I think I hit bottom. At least I hope I did, because “up” is so far away, I can’t see the light. If it is not the bottom, I hope that what’s left before I hit it will be short – I know not to expect sweet.
I think I hit bottom. I think because I want to return to surface. The want to return to surface always happens when my feet find something to land on – the bottom – even though it can be rocky or tiny or covered in mud so I can’t see it. But hitting the bottom is finding somewhere to take off in order to return to surface.
I think I hit bottom. I look at my children, I look at how I am around them and I think to myself that if it gets any worse, if I am less of a mother, less of an institution of endless love and understanding, I shouldn’t be around at all. “I don’t like it when you yell, mum” my daughter tells me, but the answer to why I do it (I hit bottom), will not satisfy her, will not do. That answer will not make her home grounds safe enough for her to explore the world and not be afraid to step out into it. That answer will not make her confide in me or let me help her or even let me hold her hand and tuck her in when she wants her pacifier and I have to tell her that it’s gone.
I think I hit bottom. I look at my husband and I wonder what life was like when I wanted to kiss him first thing when he got home in the afternoon, when love was in the air even though the kids were screaming and dinner wasn’t ready. I look at my husband and I long for the times when the look of the two of us never left anyone in doubt of why we married, why we had kids, why we are meant to be. Because we are. We are. Meant to be.
I think I hit bottom. And I think it’s time to get away from there. To reach out to those who are already reaching out to me, to love those who are already loving me, to not care about a burnt dinner or a new job that doesn’t come, to respect myself and the life I – nobody else – chose. I think it’s time.
It’s November and it’s Friday. The boy is sleeping. We are going out later, but for now he’s sleeping and I have indulged in decent breakfast, tea and the paper.
It’s November already. In less than three months I go back to work. I can’t believe it. I was naive and wanted to do so many things, but I guess I got ’round to doing the most important: taking care of my boy.
It’s November. The past six weeks have been rough. I spent three weekends with the kids at my parents’ house because J was either away from home or painting the apartment (we have to sell at some point, the bedroom is way too crowded). We don’t see much of each other and when we do we need to figure out how to make everyday life work. Last weekend we drove to the other end of the country to celebrate J’s father’s 70th birthday, this weekend we’re going to celebrate my mother and the weekend after that we’re going to some family thing with J’s family. I’ll excuse for the lack of enthusiasm, but what I really need is some time with my family – MY family. The man I chose, the children I birthed. Not everyone else. We’re spending Christmas with J’s parents this year and I must admit that I quite often find myself wishing we were spending Christmas at home just the four of us. I don’t need lots of people at the moment, I need only three. And I know that I will be cranky when asked to share my kids, to not act like a family, to sit back and watch hands in my lap, but there you go.
It’s November. I need to start looking for a new job. It’s fine that I have the old one to return to, but I really need to find something new. I need a boost of energy work wise and I doubt I will find that unless I find something else to do. The road is rocky and the times are tough. I know, I know, but I have to try. My main goal for 2013 is to find a new job.
It’s November. It’s cold and I’m nursing a cold. The leaves are falling off the trees and the dark tightens its grip around the day.
It’s November. We drink hot chocolate and eat apples. The girl is happy, the boy is too. They interact with each other. She loves that he wants to squirm his way everywhere she goes, and she loves that he wants to lie at the foot of her chair, while she’s eating. He loves to eat when she’s eating and he loves to just watch her. She constantly whispers “I love you little brother” and “you’re my best friend”, and she kisses him – even if rather often a bit too rough. I pray that they will continue to love each other, to want each other, even though their relationship will change through the years.
It’s November and my mood isn’t always the best, but there are many things to be thankful for and I am so grateful for having them.
The boy and I went for a walk today. He slept and I drank my coffee and ate my sweat treat and took some pictures. Two years ago we were in New England preparing for the road trip of a lifetime watching the autumn in all its colours. Today’s sunshine and colours reminded me a little of that trip. It was a great one.
Six months ago I gave birth to a giant baby, I became a mother of two.
Today he eats mashed food, he squirms around often making unhappy noises because he can’t crawl just yet, but wants to. He has slept through the night – and has stopped again. He is in size four diapers and he looks at me and smiles when I say “milk”. He thinks his sister is the best thing in the world – and her duplo the second best.
I can’t believe it. Six months. That’s half way through year 1. Six months – where did they go?
Two days ago – six days before my baby turns six months – I figured the jeans I was wearing were a bit loose, so from the back of my closet I took my pre-pregnancy jeans and a big breath and I tried them on. And you know what? I kept them on because they fit.
I am – TADA – back in my pre-pregnancy jeans and as silly as that may sound to someone who’s never been waiting for that moment it was GREAT! I am a mother of two, I am a wife, I am a friend, I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin and so on, but two days ago I began the journey back to being myself. And as great as it feels being all those other things, I was beginning to really miss being myself and now I have taken a huge step towards it.
I ought to celebrate with cake or ice cream, but I won’t because those jeans are not going back to the back of the closet.
It’s raining which kind of fits my mood these past weeks.
The girl is tough on us. She has good moments, we have moments of fun and love, but we have many, many more moments of anger, tears, shouting and crying. I wonder whether I should write about it, but I can’t. When I try, I feel guilty. I feel as if I am writing about something that’s not mine to write about. Her anger, her confusion, her terrible threes are hers, not mine. But I am not entirely telling the truth. Because yes, those emotions and those fights are hers, but so are the happy moments I am willing to share.
Not writing is also about feeling vulnerable. We fight, we fight a lot. And at night when the lights are out, I wonder whether I could have done something differently, whether I am the best mother I can be. I am supposed to be the adult, I am supposed to be the one who knows what to do, but I don’t. I lose my temper, I shout, I close the door. Not all the time, but more often than I like. And I am embarrassed that I react like that.
I know that everything is going to be okay. I know that she loves me and that I love her – not least because I tell her every second in an attempt to apologise for my anger from some point earlier on. But I wish I knew when it would be better. I wish I could tell myself to just endure it until September or something, but I can’t. All I can do is wait. And while I promise to write as soon as I feel like it, I also apologise for being an oyster and keeping shut on this one.
I am a good swimmer, but these waters I have no clue how to swim in.