April 13, 2010

Motherhood 2.0

In the last few days I’ve realized there is a difference between first-time motherhood and parenting a second child:  I am so much calmer this time around.

When Dawson was born I was a nervous new mom.  I never felt confident that I was “doing things right.”  I questioned every decision I made and worried about ridiculous things.  The funny thing is that everyone told me to just relax and trust my instincts, and this advice infuriated me, because I truly didn’t know if I had maternal instincts.

Sure, I have younger siblings and I spent many of my teen years babysitting, but it’s completely different when you have your own kids.  A baby’s needs and his survival are completely dependent upon you, at least until they learn how to walk, feed themselves, and wipe their own butts.

As soon as Dawson learned to roll over and eventually crawl, I became obsessed with childproofing and making sure nothing harmful would come in contact with him.  I sanitized toys.  If he dropped a spoon or fork I’d immediately wash it off or get him a new one.  I went through baby wipes faster than anyone I know.

It’s different with Owen.  I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I feel more confident in my parenting this time around.  I know it’s okay for him to fuss for a few minutes while I use the restroom (he LOVES to be held).  If his favorite toy falls on the living room floor I hand it back to him (unless it’s truly dirty of course).

My mom came over yesterday and commented on how good-natured Owen is.  She was amazed at how calm and happy he is.  ”He’s such a good baby,” she said.  ”He doesn’t cry about anything.”

I wanted to tell her to come over just before bedtime when he’s super fussy as he tries to fall asleep.  But I realized she’s right.  He is a much calmer baby.  I don’t want to compare my children because I know they are two amazing individuals.  I do want to point out that Dawson was a little more high strung and I think it’s because he could sense my anxiety.  Maybe Owen is content because I’m more relaxed and confident.

It seems as though firstborn children are the guinea pigs.  It’s almost unfair, yet truly, we learn to become parents with them.  They train us. Dawson made me a mother.  The lessons he has taught me have made me the caring and attentive parent that I am today.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve made mistakes with him that I won’t make with Owen.  My experiences with Dawson are like a check list.  Okay, I did this and that happened, and I won’t be handling things like that again.  I often wonder if Owen has an advantage in being second-born.  I have a better grasp on childrearing this go-round, and he reaps the benefits.

I know that’s crazy, because all that matters is I have two wonderful boys, each with their own awesome personalities.  Dawson is well-rounded and kind.  He has a fantastic sense of humor.  His smile lights up a room.  Owen is my little ham.  He giggles at his big brother’s antics.  He is fascinated with Murphy, our dog, and watches him with such intense concentration.

Yes, there truly are differences in raising one child versus two children, but one thing is the same:  both my babies love to cuddle with their mama.  Maybe I’m doing this parenting thing right after all.

August 20, 2009

Too Many Characters for Twitter

Well, folks… It finally happened.  I met one of those moms.  A CompetiMom.  Read about my experience over at the Imperfect Parent.

I haven’t yet read any books in the Twilight series. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I just cannot get into them. I read a few sentences of the first book (my sister owns all the books currently released) and I was bored. People think I’m crazy, and promptly tell me how awesome these novels are, and I’m sure they are amazing. Just not my thing right now. I’ve got other books piling up on my “to-be-read” list.

This morning Dawson dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen and was scavenging the cabinets looking for something to eat. Something he probably shouldn’t have, like fruit snacks or Froot Loops straight out of the box. When I went into the kitchen to bust him, he turned around and said, “This happens every time. Daddy brings home the treats, and BOOM! They’re gone!” I fought the urge to laugh and replied, “Who do you think you are? Madden?” To which my son rolled his eyes and said, “I have no idea what that means.” I promptly peed my pants from the incessant laughter that followed.

Even funnier morning tale:  Dawson was standing in the living room, playing with his new Transformers Bumblebee toy (that he conned me into buying when we went to K-Mart to pick up my prescriptions).  He was explaining how it worked and said something like, “So you move his arms and then his legs and BAM! He’s a robot!”   Continuing the witty reparte I said, “Dawson, you sound like Emeril.”  Again, my child looked at me funny and replied, “Mom, you gotta stop saying such crazy things.  I don’t know what a ‘Mer-ill is!”  That child cracks me up.

