On the OG Heather and Why I Go to Bed After Midnight

Before I had kids, I used to pride myself in my confidence and self-awareness. Even as a teenager, I knew who I was (relatively speaking), what I was good at, what I was passionate about, and what was important to me. “HEATHER HAS A STRONG SENSE OF SELF,” is probably what I’d confidently say if anyone asked me about my best character trait. I’ve never been one to shy away from doing whatever it was I felt led in my heart to do, regardless of how unpopular/crazy/stupid it seemed to others. I’ve always been proud of that.

But then I became a mom. Pure, all-encompassing, sacrificial love poured out of me in a way I couldn’t comprehend before my oldest was born. Even at the times when I felt the most physically weak and exhausted, my heart bursted with a fullness that cannot be accurately described with words. When I placed each one of my three girls on my chest during the exact moment they took their first breath of air, I gave myself wholly to them. I vowed to love every inch of them—inside and out—because they were now a living, breathing extension of myself. Part of me, forever. My moon and my stars.

I had no idea that through this devotion, I’d soon lose something I never thought I’d misplace.

You see, when I had kids, my steadfast sense of self that I’d once taken so much pride in, seemed to back away in order to make room for them. Did my brain not have the mental capacity to retain “original Heather” as it learned and memorized the ins and outs of motherhood? Surely, my brain, with its 86 billion neurons and higher-than-average IQ, would be able to remember the old me and simply merge it with my new responsibilities. One would think. My life was now full of so many incredible things that made my soul bubble over—first steps and first words and midnight cuddles and family trips—but when I laid in bed at night—fragile, overwhelmed, and guilty—I hardly recognized myself.

Why don’t I do goofy dances to the music playing in the grocery store anymore? Why don’t I flirt with my husband? Why don’t I call my girlfriends? When was the last time I wrote? (Didn’t I always dream of writing a book?) Why do I cry all the time? Why am I plagued with so much guilt? Was there anything else I even liked to do that didn’t involve breastmilk, diapers, or cartoons? What’s going on in the world? I should be ashamed that I don’t even know anymore. When was the last time I wore high heels?  Why do I feel so much resentment toward so many different people and things in my life? Why did I snap at her like that today? Why do other babies sleep through the night so easily?

“Help me!” I could have sworn I heard The Old Heather cry from a dark, shadowy, and cobweb- covered corner in my mind. Had I lost her? I really liked the old me. I missed her spunk. Life as  her didn't feel this heavy.

Some of the older moms (including my own) in my life told me it was just a phase, and the age-old “this too shall pass” mantra was tossed my way more times than I can count. Other moms told me that you never really find yourself again because once your babies get older, your life just revolves around their sports, activities, and homework. Basically, you go from a living, breathing milk machine with bags under her eyes to a professional shuttle service and concierge. Great.

But now, here I am on the “other side” of the infant stage with a five-year old, three-year old, and one-year old. I’d like to say that I’ve triumphantly uncovered The Old Me and I’m now more confident, free-spirited, and sure of myself than ever, but that’s not the case. However, as I’ve become more seasoned in motherhood—battled some bouts of baby blues, spent hundreds
 of hours shushing colicky babies who wouldn’t be consoled, and memorized their weight on my right hip—I’ve learned a few things and reached some milestones that are encouraging and point positively toward my future.

• Some of those ladies were right, the fog does lift...at least a little bit. As your kids get older, your responsibilities don’t lessen, but you get into a routine that allows you a little bit more time for yourself. ROUTINE. (I can’t believe I just said that word—it’s the arch-nemesis of my deep rooted Type B personality.) As each child grows, they become a tiny bit more predictable, a tiny bit more independent, and a tiny bit more reasonable (finally—bribery works!). These evolutions, albeit small, allow mama just enough breathing room to do what she needs—exercise, write, talk to a friend, etc. I’m just now starting to rediscover old hobbies and passions that make me feel alive inside.
• ALONE TIME IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN SLEEP. I will never, ever go to bed immediately after my kids and husband. I would rather stay up for two days straight than be fully rested if it means being able to spend some solid time with myself. Dark, quiet evenings in my clean house are the only time in my day that people are not demanding things from me, climbing on me, or crying outside the door while I pee. Sometimes, in very special and rare moments, I remember again what it feels like to be a creative person. Inspiration usually finds me some time around midnight, and after those nights I wake up with a tingly fullness in my spirit.
• I need to care for myself as well as my children. You do, too. Seriously. Start NOW. Exercise. Get a hair cut. See a therapist. Walk the aisles of Target alone. Talk about your deep, dark feelings. Get drinks with your girlfriend. Eat healthy, whole foods that fuel your body well. Also eat ice cream.
• Change is okay. Different does not equal bad.

