I’m not happy.
What does it even mean to say that? How do I reconcile the fact that I am ‘happily’ married to an amazing man, with a beautiful son, have a rewarding career, a nice home and the ability to pay bills and put food on the table – but then say I’m not happy?
What does it mean to be happy? Where does happy come from? Why am I unable to find it?
For as long as I can remember, I have blogged about being sad, lonely, unhappy. I have always held something in my mind as the ideal solution to my problem; if I get a new car, I’ll be happy. When we finally get married, I will be happy. As soon as I get a new job, I will be happier. Having a baby will make me happy. I will be happy when I have friends.
But nothing ever changes. I am still me – wife, mother, ultrasonographer, friend – and I am still unhappy, trying desperately to figure out what is missing.
Only, I’ve come to realize that it has nothing to do with what I have or don’t have, want or don’t want.
So then… what is it? What will finally make me happy? Is there something fundamentally wrong with me, that I am unable to be happy? I don’t understand. Maybe everyone else is unhappy too, and they’re just better at faking it.
I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to try. A hobby? Living closer to my family? Going back to school? Anti-depressants? Quit blogging? Exercise? What do I do?
Both of my husbands have said these words to me: “Nothing ever makes you happy anyways, so why bother trying?” I guess it must be true.
I’m lost. And I don’t know how to find myself.
Monthly Archives: August 2010
Just You Wait.
If you think I’m terrible at blogging now, just wait a few months.
The most terrible part of it all is how desperately badly I want to write. How I sit here with an open editor, and have to set it aside again and again to put out fires and calm tantrums.
Sometimes I tweet my best material, and then wonder why I didn’t save it for a blog.
I think I’m going to steal borrow an idea from one of the fabulous blogs I read. Jill at BabyRabies always puts how old her current son is as well as how far along she is at the bottom of her posts. I love it. Especially when going back and reading what was going on with her at certain times. There really is no better way to know or figure out the timeline of events. There are times, even now, when I go back and read my own posts and wonder “How old was Ronan when that happened?”
So far, I find it hard to believe I’m already 15 weeks pregnant. I feel like just yesterday I had a positive test. I have been feeling sweet little kicks for a while now, and Brock felt a few last night. I know, early right? Remember, I’m freakishly skinny. As of now, I have put on half a pound this pregnancy. My next midwife appointment is a week from today. I’m sort of excited for it. The whole midwife experience has been great for me so far, and I can’t wait to see how it unfolds.
I have been having second and third thoughts about whether or not I want to take another birthing course. I’m learning (the more that I read) that the hospital-provided birthing classes are hardly adequate to prepare a woman for true labor. With no option of medicine or intervention, I feel like it would be beneficial to have a little more education under my belt. At the same time, I’m hesitant about the cost and time commitment. Is that silly? I should probably just go for it. I would love Brock to come with me too, as he is going to be my labor partner. He did an AMAZING job at Ronan’s birth, but I have a feeling this experience will be a whole different monster. I’m afraid he’ll think it’s a waste of time.
Haha. Ronan is sitting next to me on the couch, and he just put his foot on my arm. Just because. Silly kid.
I was sure I had something more to say, but it has slipped from my mind. So I’ll end this here.
Ronan is 18 months old, and I am 15 weeks pregnant.
Who, Me?
I don’t run outside naked.
Why would I let my kid run outside naked?
You mean, besides because he LOVES it?



Bwahahahahaha!
Eighteen Months.
It is hard to believe I am writing these words.
My son is eighteen months old.
He has been alive, on this planet, in my arms and on the ground, for a year and a half. Six very short months from now, he shall be two.
I wish I could share every moment of every day. I wish I had the ability to write the words that describe the joy that is my Ronan, the frustration that overwhelms the both of us, the happiness in each day and the hurt in each tear. I don’t know how to do it justice.
We are learning words! In the last few weeks, we have experienced the amazing ‘pop’ of communication as he starts to figure things out. He says “that” while pointing to what he wants and “see?” when he wants to show us something. Today, I am SURE he asked me for a “bite?” and said “ta-too” when I gave it to him. It sounded enough like thank you for me to get excited!
