The Struggle is Real

The other day, I had my worst parenting moment ever. I thought I had a few bad moments before, but they all paled in comparison to what happened last week.

I lost my temper. At my child.

Completely lost it.

It was not my finest parenting moment.

And I'm not even sure what made it the final tipping point. It wasn't during his 45-minute (yes, 45 very long minutes) temper tantrum, after he lost computer time because he hit me. It wasn't when my kid, who normally eats anything, threw his food. It wasn't when he clung to my clothes as I tried to move through the house, literally hanging on to my leg, my arm, anything he could latch on to.

It was the plastic hammer. He threw the plastic hammer, hitting me not very hard on my left arm, and I lost it.

I screamed and yelled and made him cry. And then I cried.

I couldn't believe that I, the grown-up, had lost it on my very own child. And I sat on the kitchen floor and said I was sorry a hundred times, and then said, more to myself than to him, "I can't do this. I can't be a mother. I. cannot. do. this."

And he stood, in front of me, eye to eye, very solemn and serious, and said, "But I want you to be my Mommy."

The gift of grace.

So I put on his pajamas and brushed his teeth and read him a story and tucked him in, snuggling close for an extra minute. And then I called my friend Beth and ugly-cried into the phone at what a failure I was as a parent.

She assured me that I wasn't, and that every single parent has those moments that I had, and that Reagan wasn't, in fact, scarred for life, and he -- and I -- would be fine in the end. By the time my husband got home, I was sniffling on the couch, a mixture of contrition and the humble awareness that this job was really, really bigger than me.

I went back upstairs to check on Reagan, who I assumed was already asleep. But he wasn't, and he sat up when I walked in and said, "What are you doing, Mommy?" I told him I was just checking on him, and he laid back down and scooted over so I could fit beside him. I nestled in, and he put his hand on my face and said, "Is your heart still sad, Mommy?"

I said, "Yes, a little."

"I love you, Mommy."

The gift of grace.

I've said all along that this job is hard. This job is a million times harder than I expected it to be. The struggle is real.

"I’ve been the one who has had hollering mother meltdowns and wept on bathroom floors and I’ve been the one who has come to be held up by the tender grace of it."*

This is not an excuse. At all. But I have been realizing for some time that something in my life has to give. We are beyond fortunate that we both get to work, without having to pay for child care, thanks to a flexible schedule, fantastic in-laws, and an amazing editor. Blessed beyond blessed beyond blessed.

But ... what that has meant for three years is that my life has been a never-ending cycle of Reagan/work/Reagan/work/Reagan/work. I stopped taking care of me. There wasn't time for me.

 And slowly, over the past three years, what started as a low simmer started to turn into a full boil.

No one told me that it would all happen at the same hallowed time: Mothering is at once the hardest and the holiest and the happiest.*
 
But, as I say all of that, I am fully aware of people who have it so much harder than I do. Single moms or dads, without any help or support from the other parent. Families who have one parent deployed. Families who take care of an elderly parent while juggling the demands of a household. I don't know how they do it. I really, really don't.

But, this was my reality, and it began to wear away at me. Maybe the incident with Reagan would have happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't have. I don't know. But what I do know is that no one -- and I mean no one -- can prepare you for how never-ending and all-consuming this job really is.

So why am I sharing all of this? Certainly not because I enjoy sharing my parenting failures. But because I think it's time we admit that life, and parenting, isn't the perfect picture we like to portray. Social media, like Facebook, allows us to show our lives the way we want to be perceived. Look at my perfect, well-dressed family! Look at my son and I blowing bubbles together outside! Look at this gourmet meal my family is eating! Look at our perfect day at the beach, right before the toddler tantrum!

The struggle is real.

In an unscientific survey I did following my parental meltdown, 100% of those surveyed (Beth, Alice, Joyce, Heather and Denise) all said that they too had had those moments. We aren't proud of them, of course. But they happen because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

I'm not excusing what I did. I never, ever, ever should have yelled at my child the way I did. It was beyond a reprimand, and beyond me raising my voice so he knows I'm serious. It was a true meltdown because I had reached my limit.

Anger is contagious. And so is grace.*

I'm not proud of it. I hope and pray that I never, ever do that again -- although I'm an imperfect parent trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world, so I realize that my expectation might be too high.

