Mommy's "Sick" Day

Last weekend, I made a spur of the moment decision to take Will to the beach for the first time. It was probably 60 degrees out, so my husband, my mother, Will and I went to Green Key Beach in our clothes and sweatshirts, and let the sensory overload begin. We took a TON of pictures, and let Will go in the swings and sit in the sand. He touched it and was totally mesmerized by it :) I think that day made me realize that I missed those special moments.

Not that I can't have special moments with Will because I'm a working mother. But I really wanted to be able to spend quality time with him, like I did on the beach, with the wind blowing, him looking around and both of us experiencing something special.

Even though this week was a "four-day" week in honor of Veterans Day, I found myself weepy on Tuesday night and I made a decision: I'm staying home tomorrow. I miss my son.

I stayed up late, thinking about activities I could do with him on a day when it was JUST him and me. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, or like I felt those days I knew my parents were waking me up the next day to go to Disney. Although I was blessed to be home with Will 24/7 for the first four months of his life, he's six months old now, rolls around, sits on his own, stands, gets up on all fours, makes tons of cool noises, says "Mama," and a litany of other things he didn't do two months ago. I was very much looking forward to a day with him.

I put in for a substitute, didn't care that I didn't have copies made or that my classroom would be a shambles the next day. My day belonged to Will. Like it should.

When he woke up, we played with shape blocks. I separated them by color and let him roll around. He kept picking up the red triangles... I wonder if that will be his favorite color. I let him bang on pots and pans with a wooden spoon, which was funny because he kept just wanting to suck on the spoon.

Then we went shopping at Target. We picked out a book--one of my favorites: The Night Before Christmas. Inside the front cover was a dedication: "For Will, Christmas Boy." Couldn't have been more perfect.

While I was at Target, I picked up a package of 150 colored ball-pit balls. When we got home, after Will's first nap, he ate some apples. I let him hold the spoon and try to feed himself--pretty funny. Then I threw him AND all the colored balls into his playpen. Again, pretty funny! He enjoyed holding the balls and throwing them. After he was tired of the ball pit, I took his walker outside. He kicked his shoes off, so I ended up letting him run around in the driveway with no shoes on! I just can't believe how strong and independent he is at only six months old. When we came inside, I laid his pictures (tons and tons) out on the floor for him to look at while I put some in an album. I put him in his crib and poured all his clean, dry laundry on top of him. To end the day before Daddy came home, we walked (well, Will rode in the stroller) to the library down the street. He stood in the children's section, leaning on a bookcase and threw some of the books around.

Successes: I didn't turn on the television ONCE all day. I didn't touch the essays I know I needed to grade. I didn't surf the net. I devoted ALL my time to looking at my son, listening to him laugh, and playing with him while he learned. Even when he napped, I lie next to him on the bed or sat in the rocking chair waiting for him to wake up.

Failures: Sometimes when Will eats, he gets frustrated and so do I. He had a bit of a tummy ache and fussed with me when I tried to get him to eat. Not the worst failure I've ever had as a parent, but I definitely don't like when my impatience makes Will frustrated, too.

This day was all about my prince. And I realized, as I made plans for future days and weekends with him, that every day needs to be about him. It's going by too fast <3

Capture.

I wrote a poem today. It's not really good, but here it is:

I wish I could capture

The scent of your hair

And have it to dwell on

Years and years from now

The squint of your eyes

In the bright summer sun

And the kick of your feet

Before you learned to walk

The way you sneeze

And Eskimo kisses

Your heavy breaths

Sound asleep after dark

I wish I could save in a treasure box

Your genuine laugh

That knows no regrets

Your carefree-ness

I wish I could bottle up

Those chubby little legs

And that you’d always fit

Neatly curled up on my chest

The babble before your voice came

The softness of gums with no teeth

The neediness and the independence

Only you can feel both in the same day

Your sweet growing fingers

That grasp everything near

Your big brown eyes

That follow me, and your dad, and the dog, and the rest

I wish I could hide away the contentment of the moment

When we dance together

Even though you can’t stand

And know that at any time, I can go back to it.

The splash in the tub

Your first little nightmares

Your finger holding mine

The taste of your tiny toes.

Even if it’s just for the day.

Everything rustles.

Sophocles once said, "To him who is in fear, everything rustles." The truth behind that statement simultaneously intrigues and frightens me.

Although I wholeheartedly respect the memory of my grandparents, think of them fondly, and often refer to the lessons their beautiful lives taught me, they did possess some minor flaws. For my grandmother, that flaw was a mixture of fear and anxiety. Most times, those two go hand in hand. My grandmother rarely left the town where she lived for 60 years and raised children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She didn't show it, but she was often frazzled by change. Unfortunately, whether these qualities are genetic or not, I see many of my grandmother's anxieties when I look myself in the mirror.

