Motherhood

The dance.

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I’ve missed this space, and I’ve missed using it as a vessel to place the hard parts of me. The parts of me that are mine to own, mine to wrestle with, mine to keep, and mine to decide if I place in another’s hands.

I booked a series of counselling appointments today. Doing so felt like admitting (again) that a part of me was broken. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings other than taking a deep breath, pressing the confirm button, and watching the banners atop my phone pop-up as the appointment confirmations came into my email, one by one.

Life has been a dance as of late. Several of these dances started just this past June, and they are steps I am still learning (and fumbling my way through).

The dance of parenting schedules. Figuring out who is “on”, who is “off”, and trying to make sense of it all among the thousand other things on our calendars. Seeing my kids, not seeing my kids, worrying over my kids among the transition, wondering about my kids when I’m gone, wondering about my kids when I’m there, the joy of reconnecting, and the sadness of goodbyes (a sadness that hits me in different depths and different, unpredictable ways every damn time).

The dance of co-parenting. The back-and-forth texting of asks, needs, and wants. The wearing of different shoes, reading of changing rooms, and the navigation of respect (and sometimes failing) around a relationship that has changed so much from its original dynamic. Nonetheless, forging on among such dynamics, undertaking a shared enterprise of care and upbringing for the tiny humans you created together with this person you once loved.

The dance of a tenuous living arrangement. Spaces that should have long since separated (like the relationship that bound it) but remain still unchanged (for too many reasons to name). The dance of respect (and sometimes failing) among choices made in those spaces, the feelings of frustration (on both our ends), and the need for space and distance. The continuation on “as is” because change isn’t going to be soon to come, and how to reckon and be and dance in that period of waiting.

A culminating dance of all these factors, and the effects they’re having on my mental health. My desperate bids for control among a world in which I feel I now desperately lack. Losing myself in the coping mechanisms/dances of doing and busy and cleaning and organizing and obsessions and compulsions in a frenzied bid to find a single iota of control in this life I’m leading. To still have a face and a house and a life to present in this dance of life even if all the parts inside of it are on fire.  

As I’ve danced these steps these past three months, I haven’t always made it past another’s toes. At times, and I’m not proud to admit it, I’ve purposely stepped on toes I’ve deemed in my way. I’ve fumbled and I’ve flailed, I’ve tried to see what works and I’ve had some epic fails. I’ve stubbed my own toes, I’ve caused bruises (both internal and external), and I am still very much on a journey of learning how to step, how to be and become, and how to find happiness in such a gigantic realm of change and transition.

It hasn’t been a pretty dance.

Arguably, this was perhaps the worst time ever for me to have gone off my meds. Tell two months ago me that. I’ll tell my counsellor that.  

Yet, among these dances (and these stumbles), there has been love.

A love of who I am, even if I frustrate the ever living fuck out of myself sometimes. A love of how I’ve changed (physically and mentally). Watching me actively choose now to live/dance the life I want as opposed to the life I was given. A seeing of a girl in the mirror who put in the fucking work, and who is learning to love the person looking back at her (however slow and broken that process may be). She still has a long way to go, but she’s trying, and god damn, she is *dancing*. It is breathtaking to behold. Also, she weirdly goes on hikes now and enjoys it? But, I digress.

A love of my children. These are trying times for all of us, and they have been doing their best to navigate this dance in ways that make sense to them. There have been big emotions, big questions asked, and learning experiences for us all. But god, they’ve grown. And their love for me, no matter my length of absence, has been unwavering. To see their excitement when they realize I’m home or I’m there to pick up at child care or whatever, it’s nourishing. It is giving. It is joy.  

A love of friends. Reconnecting physically and dancing with people that I have long believed because of parenthood, I couldn’t. But I can do hard things. I do them every damn day. I am able, and I can. The exploring of those in-person friendships and how they grow and become among the realities of parenting schedules, offering new dynamics and new ways of existing. New ways of dancing. New ways of rekindling sources of joy.  

And a romantic love (he knows who he is). A love that means a profound amount to me and has helped shape my pathways and journeys in these dances towards goodness and wholeness. A love that I admittedly have pulled into dances that wasn’t his responsibility to lead, and a love that I should have protected better when there was too much of my becoming, unravelling, finding, fumbling, grasping, and flailing among such dances. A love I want desperately to keep, but I love that I will respect if he feels he can no longer be a part of this dance with me.

I see you, counselling.

I’ve changed since I was last in your realm, and there is much for us to reconcile in our re-acquaintance.

I hold my hand out to you now to join me in this dance.

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Journaling, Mental Health, Motherhood

Dreams.