I always feel compelled to wrap my writing in a nice little bow. I’ve assumed that readers want to read a thought-provoking conclusion that brings everything full circle. However, this can’t be punctuated with a positive, conclusive statement of assurance, because I’m just not there yet. I’m still working on the guilt and occasional feelings of resentment and I still frequently experience what feel like existential crises. (BUT WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?)

So here is the question that persists: Will I ever be “there?” I’m not really quite sure if I know where “there” really is anymore, but I think I’m learning to lean into little bits of The Old Me in everything I do. I’m growing and maturing throughout this process, even when it feels like I’m not, and my sweet, inquisitive girls are now causing me to self-reflect more than ever before. I’m learning to reject comparison in all its forms, because momming is hard enough as it is without expecting myself to live up to other’s standards or parenting styles.

Most importantly, I’m learning to practice self-care. When my emotional, mental, and physical tanks are filled up, I’m able to see beyond the kid-filled chaos that’s in front of me at the moment and grasp onto the things that make me, ME. I can’t believe it took my five years to realize that I needed caring for, too.

Moms, I know what you’re feeling and I feel it too. Solidarity, sisters. Even though we often feel alone in these Big Feelings that we pressure ourselves to bury, we’re likely all experiencing the same thing. You're still in there, girl. You're still in there.

Love,

A mom who has to wake up in four hours.


1st photo- Shannon Addison Photography
3rd photo- Erin Brooks

Reminding Myself to Remember the Moments

I just had one of those mommy moments that I need to document before it becomes lost with the thousands of other fleeting mommy moments I don't remember anymore. The moments that have become mixed up in the haze of "motherhood is so hard and I think I am going to drown." The perfect moments that I am too tired to notice.

That's what is funny about  being a mom. As women, we are emotional creatures. As moms of small babies, we are more often than not hormonal (some suffering from PPD or PPA), driven by estrogen imbalances, our perception of reality a little bit skewed and tinted by our post-partum consciousness. We reason with feelings, suspicions, love, and "mama instincts" rather than logic. We cry because we are happy and because we are sad.  I know that for myself, personally, I tend to let the negative emotions overshadow the positive ones. In this crazy world (another dimension, if you ask me) of having two under two, I find myself letting the chaos and the sleep deprivation and the mundane tasks of motherhood outshine the precious moments that should bring me joy.

Well, I just had a moment that I don't want to forget. I am determined to make it last; to carefully pack it away in a section of my mind where it can't be erased by stress or exhaustion.

Those of you who know me well know that I solo parent most nights. My husband works a job that has him gone during dinner time and bedtime, so I am on my own with the two girls. Each morning I wake up already dreading the evenings. Let me tell you, sometimes I think I would rather bus dishes at a dirty bar than attempt to make dinner, clean up from dinner, give baths to two little girls, get two little girls ready for bed, and put two little girls down to sleep ALL BY MYSELF. I don't know if it is their closeness in age or my fragile mental state that makes it so difficult, but oh my word, IT IS SO HARD. (I am being real and raw here, people.)

For one thing, Max is a fussy and particular little baby. She often starts crying each night around 7:30--the time I start getting Willa ready for bed. No matter how hard I try to prepare for bedtime, plan in advance with pajamas and teeth brushing, early baths or postponed dishes, Maxine always seems to end up crying right when I am trying to put Willa down to sleep. Willa won't sleep when Max is crying, so it is my goal to get her to stop crying so Willa can go down. It's a stupid little game, really. Back and forth I go, feeling like a chicken with her head cut off. Scurrying from child to child, trying to calm one so I can go and soothe the other. Night after night this happens, and when both girls are finally asleep  I am sweaty and tired and hungry and feeling like I need to drink an entire bottle of wine and eat a pound of Sour Patch Kids.

(This part is long. If you're not a mom, you are going to think this part is annoying because it is stupidly detailed. Feel free to skip ahead two paragraphs.)

