things myself.  Even if life around here would have been a hundred times more pleasant for the past six months, had I just reached out for some support.

Why haven’t I learned to ask for help?  Or at least learned to gracefully accept it, when it’s offered.

Every time I re-learn this lesson, I want to give myself a swift kick in the ass.