A Day in the Life

Tag: writing

  • Beach Days

    Beach days were always the highlight of summer growing up. Hearing the waves crash against the shore as my feet sunk into the sand. The warm breeze drifting along as the sun beat down from above head. To me, the experience was always relaxing, a way to leave stress behind and let go of any problems of the time. But when you have a baby, you begin to realize how overwhelming something like the beach can be.

    Between packing the car, figuring out time frames, parking, getting through the crowds and finding your “perfect spot” it can be a lot. Let alone keeping track of the people and kids with you plus having refreshments for everyone. But with a little one, say a 4-and-a-half-month-old, that tends to add more to list. Make sure to have bottles, and formula, swimmers, diapers, plenty of wipes, and enough sunblock to coat the neighborhood. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all worth it, but it can tend to be a lot that someone may or may not be ready to handle all at once.

    Recently I went to the beach with my daughter and my parents. We thought we had everything packed, everyone ready on time and at a decent hour, and had prepared ourselves for the crowds. We were partially right. Everything had been packed, but a regular stroller is not the best to take on to the beach so we ended up having to haul a lot more than what we thought we would have to, by hand. We did have everyone ready at a decent time of day, but the heat didn’t care what time was, it was hot no matter what time you tried to leave. And the crowds? Though under control, it’s still a lot of people crammed into one place, even though we chose a more secluded area. My daughter didn’t care about any of that though. She cooed and chortled at the people around her, giggled at the waves crashing in the distance, and squirmed this way and that in my arms trying to watch the birds flying around everywhere.

    She didn’t necessarily like the bathing suit we had on her, or the amount of sunscreen I put on her arms and legs, but having a baby protected from as much sun as I could was well worth the mild struggle with flailing baby limbs. Once she was ready to go, and we found our spot to sit for a while, I was ready to venture with the baby down to the water’s edge. This was her first time in anything aside from her bath, so I wanted to make sure I took things a bit slow. She loved her bath time and has started to enjoy splishing and splashing, but I didn’t want her to get taken out by a wave. In the end I didn’t have much that I had to worry about, once we got the water and I had my ankles in, I waited for the next wave to wash across and lowered my daughter’s chubby little feet down.

    As soon as her toes felt the cold water, her little legs shot up against her body like a frog preparing to jump. I thought she was going to stay that way at first, but she tentatively lowered her feet back once she realized I wasn’t moving away from the water. I guess mom standing in the cold made it less scary. The little waves ebbed and flowed and once she lowered her feet back in the water, she let out a little giggle and wiggled her toes in the sand. Slowly but surely, she dug her feet in up to her ankles and baby talked to the water as it splashed across her legs. She looked this way and that, reaching arms down to try and grab at the sea foam or kick her leg occasionally to splash it back down. Thankfully she was having fun, my back supporting her weight while she did it, not so much. The pain was worth it though, as long as she was having a good time.

    Everything was going great, but in the end, we had to cut our trip short, my dad’s back was starting to bother him from the uneven sand surface, and we still had a long drive home ahead of us, so we started to pack up and get ready to head out. My daughter though, didn’t want to have it, she wanted to stay in the water. As soon as I picked her back up from the waves, she pushed out her little boohoo lip and started crying. Crying made her hot, which made her crankier, and then she was reminded that she was hungry. One walk to the car with beach gear and a very cranky baby, I had her changed into something lighter, loaded into the truck, and feverishly sucking on her bottle. She managed to eat about half of it before she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Which was a benefit for her since the ride home ended up being close to two hours due to traffic.

    When I was younger, I never noticed the amount of effort and time that my parents put into beach days, no matter how long or short they were. But now that I am mom, I understand. It may have its labors but to watch your kids enjoy themselves to the point that they don’t want to leave, is all that is needed to feel like you won the day. Not to mention it is adorable to watch them nap immediately after from having so much fun. Next time there will definitely be a few things that I want to change, a different carrier for the baby and our beach supplies, a different bathing suit for my daughter so she doesn’t get to overheated to quickly, and hopefully finding a parking spot that is a bit closer to the beach entrance. The last one is only if we are lucky though, so I won’t always count on it. But I honestly can’t wait for our next beach day trip, The amount of giggles my daughter had from playing in the water made me an extremely happy mama. And I wouldn’t want to trade those moments for anything.

  • One Step Forward

    There are many things in life that seem to want to drag me down and keep me there. Tossing my mind and body back and forth, so I don’t know what is up or down at times. But a constant in my life right now, is my daughters smiling face. Every day I wake up to her little coos, look down and see her smile staring back at me. This is usually followed by a little giggle when she realizes I am awake, and what I call her “scheming hands”. She holds and rubs her hands back and forth while hiding her face behind them. It’s mischievous and oh so adorable. Watching and hearing this little routine every morning, gives me the motivation I need to get up and put my feet on the ground. Even on the gray days that make me want to curl up in a ball and go back to sleep.