I’m sick of being pregnant.  I know that sounds horrible.  I’m just anxious.  I want to meet the little guy who kicks me incessantly.  I want the bloating, the horrible ligament pain and the bat-shit crazy mood swings to be over.  Nine weeks to go.  NINE. Will I make it?

The nesting phase has begun.  Yesterday morning, post work, post doctor appointments, I had this insane urge to organize the playroom slash exercise room.  I began moving boxes and realized I needed help, so my awesome sister came over and helped me make sense of all the crap in the basement.  All the holiday decorations were moved into the closet in our family room.  Toys and books were sorted, and two boxes were set aside for Goodwill.  Next, I cleaned out my closet and finally parted with some too small clothes I was clinging to.  My sister took the ones she liked, the rest were given to GW.  It was hard to get rid of some of those things, but I closed my eyes and the box before I changed my mind.  In total, seven boxes were loaded into the Jimmy, and Goodwill was very happy to receive them.

Today, I have a nagging urge to start organizing the room that Dawson and Baby O will share.  I’m starting to look at the things in my house as entirely too much crap.  Where did all this stuff come from?  And how do I decide what to save, what to toss and what to donate?

Both UPS and FedEx dropped packages at the front door yesterday.  I received the really awesome thing I won from bTrendie (in a BlogHer giveaway) and then we also got Hooked on Phonics (Parent Bloggers Network campaign) and Dawson and I are excited to try HoP.  Stay tuned for more details on that.

My wonderful husband has decided to finally get down to business and remove the old, ugly, yellow shag carpet from the other spare bedroom downstairs. (I have only asked four hundred times.)  I’ve decided I need an office, with a door, to work in peace. Currently, I do my work from the kitchen table or the sofa.  I’m thinking a desk is needed, too.  I just don’t want to spend too much money with a new baby on the way.  I’m sure we’ll figure something out.

I’ve got a confession to make.  I’m addicted to watching Roseanne re-runs on TV Land.  I can’t help it.  I love the early years of this show because it reminds me so much of my family (circa the 80s) when I was growing up.  We were the typical middle class family, two hard working parents trying to make ends meet, two daughters and one son… And then it became even more real when Roseanne had a son later in life, just like my mother had my youngest brother at 39.  Then the Conners won the lottery (JUMPED THE SHARK) and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So, I suppose I’m reliving some old memories by watching those pre-lottery winning episodes.

I’m in love with the DVR.  We’ve had it for a month now, and I don’t know how we ever got along with out it.  I record Phineas & Ferb for Dawson, and that Transformers cartoon that airs at 5:00 a.m., and movies I’d like to see but don’t have the time right now.  It’s entertainment magic.  Love, love, love.  It will come in handy when Dancing With the Stars airs in three weeks.  Yay!  Miss that show terribly, but I’m sure a certain baby arriving will make it hard to watch the show live.

I think I’m suffering from ADD.  I want to read seven different books all at once, good books, from the library.  Due in 12 days.  I’m starting to mix up the story lines and information (some are non-ficiton).  Perhaps I should just stick to one book at a time.

Back to pregnancy… I’m feeling a wee bit claustrophobic.  Antsy.  And my arms and legs and stomach itch every so often.  I’m starting to think the baby is trying to bust out.  October, please hurry.

October 21, 2008

He Was My Dylan McKay

A long time ago in faraway land, as far away from reality as one can get, I fell in love with the wrong man.  The time and place of our first meeting are irrelevant because looking back on that moment I realize it could have happened at any point in my life.

I was feeling especially vulnerable when he caught my attention.  My life had been turned upside down, full of chaos.  Things weren’t going my way.  I remember feeling as though I wasn’t loved.  That I didn’t deserve to be loved.  My reaction to these feelings was to build walls around my emotions and let no one tear them down. I was certain that my heart could be stone and that I would feel nothing, not happiness nor sadness — for if I let one feeling escape the castle I had built, the others would follow.

