What am I so afraid of? Why don’t I just write?

I’m afraid of consequences, yes. I fear I’ve become boring, yes… but isn’t this my place to be boring if I want to be?

I made some quip about diaper changing and was told “you should have a website!” I stammered, and then trailed off, “I do have a…” I did. I don’t use it much lately?

I’ve been spending my paycheck paying for a babysitter so that I can go horseback riding once a week. That’s who I used to be. The girl on the old gray mare. But, I’m not so much a girl any more, and the mare, her days belong to some other college girl I’ve never met. Going horseback riding with my college roommate has been nice. She’s still the same old soul she’s always been. But that’s just it. Nice.

Not defining.

I no longer live and breathe wood shavings and leather. I can’t remember how it really feels to canter a steady horse. I certainly don’t have the athletic body any more.

I remember the farm, the drama, the hard fought privileges and lessons. I remember knowing exactly who and where I was. I was certain about my place in the world.

Not so much, anymore. I struggle to write, I think, because I struggle to own the person who I have become. I struggle to write, because I know for sure that two people read here (Hi Goon Squad! Hi Husband!). I’m not sure who else does, so I find I’m censoring myself. Too much.

At the moment, I’m That Mom who doesn’t care that the baby is pulling toilet paper off the roll. I won’t even promise to pick it up before my husband gets home. The baby is happy. And for now, quiet.

I’m That Mom who’s lonely, so I over-commit to volunteer work and committee work I don’t want, just so that people will call me or stop by.

I think I’m still depressed. Or at least, I’m lonely enough that when it’s quiet enough to sit and write, I feel sorry for myself. By the time I sit down with a minute to myself, what’s left for me? I’m spent. I’m tired of being defined by depression. I’m tired of depression. I’m tired of myself.

I’m tired of reading blog posts that, well, look like this one.

Lately I feel less like a writer and more like a short-order cook. I’ve got a Twitterized attention span for writing. I’ve got Twitterized thoughts pulsing through my mind. These probably could all be post topics, but…

One sentence paragraphs.

That’s all I’ve got in me.

How is it that I’ve got one week worth of blouses for me, and six months worth of shirts for the baby?
I think it has something to do with the fact that he’s a lot cuter in his new and hand-me-down clothes.

I took the baby and spent a week with the in-laws. It was so nice to not be the only “mom” on duty for a few days. It was nice to have a mommy of my own for a change.

I spent a week not watching t.v. Yay for me! Seriously. This is a Big. Accomplishment.

I go back to work this week. I’m dreading it now, but I’ll enjoy it when I’m there.

How on earth is the baby already 11 months old? How? H.O.W? Seriously? I’ve missed a whole year of my/his life from depression.

Suck.

I watched an infomercial for Your Baby Can Read (if you buy $200 videos and flash cards). I feel like an inadequet parent.

I’m trying to figure out what PBS programs to Tivo to compensate. I’m unimpressed with Baby Einstein.

Dear Ducky, You’re almost walking. You’re all over the place. I can’t believe your first birthday is in weeks!

My darling boy, you have an unnatural relationship with the T.V. remote. Not the DVD remote or any of the half dozen remotes we never use. THE T.V. remote. You’ve figured out how to work Tivo. Makes me wonder what else you’ve learned that we don’t know about yet.

Would you kindly stop crying so I can finish a post? No? Okay then.

Dear Ducky,
Ten months old. I can’t even beileve it. Your first birthday will be here soon. All I can think is that im not ready to lose my baby.

You’re already so independent. You drink from (my) cup. You are learning to grasp finger food. You insist on carrying the T.V. remote with you around the apartment. You sound like captain Ahab. Tap-Thump, Tap-Thump.

Each day you find some way to show me that you are moine. Right now, you’ve found me in the bedroom. You’ve come to visit me, and grab at the stuff on my night table. You’re cruising the bed and grabbing at my toes.

You come and go. Barely ten monts od an you’re in and out of a room likei a teenager asking for car keys. Before I can even write this down, you’re in the living room yelling “ah-AH, ah-AH, ah-AH!”

You got sick for the first time last week. What a little bug you are! Always something new. Apparantly, when you’re sick, you need to be snuggled. You haven’t let me snuggle you since we stopped nursing. You’ll forgive me if I cough on you every once in a while?

