Finally, I sit down to write. It’s been far too long.
I promised myself this time around I wouldn’t feel all those little guilts that push me too hard. Did I clean up? Did I call that person? Did I remember to oil the baby’s head to get rid of cradle cap? Oh, I forgot to put that on the shopping list. Oh, yes, I must write, I’ll keep writing, too.
I learned the hard way after Lila was born what an ugly ugly thing sleep deprivation and stress can be. Sending a very late apology to that lovely older couple who saw me utterly breakdown at the diner on Montague Street. I scared them. I could see it in their faces. It was sheer lack of sleep talking, not me.
First month of baby Charlie’s life?
I stopped working. New baby, lovely older sister who was worried about what a new baby means for her, Noah, family in town, visiting friends and get some sleep. I ate good food and watched as my body reformed from that expanded version of myself to a tired, stretched out new mama.
Mainly, I flowed through the days in the sleepy haze that is postpartum.
Full disclosure. I did work that first month. Not much, but I couldn’t help myself. I wrote in my journal and launched a website for a women’s only writing retreat. (Want to join us? Please do!)
Month two.
I began work again part time. Nightly wakings caught up with me as my to-do lists grew too long, too quickly. The electric buzz of stress reappeared in my shoulders. Oh, how little I stressed during pregnancy.
Month three.
“I see you’re back at work and managing things so well. I don’t know how you do it,” my cousin e-mailed me.
Me? How do I do it?
I’ve become accustomed to the idea that not everything gets done ever. Days end long before my list does.
I’m learning to set limits. I work during work time, play during play time.
I’m learning to say thank you. Thank you for loaning me baby clothes. Thank you for bringing over food. Thank you so so much for cleaning up after lunch. Then I file away the things that were so wonderful so I’ll remember to pass on the love to others.
I’m learning to say no. Which sometimes means sorry, I know I said I’d do that but now I really can’t. This one never gets easier.
I feel more unsettled now than two months ago. When I was pregnant and Charlie was newborn, I had an excuse to be absent, distracted and not finish. The older he gets, the heavier the expectation to be a superwoman.
I am learning to manage my own expectation.
I want to do what’s needed. I want to do my share. I want to go forward. I want to move ahead. Sometimes, I’m sure my head will just explode.
Speaking of which: When Lila was about a year old, my head did explode. Migraines. Horrible, debilitating migraines, one after the other. My body shut down, forcing me to do what my brain with all its lists and shoulds refused. I had to rest. I had to stop feeling guilty for what wasn’t done. It took almost two years before I started functioning properly again.
My body reminded me of this a couple days ago when my vision went all digital. That’s the first sign of my migraines. Suddenly, everything pixelates into large, fuzzy boxes. I lose the ability to speak, and at times, I’ve even experienced synesthesia. It’s actually kind of cool if only it didn’t bring excruciating pain with it. I climbed into bed and slept it off.
This migraine wasn’t too bad. The next one won’t be so kind if I don’t stop tearing myself apart.
A day in the life
I sit in front of the computer to write. Noah cleans the kitchen while Lila pretends she’s straightening her room and packing for our trip to Buenos Aires. Really, she’s weaving with her Rainbow Loom. Thank you card to Sandy for the loom still not sent, I make a mental note.
I’m trying to write but hear Noah, Lila and Charlie in the other room. I can’t concentrate. The door swings tentatively open and a blond head with two spoons in hand pokes around the edge. “Mama, do you want some pudding?” She made it for us to share. I fight the urge to tell her to close the door and leave me alone to write. I choose pudding with Lila.
I pass a couple hours each day howling like a wolf at Charlie’s beautiful moon-round face. AAAAA-OOOO. AAAAA. I open my mouth wide. OOOOOO. I pucker to blow the sound forth. He copies. When we’re least expecting it, he howls back. A miniature aaaa-ooo that shatters my heart.
Charlie had to eat three times since I sat down to write. I tried holding him in one arm eating while I typing with the other. It never works.
I stop to make dinner, because it has to be made. Baby wakes, cries; Noah changes him. We eat dinner.
It’s my turn to tuck Lila in bed. “You know mama, I love my life,” she says as I climb under the covers with her. Then she snuggles up next to me, and we rub noses the way we did when she was little. “Remember that?” she asks. “I do,” I reply. “That was back in the days when you still let me kiss you on the mouth.” She wrinkles up her nose.
In between these moving parts, I write.
I have reached a certain acceptance. I stop thinking of each piece as an interruption to the last but see them as pieces of a whole. This is my life. There is nothing here that I didn’t choose. There is nothing that doesn’t bring me joy as long as I refuse to allow competing priorities to rob me of the beauty of each.
When I sit with Charlie howling, I am there one hundred percent. When writing, I block out the world with music and headphones. A tap on the shoulder calls me onto the next thing.
It’s requires extreme effort to refocus my attention with each shift. I try not to worry, try to eradicate frustration and doubt. How? Practice, force of effort, perhaps a lowering of standards.
I will never reach the end of my list, but somehow, things eventually happen. Just today I sent out a pitch, wrote this thing you’re reading, packed for a trip, made dinner and cleaned up. Once it’s all done, the drudgery of to-do will evaporate, and today will remain in my memory as the day I wrote well. It will be the day I ate chocolate pudding with lady fingers and the day I howled at the moon.