I suppose it started when I realized not all people are good. When I realized not all situations turn out like you hope they will, or like you think they should. When I realized not all people get what they deserve, and some people get what they don't deserve. When I realized adults make mistakes. When I realized I make mistakes. When I realized disappointment is probably one of the most harmful, painful and detrimental feelings a person can experience.

It started in 2004. I was readying myself to graduate high school and my mind teemed with ideas and dreams that at the time, I believed were entirely possible. Though good stress surrounded me in the sense that I was up to my ears in scholarships, I had the world at my fingertips, and my parents and boyfriend (at the time... he would eventually be my husband) supported my every move, I began to fear. At 17 years of age, I had my first panic attack. I remember not being able to get a deep breath, and asking the school nurse if this was normal. I was scared to choose a college. I was scared I would have to declare a major. I was scared of moving away from home, but also of staying home. It was a thrilling but overwhelming time in my life. Fortunately, I pushed aside the fear and worry. I embraced the newness that was adulthood. Shoulders back, head held high, I graduated from high school and moved away to college...

Southeastern University was not what I expected, and soon after settling in I realized I didn't fit in there. I wasn't a pastor's kid. I wasn't a missionary's kid. I had always attended public schools. I wasn't majoring in ministry. Why was I there? But again, I rolled with it. I smiled. I aced all my classes. I came home on the weekends to visit my family and boyfriend (again, at the time...)

So truthfully, it started in 2005. I was on top of the world. And in the summer, while I served overseas on my fifth and what would be my last mission trip, my world came crashing down. I won't go into detail. All that matters is that after those two weeks--which seemed to me like an eternity--my fear and anxiety skyrocketed. And remain high as the sky to this day.

I've always been afraid of spiders. During my teen years, if I saw a spider crawling in the house or in a web outdoors, I typically cried, hyperventilated, yelled for someone to kill it. But I figured most everyone had that one irrational fear. Soon, however, I began fearing other things. The events of 2005 caused me to develop a fear of people, and of relationships with them. Because they hurt. I had always been a people pleaser, a girl who would get straight A's just to hear her parents say how good she was, or just to compare herself to her peers. But now, I had more of a fear of failure, and more of a fear about what people would say to me and about me if they knew me when I wasn't at my best. I also developed a fear of flying, and even hindered my parents from getting on the airplane to go to my paternal grandfather's funeral because I couldn't move my feet in the terminal. After a few years of being (seemingly) surrounded by death, I began to fear death... not mine, mind you, but the death of those I love dearly. I still text my husband every morning to make sure he got to work on time, because before I hear from him, I'm constantly listening to the car accident reports on the radio, and feeling myself forgetting to breathe.

Now I have a son. Motherhood brings along a slew of new fears and anxieties. But really, none of the specific fears and anxieties matter. What matters it that Sophocles' quote is correct... One fear seems to breed. It not only takes over, but it lays eggs and takes root and causes more fears and anxieties to creep up. What matters it that fear and anxiety are stopping me from living. And I fear, may stop my husband and son from living. That makes me increasingly sad.

The problem is that as I write this, I don't have the answer. I'd like to believe that recognition and admission is the first step to recovery. I know that's part of the process for like alcoholics and stuff. I don't deny the problem. I don't deny that I want everything to stop rustling. But I will deny any knowledge of how to fix it.

Oh darling, don't you ever grow up.

I'm exhausted. My hands are raw from washing bottles. I can think of a lengthy list of things I would rather do than change dirty diapers. But in the last four weeks (wow, has it been four weeks already?) I realized something: I'm no longer preoccupied with goals I never reached. I'm no longer researching masters programs online with a heavy heart because I know I can't afford it yet. I'm no longer obsessed with sitting on my computer, typing up elaborate lesson plans for my students. Instead, my life is wrapped up in the needs of one little boy.

I look at him and how small and fragile--yet strong--he is. I listen to his little noises and take in his every movement. Because I know that tomorrow, he'll be grown. He'll be an adult.

I can look back on the last ten years of my life and see how quickly they flew past me. The first day of high school, prom, high school graduation, college graduation, wedding day, three years of teaching experience... Where did the time go? So right now, while I can, I want to take in every bit of this little child I am somehow able to call my own. I never, ever thought I would feel this way. But I do.