Just one more hug before you’re off and running.

You’ll be walking soon. Too soon. You’re already climbing. You love to open drawers. Right now you’re banging on the bedroom door. Slap, slap!

“The days go by slowly, the years go by fast.”

I’m already forgetting what it was like to be pregnant. I remember the waitiong Wondering what your face would look like. Now I cant remember not knowing your face.

You have your daddy’s smile. When your dad laughs I can see your face. I want to hold onto that memory, put it in a snowglobe on my night stand.

Lately, you only eat for Daddy. You’ll gobble whole jars for him! Stinker.

You want us to hold you , but only so you can reach what you’re aiming to grab.

I want to be the support that you need. I sens that you won’t need to depend on us for much, but I want to be the kind of Dependable that you need in order to readch the life that you’re meant for.

Love, Mama.

P.S. Stop crying so that I can write you a longer letter!

This is my baby. This is my adventerous little man. I wanted a cuddly baby, but that’s not who God gave me. He’s eight months old and he’s already racing away. He’s a racecar, he stops to grab my leg ever few minutes, but he doesn’t want to be picked up. Just checking tire pressure and jumping back into the the excitment of the race.

That Guy I Married laughs and sings The Bear Went Over The Mountain when I pick the baby up. I pick him up, he climbs up my shoulder until I have to hold him to keep him from launching to the floor. Then he climbs back to my lower arms and leans for me to put him down. He stands on the floor, and then reaches up to try to climb me again.

Rinse and repeat.
I guess that’s how I know that I’m the one he needs.

The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see,
but the other side of the mountain was all that he could see,
so the bear went over the mountain to see what he could see,
but the other side of the mountain was all that he could see.

The Duck climed over the Mama to see what he could see…
Happy Love Thursday

nervous for nothing
insert witty blogpost here
anxiety stinks

I got a phone call last week, from my favorite sweet little boy young man. He’s working now, and was offered Knott’s Berry Farm tickets through work.

He thought of me (is your monitor glowing extra bright from the beam on my face?). He had offered two tickets to me and That Guy, but he agreed to go with us when I admitted that I’d rather hang out with him than take his tickets.

It was a lazy day. We walked around, we sat on a bench, we ate lunch. We talked, we didn’t talk. We took turns playing with the baby. There were moments of quiet, where his absent sisters would usually be gabbing.

He told me all about work, about the lifestyle he’s chosen for himself his first year out of high school. It’s so nice to get to know the man that he’s become.

Even if I miss that sweet little boy.

Sixteen Things I can’t do without this summer.

1. A haircut. It’s been 3 months, HELP!

2. A nap. Preferably daily.

3. A babysitter. He’s cute, you can bring him back when he’s loud or he smells bad! Any takers?

4. Flip flops.

5. Dog park – for the days when it’s too hot to walk the dog.

6. Snow cones. I wait all year!

7. The camera. Seriously, where did this baby go? I can’t find him anywhere? I’m going to need to get the camera out every day this summer too.

8. Antidepressants. Seriously, if you’re depressed, go get some.

9. Baby Jail, I mean the playpen.

10. Cabinet Locks. It’s just that season in life now.

11. A day at the beach, it’s just not summer without.

12. A day with my best friend.

13. A day with my girlies.

14. A date. Late summer evenings when the sun is going down, and it’s still warm outside.

15. Raspberry Lime bubble water.

16. Chat’s on the phone.

I’m finally feeling better.

The Post-Nursing depression really hand me in a choke-hold this month. I was so tired. Mentally. It’s hard to say exactly what it was like, except that it was a good idea for me to stay offline for a few weeks there. It’s been a long time since I enjoyed anything.

Now, I’m looking around trying to catch up on… I’m not exactly sure what.

So. Um. Ducky:
He’s learned to crawl, right into the bathroom cabinets. He can pull himself up to standing, with the intent of climbing my leg or the couch, or the furniture. Who needs walking when you can climb up and repel off of Mama!?

I had babyproofed the “hazardous” cabinets and then realized that wasn’t enough for nosey-boy, so this weekend I went around and locked the rest of the cabinets. Was that enough? Nope! I found ducky trying to open the changing-table drawers this morning. Nothing in there that’s dangerous, but he could pull a drawer and then fall backwards from the change in balance. Is the drill charged yet?