But I do hope that we can start having the dialogue that, despite the image we try to portray, this job is hard. Really, really, really, really hard. Whether we work full-time outside the home or spend our days hosting tea parties for stuffed animals and making homemade play-doh and organic gluten-free oatmeal cookies, parents all struggle to do our best each day with the children we're given. And sometimes we do a really, really, really good job. And sometimes we lose it because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

We've started to accept the lie that busy is better. We fill every second of every minute of every day with things to do. We've adopted the rushed rat race as the best way. We work, we go to that meeting, we take our children to a variety of classes, we rush through dinner, brush teeth, go to bed and start all over again.

It's not working.

I'm a better person when I take some time for myself. It's not wrong to read a book, watch a mindless sitcom or spend 30 minutes chatting with a friend. I don't have to multi-task all the time.

Until we (and by we, I mean me) start taking time for ourselves and tell ourselves we matter, the ones we love the most will continue to get the worst of us. We have to put on our own oxygen masks first. We can't care for others until we care for ourselves.

So. I'm going to work on me, and start taking time for me, so I can be a better parent and wife and person. I cannot give what I don't have. If I'm not rested and taken care of, what happened with Reagan will happen again. And again. And again.

And maybe I could spend a week at an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, where I do nothing but eat, sleep and read books, and still snap at my child, because I'm still an imperfect person trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world. I don't know. But I know I owe it to my family to take care of me so I can take care of them.

I never expected that a mother’s labor and delivery never ends — and you never stop having to remember to breathe.*

The struggle is real.

*from A Holy Experience

An Open Letter to Amy Glass

I read a blog recently that made me mad. And then it made me sad. The writer, Amy Glass, wrote an article titled 'I Look Down On Young Women With Husbands And Kids And I’m Not Sorry.'

The first time I read it, I felt like the breath was being sucked out of me. And I wondered if maybe I reacted so strongly because I was afraid she was right (she isn't, by the way). So I read it again. And then I left it alone for a day or two, and then I read it again.

You can read her blog here, but basically what she says is a stay-at-home Mom isn't worth as much as one who works outside the home. Two statements she makes that stand out to me are:

"You will never have the time, energy, freedom or mobility to be exceptional if you have a husband and kids."

and

"Women will be equal with men when we stop demanding that it be considered equally important to do housework and real work. They are not equal. Doing laundry will never be as important as being a doctor or an engineer or building a business."

In a subsequent blog, after more than 2000 people commented on her words (you think?), she wrote: 

"I can’t help but think of my own life and how easy it would have been to morph into that role and I chose to chase my dreams instead. This is my own experience, so I can’t help but think there are lots of other women who felt compelled to fill that role whether or not that’s what they really wanted. Not questioning their social role feels weak to me, and it’s hard not to look down on someone you think is weak."

Ironically, in yet another blog, written only a few days before the one that was heard around the world, she says:

"This means that as good feminists, we never judge the choices of other women." 

Perhaps, she meant to say "we never judge the choices of other women, as long as we agree with their choices."


But I digress.

I am certain Amy Glass has better things to do than read what a stay-at-home blogging wife and mother has to say, being that she's so busy with her career and all, but if she DID by chance happen to stumble across this blog (which she won't), here's what I would say:

Dear Amy,

I admit I was a bit taken aback by your words about women who choose to stay home. which, I'm gathering, was your intent. I'm not sure why I was so stirred by what you said, because technically you weren't even speaking to me. I mean, I am a mother and I do stay home, but I also make a respectable living while staying home (and I'm not exactly young), so I assume I have earned some measure of approval from you.

Whether or not your comments were addressed to me or not is irrelevant. You were speaking directly to many of my friends, who gave up outstanding careers to wipe noses and fold laundry instead, and we kind of tend to look out for each other. Poke one of us and we'll all respond.

When I first read what you said about women who stay home not being on equal footing with their career-driven counterparts, I was mad. Mad because deep down I was afraid you might be right. But after I mulled it over a bit, I realized, thankfully, you are completely wrong. Whew. That's a relief.

But while I am absolutely certain you are completely off the mark, I don't hold that against you. I actually feel a bit of sympathy for you. Your reaction was so strong, and so harsh, that my guess is there's a void in your life, something missing, that you can't fill, and so you think if you scream loud enough, and convince enough people it isn't there, maybe it will go away.

That's probably not working out too well for you, is it?

Here's the thing, Amy. I have a lot of friends who are mothers. A lot. And some of them happily went back to the work force as soon as their maternity leave was up. Some of them made the gut-wrenching decision to go back to work because their family needed the income, but they hate that they are away from their little munchkins so much. Some of them stay home and get up crazy early in the morning (me) to bring in extra income so they can stay home. And some of them were happy to cash in their paychecks for more play dates.

And you know what? They're all really good parents. Because here's the thing -- what's right for one isn't right for all.