    Whenever life gets low my friend tells me that all I need to do is be 1% better than I was yesterday, to take a step at a time and keep pushing forward. She tends to be right, but when it feels like your world is falling apart and the walls are closing in, you don’t always want to listen. When the world seems bleak and the sun doesn’t even want to shine, advice can seem like everything else. Heavy. Hanging over your head as if trying to mock you. But my constant? The natural sunshine that seems to flow from my daughter. No matter how sad I feel, or how lost, seeing her face is enough to brighten my day. Even when she is yelling at me in her own way during tummy time, or when she is wailing because I took one minute to long to make her bottle, she still makes me smile. Talking with her and holding her is like an instant boost of serotonin.

    Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to make it seem like she is my only source of happiness, because she isn’t. I have my friends and family, pets and rekindled hobbies that spark joy. But my daughter brings a happiness that isn’t forced or worked at, it comes naturally without any effort. A sense of comfort and pride that comes with being a mother and knowing that I brought her into this world, but she is the thing that makes life worth living. I love watching her learn and discover. The faces she makes when she realizes that her hands are attached to her and that she can control them. Grabbing onto her blankets, toys and my hair, tending to give a good tug and laugh to the latter. The coos and chortles that she makes to her toys as if talking to them. The oohs and ahhs that she gives as she looks at the plants and trees outside. The strength she shows off as she learns to hold the weight of her own head. Moving it all around as she tries to look at the people around her. It all enthralls me and makes life feel a little bit lighter.

    Spending time with her makes the weight of reality melt away, and the heaviness of the world a distant memory. She makes me want to be 1% better each day, because that 1% is enough to make her happy, and to get me through to tomorrow. Taking a step at a time can seem slow and monotonous when all you want to do is sprint, but slow and steady can help you really understand what is happening around you. To soak in the effort that you put out, not rush through it. Some days may seem heavier than others, and some days I may not want to move from the bed. But hearing her wake up in the morning brings a smile to my face. Because seeing those scheming hands, and her face light up when she realizes I am awake, makes everything worth it. If you try to sprint you may miss what goes on around you, and I don’t want to miss a single moment of watching my daughter grow. I will keep taking my small steps one at a time, and keep pushing for that 1%. Because my friend is right, 1% is better than nothing. And one step forward is better than not moving at all.

  • Like Riding a Bike

    How do you hold onto the passion of your hobbies? I wish I actually had the answer to this. When I was a kid there were many hobbies I used to love doing. Running around in the woods and watching nature. Playing in the garden and getting my hands dirty while watching the fruits of my labor grow. Reading so vigorously that I could devour 400-page books in less than a day. Demolishing book series after series, unable to put them down. Drawing and painting, creating my own pieces of art for friends and family in different mediums. Writing. I used to write poems, craft elaborate stories and epic tales, pour my heart out on to the pages of journals and in Microsoft Word. But somewhere along the line, the passion for it, died.

    One by one the hobbies came and went, in and out of my life. When I was little, I was all about being in nature. Staying out of the house for as long as possible and trying to avoid curfew. Running amongst the trees, dancing through flower and fauna, and watching all the animals that would move about their daily lives. I’d dig my hands through the dirt in our garden, getting more dirt on myself than in the vegetable patch. Uprooting weeds, planting seeds while talking to them, welcoming them to their new home. Dousing them with the hose because more water means bigger plants right? That’s what 6-year-old me thought anyway, much to my grandfathers dismay. As I grew, I learned the ins and outs of the different flowers, vegetables, and herbs we grew. Knew what they needed and when.

    Once I was a teenager, I didn’t want to be outside all that much, I’d rather be hunkered down in my room avoiding the world like a cave troll. Hissing at the sun like it had a personal vendetta against me. There I could be alone, away from the harshness of people. There I could lose myself for hours in music and paints. Get wrapped up in the fantasy worlds my brain spun on pages in pencil and ink. I immersed myself fully in these, working my skill and pencil to be able to improve daily. Constantly working on my craft. Who cared about homework when I could be painting dragons in graphite, chalk pencil and water color. Who cared about essays when I could fabricate characters with their own problems and lives, their fates hanging on the next sentence I created. I found it easy to lose myself in it, to get wrapped up in their lives more than my own. To get covered in swatches of color and charcoal like nothing.

    All throughout these years, whenever I found that I was idle, I had towers of books to read through. Even went back to some of my favorites, so I could relive their plots. Fall into the romances between the characters and dream about it for myself. Lose myself to their fantasy worlds and how they lived their epic lives. Relishing in the sagas of adventure and laughing at their sarcastic remarks. I loved characters, hated others, acting like they were as tangible as my own friends. Imagining myself in their shoes, would I have done the same as them? Or would I have changed it up, you know, for the plot.

    Then I graduated from college and had to be in the real world. Getting lost to the monotony of jobs and bills. I worked my body to the bone, drove myself to the point of near insanity with the hours and pressure that I constantly put myself under. Only to watch it all get wiped away by getting hit by a car. I was out of commission for half a year, and slowly worked myself back up. But it seemed too late by then, my job didn’t want me back, I had taken to long to recover. I moved to a different state. Started over with a clean slate. I tried to keep myself busy, find a new job. Managed to do so, but it didn’t feel like a good enough fit, that I wasn’t doing enough. I tried my hobbies, but they didn’t feel the same to me any longer. They didn’t give me the same passion that I once reveled in.