I’m so lucky Ronan eats as well as he does. With few exceptions, he puts offered food into his mouth and eats it. Just like his dad. Tonight, for dinner, we had baked chicken, brown rice and broccoli. I ADORE watching Ronan pick up a piece of broccoli, look at it very seriously, and then slowly put it in his mouth. He chews, chews, chews… and then NODS. “It’s good?” I ask him? He nods again.
Somehow, we have taught our son that nodding is the equivalent of expressing contentment. If he’s happy, he will nod.
We had an 18 month check up today. Ronan was a little punchy… he had gotten up at 7:30 am, instead of his usual 9. I had a hard time wrangling him and answering a new pediatricians questions all at once, but I think we did fairly well. She pronounced him “Perfect!”, with an exceptionally large head. (Brock says it’s because we tell him how awesome he is all the time.)
He got a shot, and cried like he does when he falls and conks his noggin. I had a bag of fruit snacks waiting, and he was done crying before the first juicy treat hit his lips. I haven’t heard another complaint since.
I find my mind running blank. I want so desperately to recall moments that mean so much to me, to put them down in words so I never forget them. I want so badly to read this five and ten and fifteen years from now, and think, “I DO remember that! I’m so glad I wrote it down.” But the moments are so plentiful, and so fleeting. Each time he grabs my glasses off my face and grins with joy at his success, each time we walk into the kitchen and he proudly shows me what he wants to eat, each morning when he sits on my lap to share our breakfast, signing thank you and all done… every moment is pure gold.
I don’t want them to go away.
This Blog
So, I was going to post a blog today. I didn’t know what I was going to write about, but I figured it would come to me.
And then I read this blog.
Everything sort of changed. I can’t even begin to explain to you how it touched me. How proud I am of its writer, and how strongly I agree with everything she says.
After spending a little time crying and a lot of time thinking, I requested her permission to repost. I love it that much. Here it is:
The Rules of Motherhood or How I Came to Love Being Insane
I just found this in my old files. It is something I wrote a few years ago when friends became pregnant with their first child because, in my experience, I was SO confident that becoming a mother was going to be easy. After all, I had three younger siblings, 13 younger cousins and countless babysitting jobs. In reality, it was hard. Really hard. Some of these rules are no longer applicable since our boys are older and new rules now apply but the biggest rule I’ve learned is that parenting is about doing your best and forgiving yourself often. I need to give many thanks and recognition to all the women- mothers or not- who helped me readjust my expectations and get the hang of mothering. Most of the advice in here comes from what I learned by finally reaching out for help/advice/support. And of course, the most important thanks go to my mom.
Birth and your body- Trust yourself and what you need. Don’t make this moment the moment to become competitive or decide that everyone else knows better than you. Do drugs if you need to, don’t if you don’t want to. Don’t let yourself or your partner lose sight of the larger goal- a baby. Also, be prepared for the moment when it’s all over and you look at yourself in the mirror and you see someone else’s body staring back at you. I cried bitterly that I was saggy, wrinkled, stretched, hurt and disgusting. I PROMISE you will get your old body back and you will feel normal again. It just takes a while.
Breastfeeding advice- Ideas about this can bring out the worst in other women. All I’m going to say is that either way, you are sacrificing something and and gaining something else. Either way, you need to be confident in your decision. We did a combo approach and neither of our boys have told us that it was a bad idea.
Also, although I never really admitted it, I did get the baby blues for a little while. And I got the major-life-change-leave-everything-behind-and-move-to-a-new-state-blues pretty hard. So if you’re home with the little bundle and you’re on the verge of leaving him/her on the neighbor’s porch while you hop a plane to Jamaica, call me. I’ll know exactly how you feel and I’ll probably join you.
Finally, I have noticed that child-rearing has become one more arena for competition among women. We spent our 20s bashing each other about weight/style/men and careers and now we’re entering the Baby Brawl. Stay far, FAR, away from those women who say things like, “Oh, you still use diapers? Well we potty-trained Benetton at 6 weeks and he hasn’t had an accident since.” Or “We ONLY use the Ferber method. So when little Jicama gets up during the night, she knows to get her Baby Einstein books and alpaca blanket and snuggle back into her BabyStyle crib. I haven’t had a sleepless night since coming home from the hospital.” Those women say those things because A) they’re insane, B) they’re totally confused about motherhood and C) they’re insecure and need to feel like they’re right and you’re an asshole.