Yes, I could go get a 40 hour a week job (which in most cases would be more like a 50 hour week), and bring in enough money so we could go on real vacations instead of just trips home to see my family, and we could drive something newer than a 2003 Ford pick-up, and I wouldn't drive to Aldi every Wednesday to buy their $1.50 strawberries and $2.00 bag of apples. But that wasn't the right decision for our family. Having two full-time incomes is the right decision for some, but it just wasn't for us.

(And I won't even ask what you think of men who give up their careers to stay home so their wife can go to work, but trust me, it happens -- a lot).

You wrote,  "Women secretly like to talk about how hard managing a household is so they don’t have to explain their lack of real accomplishments."

Oh, Amy.

I've done a lot in my life. I've had plenty of different jobs. I've worked with violent juvenile delinquents. I've done on-call crisis, where I sometimes worked for 24 hours straight. I've spoken at seminars, waitressed, managed an office, started a business, interviewed more than 75 celebrities and written thousands of entertainment news articles online.

This, being a Mommy, really is the hardest job I've ever done. Not hard like, I don't have time to get a manicure. Hard like, this little person wants my attention all. the. time, and I just want to sit for five minutes and not talk about Thomas the Tank Engine or read Corduroy Goes to the Doctor, and maybe go to the bathroom all by myself.

I don't work as much as I used to. Partly by choice, partly not. But, I've had a lot of career accomplishments. I'm blessed, and I don't take that lightly. When a major news outlet picks up one of my stories, I feel happy. When I interview a high-profile artist and it goes well, and I didn't stammer or spill my coffee and they seemed to really enjoy themselves, I get a high. I'm not going to lie. It's awesome.

But you know when I feel the most successful?

When at the end of the day, after my son is in bed, I realize I never once used a tone with him I regret. When he ate three square meals, had healthy snacks,  a variety of activities to fill his day, and I never got impatient with him, when I got on the floor and played with him instead of letting the Wiggles keep him entertained, THAT, my friend, is a successful day. The rest of it -- all of it -- is fluff to me. Like the icing on the cake, when the cake is already really, really good.

I'd give up an interview with Taylor Swift or a fancy schmancy post-awards party to cuddle with my child any day of the week. And not feel one ounce of regret.

I realize you don't know me, so my words mean nothing to you. But I'm sure you've heard of Ivanka Trump, daughter of gazillionaire Donald Trump. She has a lot of fancy titles, including  Executive Vice President of Development and Acquisitions at The Trump Organization, as well as a high-end fashion designer. She has a swanky office on Park Avenue, and probably owns clothing that cost more than my house.

While I'm certain Ivanka and I share very few similarities when it comes to our views on parenting, I do appreciate what she says about taking care of our children.

“I think the expression ‘working’ versus ‘non-working’ implies that a mother who stays home doesn’t work. It’s far more difficult than anything I do in the office.”

If I was to follow your mandate that only women who have real careers have value, then I would assume that would mean that I should go get a real job and put my son in day care. Where someone else, who has a real career, will teach him his manners and his ABCs and read him books and wipe his nose and kiss his boo-boos.

Or, I could just do that myself. Because I get to invest my time and energy into this little person. What I do with him now is affecting the rest of his life. He might be a doctor or a lawyer or a scientist or a teacher or an astronaut or anything he wants to be, but whatever it is, I can say that I had a huge part in that, and that I helped him become who he is, because he was important enough to me. He mattered to me so much, that I willingly and gladly put the rest of my life aside to pour all of my energy into him.

That, Amy, is the best, and most important, and most exhausting job I will ever have.

The Struggle of Motherhood

Let me start by saying, I love my son. And by love, I mean that deep, aching part inside of me that realizes I would give my life in  half of a second for this child. That love that would rather throw a ball back and forth with him or read Good Night Moon 10,582 times (in a row) or watch him accumulate handfuls of dirt and rocks in his pudgy little hands, than do just about anything else. That love that can stare at him in wonderment for hours, just marveling at his perfection. That's the kind of love I'm talking about. It's an all-encompassing, eternal, bigger-than-me feeling that I've had for this precious little boy since I first found out I was pregnant, and impossibly, continues to grow exponentially every single day.

Because my husband and I were, ahem, older when we became parents, I thought the whole parenting thing would be a breeze. By the time Reagan came along, I had traveled, enjoyed my freedom, saved up a little bit of money, experienced some unbelievable life events, and checked just about everything off of my List of Things I Want To Do Before I Have a Baby. So, I really thought adding a 7 lb. bundle of sweetness would only make everything in my life more magical, more special, more ... better (yes, I know, bad grammar).