    I began to stagnate. No matter what I did, nothing felt right. I found hyperfixations, tasks that would fill time, but they never seemed to last. I learned to work with resin, and make beautiful creations with it, experimented with colors and techniques, wanted so badly to do something with it, to sell my products. But with an oversaturated market and not having a full understanding of online stores, the boxes of cool items started to become little Christmas gifts. The rest of the items sitting in boxes on the shelf, collecting dust. The spark for painting never fully came back, but I did love doing these paint by numbers canvases for adults. Their intricate designs bringing color to life. I could lose hours of the day by following along with them, color by color and watching as the designs came to life in front of me. But even they lost their whimsy over time, the strain my body took, hunched over trying to find individual numbers didn’t seem overly worth it. Writing didn’t bring the same immersive effect anymore. Stories going unfinished, poems becoming dark entities that I didn’t want to see the light of day. Reading became mindless and boring, I began to find myself stuck on the same page or paragraph for hours. Rereading the lines over and over but still never having them set in. Gardening became a chore, something else that needed to be taken care of and handled. I didn’t like the dirt building up under my finger nails, or how sweaty the effort would make me.

    I felt like my passion had died. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, nothing seemed to work. I felt broken, unhinged. Like nothing could bring me that spark anymore. Doom-scrolling on my phone or watching hours of mindless TV began to fill the space that I used to use for creativity. It all began to blur together. And because of it, I felt the walls building up around me, blocking out the rest that used to bring me happiness. But I was happy, wasn’t I? Spending the days with my loved ones and pets, working and paying bills, living the same lives as everyone else. But it wasn’t really living. This was coasting. And now that the cycle has been broken by outside forces, I see that I was the one that let the passion die. I was the one that gave up on the hobbies I loved, all because some seemed childish, or others took up too much time. I let myself fall into the everyday mundane because I thought that was what was expected of me.

    What I needed was time. Time to let the things set in, time to let myself relax and actually enjoy what I was doing, not just repeating the same thing over and over again. Now that I have my daughter, I see that. No day is the same with her. Every day is experiencing new things, new sounds and movements. Every day that I spend with her reminds me what it feels like to be joyful. To be alive and watch growth happen in front of your eyes. She loves the outdoors, so I find myself outside often. Soaking up the sun and getting burned in the process, but finding that I honestly don’t care. Enjoying the time with animals and weather. She doesn’t care about getting dirty, she cares about feeling new textures and the vibrant colors around her. She cares about living her little life to the fullest. I started to live like her, without much remorse. I dug my hands into the dirt again. The first time it didn’t bring as much joy as it used to, nor did the second. But by the third time of tending to the garden and watching what my effort brought forth, I found a peace I hadn’t known for some time. A relaxation and happiness that I had forgotten about.

    With these blogs I have started to remember why I loved to write. To weave words on a page and pour your heart into something, whether people agree with it or not. It’s empowering and a release. I may not read as much as I used to when I was younger, but books are starting to be a little escape again. Being able to lose myself in the pages, even if just for a little while, is enough for me. For now anyway. I haven’t started up with painting or drawing again, but I know the skill is still there, it never fully leaves you. One day I know I will pick up a pencil or pen and scrawl something onto a page. Sketch out little characters for my daughter to laugh at, maybe even help her color them in. It may not be a thriving passion anymore, but it’s still something that brings me a bit of joy, and one day may bring joy to my baby girl.

    Hobbies may come and go, they even may feel like they flat line. But they aren’t fully gone. You have to learn how they still fit in your life. Some may phase out, but others lay dormant, waiting for your passion to reignite. It may seem like it won’t, but it will. When you least expect it, it will. Sometimes it takes coaxing, sometimes it takes a little practice and a few tries, but it will still be there for you. You just have to give it the chance to be there. To let yourself be immersed in it once again, to remember why you liked it in the first place. Once you do that, it will come back. Just like riding a bike.

  • Let the Rain Fall

    As a little kid, rainy days meant many things. Light rain meant running around for hours not caring about whether I got wet or not. Digging in the mud and garden, talking with the plants and trees and asking them if they were enjoying their drink. Heavy rain meant sitting inside snuggled up under blankets and watching movies. Lazy days filled with warmth and comfort. Thunderstorms meant hiding under the table. I didn’t like thunder, it hurt my ears, the sound resonating through my whole body. It sounds like gun shots to me, booming and intrusive. Over the years I got used to the sound, but there are times it still takes me by surprise. A fear that never fully goes away.

    As I got older, rain become an annoyance. It brought sluggishness, joint and head pain, and a severe lack of motivation. It hurt to get out of bed, the pressure mocking all the damage my body has gone through over the years. Bringing a fog that never seems to fully leave my thoughts, making me want to stay in the house and call it a day. Despite that, there was a time that rain was a blessing to me. The drops falling and melting away stress and frustration as I stood in it. It’s torrent hiding the tears streaming down my face, erasing the pain that my heart held on to for so long. Rain was a release, a way of expunging my pent-up emotions, and not being questioned about it. When you cry in front of people or in an enclosed space, evidence remains, people ask what the problem is, or why you are reacting the way you are. In rain, no one asks what you are hiding, or why the tears flow. It’s hard to differentiate tear drops from rain drops, the only evidence being wet clothes and red eyes. The former being explained by getting caught in the weather, the latter being explained by wiping water from my eyes.