The Rules:
Rule 1: No one, but no one, does it right. And that’s ok because it means we all get to do it the best we can. Remember on those dark days when the hormones are raging and the baby books are haunting you and the adorable newborn you were holding 10 minutes ago has turned into a screaming monster, that you’re doing the best you can and that’s FINE. If he’s changed, fed, clothed and loved, he’s going to be just fine- he will NOT hate you/need therapy for the rest of his or her life. All the rest will sort itself out in time.
Rule 2: Read all the baby books and then ignore everything. The books like to make it sound like if you don’t do things the way they suggest, then you’re going to pay for it in the future. Bullshit. I didn’t schedule either boy’s feedings and they figured out his own routine. I nursed both of them to sleep and now they fall asleep on his own just fine. I didn’t do anything that any of the books suggested and our oldest slept through the night at two months. I didn’t force feed them peas at 5 months and at least our older one eats veggies like they’re going out of style. Our younger one is another story. Which brings me to my next point.
Rule 3: Babies are not repeatable experiments. Just because on Monday you changed him at 9am, read stories at 9:15am, patted his head and sang to him at 9:30am and he slept until noon, doesn’t mean that the same things will elicit the same response on Tuesday. You’re about to embark on the delicate balancing act of reading all the signs and learning as best you can to fulfill his needs while simultaneously acknowledging that his signs and his needs will change by the day. It’s damn frustrating. Especially when you’re completely sleep-deprived and can’t think straight anyway.
Rule 4: Choose your battles. You don’t want to do a pacifier? That’s great but it means he’s gonna want SOMETHING to suck on and that just might be a bottle or a boob or a thumb. You want to do a pacifier? Fantastic but be prepared to do battle at a later date to get it away from him. You want to let him learn to sooth himself and fall asleep on his own? Fine but be prepared for a few months of hell. Don’t want to let him cry it out? Fine but be prepared for night-time wakings to continue for a long time. (by the way, personally, I think 5 months is the youngest that a child should be expected to cry it out but ignore me too). Decide what is most important to you at that moment and be ok with the fact that it might spark some later battle. I remember one night I was trying to get our oldest go to sleep in the bassinet when he wanted to sleep with me on the couch. He was crying hysterically and I was crying hysterically. Ian finally intervened and gently asked, “What’s more important, your sleep or your principles?” Obviously sleep prevailed and the little guy and I fought it out a few weeks later when I was feeling stronger.
Rule 5: Call the moms that you admire and trust. And don’t be afraid to ask A LOT of questions. OR just sob into the phone.
Rule 6: The psychological process of becoming a mother takes a LONG time. I’m still wrestling with this one. I remember initially being SO shocked that even the simplest task like going to the bathroom when I wanted to was a huge hurdle. I couldn’t get up and get a glass of water if I felt like it. I was a slave to this tiny, larval thing that gave me very little in the way of positive, intellectual feedback. And it sucked. And so I worried that I didn’t love him enough or that I didn’t deserve to be a mom or that there was something really, really wrong with me. I also found that the early stages were boring as hell and again, I worried that I wasn’t a good mom. But as he or she becomes more interactive and more responsive, things get a LOT more fun and you learn to love him or her in many ways.
Rule 7: Most mental health professionals agree that it takes a YEAR to adjust to a major life change. And babies definitely fall into the category of major life changes. Don’t despair. That doesn’t mean you’re going to be living in your pajamas, with unwashed hair and no time to eat for the next year. But what it does mean is that you need to be patient with yourself and be ok with the fact that you don’t feel like yourself for a while.
Rule 8: All baby equipment is interchangeable. High chairs become play pens, car seats become beds, play pens become cribs, swings become beds, cribs become play pens, bouncy seats become holding pens, socks become chew toys…you get the idea.
Rule 9: Your short term memory went the way of all mother’s short term memories. It’s the same place where socks disappear to from the dryer. If you’re dealing with another mother, they’ll COMPLETELY understand. And probably forget in five minutes.
Rule 10: You’re not bad parents for wanting to occasionally hit the baby. You are just bad parents when you actually do. Good friends of ours, the Eklunds, told us that one. There were some dark hours when our oldest wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat and wouldn’t stop crying and in my sleep-deprived state, I wanted to lash out physically and give him something to cry about. Erika told me she once fantasized about bouncing her son off a wall after he had been crying for 11 hours straight. We’re good moms because we knew better than to actually do that.