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When I was young, I dreamed of the future. I dreamed of marriage and motherhood. I dreamed of who I would one day love. I dreamed of how many kids I’d one day have. I dreamed of the profession I’d one day do (geologist? interior decorator? teacher?). I dreamed of the house I’d one day live in. I dreamed of the future.

Later, my dreams were with worry. I dreamed of parents that loved each other. I dreamed of a world in which my mom was happy and whole. I dreamed of my father’s laughter and lightness returning. I dreamed of no more yelling, no more anger. I dreamed of different answers than those I was seeing – violence and harm. I dreamed of what should have already been given.  

In high school, I dreamed of difference. I dreamed of escaping the mountain. I dreamed of being a part of the busy, fast, moving world. I dreamed of a changed family dynamic that I could understand. I dreamed of meeting the standards of beauty. I dreamed of being liked and being wanted. I dreamed of that which I didn’t have – difference.

In college, I was in a dream itself – one albeit finding and fumbling. I dreamed of getting my life together (it took a few tries). I dreamed of being someone that my parents could be proud of. I dreamed of accepting myself. I dreamed of getting the grades for which I’d be found worthy. I dreamed of friendships kept, relationships lasting, and me not fucking it all up. I stayed in said dreams for many a year.

These days, I dream of peace. I spoke of this peace recently. It is peace within myself. Peace within my living arrangements. Peace within the chaos that is raising children. Peace within my professional landscape. Peace with my parents. Peace with my brother. Peace with my changing friendship circles. Peace with my ex. Peace within my love life (or at times lack thereof). Peace within my body. Peace within this world. I dream of peace.

Future me, what will you dream of? And will you find it?

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[Featured], Journaling, Mental Health

Who?

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I’ve been attempting to re-write my (now deleted, burned, and ashes blown to the wind) about me section for this website as of late. In the wake of all that’s happened this past six months, it rang of a girl I no longer am. 

Separation (and divorce, once we get around to it), co-parenting while living together, being single again, my significantly changed role at work, and an inevitable move that will help further cement these necessary and changed dynamics. 

These are times of upheaval. Growth, becoming, relief – and upheaval.

I find myself standing among these pieces and grasping at where I belong. What shoe now fits. What identity rings true. What and who I now am.

For years too many, I identified myself by who I was to someone else. Mother, wife, sister, and daughter. 

In this time of now — a clawing back of independence and identity, listening to my own needs, and speaking of truths — who is Sarah? 

And so, I’ll write it out.

For what should become as a surprise to no one, I know not how to begin at anywhere else other than my faults.

Socially anxious and awkward. Shy. Unsure, self-doubting, and eternally self-deprecating. Often overwhelmed, terrible at asking for help, and demands of herself a level of work/”doing all the things” ethic that is often to her own detriment. Doesn’t know when to stop in those regards, and also doesn’t exercise enough or get outdoors as much as she should. Conflict avoidant (to the point of numbing out), repressor of feelings, and perpetually worried about “rocking the boat”. Has difficulties asserting herself and would love more than anything to just melt into the background – much like her slippery and evading sense of self-identity. Painfully perfectionist and introverted beyond measure.

Yet, at the same time, there is goodness.

Caring, kind, and thoughtful. Supportive, reliable, and helpful. Stable, peaceful, and patient. Careful, yet hopeful. Organized, meticulous, and detailed. Conscientious, observant, and a defender of the vulnerable. Respectful, progressive, and loving. Joyful and humble (perhaps to a fault).    

(Admittedly, not quite as good as talking about her good bits as she is her “bad”.)

And then there is that which is simply that.

The comforts she finds in the definable. Cozy in the exacts. Beauty and stability in data. Her eye for specifics. A love of words, reading, and stories. An appreciation for wit and intellect. A (100% untrained) connoisseur of tacos, thrift shopping, and Reese’s peanut butter cups. Liberal and atheist, and at one with nature. Nerdy. Give her video games with housing systems and give her board games with friends – she will be content. A complete, utter, and well-meaning doomsponge… but, also, a troll of the most loving proportions.  

And at the end of it all, a survivor of childhood trauma and postpartum mental health reckonings – keenly aware of how they have made her who she is to this day.

New and old truths, new and old shoes. Here lies my journey fourth.

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Journaling, Mental Health, Motherhood

I see you.

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In the way she navigates life. Taking those purposeful turns and back alleys, expertly maneuvering and avoiding any possible problem or issue. Even at her own peril – her own peril.

In the way she exhaustingly strives to see everyone happy, living in harmony and at peace. Even if it means she’s not there – she’s not there.

In the chronic people pleaser in her. An insistent persistence to please. Even to her own detriment – her own detriment.   

In her biggest want in life: peace. To be with and at peace among all. Even if that peace is beyond her, and there lies a battle within her — battle within her.

