Back to Work, Whatever That Means

I used to hate that question, the one that all adults ask every little kid at some point in their childhood. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" At first, I didn't mind it because I knew exactly what the answer was. It was as clear as the bright blue sky on a warm day. "A mom." That's it. That's what I wanted. As far as I was concerned, there wasn't anything else on the planet that could compare.

And then I got a little bit older and I started hating the question. "Well sure you want to be a mom, but what kind of job do you want to do?" What? Being a mom didn't count? Well, uh, ok...then I guess...hmm...I got nothing. I guess I started to think that being a mom wasn't enough.

Still older I grew, and before I knew it I had an answer. I wanted to be a pediatrician (perhaps because it involved caring for children...) until I took an anatomy class in high school. The day we took a field trip to tour a cadaver lab, that dream was a wash.

So then more time passed and I began my quest for that elusive calling, the one that would guide me into my career and give me joy, happiness, and the approval of society. It took me a long time to find something--anything--that put wind in my sails as much as the thought of being a mom did. But I did. Publishing. Oh, how I loved it. The editing. The writing. The creating. The learning. All of it was so inspiring and exciting. But to make a long story short, my career in publishing was short lived. I loved it, for the most part, but I didn't love the things we were publishing or the overall mentality of the company for which I worked. I think it's because I was working on books that I didn't believe in, on a very deep and profound level, and I started questioning the ethics of what I did every day.

And then a door opened, one that I didn't foresee and certainly didn't expect since walking through this door would pluck me right out of the publishing business and put me smack dab in the middle of education. Education at my old high school, even, where I'd be colleagues with some of my high school teachers. Sounds glamorous, no?

But a change was needed, so through the door I went. I became a college counselor, a job which I knew I could do because, well, I'd had a lot of experience in the whole "getting into college" game. And the "make your way through multiple colleges" game, if I'm honest. The opportunity became a lifesaver for me in many ways. My spirit began to breathe and stretch and move again, whereas it had been idle, as if in a sound sleep for far too long. Pretty soon I became inspired again, inspired to let the writer in me get out of the box I kept it stored in. That writer began to stretch its legs and get moving again.

And then I found out I was going to be a mom. And my original dream, the one that never left me, emerged again. It was always there, but it had been buried for quite some time, hidden deep down inside my heart. Suddenly nothing in the world could compare with the idea of being a mom, and not having to do anything but simply be that.

For 8 weeks, I got a taste of it. It was hard. Very hard. But the kind of hard that makes you realize how valuable, how important it is. I felt more authentically myself during the last couple of weeks of my leave. Being a mom and being a writer were starting to merge into one new way of life. I loved it.

Going back to work (whatever that means) was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was even harder than the  giving birth part (which was no picnic).  My first week back was better than I imagined it would be, but I was in a state of mourning every day, deep down inside. Going back to work was the death of a dream. It was something I so fervently did not want to do, deep down in my bones it just felt so wrong. And yet, there I was, dropping my precious little girl off at a sitter's house and walking away.

I guess as a mother, you do what you have to do, right? Going "back to work" is a misnomer because when I was home, I was working. I'm learning that just because I work outside the home doesn't mean I'm not a mom. I may not be a stay-at-home-mom, but I'm still a full-time mom--and there's no way to change that. I'm not off mom duty when Addie's with the sitter. I'm still thinking about her, praying for her, and taking care of her from a distance. And when she needs me, I'm there in matter of moments. And when I get home from my outside job, I'm still working, very hard, until the moment I finally fall into bed at night. And even then, I'm not off duty. These are the things that don't stop, not when you're a mom.

Being back at work isn't my favorite. I'd much rather spend my days with my little munchkin, sneaking writing breaks in here and there as she sleeps or plays on her own, but for now, I'm working on accepting my new normal and being thankful for the way God has given us a situation that is as ideal as it is (how many moms can walk over to nurse their baby on their lunch break?). It's a rough transition, one that I'm not sure I'll ever truly like, but one that I'm choosing to see the positives in.

Sometimes No Words Are the Best Words

I fell in love with my husband a little bit more deeply the other night.

Four more days until I have to go back to work. Just when I think I've gotten to the point of being okay with it, of feeling like the situation we've got set up is an ideal scenario in a less than ideal situation, I get a wave of sadness pass through me, knocking me off my feet and making my head spin. Then, I dig my feet into the ground, stubbornly refusing to believe it's actually happening. And then I realize that the arrangement we have is a very good one, considering the fact that I have to go back to work at all, and I'm thankful for it.