The job:
The job has been great. I’m so glad to have a class to go to once a week, it’s just enough for now. It’s a state-funded course, so we’re all a little worried about how long the classes will last, but for now, I’m going to enjoy it.

That Guy I Married:
Is, um, around here somewhere. I think he cleaned the aquariums this weekend, and added new fish. I’ll ask him how he’s doing on our date this weekend.

Ducky went to his first party this weekend. His friend G turned one! We had a lovely day at the park. I had tried to make a dress for the birthday girl, but I didn’t get it done in time.

Regular “Mom Tired” is so much better than “Depressed Fog” tired. Yay.

The first four weeks of breastfeeding were miserable. Shallow latch, flat, bruised nipples. That Guy I Married had to hold the baby up to my breast so that I wouldn’t crush his scull when he latched incorrectly.

All of the Experts were there to shove Breast is Best down my throat. All of the Experts did not have the time of day to teach me how to nurse. Insurance doesn’t cover it. The pediatrician and everyone else dismissed me and told me to go to The Pumpstation. The Pumpstation wouldn’t give me the time of day until I paid $130. Upfront. Cash or credit is fine!

$130 is a lot of money to an unemployed new mother. Especially to just be told to swaddle him and push his head back and forth with my palm.

When I cried out for help with nursing I got visitors and bright paper bags full of Onesies.

The next six weeks were not so bad. Ducky had learned to latch on his own, eventually. He cried, I attached him to my breast, he nursed, he relaxed, and closed his eyes. And then I ceased to exist until the next time he wanted to nurse. He retreated into the world of the sleeping newborn. At least nursing was no longer painful. I thought I had bonded with him, I had accepted that I was responsible for the needs of this little squawking duck.

Around ten weeks old, he woke up before dawn and called out with the morning birds. He cried, I attached him to my breast, he nursed, he relaxed, and closed his eyes. And then.

And then: the good part. And then: the reason why. And then he nursed, he relaxed, and softly placed his tiny hand on my ribcage. He leaned his warm head into my chest and nuzzled. As if I mattered. As if I was the one he needed. In that moment we were meant to nuzzle just like that.

And then we were a pair. Every morning, I would wisk him out of the crib before he woke his dad. We would sit, and wordlessly start our day together. He had outgrown the bird-like, boney arms, and shrill newborn noises. Suddenly, he was a baby. The baby I had waited for my whole life.

I had become so trained to respond to the newborn alarm, that I had forgotten about the good part. The baby. Chubby, soft, sweet-smelling, snuggly baby.

He’s not the cuddliest little guy. Up, moving, active, nosey, busy, social, strong, but not cuddly. That was hard for me to accept. He’s healthy as a horse, but usually I’m just a safe lap to stand on, or a place to stop for a quick snack. I need to hug him more than he needs to be hugged.

Except in the morning, when the birds were singing, and the sun wasn’t up yet. He nursed and cuddled. Just for a few minutes every morning, I was the best thing in the world.

That Guy I Married would ask the baby every evening “wanna go see Mama?” after about four months old, Ducky would dive into the crook of my arm.

Eventually Ducky got to busy and didn’t nurse much throughout the day. I was ready to nurse him for a year. At six months, he went on a nursing strike for two weeks. I thought we were done, until he grabbed my shirt and started digging for my breast in the middle of the afternoon. He was not done. He told me what he needed, and he got it.

I can Do that part of parenting. Meet a need when I know what it is. Even if he just needed to nurse long enough to help himself pass gas. It got to where I had stopped offering to nurse, he would tell me when he needed to. Usually just once a day.

And that was okay. That was all he needed. He would be done soon.

But not soon enough. I was being warned. I was being instructed to stop nursing. I avoided the first couple of meltdowns by having a bottle ready, or by plopping him into the high-chair first thing in the morning. The next couple were harder to avoid. I couldn’t put down my crying baby to go and put that powdered crap into a bottle. I couldn’t walk away from him. I wanted to hold him close and let him nuzzle. It was so miserable, I don’t want to write anything else down.

I just want to hold on to the rest of the story.