Finding Your Way

Our first pictures as a family of four; way back when.
Thank you to my wonderful friend.

They say you lose yourself when you become a mom. They say your identity changes. They warn you about the confusion, the anxiety, the depression, the happiness, the sadness, the pure love, the loss of oneself as you knew it. You say, "duh." 

You are prepared for this. You want this. You were made for this. 

But what you don't know is how freaking hard that actually is to feel it and live it. 

I have been a stay-at-home mom for seven years now; this is absolutely unreal to me. In this time, my despair has been real. My defeat, my insecurity, and grief has brought me to my knees many times. I was not prepared for this job to feel so much harder than my "real" job. I was not prepared for how hard I missed the things that I used to do so easily. 

To make it more confusing, my absolute pure joy and thankfulness seemed to come hand-in-hand with the latter. In the beginning, I tried to work during nap times and after bedtime, but my work was quite inadequate. I had no room in my brain to turn the smart side on. I was exhausted and failing. It heightened my anxiety and insecurity. But I craved to feel successful, accomplished. 

Little by little, I found my way and realized that I was getting that success that I craved. I earned it, every single day. I let go of everyone's expectations, my expectations. I held on to those little fingers and toes that wrapped around me, that laughed and learned with me. They didn't care who judged me or who asked me what I did all day. When I cried, they hugged me. When I needed to breathe, they let me. We grew together. 

It took a few years to accept that the old me was still a part of me, a part that could occasionally come out and play. I sit here, these seven years in, and for the first time feel like there is room to figure out what more I can do. 

The things I know and Mom-fear.

I know the answer to thousands of questions everyday. I could tell you why the sun was moving so fast through the clouds. I could tell you why the rain washed chalk off the driveway or why we brush our teeth and wear socks. I could explain why ketchup is red, how to get downtown, why scabs peel off boo boos, why we don't pee in the pool or what garbage can be recycled.

I can tell you that I did 9,024 steps today - mostly up and down the stairs forgetting socks, a binky, the nose sucker, laundry or looking for a blanket. You know, the stuff Mom's slay through.

I can tell you what a Gila monster is or when to use a backhoe rather than an excavator. Or, when to use the jock itch butt cream vs. vitamin D.

I can tell you the last time my husband and I had a one-on-one date (December, 29.)

What I can't tell you, is how to hold yourself together when panic snakes through your fingertips, ripples up your arm and grabs hold of your entire being. When your head tells you not to overreact, but you are choked by the panic you fight.

A few weeks ago I had the baby in a shopping cart's seat for the first time. We were in the baby section grabbing diapers, in the back of a store. My son suddenly stops talking and jumping through the aisle. With wide eyes he yells that he has to go to the bathroom, of course. Off we go and he is sprinting - he knows the way well - and I am trying to keep up with the baby in the shopping cart. I can see him straight ahead and we will catch up. My son darts right, towards the bathroom. So far, so good. We will be there in 5 seconds. Except, the aisle is blocked off with boxes of new display items. I look left, I look right and I'm calling his name. He isn't answering and I don't see him. I am by the men's bathroom door, it was closest, did he go in there? I step away from the cart and I yell into the bathroom for him, he isn't there. I push the shopping cart and run to the women's and burst in, he isn't there.

I went cold. I unbuckled my baby and grabbed her out of the seat and ran back and forth around the bathrooms. My eyes darting 360 degrees. I'm calling out for him and swallowing hysteria, trying to remain calm and not draw too much attention to my horrible mom-ness. But I can't find him and he isn't answering me. I threw my vanity to the wind and began asking everyone, "Did you see a little blonde boy, blue coat?" They stop what they are doing and help. An employee goes to page him as I'm squeezing my baby tight to my hip and running around clothes, through clothes and boxes. I hear someone say, "It's OK, I'm sure he is here. It has happened to all of us." (Thank you, kind woman, for the mom support, I really needed it later.)

And then. He is there. He steps into the aisle calling for me with tears in his eyes. I grab him and I'm shaking. I feel my face burning and my blood warming. I drag him into the bathroom to yell at him, I'm so angry.  I begin breathing, heavy, in and out, and let him talk. He got lost because the aisle was blocked off, he couldn't find the bathroom - and then he couldn't find me either. I breathe some more. I grab him, hug him, kiss him, tell him that I am so sorry and that I was really scared. He says, "I love you mommy. I didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry." And then, "I still have to pee."

The whole ordeal spanned about 4 minutes. I know you are thinking that I am the hovercraft kind of mother to flip out like this. But I'm not, I swear. I let my kid play in the backyard with his neighborhood friends and they are not in my eyesight every single second. We have rules and boundaries, and he has earned that. (And, I count on other parents to be watching too.) But something like this is the stuff nightmares are made of on the 6 o'clock news.

We left the store and talked about it the entire way home and on and off throughout the evening. I can't stop thinking about the children and families recently left broken. Who has felt that panic turn to gut-wrenching pain. For two weeks I had nightmares about my 4-year-old in a school shooting, kidnappers in vans screeching to a halt beside my car as I loaded groceries, and break-ins that I threw lamps and underwear at intruders. I think this fear, or not being able to handle this fear, could be reason enough to not have children.

I took a break from going to any store with the kids - until my wine stash was too close for comfort of running out. But here is the thing, I refuse to live in fear. I will love, mold, and grow little people who will persevere...and stop fucking running away from their mother.

Close-calls in parenting.

Newsflash: Being a parent is really just a series of close-calls and lucky-as-shit moments.

If I'm not almost living the worst scenarios, then the absolute even worse scenes flash before my eyes and I can't erase them. As a parent I try to be on guard all the time. I'm scanning the parking lots, looking through car windows, checking behind me, making sure I don't unlock my car too early -- while still being fun, loving and totally awesome whenever I can be. 

But, maybe I shouldn't sit my baby on the couch while I grab the car seat. Duh. Common sense. Some have it, and some just can't be expected to every second of the day.

And maybe never let your moving (running or walking) child out of the car first. Leave them strapped in as long as possible.

Definitely, do not let a dangling spider allow you to set your freshly bathed babe in fleece pj's on a granite countertop. This, my friends, could result in potato pancakes smashed into the once freshly bathed babe as she was saved in the nick of time. (I won't get into the rage over this one.)

Also, you have to be weary of that beeping carbon monoxide detector.  If this ever happens to you, go get your in-laws' device to check against yours, send your husband to Walmart with 20 minutes to closing time and call the fire department to come over for a walk-through while he is gone.

Should I stop with the self-incrimination?

I didn't go through pregnancy for nothing.

The worrying never ends, but at least with it I get to hear the laughter of my littles and feel the best kind of love there is. A parent prays that the laughter lasts forever and ever.

Stay At Home Mom - Reason 100.

I put the baby down on her play mat. I peeked in on my son now playing with hot wheels on a race track and calmly walked up the stairs. I glazed by the family picture frames and wedding photos on the walls and entered the blue serenity of my bedroom, with insanely oversized furniture, and into my tiny but beautiful bathroom. 

I closed the door and screamed. But, I tried to mute myself so I immediately started coughing. And then, sobbing as I slid to the floor against the door.

I can't do this. 

I can't do this. 

Ican'tdothisIcan'tdothisIcan'tdothisIcan'tdothis.

I stood up. I splashed water on my face and patted it dry. I walked back down the stairs lugging the weight of my embarrassing despair and guilt.  

I can try again. Tomorrow I will be better.

And it was. I had coffee sitting on my driveway in the sun, the baby in her bouncy chair next to me (in the shade) and my son chalking in the morning light. It was beautiful. It's why I am here.