    I forget when I stopped looking at rain as a release, and started to looking at it with disdain. One day it just happened. I didn’t feel the need to step out in the down pour, I just stared as the water fell. The sound reverberating off everything it hit, washing over the world as it went, while I stood idly by unsure of my next move. It hurt to watch the world be washed clean as I stood there holding the weight of my emotions, the memories that refused to let go or disappear. I felt heavy and overwhelmed, the pressure from the rolling clouds only adding to the pain my poor body felt. Why did it seem so bleak? When the world was being cleansed and refreshed. Why did it feel haunting? To see the world bathed in gray tones and glistening water. I had lost something along the way. A feeling of joy as the world took a breath and let itself cry, an ability to join in with the world as it washed away the remnants of yesterday and started anew.

    One day, when everything seemed especially bleak, and it seemed the rain had no end in sight, its drops pelting the roof and windows without mercy, I realized something. It wasn’t the rain that had changed. It was me. I had let myself lose the joy of rain. Lose the presence and knowledge of what rain brings. It can bring danger and chaos, but it also brings life, and the ability to refresh. To be able to start from scratch without the burdens of yesterday’s faults. I stood in my doorway staring at the world be cleaned, at the trees and plants getting a good drink, at the animals relishing in their natural baths. I watched as a bird landed in a puddle, the rain dancing off its back as it fluffed and washed itself, tweeting merrily all the while. The bird was wet and didn’t care, it was having fun. I wanted that, to have fun. To not hold on to the pain in my chest like a consolation prize.

    For the first time in years, with the intent to simply exist, I stepped outside. The rain was chilled, but it felt good against my heated skin, instantly starting to wash away guilt and frustration. The drops rolling down body and face at a rapid rate, drenching my clothes and hair and taking my restraint with it. My eyes burned, tears bubbling forth from the depths of my soul, slowly releasing emotions I hadn’t realized I had been holding on to for so long. Once they started, it seemed they wouldn’t stop. Tears mixed with the down pour, blurring the line between the two. I didn’t know what was rain and what was coming from me any longer. But I did know that it felt good. Every moment I stood out there like that, I felt a little lighter, like my emotions flowed without remorse. Like my soul was being cleaned of the dark muck I had trapped it in.

    I don’t know when I stopped caring about the rain, and started hating it. But I do know that I need to stop hating it so much. There will be days that it will hurt my body, that I will feel the pressure but have to keep pushing myself forward. There will be days that it will make it feel like I can’t leave my bed even though I know I have to. When I wake up feeling like life is against me as the world is crying, I need to remind myself to step out in the rain, even just for a little while. Because like the world needs the rain to refresh, so do I. I need to let myself be washed clean just like the surrounding trees. I need to let my skin drink in the drops like the plants do, and I need to let my emotions flow just like the water does. Only then will I be lighter and brighter, allowing the sunshine to come through and start again. I have to let the rain fall.

  • Silent Warriors

    After my daughter was born, friends and family that I interacted with have called me a warrior on occasion. Their reasoning being of how I “bounced back” so quickly, or how I have been traversing the different obstacles I’ve been handed. I don’t actually feel like a warrior though. Every day, I have lessons that I am learning, silent battles that I try to overcome. Motherhood isn’t easy, it’s fun in most aspects, but it isn’t easy. When people call me a warrior, I don’t see it at all. To me a warrior is someone fierce that struggles with tasks every single day but pushes through no matter how much life tries to push them back down. Someone who takes the good and the bad in full swing with their head up high, and that doesn’t feel like what I have been doing. I didn’t “bounce back”, I’m just living, taking it one day at a time and hoping for the best.

    You know who I see as a warrior? My mom. When I was a teenager she had an accident that caused her to have nerve damage in her entire left arm. She went through physical therapy, did what she could to get her maneuverability back, but still ran into issues. She has no feeling from the side of her neck all the way to her fingertips, and there was no way to fix it. When the accident happened, my younger sibling was an infant. She couldn’t hold him for long periods of time, and could only do so with one side. She had difficulty doing simple tasks that a mother needs to with a small child. I did what I could to help, babysitting, changing diapers, helping with chores that were two hand jobs. But I could still see the wear and tear weighing on her. It took years to get any sense of control with grip on her left side, and to ensure she keeps it, she works on it daily. Did she complain? Not really, if at all. She rolled with the punches and kept pushing forward.

    Despite some setbacks she has always kept pushing, and there have been a few. Trying to get disability in a time when people were suspicious of fakers was a major battle. She had to go through doctor after doctor, and different tests to prove that she was actually hurt and how. Trying to raise a child as hands on as possible, when she only has one good hand to give. Pulling into handicapped parking spaces to have people ridicule her and call her a fake because no one can physically see her disability. All these events and more she shouldered and persevered, holding her head as high as she could, determined to push right back at life and do whatever she put her mind to.