When I was younger--and I have to admit, even during my pregnancy--I could not understand what would possess my mother to give up her career, her independence, her salary, her seniority, to stay at home with two children. Now I understand. I don't think I'll be a stay-at-home mom. But I get why she wanted to be there. Why she wanted to see, hear, do all the things she saw, heard and did. Why would I want to be teaching other people's children when I could be teaching mine? What could be more important than hearing my child's first words? Playing on the floor with him? Coloring Easter eggs, picking out Halloween costumes and trick-or-treating... I realize, as my mother did, you can work a job anytime anywhere. But once those moments with my little boy are gone, they're gone.

William Thomas, tomorrow you will be a man. Hopefully, prayerfully, a good man. But when I look at you, I will always see the newborn sucking his fingers on my chest in the hospital room. I will always see the infant asleep in a bassinet with his long arms stretched above his head. I will see my dad's cheekbones, my husband's long fingers, my Bop's wrinkled forehead. I will see that tiny sideways smile that shows up when you're dreaming. And I'll smile, remembering the days when you were my baby, and knowing that whether you like it or not, you always will be.

"Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that supposed to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing." -Toni Morrison, Beloved

11 days early, but right on time.

Here I sit, on what was supposed to be my baby's due date. Instead of still being pregnant, I am 5 lbs lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight and an 11-day-old boy lies on my chest.

On Friday, April 22, 2011, I decided to drive with Jimmy to Brandon to visit a friend and her newborn little girl. We were going to go on Saturday, but turns out, it’s a good thing we decided on Friday. We spent a good deal of time there with Taylor, her husband, and her little Evie, talking, eating, and watching basketball. When we got home around midnight, I was still pretty awake and felt dehydrated from the salty food. I drank a bunch of water, pried my rings off swollen fingers and went to bed. When I woke up around 3:00 a.m. on April 23, 2011, I just thought I had pains that meant I needed to use the bathroom. So I went into the bathroom stood there for a minute, and let the pains in my abdomen go away. That was weird, I thought. Then went back to bed. I woke up again around 4:00 with what felt like menstrual cramps in my lower abdomen, but brushed them off again to sleep. At around 4:15 a.m., I felt those cramps again. I figured to be safe, I could google “What do contractions feel like?” I mean, surely my baby wasn’t coming—I wasn’t due for 11 more days. But better to be safe than sorry. Sure enough, people all over the World Wide Web described contractions as cramp-like pains. Between the cramps that came every seven minutes and the fluid I started leaking, I thought it best that we go to the hospital. I woke Jimmy up, told him to pack the car, and took a shower. Jimmy thought I was kidding. “Are you sure we need to go to the hospital?” he asked. I didn’t know, but it felt like the right thing to do.

We went straight up to Labor and Delivery and they checked me in around 6:00 a.m. A sassy nurse named Terri welcomed me, took my vitals, checked my cervix and fluid, and assured me it was true: I was having a baby today. They would call Dr. Umstead and get me a room. I started tearing up—how could this happen? I had worked so hard on Senior Projects at school, I had my maternity leave all figured out, I still had shopping and laundry to do, we weren’t even settled on a name. I couldn’t have a baby. But there I was, in full-blown labor. They checked me into room 805, and by 8:20 a.m., a really pleasant anesthesiologist named Eric came to meet me and perform my epidural. A nurse named Karen helped me arch my back in between contractions and what I expected to be a horribly sharp pain with a lot of pressure and needles in my back turned out to be barely anything at all. A little pressure, a little zing down my back and legs. Soon, my left side was numbing, and Karen was helping me lie on my right side so that I would be numb on both sides. Although my wristband informed the staff that I was allergic to antibiotics Ceclor and Bactrim, the doctor ordered antibiotics because my strep test hadn’t come back. They gave me vancomyacin, something I had never had before. Immediately, my head started to itch. My ears turned hot and red, my forehead got splotchy, and I knew it: I was having an allergic reaction. Thankfully, they were able to give me benedryl and change the antibiotic to ampicillin, one antibiotic I’m not allergic to.

Everything went very quickly. I really don’t even remember what Jimmy and I talked about during those hours in the room. I was probably pretty quiet. A nurse checked me—6 centimeters. The doctor came in to talk to me. Pretty soon, 8 centimeters. The doctor was saying my child would enter the world before dinner time. Somehow, I started feeling contractions again. They were pretty strong, like severe cramps, enough to make me tighten up and go, “Ow, ow, ow” and breathe through them. Not supposed to happen with an epidural. Thank God, the anesthesiologist came back to give me more medication. It was then that I felt the strangest sensation ever: total numbness below my waist. I literally couldn’t control my legs or feel anything when someone touched them. As much as I was thrilled that I wouldn’t feel the pain about to come, I started freaking out: how was I going to push?