Tonight was no different. I took the girls to an indoor play center near our house, but was careful to be home before 6:00 and even picked up dinner on the way home. I tried to keep Maxine up as long as possible to GUARANTEE that she would be sleeping by the time Willa's bed time came. Sure enough, the moment I sat down in the glider with Willa, a book, and a bottle, I hear Max start to cry. Unfortunately, it wasn't just a "I-am-going-to-fuss-for-a-few-minutes-and-then-go-back-to-sleep" kind of cry. It was an ear-piercing, heart-wrenching  "I-need-your-boobs-right-this-second" kind of cry. I let Willa finish her bottle and then placed her in her crib, wide awake. She instantly started to cry. I went to Max, fed her, and put her in her swing, hoping she would hang out quietly while I got Willa calmed down. Willa continued to rage on, feeling abandoned by our cuddle session cut short. She started pounding on the wall, calling for mom, calling for dad. I left Maxine in the swing, and of course she starts to bawl, too. In Willa's room, I sang a couple songs in hopes that she would quickly settle, leaning over the crib to rub her back. I hear Max raging. My heart is breaking, my blood pressure is rising, and I become angry. Angry that Willa needs so much help to fall asleep, angry that I let her need so much help, angry that my husband has to work so late, angry that I feel alone and hopeless and depressed, angry that it seems like everyone else has it easier than me, angry that I haven't even eaten the dinner I brought home.

I tried bringing Maxine into Willa's room with me, but the moment Willa saw that she became enraged. "Why are you holding her but you won't hold me?" I became desperate. At this point I was about to call my husband and tell him all the bad words in the world. Does he not realize how much easier it is to be at work than it is to be at home? Does he not get that I am suffocating from the responsibility of motherhood? My back hurt from all of the bending and crouching and holding and soothing. Both girls were crying, the dog was barking, and the sound decibels coming out of my house probably mimicked those of a college house party. I got desperate. I scooped up Max and brought her into Willa's room, laying her down on a pile of folded laundry in the dark. I picked up Willa, sat down on the floor next to the baby, and began to sing while rocking her. "A is for apple, B is for ball, C is for cat and D is for Dog. E is for eggs that you love to eat, F is for fish that have no feet...." My right arm cradled Willa and my left arm was stretched across to the baby who held my index finger. Slowly but surely, Willa began to drift off and MIRACULOUSLY, Max just laid there without making a peep. Fifteen minutes went by with hardly any sounds. Maxine was just laying there wide awake, but she was quiet. It was out of the ordinary and completely amazing.

Fifteen minutes went by before I realized that this was a perfect moment. One of those perfect moments that gets lost in the chaos so I forget that there is even such thing as a perfect moment in motherhood. There we sat, the three of us, enveloped in darkness and calm and Jesus. I started to pray for my girls. My hands were on each of them as we sat in perfect peace, hours past their bedtime.Willa began to breathe deeply and rhythmically, but I didn't want to put her down just yet. I wanted to photograph this moment in my mind forever.

The room was dark except for the soft blue glow of Willa's night lamp. I sat on the floor up against the crib, breathing in the smell of my life. I don't know if I can describe what my life smells like other than familiar. Homey. Maybe it is a combination of diapers, coffee, and the fresh flowers I try to keep around. I don't think I have ever felt more immensely and purely grateful. In that moment, thankfulness consumed me. I was so sure of the fact that I was created to be these girls' mom. God picked me out of the billions of women in the world to nurture and cherish and love these two precious, beautiful children. Maxine continued to clutch onto my finger and tears began to roll down my cheeks. "My life is exactly what it is supposed to be," I thought to myself. My life is not too hard. My life was not made for someone else. I am perfectly designed to raise these children.

When you're in the trenches of parenthood, it's REALLY hard to look at your current life objectively. You just want to roll your eyes at the middle-aged women who tell you "treasure these moments" when you're covered in baby puke and your toddler just peed on the floor. You're anxious to get out of the "baby stage," ready to move on to the "fun part of parenting," like T-ball games and field trips with free food. But sometimes you get a needed kick in the pants (like I did tonight) and realize that it truly is important to cherish the moments. These moments will soon be gone and we will be old, needing our children to help us with our velcro shoes.

I wanted to write this post to make sure I remember to remember the moments that make everything worth it. I want to remember the moments when God graciously gives me a birds-eye view of my life and the perfect love that is surrounding me. I want to remember forever the moments that I feel so saturated in love--with my babies' warm bodies close to me, my heart feeling like it is going to burst of fullness and purpose--nothing else matters. These are the moments that give depth and meaning to the stress of my life. The silent moments that drown out the cacaphony of hormones and emotion. The moments that make me realize that even when I have reheated my cold coffee for the fourteenth time and my house is a disaster, THIS IS MY CALLING.