    She has accomplished a lot of things over the years despite life trying to pummel her. Raising a teenager, maintaining a garden, doing daily tasks of cooking, laundry and dishes. My dad helps her out whenever he can, but he can’t be with her every second of the day, so she figured out little tricks and ways to go about her tasks with or without her left arm. She is a real warrior, one that continues on without much of a whisper, one that fights every day with battles that no one else sees or could understand. You may look at her and see a 59-year-old woman that is fully capable of anything, never even knowing about the silent wars that she is having with the smallest tasks. Some days I think she would prefer having a visible disability, not because of the disability itself, but because people aren’t always kind. They assume and pass judgement without caring about the details, without caring about the person they are throwing their insults at.

    When I see my mom holding my daughter, her first grandchild, I am proud of everything that she has accomplished, everything that she has done to get to this point. She isn’t the only one that struggles. People every day wake up with their own inner battles, their own unseen disabilities. They have to fight every day for the things they need to do, constantly going at war with their own bodies let alone the outside world. These people are true fighters, never giving up despite what society tells them, despite what their own brains may tell them. They push and try every day, not only for themselves but their families. When you see people out shopping, pulling into a handicap spot, or even struggling to get something into their cart. Be patient, be kind, offer help. Not everyone’s battle or disability is visible, The world is harsh enough, if we were all a little nicer, we’d be able to see how many silent warriors there actually are.

  • Memory Struggle

    I have had problems with memory for years. Sometimes I can remember something down to the smallest detail, and it stays with me forever. Then there are the memories that fade as soon as they are created, locked away for what seems like eternity without any dust being disturbed. It got irritating to me, to remember something so vividly from childhood that didn’t actually matter or have any tangible significance. Yet not be able to recall the name that was just told to me 5 times in the same amount of time, or remember the important conversation that I had two days ago that I need to reflect upon.

    As time went on, and I got older, the frustration grew. I did whatever I could to try and make memories stick, to be able to train my brain to log and keep all the information. But what are you to do when you don’t have a camera? It seemed like nothing was working. No matter how hard I tried to memorize faces, names, moments in time that I wanted to cherish. It seemed fruitless, my brain only retaining what it wanted to. Then one day I had been gifted an ornament for Christmas. It was given to me as we put the tree up and started decorating. A crystal humming bird from my grandmother, It was beautiful. Instead of putting it on the tree right away, I carried it around, holding it like I would lose it forever if I placed it down for a second. By the end of the night I finally relinquished it to the tree and marveled at how it sparkled in the lights. The memory never left me, nor that ornament. I can think back on the day with fondness at any time, but when I hold the ornament, I relive the moment vividly, and it makes me smile.

    From that point on I began to use physical objects to help me hold memory. I would pour my thoughts and feeling into those objects, feeling like I would leave little pieces of time locked away inside them. Doing so I could touch objects throughout my home and experience a walk down memory lane for anything I wanted. As happy as it made me to be able to do it, it also had a lot of problems. As time goes on a house can get cluttered, items can break, and moving makes it hard to take everything with you. Items need to be let go. But when I pick them up, I feel the memories and relive them one by one, making it harder to let go of the item. A fear set in, what if I get rid of the item and the memory goes with it. I won’t be able to access it or enjoy it anymore. I didn’t want to become a pack rat, and I wanted to be able to make room for new. Something had to be done.

    There are still some objects that I will never relinquish, ones that I can never bring myself to get rid of. A key, a special stone, a butterfly charm, a ring. These objects bring many memories, not just one. There are other senses that can be associated with them, but the physical object brings back so many thoughts and feelings that I would rather have the object to touch to be able to sort through them all. I want to be able to access these on demand, so I can continue to learn from the memories, not just think on them fondly.

    Despite the anxiety of letting objects go, I manage to do so over and over. You know what I found? I may not have been able to access the memory on demand anymore, but it still existed. I could still recall them with a little conversational coaxing, or by a smell or song. It wasn’t actually storing memories in the objects, I just focused so intently and associated a memory with something, and it would be locked in. Now as I raise my daughter and watch her grow, I know I’m going to want to remember things as much as possible. Anytime I’m in a moment that I know I will want to remember, I use me senses. What do I hear as this moment is happening, what do I smell? The rock song on the radio or the smell of my partners’ cologne anchor in. What do I see in the little eyes staring back at me, how do I feel smiling down at her? My reflection in her green blue eyes smiles back with warmth and a light that radiates through my soul. Its these little associations that will help me remember what I want to. It may not always be when I want to remember it, and may drift in and out, but those associations will help bring it back again. That song, the cologne, feeling that warmth in my chest, seeing that spark of happiness reflecting, all can be a positive trigger to bring back precious moments.

    For now that is enough, to be able to retain what I can without being afraid to let go of objects and keep pushing forward. To work with my brain and do what I can for my memory. Each step I take may be difficult, and it may not always work. But I feel that I will at least be able to hold on to more than I used to. To me that is worth it, for my daughter, so I can recall her younger times when she is older, and for myself, so I can relive my life in the future.

  • Alone Time

    Navigating through motherhood is a major learning experience, one that has constant ups and downs. One of the hardest is understanding alone time. My daughter is 2 months old. Still very much a baby, so of course I want to hold, cuddle, and love her constantly. Unfortunately I know that I can’t do that as much as I want to. We don’t want to make her dependent on us, and not be able to be placed down. Finding the balance though, is one of the most difficult tasks I have tried to figure out.