But two nights ago, I was hit hard with the realization that this is really happening, that I'm really going back to work, and I really will be taking Addie to daycare. It's not that I have anything against daycare; it's necessary for so many people, and I know there are some amazingly wonderful folks who spend their lives caring for children such as mine. But it breaks my heart that I won't be the one to care for, nurture, and play with Addie. It's watching the death of my lifelong dream, in some ways.

And as I rocked my little girl to sleep, tears began to pour down my cheeks. Her little eyes locked on mine, smiling at me just moments before, suddenly looked worried, like she knew something was wrong with me. Where did your smiles go, Mama? I could hear her asking through those deep blue eyes. And in those deep blue eyes I saw my sadness welled up, as if my tears collected in them like little puddles on the sidewalk.

Perhaps my preoccupation was contagious that night; Addie wouldn't go to sleep easily, her quizzical look frozen on her face as I swayed back and forth beside her crib. My back began to ache, so I pulled myself together, wiped my tears onto the shoulder of my sweatshirt, and went out to the living room to rock her in the rocking chair. I sat down, feeling my body fold within itself, trying to keep the tears from bubbling up to the surface again. Joey asked if I was ok, to which I responded that I didn't want to talk about it right then. Tears feel private to me, and my dad and brother were in the room just then. And yet, Joey knew.

A few minutes later, the tears wouldn't wait. I excused myself to our room, Addie in tow, and broke down as soon as I was behind the safety of our door. Silent tears are the most intense for me, and a silent cry it was. Moments later I felt Joey behind me; he put his hands on my shoulders and asked if I was upset about Monday, the day I'd have to go back to work. All I did was nod and cry just a little bit harder as I swayed back and forth, rocking my baby to sleep.

He rubbed my shoulders, let me cry, and somehow made me feel a little bit better, just by being there with me. Nothing changed. Nothing will change. But in that moment, I felt seen, and I felt like my feelings were recognized. Sometimes Joey's had the attitude of "we've got to make the best of it, even though it sucks." It's true, and I've been trying to do just that. But there's a deep sadness that makes my bones ache, a sadness that I'm not sure he understood before now. He may not feel exactly the way I feel, but that night told me that he understands how real it is to me. And that's enough, for now.

He pulled me close when we went to bed that night, stroked my hair as I laid on his chest, tears silently sliding down my nose and cheeks. Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying something. Sometimes just holding someone close and letting them cry validates their feelings better than words ever   could. It says, I see you, and how you feel matters. I don't know how to fix it, but I will be here with you while your heart hurts like this. I will comfort and protect you.

Nothing changed that night. My heart didn't change, the situation didn't change, my outlook didn't change. I'm still sad, a kind of sad I've never known before. But somehow, I know it'll be ok. Somehow.

Thoughts on (New) Motherhood

I won't spend the majority of my posts gushing about my  precious baby girl is (although I could), but I decided it was high time I wrote something about her. She is, after all, amazing. I may be biased because she's mine, but it really is true.

Adeline Grace Maier--she's a gift straight from heaven to our home. When I look at her, I am flooded with awe, still find myself in a state of disbelief that she's mine, and am amazed that my love for her is growing just as fast as she is growing. I easily get lost in her eyes--she's so alert now, and it's such fun to just enjoy locking eyes with this little person who grew inside me. (Which, by the way, is still mind-boggling).

I'm finding that motherhood is just what I thought it would be in many ways, but it truly is harder than I thought. I was prepared for difficult.  I'm not naive, you know (well, not all the time at least). The things that I expected to be hard are hard, and the things I expected to be easy are easy. It's the things I didn't know would be difficult that makes transitioning into the role of mother so frustrating, tiring, and sometimes bewildering.

That's not to say I don't like it. I love it. It brings out a new me, the me that's been praying and waiting for this moment since I was a little girl dreaming about being a mommy.