And then I met him.  Our conversations were friendly at first.  We talked about our lives and where we lived and worked.  We spoke of our families and our favorite things.  Our relationship was flirtatious and silly and I loved the attention he gave to me.  His kind and loving words were like millions of tiny chisels chipping away the rock over my heart.

I felt worthy.  I felt loved.  I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.  After weeks of getting to know one another, I went on a five-day vacation without telling him.  When I returned he missed me.  He said he was so happy to see me and asked me never to leave without telling him.  That was the first time I let my guard down.  That was the first time I let him in.

Things that seem too good to be true, often are, and gradually our relationship fell apart.  His attention waned.  He lost interest in me and met someone else.  He gave all his attention to her.  It was a flash of light, as quickly as we met, our relationship was over.

Words were exchanged.  Hurtful words.  I lost control of my feelings.  I was confused because I never really knew what I did to drive him away.  Those old insecurities came flooding back.  I was drowning in my emotions.  I no longer felt loved.  I no longer felt beautiful.

I couldn’t let go of what happened.  I confronted him and somehow he convinced me it was my fault, that I was somehow delusional about our relationship, that I misunderstood what was really going on between us.  He made me think I was feeling things that weren’t really there.  He didn’t love me.

I remember feeling so stupid for ever loving him, that I tried to tell myself this never really happened.  In a rage I took back all the things I said to him.  I told him I didn’t really love him.  Instead of admitting how hurt I was, I told him I was just using him.  It was an attempt to gain control over the situation and it backfired.  He told me he never wanted to speak to me again.  I couldn’t deal with it.  I shut myself off from everyone around me.

I started seeing a therapist.  I wanted so badly to make sense of what had happened.  I felt depressed.  I didn’t want to eat.  I tried to starve myself, thinking that if I were thinner or prettier he would want me again.

Never in my life had I let a man have any power over me.  Why was he any different?  What was it about him that made me lose control?  I couldn’t figure it out.

Dr. G asked me to talk about it, to sort through all the anger and sadness.  I didn’t know if I could do it.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “Who are you? What do you believe to be true about yourself?”

It was a question I didn’t think I could answer.  Who am I?

I’m a woman who loves to be loved.  I want everyone to like me, to see how special I am, to appreciate me for who I am.  I’m a woman who likes to laugh and smile.  I’m a woman who needs more love and affection than most people.  I’m a woman who hates to be rejected.  I’m a woman who is afraid of abandonment.

I thought my reasons for seeing a therapist were to get over the one who hurt me, but as I poured my heart out I realized my feelings had nothing to do with a man loving me and everything to do with me loving myself.

After several long months of getting to know who I was and just being myself, I discovered how great I am.  I learned to be good to myself and to respect who I am.  Gradually, I got over the heartbreak and pain, and I realized the man I thought I loved was simply a lesson to be learned.

We wouldn’t have worked out anyway.  Thinking back on the times we shared together, I realize now he wasn’t as happy as he wanted everyone to believe.  His relationships were complicated.  He depended too much on others to make him happy, to validate who he was.  He was always brooding, and somewhat withdrawn.  He had his own abandonment issues because of his parents’ divorce.

In many ways he reminded me of Dylan McKay, the bad boy character from 90s television show Beverly Hills, 90210.  He even had the great hair to match.  Like Dylan, he was a loner.  While he had friends, he never let them into his life.  He never let them see who he really was.

I can’t say that he was all bad.  He could be kind and sensitive like no other.  He could make a woman feel like the most important person in his world.  He could make you see the same old things in a new light.  He was full of passion, but with that passion was intense heartbreak.  No one could break a heart the way he did.  Everything he says and does, everything he feels is full of intense emotion.

I never thought I could write about that time in my life before now.  I think in so many ways I was embarrassed.  I felt foolish for giving my heart to someone who so easily walked all over it. I realize now that everything happens for reasons we may not know until years later.  He was a lesson to be learned.  He was my Dylan McKay.

August 2, 2008

Ripping Off the Band-Aid, Part I

Alternate title:  Confessions of the Queen of Denial.

When I attended last year’s BlogHer Conference, I was a newbie; a virgin so-to-speak.  I didn’t quite know what to expect and I was rather overwhelmed with all the sessions and blogger meet-ups and overall conference what-to-do.