    When my daughter cries, she cries hard. Heart-wrenching wails that can be heard from one side of the house all the way to the other. There’s never a doubt that her little lungs aren’t strong. That being said, whenever she cries like that, I instantly want to scoop her up in my arms and comfort her. Cuddle her little face and body until the crying stops. Sometimes she cries because she is hungry or needs a diaper change like any other child. Sometimes she does it because she specifically WANTS to be held, which I don’t want to deny her either. At the same time, I also know that she needs to learn how to self soothe. To have the alone time to calm herself down, because that is also something that babies need to learn.

    Finding that balance of it all, has to be one of the hardest things I have ever had to deal with. How are you supposed to know when it is or isn’t okay to scoop them up? How am I supposed to just stand there doing minor housework while my child is screaming her head off? I check her diaper often and make sure she is eating when she is hungry, but what about the times that she is crying when none of that is the issue? People tell me “You have to let her cry, she’ll cry herself to sleep,” but what about the times that she doesn’t? What am I supposed to do then?

    My partner and I have different approaches to the situations, but sometimes it seems like they are clashing. He goes the route of letting her cry it out, and can follow through with that fully. Be able to put her down in her chair and talk with her but also refrain from doting on her every whim. Check the necessities, but still maintain a sense of alone time and distance. Whereas I struggle with that. I let her have alone time in her chair but still find myself interacting with her, talking with her, playing with her little hands and feet. It keeps her happy and smiling, she doesn’t overly fuss and will still hang out in her chair long enough for me to be able to get small tasks done. But it feels like that those little interactions make it so it’s difficult for my partner to put her down fully. She instantly cries and wants to be picked back up, or to be interacted with. Am I the problem? It genuinely feels like I am at times.

    At the same time, if I put her down and she wails while I am doing a task, people have told me that I am being negligent or ignoring her. Which I don’t want that to be the case either. I love my daughter and don’t want her to feel like she is being ignored. Nor do I want other people to think I am being a bad mother, but I also don’t know the way to balance what I have to do with what I want to do, or what people tell me to do. It’s all so overwhelming and no matter what I do I feel like I’m falling short. I do think to myself about what that one mom told me “mind your own motherhood” and I try to let that apply when I am interacting with other mothers and taking advice with a grain of salt. But as time went on it became difficult to not let it feel like it all stacked up against me.

    I’ve recently been able to get some alone time in for myself. But even then I feel like I’m not letting myself enjoy or fully use it. My partner is taking care of her on his days off from work, so I can get some tasks done, but it seems she won’t settle for him or sleep well. She won’t let him put her down even for a second, and it feels like that is a reflection on me and how I have been taking care of her while he is working. I find myself checking in constantly when I’m supposed to be working on things or taking time to breathe. That in itself probably isn’t the best, seeing as I’m not even giving myself the alone time that is needed. That being said, I know I need to do better. I need to do better for myself, so I can do better by our daughter. I have to learn to not give in to every little cry, that yes she is a baby and needs attention and social interaction, but that she also needs to be able to play and coo on her own at times to.

    Its hard, almost feels impossible at times, but for the betterment of the both of us, I know I have to try harder. Do better to find the balance of togetherness and alone time. Be able to let her cry and self soothe, while still letting her know that we are here. Interacting and cuddling with her, but also make it so she can be set down for a time and not immediately freak out. Will finding that balance be an easy task? From what I have experienced so far, no it will not. But I know for our shared wellbeing, it will be worth it.

  • The Bonds That Matter

    When you bring a child into the world, there are many different things that you will go through. From getting used to the child and their own quirks, finding a rhythm and balance of routines, to trying to regain your own sense of self. One of the things I found to be the hardest though, is keeping and managing the relationships with the people around me. It’s something you wouldn’t think you have to have a full grasp on, but it’s quintessential in the learning curve. The term “It takes a village to raise a child” is very true, especially if you want to keep a firm grasp on reality. But it means nothing unless you truly have a village at your back. To be able to have that, you have to find the balance of interacting with the ones you love and respect.

    When you are sleep-deprived, baby brained, and hating the way you feel and look, the last thing you want to do is interact with anyone outside your immediate household. Speaking from experience there. Many times people would want to visit, to see us and interact with our daughter, and many times I just wanted to skip out. I was tired. My brain felt like walking in a constant fog, and sometimes it still does. I hated the way that I felt in my own skin, and I didn’t like the thought of having to put on “real clothes” and entertain people, when I’d much rather sit in bed and cuddle my daughter. But to deny her family and our friends from being able to interact with her, could also cause some major backlash that I wasn’t fully prepared for.