Rule 11: Having kids keeps you in the present like nothing else ever will. I stole this one from my Masters advisor. There is no more important place you need to be than with your kid. All the clichés are true. Enjoy it while you can. They grow so fast. Time will crawl for a few months and then it will fly. I have one particular memory of a day in mid-October when our first was having a good day and I was feeling good. I had showered and eaten and we were sitting in the rocking chair in the living room with the autumn sun streaming through the windows. He was asleep, snuggled against my neck and suddenly, there was no where else on Earth that I belonged. There was no reflecting on the past or worrying about the future. There were no chores, lists, errands, or other distractions. There was just that moment. And it was perfect.
~By Adrienne Gilby
I’m Awesome.
“No you’re not, dude, don’t lie.”
I used to wonder when I would feel like when I finally became a significant blogger. I had no idea that just any little no-one can have a stalker that tries to ruin their life. All I can figure is that this person thinks I’m so awesome, they are overcome with jealousy and have to try to bring me down. Let me fill you in on exactly how awesome I am.
I was married at 19 years old to a man I met on the internet, and divorced by 23. Good choices.
I left my family and country behind because I thought I was making ‘good choices’ for myself. I suffer from loneliness and homesickness every single day. I live THOUSANDS of miles from anyone that loves me. Who needs family?
My best friend and I didn’t talk for nearly two years because of my previous marriage. Throw away the friends you’ve got.
I have suffered on and off with various image and eating disorders since I decided in 11th grade that I was fat. I allow my weight to hover somewhere around dangerously-low, because I feel better about myself that way. Shit, that’s healthy.
I wanted a baby more than anything in the world for as long as I could remember. As soon as I had one, I realized I had no idea what I was getting into. I prepared myself well for life.
I talk too much. To everyone. To anyone. I have never met a stranger, and I annoy the shit out of some people. It usually hurts to realize that people would rather you’re not around. I know it, can’t change it.
I have a destructive impulse to correct people. When someone says something or does something wrong, I will inevitably point it out. I have been trying to curb this impulse for YEARS, and have seen only marginal improvements. No one likes a know-it-all.
My mom has a beautiful voice. I can’t sing.
I took dance religiously for years. I can’t dance.
I battle depression again and again when I feel alone, isolated, out of touch. I use my blog and twitter to grasp on to threads of connection. Surrounded by people, and lonely.
My wardrobe consists of every outfit I purchased during my break-up and divorce phase when I spent whatever I wanted… and nothing since then. The coolest clothes I have are maternity clothes, because they were given to me. Not a fashonista.
Of all of the friends I have made since moving to Charlotte, I somehow find a way to not hold up my end of the bargain. Short of losing friends, I lose the closeness I desire, and end up feeling lonely, wishing I had someone I was close to. Who doesn’t know how to make friends?
I gave up a job I loved to work a schedule that would allow me to stay home with my son. Now, that schedule drains the life out of me, and I can hardly handle my basic obligations – like housework and laundry. So… I decided to have another kid. Brilliant logic.
I don’t do my hair. I don’t wear makeup. I can’t be bothered to accessorize. I’m lazy? Or just plain useless.
I suffer from hemorrhoids. Yup, I said it. I have been battling constipation and poop problems for nearly 2 years now. TMI? Whatever.
I am a horrible housekeeper. I can’t keep a clean home to save my life. I attract clutter and dust and animal hair, and I’ve never EVER won the battle. I continually give up, only to try again and fail. My house usually disgusts ME.
Yes. I’m sure if I sit here all day, I can continue to find things about myself that are less than awesome. I could probably fill a book.
But here’s what’s real:
I am a good tech. I care about my studies, and I care about my patients. My work holds up.
I write. I love to write. Some people love to read what I write. It’s as much a part of my life as breathing, and I can’t give that up.
I’m honest. I’m genuine. I care (usually too much) about people. I get hurt easily.
I do the very best I know how with my son. I may not be the best mom in the world, but I am the best mom to him that I can be. I believe that with all of my heart, and I don’t let others attempt to convince me otherwise.
I have made bad decisions in my life, but I am living my life to the fullest despite the past.
I have a wonderful husband, and an amazing, loving, supportive family.