My dear friends, Jenn and Danielle, showed up to support me, and ended up staying for the delivery. Jimmy held one leg, Jenn held another leg, the doctor and the nurse were at the foot of the bed, and Danielle was at my side. Like it was the last laugh my kid could have before leaving the womb, I started to get completely nauseous and threw up in a bucket on my right side. Pregnancy, labor and delivery are simply a total loss of dignity.

Just after 2:00 in the afternoon, it was time to push. I still didn’t believe it. This was nothing like the movies. I wasn’t sweating, screaming at Jimmy. And everything was happening so fast. I started pushing at 2:20 p.m. with the doctor, my husband, and my friends coaching me that my baby was coming out quickly. The doctor told me that most first-time mothers push for about two hours. That didn’t happen with me. At 2:34 p.m., my little boy entered the world.

The nurse put him on my chest and started to clean him. She asked what his name was. I said, “William Thomas.” It just fit.

I didn’t immediately feel any overwhelming connection to William. I didn’t cry right then. I was tired, in shock, embarrassed, concerned about the pain I might face when the epidural wore off. The nurse took William and Jimmy followed, taping our little boy as he was cleaned and evaluated. His Apgar score: 9.9. He weighed 7 lbs and 15 ounces and was 20 inches long. And he had my father’s face—my face as a baby. It was unreal.

I took a moment to post a facebook status, one I still can’t believe: “I have a son.” I posted the first picture I ever took of him, with my cell phone, on my chest, staring at me.

The room just seemed to spin for a while. The epidural wore off, visitors came and went, and at around 3:45 p.m., I tried nursing Will for the first time. The nurse Karen manhandled me, trying to teach me and help me. Will screamed, I cried, and both of us were tired and frustrated.

In the quiet when everyone was gone that night, the nurses took little Will so Jimmy and I could get some sleep. Instead of sleeping, I broke into deep sobs. I didn’t know if I could breastfeed. I didn’t know what to do once we got Will home. I didn’t know how to raise a child. I wanted to go back to work. Would I love this child like a mother is supposed to love a son? Would I disappoint Jimmy? Between lack of sleep, the surprise of a newborn child, and all the hormones, I was a mess. So unsure of myself.

I nursed Will three times that night. I wanted to try. My insides were contracting and my breasts (TMI) were in so much pain that at 5:30 a.m., I gave in and asked the nurse to show Jimmy how to bottle feed Will. I was able to sleep from 5:30 to 8:30 a.m. and Will was perfectly content to have a full belly.

When I woke up, took a shower, and put on clean clothes, I felt like a new person. I decided to try bottle feeding Will. It was the first time I really sat and held him without other people around. I looked at him, listened to his little noises. It was the first time I was relaxed with him, and I realized I was completely in love.

After hearing tests, birth certificate forms, genetic tests and other hold-ups, we were finally able to take William Thomas home. It was around 9:30 p.m. on Sunday, April 24, 2011—Easter. His first night went well. He didn’t wake us at all. We woke him for changings and feedings (and the occasional picture) and before we knew it, we had survived our first night of parenthood. I probably slept a total of 3-4 hours that first night. I was so scared to leave him, and I think my body was still rushing around on adrenaline. While Jimmy slept, I fed and changed Will, let the dog out, did two loads of laundry, and made a to-do list for the day. When Jimmy got up and the 10:00 feeding was coming around, I decided it was time to go pick up our dog Esme so she could meet her new little brother. I drove to the school where I work because I just HAD to show everyone pictures and I wanted to check on the progress of Senior Project presentations. Everything was going smoothly, and people were thrilled and shocked to see me fewer than 48 hours post-partum. I went to Helen Ellis to pick up a bag we left, dropped off my prescriptions at the pharmacy, and picked up Esme. The entire time I was driving, I felt myself smiling. I was beaming. And I missed my son. I couldn’t believe the feeling. I wanted to be with him. I never, ever expected to feel that way.

Esme was as sweet as could be when I got her home to meet Will. She was very excited, and Jimmy was freaking out about Esme trying to lick Will, but overall, the experience was great. Will sat peacefully in his swing and Esme cautiously walked over to smell him and figure out who the new little person was in her house.

Over the next few days, we had a bunch of firsts: I read Will his first book, Jimmy and I gave him his first sponge bath… I often caught myself looking at Will’s little face, analyzing his features and trying to figure out how in the world he came out looking like me. Bottom line is, just like people told me I would, I just adore this little boy. I want so much for him, and he’s not even two weeks old. The other night, I read “Love You Forever” to Will, and I cried. I didn’t cry out of sadness. I cried because I truly had never felt such a strange, unconditional love before. So Will, I may not know what I’m doing, I may not be the most maternal person in the world, and I’ll probably make mistakes. But I know one thing: “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

Guilt.