    I constantly felt ragged and run down, but felt guilty for saying “No” or turning people away. Family members have the right to see the baby, as do friends. I just didn’t feel like keeping up appearances. People will tell you “you’re new parents, it doesn’t matter what you look like, we just want to see you” but my partner and I still felt the need to run around and tidy up the house before people came over. Or at least felt the need to apologize for the state of the house or ourselves as soon as someone walked in the door. More often then not there were only a few dishes in the sink, or laundry half folded on the table. Minor things that most people would look over and not care about. Most of the time people were only stopping by for a few minutes, just to say “hello, how are you? The baby is beautiful” and then head on their way. But sadly it all just felt like one more chore to add to the list. As time went on, I wanted to deal with it less and less. But in doing so, it also added more weight and strain to our already heavy shoulders.

    There were a few people in particular that I found it easier to interact with. My and my partners parents being some, because they had dealt with kids and parenting already, so they knew the ins and outs, and we were able to get things done while they were interacting with our daughter. Errands could be run, chores could get handled, this was also time that we could use to take a moment and breathe. My best friend was another that allowed this. My home was my rock, my stable place, and She was another that allowed me to feel stable. Without her there were times I would have mentally and physically lost my marbles.

    These people are the ones that made me realize what “it takes a village” actually meant. They were the people that truly had your back and could help you manage the weight of being a new parent. They didn’t care about mess, or what you wore, they just wanted you happy and healthy. These were the relationships that didn’t take strain or fussing, and it was a relief to have them. That’s not to say that they didn’t take work still, because they did. They still do. It takes checking in, and vocalizing feelings and intent. But these are also the relationships that don’t make you feel guilty for saying “No”. They take it in stride and say “okay, maybe next time” and move on, because they know you are tired, and running yourself thin. They know your brain and don’t want to add on to the fog of it.

    These bonds don’t add extra weight to your life, they try to carry it with you. Likewise, they don’t criticize for what you haven’t done, but offer to help get it done, or give you the time to do it. They are your village, the ones that have your backs and want to watch you thrive, not just placate society standards and move on. These are also the people that know and understand you are overwhelmed with new and learning things every day, so they check in first instead of waiting for you to reach out. They are the ones that love, and they should be cherished at all costs. Because there will come a time when all seems run down and bleak, like you can’t keep your head above water, and these people will be the ones plunging into the waters to bring you up for air. They will be your life raft. They are the bonds that matter.

  • Talking with the Wall

    Growing up and looking at all the surrounding adults, I thought they had it all together. That they had everything figured out and had all the answers. The older I got, the more I realized how wrong I was. It was a farce. No one has all the answers and no one actually knows what they are doing. Every single person is either fighting or coasting through life to the best of their ability. But the one thing that I was told my whole life by these adults, was to communicate. Whether it be in relationships, in work, or in general, communication is key. I did my best trying to do that whenever I could, to communicate intent and emotion. But there was one thing that no one explained, maybe they didn’t know anything about it either. It wasn’t until my 30s had I even started to understand, communication is key, but without comprehension it means nothing.

    You can communicate all you want, express all you want, but if the other person is talking and not actually comprehending or listening to what is being said, it’s futile. It’s like talking to a wall, you aren’t going to get anything back. The reality was that I was the person that wasn’t comprehending. Topics would be said to me, emotions would be expressed, but that was where it ended. I thought I was listening and trying to be better, to act on what was being said, but sadly I was mistaken. All the moments talked about would go in one ear and out the other, leaving little to actually take root in my brain. And when someone is actually trying to have a heart-to-heart, that is not a way that you should treat the situation. It doesn’t matter if the words made sense to you with the way they were spoken, what matters is the intent behind them and how it should affect you.

    In a nutshell, you shouldn’t let peoples words just roll off you. If they are being rude or mean, there is usually reasoning behind it. Just like words of love have meaning and intent behind them. Obviously you shouldn’t take everything to heart, but you still need to be able to fully understand why things are being said the way they are. If you don’t, you will get left behind, because everyone else will be growing around you, while you are left figuring out how they are growing in the first place. If I had sat and actually tried to truly listen and understand what certain people were trying to tell me, if I had actually comprehended their feelings and intents, then I wouldn’t have lost the friendships that I had cherished so deeply. I wouldn’t have gotten left in the dust of them moving on. I would have been able to grow with them, but because of my lack of comprehension, I stunted my own growth and ended up getting stuck back at the starting line.

    It’s a terrible feeling, finding out that you were the wall that people felt like they were talking to. To know that you were the one that wasn’t giving them anything back, especially when you thought you were trying. But when multiple people say the same thing, they all can’t be wrong. What do you do? Do you give up and hang your head? Or do you try and take that step up and actually start the race? For me, I don’t want to be left behind, I don’t want to be the wall that offers nothing. I want to be able to grow, to listen and to learn. To be able to offer comprehension and act on it. Is it going to be easy? Absolutely not. Especially when you’ve been a wall for so long, It’s hard to know if you are actually doing anything right. But that isn’t the point.

    The point is doing what you can to communicate, comprehend and grow. To be able to have a conversation without completely falling apart, or falling short. To be able to reciprocate in discussions and have the other person walking away feeling satisfied as well, not just thinking I accomplished something. Doing so will allow both parties to have true understanding and be able to solve whatever problem has been presented and get through it. To grow together and keep pushing forward. Because that is what makes things easier, that’s what truly gives the air of having things figured out. If I had learned all this sooner, maybe I would have been able to save some of the bonds that I have lost. I honestly don’t have the answers to that. But one thing I do know, is that I am not going to let myself be the wall anymore. The wall benefits no one, and it’s about time to grow.