So what didn't I expect? I didn't expect to feel so devoid of affection. Here I am giving tons of it to the sweetest little thing on earth, but since she's too little to give it back, I feel like I'm giving and giving, but not getting anything back. I know she's a tiny little infant and isn't capable of affection like I am just yet, but it's still how I feel. You'd think that getting affection from my husband would help--and it does, when I get it. But we're so busy trying to juggle the baby, trying to keep her happy, that I think we forget to make time for each other. Either that, or we just don't know how to yet. Sometimes we go days without hugging each other, not for lack of wanting to, but because we just can't figure out how to, I guess, what with trying to keep up with the baby. But I need them. So much, especially now.

Hugs communicate more to me, sometimes. They say "You're not alone," and "I'm glad we're in this together," and "I know it's hard, but we'll get through it." Quick smootches don't really say that. Sure, they say "I love you," but sometimes that's not enough. Is that scandalous to say?

I know Joey loves me. I don't doubt it for a second. And I don't doubt that my little girl will soon be returning my smiles and will be big enough to give me hugs back. But for now, in this in-between time, I'm trying to remember that this is not the way it'll always be. Our life is turned upside down for now, but eventually it'll set itself right again (won't it?).

Taking the good with the bad, the easy and the difficult, it's like eating bittersweet chocolate. It's good, very good, but it's not all sweet. There's enough sweet in it to make it palatable--intoxicatingly good, even. But it's not all sweet. It's earthy and complex, has a tinge of power to it, and isn't something to be taken lightly. Appreciating both the components of bitter and sweet is the only way to enjoy it. And that's how I feel about being a mother. There's difficulty to it, things that I've had to let go of and things I'm getting used to, but there's so much good, such awe and wonder that comes along with it that I can't think of anything but good things to say about it. I love it, and I love my little Addie.

It's a Miracle - December 11, 2010

It's a Saturday morning, a gloomy one, which to me is the best kind of Saturday morning there is. The baby's sleeping, my husband is off to drama practice at church, and I'm sitting in the living room, steaming cup of coffee in hand, enjoying the quiet and taking a moment to attempt to sort out the many thoughts swirling around inside my head.

It's these moments that I've come to miss. The ones in which I've got time and space to explore my thought-life, sort through it, make sense of it. And I miss my hot cup of coffee. Oh, how I miss my hot cup of coffee.

The trade off is amazing, though. Having a five week old is a miracle on so many levels. For one, there's the sheer fact that I actually believed having children would not be possible for me. I had no medical basis for this crazy idea, just my own insecurities, hurts, and scars that taunted me whenever I paid my dream attention for even a moment. And yet, here she is. It's a miracle that she's healthy. It's a miracle that I'mhealthy. It's a miracle to watch my dreams come true, to literally watch the Lord answer my prayers in a tangible way, to see his blessings, to feel his approval and pleasure.

I can't remember when it was, exactly, but a few weeks ago I was sitting in bed watching the Today Show while I nursed Addie. It was during a particularly painful time of adjusting to breastfeeding, the time when it feels like you'd rather go through labor and delivery again instead of endure the constant (and seemingly unending) pain of nursing. I was frustrated because I thought that after giving birth, I'd feel so much better. No more acid reflux, no more feeling bloated and disgusting, no more sharp pains or difficulty breathing. But what I learned is that just when one difficulty is over, a new one presents itself.

There I was, the baby latched on and eating well, and me feeling like I wanted to give up, but feeling bad that I felt that way (because it was selfish of me, wasn't it?) when a segment about some male ice skater came on. I don't remember his name, I don't remember why he was being featured on the show, and I don't remember who sang the song he skated to. What I do remember is that he skated to "The Climb"--not the Miley Cyrus version, but a version sung by some other man. Anyway, tears started spilling down my face as I listened to it. The words rang true to my frustrated, exhausted heart. Isn't that the way of life? That there isn't just one trial, one hardship, one difficult season. There may be some relief in between them, but there's always going to be another one, right? And I don't say that to suggest that life is all terrible hardships, either. There are moments of brilliance shining among the dreary, difficult moments. There's the bitter, and the sweet, which when taken together make something complex and interesting--and truly wonderful.
As I sat there with a tear-stained face, I began to enjoy the sweet moment that was quickly slipping away. It was a miracle I was holding, one that I'd prayed for for years, one that I knew would soon be too old to nurse, one that would eventually go on to face her own share of hardships and heartbreaks. But for that one moment, there was just the two of us, learning to master this particular difficulty together.

And now I can see the fruit of our labors--she's growing so much, so fast. Just like my heart is for her. It's such a miracle.