In her core fear: conflict. Her fallbacks and coping mechanisms of avoidance and silence. A purposeful hiding of her being – hiding of her being.   

In how she expresses herself only when there is little to no chance of discord. Absolute necessity being the only moments in which she dare gives voice – dare gives voice.   

In her obsession with safeguarding peace. Frozen still I find her. Acting or speaking her truths, she is found unable – found unable 

In her need for perfectionism. A perfectionism born rooted in a frantic need to not disappoint. To be found worthy. To be loved like you should have been – like you should have been. 

And in the very path that guides her as a mother and early childhood educator. Children — those of her own and the lives of others she touches — giving them the peace you didn’t have.

The peace you didn’t have. 

I see her.

I see you.  

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Mental Health, Motherhood, Postpartum, The magic (in the mess). ♡

Still learning.

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“Mama, why wasn’t [insert so and so] listening at child care today?”
“Mama, why did that person stop their car in the middle of the road?”
“Mama, why didn’t you remember to [such and such that my fried brain continually forgets to do]?”

“Because people are still learning, my sweet boy. Still learning how to control their bodies, how to obey the rules of the road, and/or how to remember to do things when functioning on not enough sleep. Life is always teaching us, and we’re always learning.”

A semblance of the above conversation (though for varying reasons) takes place between my son and I a few times a week. So much so that he now chimes in with me in answer, “yeah! They’re still learning!”

It’s a bit of an overly positive take on shitty drivers, I’ll give it that. But, there are nuggets of truth to be found in these conversations nonetheless.

With that said, we’ve recently had a helluva reminder that D and I are still learning.

But first, some backstory.

Six months ago, after having given birth to M, it became rapidly apparent that my mental health needed my son in full time child care while I stayed at home to look after my newborn. I simply wasn’t able to sanely meet both his and M’s needs on the days D was working. It was beyond me, and I feel no shame in admitting that.

Thankfully, we were quickly able to secure full time placement, and it has been the absolute best decision for us all. O adores his “school”, loves the time he can spend there with friends (as he can hardly do that anywhere else these days), and it gives him a place during the day to get out all of his energy and exploratory needs. Furthermore, when he’s at “school”, it leaves me with the sanity I need to care for his sister (now an infant), care for our home, and find some pockets of time during the day to care for myself.

This is not a decision I regret. That being said, I fully get that such an option simply would not be possible or available for some families for a multitude of reasons. Furthermore, some may have chosen differently. I respect that. My anxiety, however, had other plans in store.

Fast forward to now.

After having O at home recently (for reasons that can be found here), I realized something, and it was a something that I had started to clue in on during his week at home this past winter break.

We don’t yet truly, truly know what it means to have two kids.

(It is here I struggle in putting what I mean by that into words. A part of me feels that what I have to say next is not a valid “problem” as it is one born of first world privileges. The other part of me dismisses that notion, and says a struggle is a struggle, and giving words to problems has always helped me better make sense of it all. So, fuck it. I forge ahead.)

We don’t yet know how to fully balance the juggling act of forever meeting the needs of two children while trying to meet our own.

We don’t yet know how to deny the sigh of exhaustion that comes with forever needing to be the type of “on task” that two children require of you.

We don’t yet know how to best give each other breaks (even if that just means one of us being with the “easier” kid in that moment) so that the other can feel the briefest moment of reprieve before having to dive right back in (and how to be accepting of that fact).

We don’t yet know how to quiet the loud sighs of relief come after Sunday evening bedtimes and Monday morning child care drop offs.

How to be at peace in the mess of preschooler + infant “all-day-no time to clean” living… How to give up the illusion that our sore bodies won’t forever be laying or sitting on the floor for YEARS to come… How to not blessedly (and guilty) SAVOUR the daily TV time aka “mom and dad break” that we’ve been having from 4:30-6PM…. These and so much more are things we are very much still learning.

(Truth be told, these are things that we may never learn, or may not HAVE to learn. But, I digress.)

When O is at childcare during the week, I can re-replicate the ease of what it once was to just have one kid. I can breathe. It is a blessing, but, it is also a curse. It’s inadvertently made us be able to deny and delay the demanding, draining reality that comes with having more than one child.

There’s no choice.

Much like winter break, we’ve recently been given no choice but to face this reality head on.

There is much I could say about how it went, but I’ll simply say this: it’s been exhausting, bonding, raw-rubbing, relationship building, HARD-yet-meaningful work.

And while before all of this I may have quite rudely guffawed at the following positivity that I am going to type, I’ll do it anyway. We have been made all the better as a family for it. Yawning, laughing, grumbling, smiling, still learning and all.

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