  • Face To Face with the Mirror

    As I have stated in a previous post, there are moments in motherhood that I was not ready for. From mental strain, to sleep schedules, life as a new mom is tough. There are ways you are going to learn every day, and ways that you are going to fail at too. It all comes with the learning curve. And each journey is different for every individual mother. But one of the things I wasn’t ready for, was the the fight with the mirror that I would have.

    I have struggled with body image issues for a good chunk of my life. It always seemed that I was caught in the cross fire of beauty and people were never afraid to share their opinion about it. From a young age I was told about my proportions. “You’re breasts and butt are great, but your waist is too big”, “If you lose weight, you are going to lose your only assets”, “You’re thighs touch, you should work on that”. Every comment and dig at the way that I looked felt like a dart biting into my skin. It ultimately made me uncomfortable in my own flesh and made me hate buying clothes or passing a mirror. Many go through it. When I met my partner, he did what he could to help me understand and assess my body image issues, to make me feel confidant and care about myself more. Taught me to be kinder to myself and I honestly commend him for it. And for a while it worked. Until it didn’t.

    Right before I had gotten pregnant with my daughter, I had finally felt something positive about my body. I had been getting more exercise, losing weight in a way that made me comfortable, and I was truly happy with where I was. When I found out I was pregnant, I was ecstatic, and I couldn’t have asked for anything more. But as the months went on, and I got rounder, I wasn’t as excited as an expectant mother should have been. Where everyone else saw a round belly and growing baby, I saw a woman that was getting excessively heavy. I was happy to carry my daughter and knew that the weight I gained was her growing, and needed for the betterment of her. But it still hurt seeing the weight that I had wrestled with for years coming back. By my second trimester I was nice and round, as most mothers tend to be. But one day I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see a glowing woman that was growing life. I saw an ugly woman staring back at me that I didn’t recognize.

    From that point on I was extremely uncomfortable looking at myself in the mirror. I did what I could to not do that, which is difficult when you have to brush your teeth, brush your hair or wash your face. To get in and out of the shower without looking was the hardest part for me seeing as the mirror in our bathroom had to be passed to get there. My partner, family and friends constantly told me how beautiful I was. How round and healthy I looked. But I didn’t feel it. I thought they were lying, consistently giving weak smiles and whispered words of appreciation. I still ate when I needed to, because I knew I was doing it to keep my daughter healthy, not for my benefit at that point. As my due date crept closer I was beginning to breathe a sigh of relief. Because one, I would be able to hold my daughter in my arms and I wanted so badly to do so. But also because in my eyes, I would get relief from the person that I saw in the mirror. How wrong I was.

    After giving birth, my daughter became my world, wholly and truly. She is my sunshine on a cloudy day and her smile can chase away any doubts. But the mirror still ended up being the enemy. Giving birth, I did lose a good amount of the weight that I had gained, but not everything. On top of that, there is now skin that was overly stretched that had to right itself, stretch marks that marred a good amount of my lower abdomen despite the amount of moisturizing I did during pregnancy. Plus my body felt all out of whack, organs having to go back to their right positions, learning how to do everything all over again because things were finally going back to their rightful place. It all felt like one big mess. At first, I didn’t notice it, but after the first month of my daughters’ life, I had gone to grab a shower, and stupidly looked in the mirror. Breasts full and sagging from milk, fresh stretch marks plastered across my skin in tones of pink and purple, traveling much farther than I had originally realized, and belly fat that shifted in ways that I had never noticed before. I felt like a hot mess. And I cried.

    I didn’t want to get undressed around my partner out of worry that he might not find me attractive anymore. It seemed a false notion, but it was still the way my mind worked, and I hated it so much. Many people would come to see us and the baby and would comment about how great I looked, how well I had sprung back, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe them. It all started weighing very heavily on my mind, and then my partner had found a picture with a saying that helped to change my way of thinking, even if just a little bit. It was a picture of water with light reflecting off it, so the light refracted in little lines and curves, sparking dots and dashes that danced across the surface. And the writing compared stretch marks to the way light refracted off moving water. The lines weren’t perfect or pristine, and they reflected in every direction imaginable, but they were still perceived as beautiful. That night was another shower night, and when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see straggly stretch marks as much anymore. I started to see light refracting off my skin, evidence of the time I carried my daughter for. And how those marks made it, so I could hold my little baby in my arms. Without those marks I wouldn’t have her. And even if just a little, I started to actually like the marks.

    As simple as it was, and as small of a gesture, that picture was enough to help change my view on a part of my body. And though it’s still a struggle to see myself fully in the mirror, I am happy that there is a little something that I can see and smile. Nothing is prefect and my view of myself is still all around rough, and I feel like it will be for a while. Hormones are still trying to right themselves and so is my body, it’s still healing. And in time I feel that my view of myself will be healed as well. But, like with many things, it’s a journey. One that will be difficult, and have its ups and downs. But with the right mindset, and a different perspective, I also feel like it will get easier with time. And I will be able to see and love myself again, the way that everyone around me does.