This year, I considered myself a veteran and I found it easier to meet new bloggers as well as re-connect with my pals, and when it came down to choosing which sessions to attend, I chose the Mommyblogging track.  And it was the Infertility panel that struck a chord that still resonates within me,  weeks later.

I’m in a point in my life where motherhood consumes me.  I’ve been at this Mommy thing for almost four years now; longer if you count pregnancy and all the worrying I did about my son’s impending birth.  The fear of breaking my vagina as Dawson’s head pushed through was always teetering at the back of mind.  Perhaps because it took so long for me to conceive, I was nervous and worrisome for the entire nine months.

Looking back on those years before I became a mother, I remember quite vividly the feelings of frustration, sadness and anger I felt over my conception woes.  It was an emotional roller coaster, and I felt like I was held captive on this ride and never let off. To completely understand what I went through, I’ll have to give you a little back story.

I was raised in a Polish, Catholic family where it was commonplace for women to get married, have lots of babies and constantly feed everybody.  My parents were born into large families; my mother the oldest of seven and my father the youngest of nine children.

Family gatherings were big as well as blithe, laughter was never hard to find, and our extended family grew every year.  I remember Christmas holidays when year after year at least one of my aunts was pregnant.  I never had a shortage of cousins to play with when I was a kid.

I can still remember how easy, and somewhat glamorous, the women in my family made motherhood appear.  No one ever complained about the lack of sleep or trouble with breastfeeding they experienced.  There was never any talk about the hundreds of diapers that needed changing.  No one ever discussed the fact that their husbands became useless and clueless after the birth of a baby. Instead, it was all happy babies and loving mamas sharing peek-a-boo moments.  Boy, what a delusion.

Naturally, I grew up believing that motherhood was the grand poobah of aspirations.  This was what little girls dreamed of becoming.  At the age of 13, wifedom and motherhood was the end all, be all in my book.  In all honesty, if the fear of God and my father weren’t as strong as they were when I was 17, I’m pretty positive I would have gotten pregnant in high school.  I know that’s an almost insane thing to admit, but I couldn’t wait to be a mother.

I remember when a schoolmate told me she was expecting during our senior year.  I was shocked at first and then later I was somewhat jealous.  Of course those feelings dissipated when I watched her struggle with pregnancy and later childbirth and the day the baby’s father abandoned her.  That was my first glimpse of the reality that is motherhood.  That was the day I realized that there is no glitz and glamor to becoming a mother.  And yet, I desperately yearned for the day I would have my own child. I didn’t realize the difficult journey to motherhood that was ahead of me.

My first brush with the infertile world (although I didn’t know it at the time) happened a year after I graduated high school.  It was May of 1998, and my period was late.  I remember the fear that something was wrong with my body.  I was still a virgin, so pregnancy was not possible, unless of course I was chosen by God to give birth to the next Savior of the world.

It turns out my periods would cease for 19 months.  After a year and a half of this craziness, I decided it was time to see a doctor.  I didn’t have health insurance, so I didn’t go to the clinic, but instead I scheduled an appointment with the local Ruth Gilfry office.  They referred me to a physician who prescribed progesterone/progestin to start my periods again, but no explanation was given as to why they stopped to begin with.

There were speculations, such as my rapid weight loss (at age 20, when I got down to 130 pounds, my lowest weight ever.  I graduated high school at 150.) or the fact that I was exercising too much and eating too little, as well as my family history of ovarian cysts and fibroids (I had a cyst burst during math class once, causing me to double over in pain), and the possibility I had endometriosis (an ultrasound and laproscopy ruled that out, thank God).

At age 21, I got a job that offered health insurance and I decided to finally have a full physical examination to see what was happening with my ovaries and uterus.  My periods had finally started again a few months before, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right, reproductively.  I had gained back all of the weight I lost and then some, causing my menstrual cycles to last 40 days or longer and I wanted an explanation.  My doctor told me I had polycystic ovarian syndrome.  WTF is that, I thought.