And, for the first couple of days, it did, aside from the ridiculous amount of sleep deprivation babies make us go through. His delivery was a breeze -- as in (women who gave birth, please don't hate) an I-pushed-for-10-minutes delivery. He ate, and he slept, and repeated that cycle for days on end.

But somewhere around the end of his first week of life, my perfect ideal of how I imagined this chapter of my life to go, started to unravel a little bit. It began when I had to supplement nursing with formula because my milk production was so low. Reagan discovered that drinking from a bottle was much easier than Mommy's method, and he began to loudly, and angrily, express his preference. 

And then, just as we were figuring out the balance between nursing and formula, he developed colic. (Let me just stop here and offer my sincerest and deepest apologies to all of my friends who had a colicky baby and I did not offer the appropriate amount of Advil and chocolate, because both are vital to surviving this phase of infancy).

In a matter of days, it seemed our almost-perfect child turned into a miserable, crying, whining, angry little boy. For days (Weeks? A month?  The time frame is a blissful blur by now), by late afternoon/early evening, nothing made Reagan happy. No amount of driving, swinging, rocking, singing, walking, or any combination of the above, could even begin to silence this wailing, pitiful child. Nothing. We took him to the doctor (twice), we took him off dairy, we read all the books about dealing with a colicky baby, and we gritted our teeth and sometimes just cried along with him.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. But, soon after that, he became ... mobile! Who knew there came a time when you could no longer just lay them in the middle of the floor on a blanket and walk away? Who knew that they started pulling on things, and getting into things, and staying on the move all. the. time?

I should add, that while my husband goes above and beyond in doing housework and taking care of the mundane stuff of life (I wash dishes maybe once a month, for example), he was at the time working 6 days a week. And some of those days, he left at 8 in the morning, and got home after 7:30. There were moments I'd get excited to see the UPS man, just to have another adult to talk to for 4 seconds.

Here was the rub for me: For years, my time was my own. Completely. Outside of a work event (which I could accept or decline), every hour of every day was entirely structured by me for the past 10 years. And then suddenly, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, someone else was telling me what to do with my day. Cute as he was, sometimes I didn't want to stop what I was doing to rescue him from whatever perilous situation he was in. Sometimes I didn't feel like rocking him for 45 minutes so he would nap for 10. Sometimes I didn't want to feed him yet again (where do little babies put all their food, anyway?) And let's not even talk about how many diapers this little boy could fill.

True confession: 95% of the time I delighted in his sweet little angelic perfect cherub-esque face. But the other 5%, when people would say to me, "I bet you love being a Mom," I would smile and nod and kiss his ample cheeks and silently think, "Are you crazy??"

A well-meaning -- but pretty clueless -- friend, who started her family when she was still in her early 20s, would say to me, ad nauseum, "You have no idea how much your life is about to change." She didn't say it with the sense of happiness or excitement from the pure joy that babies, even colicky ones, can bring. She said it from a sad, almost resentful place of, "Enjoy your free time now, because soon you won't have any. Ever." Others made similar comments, of course, and some of them I chewed on, and some I dismissed, but mostly I just wanted to smack them on their foreheads and go, "Duh! I know it's about to change!"

And I did know all of that. But what I didn't know was how much I (gulp) didn't always want the change. I wanted Reagan. Desperately, madly, fiercely, I wanted him. I just wanted him to eat and sleep and play on my schedule. But there's a funny thing about babies -- they are pretty self-centered.

Here's what I wish someone had said to me: It's going to be hard. It's going to be really, really hard, and some days you will want to give up. But for every difficult moment, there are a thousand good ones. For every sleepless night, there are beautiful baby cuddles. For every crying fit that goes on for hours, there will be a spontaneous giggle over bath bubbles, or a puppy dog, or the way your hair touches his face. For every moment you want to run away, there will be the times when he reaches his arms up for you, and you're almost positive it's the best feeling in the world.

Now, Reagan is a 17-month-old non-stop force of energy, and he makes my world. Every morning I wake up excited to spend another day with him. I can (almost) forget those challenging early few months when I was trying to find my footing and my new identity, because these days are just really, really good. He sleeps nine to 10 hours a night, he naps without crying (most of the time), he talks (Mama, Dada, Oh mo, Oh yeah, Oh wow, ice and some odd syllable that I'm pretty sure is supposed to be "shoe"), and he makes us laugh all the time. He loves to be chased, he loves to eat, he loves to splash in his kiddie pool, and he is a ridiculously great traveler.

Yes. My life changed. In every way, my life changed. And every day, it keeps getting better and better and better.