Today, my beautiful friend Danielle and some of my other co-workers threw me a baby shower at work. Two other women at our school are expecting boys, and our school wanted to celebrate this with us which I totally appreciated. However, I'm not really thrilled to be the center of attention. I'm not girly, I feel kind of awkward when people are watching me open gifts, and I think to myself, "So many of these people would rather be somewhere else." Because of this, I sometimes fail to enjoy the moment. But, I am who I am... Which brings me to the reason I decided to blog in the first place.


One thing I realized during my baby shower two weeks ago and the shower today at work is that "it" still hasn't set in. I'm surrounded by onesies and burp clothes and bibs and little socks and booties. What used to be our home office is now a quaint nursery with a crib, rocking chair and soft blankets. I look around at this stuff, and I wonder why I don't feel different. How can I not feel different? Each day, I have the feet of a little 4.5 lb boy kicking my ribs. It's uncomfortable. It's fascinating that he's in there growing and I'll meet him in fewer than six weeks. But I don't glow and talk about it all the time. And for this entire pregnancy, I've often felt one emotion: guilt. Guilt because I am not what everyone seems to expect me to be.


Early in my pregnancy, when I literally couldn't do anything but hug the toilet seat or clutch a plastic bag in the car, I wondered why I got pregnant in the first place. And I felt guilty. As this pregnancy has gone on, we've had to make financial sacrifices--no, we can't spend money on that for Christmas because we need to buy furniture for the nursery--and I wondered why I got pregnant in the first place. And I felt guilty. When I tell someone I may not have another child, that one might be enough for me, and they look at me funny, I feel guilty. When people tell me that breastfeeding is the absolute BEST thing for a child and it will be SO detrimental if I don't succeed in doing it, I feel anxious--what if I can't or don't? Does that make me a bad mother?


But I've been thinking about things lately. When I went to high school, and many of the girls around me loved to shop til they dropped... or wore a lot of make-up... or had more purses and shoes than they knew what to do with... or had sex with their boyfriends while I waited til marriage... Did I feel guilty? Did I feel like less of a woman? No. So why should becoming a mother let me question who I am?


I don't think natural labor is the most beautiful miracle in the world. I think it's going to be painful and I don't look forward to it. Will it be completely and totally worth it? For sure. When I see what I hope is a healthy, tan baby who resembles my husband, I will probably forget about all the nausea, all the contractions, all the discomfort, and I'll be totally content. I'll forget about all the anxiety and all the wonderings and all the, "Why did I get pregnant?" However, I can ALMOST guarantee I'll never smile and tell someone that I didn't want every painkiller in the world while I went through it.


I would like to get my Masters degree and still pursue a career while simultaneously mothering my child. Some people would call this selfish. Well, guess what? I don't care about some people anymore. My husband and I love each other, and intend to raise our son with as much love, faith and support as we are able to give. Our son will be surrounded by family members who adore him and will guide him as he grows and makes decisions. I'm learning that I don't have to feel guilty for being me AND being a mother. 


One of my closest friends who recently had a daughter wrote me a note that simply said this: "Don't let 'mommy guilt' get to you." It's probably the best advice I've gotten so far. I'll never wear a ton of make-up, buy designer purses or wear high heels. Just like I probably won't have 5 kids and dedicate my life to homeschooling them all. I respect and admire many of my friends who have mastered the art of being a woman and a mother. And what I notice when I look at all of them is that they are all different. All good mothers, but all different.


I am who I am. And I think today, I'm okay with that.

Unanswered questions.

I wish my Bop was still alive, so I could ask him how he did it; and by it, I mean everything.


I would ask him if he really was truly happy, because it seems that no one ever is.


I would ask him if he was ever scared, because I am.


I would ask him what his first thoughts were when he woke up every day and when he got into bed at night.


I would ask him how he managed to love a woman unconditionally for 61 years, and how she managed to love him back. I would ask him what they fought about, and who won. 


I would ask him how he raised three children, and coped with losing one.


I would ask him how he remained friends with his brother as they grew up and started their own lives.


I would ask him how he kept his faith in God and our country when he was away at war.


I would ask him if he had any regrets... things he wishes he would've done, or things he wishes he hadn't.


I would ask him about his favorite family memories, his favorite color, his favorite baseball player, his favorite food (which probably wasn't something my grandmother made) because for some reason, as time goes by, I'm forgetting things.


But most of all, I would ask him to help me. He did such a good job living life, and I know that I'm really not.