I honestly thought it was some made up “disease”, a diagnosis created to group a whole bunch of symptoms and unexplained conditions together.  I was told I was overweight and suffering from a metabolic disorder, yet my thyroid checks came back normal every time.  My doctor prescribed Glucophage (metformin) to keep my insulin levels in check.  Several months later, I was told I was a “borderline diabetic”.  My world felt like it was crumbling, especially when the doctor explained, “this condition will make it difficult for you to have children.” I was crushed.  I felt as though my dream of motherhood was being pulled away from me.  Stolen.  I felt robbed.

I was advised to lose weight, but not too much and told not to continue the excessive exercise regime.  It was thought that if I lost twenty pounds, having a baby may not be so difficult.

After my husband and I were married, we decided to begin trying to conceive immediately.  After 12 months of no luck, I went back to my doctor who referred me to a specialist.  The doctor ordered me to continue taking the Glucophage as well as Clomid, a fertility drug.

I began charting my cycles, and taking my temperature every morning and still, I wasn’t pregnant.  Every time my period was late, I’d pee on a stick and become angry and frustrated when a big, fat negative result turned up in the test window.  After another year of this, I lost hope.  I told Doug that I didn’t want children anymore.  Not if it meant going through that, month after horrible month.

I confided in my mother about my frustration and she was supportive, yet she told me she didn’t believe anything was wrong with me — that maybe Doug and i weren’t having sex at the right time of the month.  Other friends told me to relax, that it would happen when I least expected it.  I know they meant well, but these words pissed me off.  I wanted so badly to tell them all to shut up.  I wanted to say, “You don’t know what I’m going through…you don’t understand how difficult this is!”

Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wanted to run away.  I wanted to cry and yell and throw things.  I wasn’t mad at the person, I was mad at my situation.  And maybe I was jealous.  I didn’t understand why that couldn’t be me.

When these feelings surfaced, I stopped taking the drugs and decided to concentrate on other things.  It was November of 2003 and my co-worker Melissa and I decided to try the Atkins diet.  It was all the rage back then and we both thought we could stand to lose a few pounds.  It was the dumbest thing I did, I realize that now, but the rigidity of that “diet” gave me something else to focus on.  Counting carbs and peeing on Keto sticks took my mind of taking Clomid and peeing on ovulation sticks. I lost 37 pounds in 3 months.

In January of 2004, Doug and I decided to get a dog.  Murphy became our baby.  And then one day I stepped on the scale and discovered I had gained 9 pounds in a week.  My fear consumed me, because I was following the Atkins diet religiously.  Later, I noticed my period was five days late.  I took a pregnancy test.  Negative.  The old feelings of anger began to rise in my throat like bile.  It was devastating.  I felt like the universe was jerking my chain and taking great pleasure in it.

Ten more days go by and still no period.  My breasts were sore.  I was tired all the time.  Something didn’t feel right.  Never did I think I was pregnant, and I pushed the thought out of my mind.  The fear of that negative stick haunted me.

On January 26th, I threw up at work.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Do I have the flu? It didn’t feel like the flu.  On my lunch break I walked to Shopko and bought an E.P.T., but when I returned to work, I couldn’t take the test.  I was scared.  I confided in Melissa (we both worked the 2nd shift so she was my sound board for many things) and she and another friend, Shannon, urged me to take the test.  I went to the bathroom and bit the bullet.  And then suddenly, through my tears, I saw two pink lines appear.  Then I dropped the stick in the toilet.

The utter disbelief paralyzed me.  I fished the stick from the bowl and hurried to the sink.  As I was rinsing it off, I noticed the line getting somewhat darker.  I wrapped the test in paper towel and ran to my desk.

“Is this a line?” I shrieked at my friends.

“Is what alive?” asked Shannon.

“Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!” Melissa said.

My boss, Angela, who was also pregnant at the time, rushed over to confirm the results.

“Congratulations!” she said, as she hugged me.

I took another 15 minute break to regain my composure, and then called my husband, my mother and my friend Kelly.  I couldn’t hold back the news.  It finally happened.  I was pregnant.  Those two pink lines were so exciting and thrilling.

Little did I know they would spring me into a state of panic and fear that consumed me for the duration of my pregnancy…