I am just a person. Not worthy of idolization, but honestly… not deserving of hate or derision. I think it takes effort to find something about me worth actually disliking… and I’m not worth that effort.
Why would you make the effort?
My Every Limit.
No one tells you it will be like this.
You are testing my every limit, child. Every single one I have.
The hitting. You smack me with that look on your face. I say don’t hit. Dad says don’t hit. We tell you hitting is not nice, and if you hit we wont play with you. And you look at me… and hit.
The biting. Who taught you to bite? Where did you learn to use your teeth in such a manner? Every hug is suspect, every cuddle is questionable. I never let your face near mine without double checking for the smirk that means you are about to bite me.
The whining. Momma doesn’t whine. Dad doesn’t whine. We never taught you to whine. I’m convinced that it’s genetic, and I’m getting what’s due because of how I was as a child. But it drives me crazy every moment of every day. I tell you, “I don’t understand you when you whine,” and “Tell me what you want without whining,” or even, “Just ask ‘please!’” The whining really makes my nerves grate, brings me to the end of my rope.
The misbehaving. I know that is what you are supposed to do. You misbehave. You are learning limits. You are testing what you can and cannot do. But when you scream because I take the chip bag away, and then I tell you to say please if you want one… and you say please, so I give you a chip… and then you proceed to shatter it into a thousand pieces into the carpet? It makes my brain go to crazy mush.
What happened to my happy, easy going, contented baby? Who is this control freak that flips out every time I urge or encourage him in a direction that he doesn’t want to go?
The ALL OUT screaming fits that happen when I draw the line? They have gotten old so quickly.
Ronan, you make me terrified that you are ‘that kid.’ The one that other people stare at and whisper about. The kid at the baby gym that all the other moms hope stays away from their kids. The one that everyone hopes their kid is never like. That kid in the grocery store, that kid in the mall. The kid I’d hoped you’d never be.
I HATE looking around and wondering if I’m ‘that mom’. The one that can’t keep her kid under control. The one that can’t stop him from throwing a fit. The one that thinks her kid is capable and ready to handle something, and is quite clearly shown that he isn’t. I’m that mom that thinks she’s done a great job raising her sweet, loving, well behaved boy… but I really haven’t.
We don’t leave the house because I can’t handle you in public. We stay home, and feel stuck and isolated, but I’m too afraid to leave. But the longer we stay here, the more you test my limits, my sanity, my ability to cope. Sometimes I’m not sure what else I can do.
And everyone tells me it doesn’t get any easier.
You Can Never Go Back.
“L.A.’s fine, but it ain’t home. New York’s home, but it ain’t mine no more.”
I walked into the office I knew so very well. It had an old sort of comfortableness to it. Like driving by the house you grew up in. Or visiting your elementary school.
I had so many nerves. I was shaking in parts of my belly that I had never even felt before. Nervous about seeing old friends, old co-workers. Nervous about being treated differently. Nervous about being treated the same.
And then there were smiles. And hugs. Faces that were so welcome that it brought tears to my eyes. Laying down and realizing all that I had loved and missed was still there. Jokes from a man I adore and respect so much. Idle chatter with the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, knowing she understands how I feel. Fighting tears and emotions because I’m so, so very hormonal… but that’s not the only reason why.
I miss this place. I miss this life. But you can never go back.
Hearing the doctor say, “Everything looks great. I think your baby is going to be fine,” sets my heart at ease, my fears to rest. It was a wonderful moment, and yet not the best part of today.
The best part was a hug and a phone call from someone I had thought lost to me. The best part had smiles and the sharing of pictures and stories. The best part was feeling a little bit at home for a little bit of a moment.
I wouldn’t let anything, or anyone ruin that for me.
I love you guys. And I miss you.
Just saying!
I just wanted to make some people out there aware…
There is an amazing woman. With some amazing kids.
She makes amazing clothes.
They are lovely, whimsical, adorable and fun. They make you want to dress up your kids.
They make you wish you were so crafty.
What’s the best part?
She’s having a giveaway! At her blog! You can check out her Etsy store and see some of the amazing things she does.
I’m sure she’d appreciate if you stop by. Take a minute and comment! Gets you an entry in the drawing, and costs you nothing!
Even if you don’t have a little girl.
Spread the love.
The Hose.
This is a small addendum to today’s picture post. Ronan was having far too much fun with this hose for me to pass up a video.
