first time mom – Page 4

For a few hours, that is.

11/25/2018 No Comments

Parenting is so weird.

Some days I’m pretty sure I’m the worst and that my kid is gonna grow up and think I’m the worst. Or that I look at my phone too much and am missing his whole life. Or that I should be better at socializing him on the weekends. Or that. Or that. Or that.

But then there are days we wake up, and happily engage him in putting away dishes and loading the dishwasher, putting away laundry and loading the washer, sweeping the kitchen, and helping pour and stir ingredients into the crock pot for dinner — all before 9:30AM like a Montessori/Waldorf (?) dream team, as he’s positively BEAMING the whole time.

And then I think again that this whole parenting thing is gonna be okay.

For a few hours, that is.

Motherhood, The magic (in the mess). ♡

I don’t know how to stop.

10/15/2018 No Comments

I have an obsession with buying/giving my kid books to read.

I don’t know how to stop.

I adore reading to him and do it lots, I keep finding amazing steals at Value Village (98% of these are second hand and were $1.25 each!) and I figure if you’re gonna spoil your kid, ya might as well do it with books in hopes of helping build a love of literacy.

Right?

Right?!?

Riiiiiiiiight?!?!?

Motherhood

Ceiling! You okay?!

09/26/2018 No Comments

My kid talks to our fire alarms, whom he has dubbed as “ceiling”. This started back in April, after they went off twice while coking was happening in the kitchen with my best friend, Lynette. He was scared of them for quite awhile, and still sometimes is (especially when we go other places that have fire alarms above us), but now? O and ceiling have a full on dialogue.

“Ceiling! You okay?!” (when he thinks he hears a fire alarm, which he believes is the sound of the ceiling crying, no matter how many times we’ve told him differently).

“Ceiling is sad” (a continual belief on his part, to which we often reply with, “Ceiling is happy, actually!”).

“You have a good day, Ceiling?!” (after coming home from child care).

“I have to go get (such and such), Ceiling” (told to ceiling as he passes under it [which he often asks permission of it to do so]).

And this morning: “I see ceiling’s mouth.” (we have no idea about this one, though it is mildly terrifying).

There’s even some occasional sass:”Ceiling! You have to cut your nails!” (after he’s not let us cut his nails for the past week).

“Ceiling! *insert testy toddler trash talk here*” (we have realized that in terms of pecking order, O has placed ceiling on the lowest possible dominator).

This is not a part of parenting I expected, like, at ALL… but, I’m here for the journey. As crazy as it may make me. 💚⁣ ⁣

Mental Health, Milestones & Genetics, Motherhood, Respectful Parenting, The magic (in the mess). ♡

This is what I know.

07/22/2018 No Comments

For the past five or so days I’ve been on a massive cleaning, purging, MAKE IT LOOK GOOD frenzy. It was brought on by some other changes going on in my life, changes that are going to give me more time to invest love into our home, and this endeavour of organizational overhaul was seemingly the best place to start.

(Can I just say that organizing does my brain better than ANY therapy, religion or mindfulness could ever dare hope to? It’s good. So freakin’ good. Like thrillingly good. ANYWAYS.)

As I’ve been tossing, donating, giving away, straightening, fixing, redecorating, focusing on what matters, etc., I’ve had time to think. Time to dwell. Time to ponder and ruminate.

And I’ve come to this conclusion, a conclusion in answer to my last post… if I wish to write (which I do), and have it be from a lived experience, then isn’t the answer simply to write what I *do* know?

And what is it that I know, anyways?

So, to begin (and perhaps one day end…):

I know what it is to be a mom and feel like I have absolutely no freakin’ idea what I’m doing, but, amazingly, things seemingly work out okay and my kid loves my anyways (*pats self on back*) – even if I genuinely have NO idea how.

I know what it is to be on the receiving side of the toxic realm of mommy shaming in this world we live in, and how inexcusable, hurtful and NOT necessary it is, and that I so very much want to spread LOVE to make all the moms I know feel worthy and good enough – ‘cause I don’t always feel that way myself.

I know what it is to be a mom of a child with special needs/special rights, who asks of the world differently than what it’s able to typically give, and the tears and the struggles and the JOYS that come with such an identity of nurturing.

I know what it is to mentally struggle as a mom, and to struggle deeply, bearing fourth my vulnerabilities to the therapists and close friends in my world, always hoping my story gets better… or helps another know that the light isn’t always so dark.

I know what it is as a mom and wife to be blindsided by the addition of a baby and now toddler, and how it forever changes one’s marriage, and how HARD that can often be to help kindle, heal and give it the attention that it needs.

I know what it is to be a mom without a village, or without a real and *present* network of support (except Tina, god bless that woman), and how “without” that can make one feel, and sometimes less than – and the startling realization of being able to physically count on so few.

I know what it is to become a mom at an older age than some, and the shock of a system it can still be at times to put on mommy shoes when for so, so long that was never, ever the case – and the at times *incredibly* trying adjustment it can be to shift into a mothering state of mind.

I know what it is to be a somewhat “new to being a mom” in this very digital world of Facebook mom groups, mom blogs, “overly eager advice sharing people with a keyboard”, and the trials, triumphs and tribulations that have so far come with parenting in a (perhaps too) technological rich realm of information/misinformation.

I know what it is as a mom to want to embrace said technology, but only giving teeny tiny little bits of it at a time to my child, deeply afraid of it being harmful to his growing brain or becoming unstoppable – as technology in my life past was want to do.

I know what it is to be a mom that is guided deeply by the tenements of trust and respect for my child, even when he’s doing what a two year old often does, and how I refuse to shush or distract him from what he’s feeling/going through for the sake of an easier road – even if an easier road sometimes would be much, much easy to bare.

I know what it is to be a mom who is bigger than most, who looks different than others, and who doesn’t always love her body – even if my kid ADORES it, tummy and all (which boggles my dang mind).

And as all moms do, I know what it is to sacrifice. To give up sleep, food, my own needs and my own wants, all for a child who is rested, full, healthy and happy. How he gets there, I’m not so sure, but I’m seemingly doing *something* right.

This is what I know.

Mental Health, Motherhood

She writes.

07/17/2018 No Comments

My urge to write is deep and nagging. I long to divulge like the books I bury myself in, hoping to drip in similar soliloquy and metaphor. I just don’t possess such abilities, be it I lack the imagination, right words or the experience, and thus the words I sting together sound hallow. Like those of a school girl bitterly writing her pained experiences of the heartaches of being a teenager, devoid of an aged knowledge, but rife with scorn and annoyance. (See how forced it is even when I try?)

There is little bitterness in my life right now, however. I am in a good spot. My mom journey is in a good spot. I am happy in this spot. I am comfortable in this spot. But it is in pains that I find I can do my best writing (though this is based on knowledge from my high school years, full of similar strife to what I previously referenced). Does sorrow still hold my best words, my best promise of a written creation? Or have I moved beyond that? Have I become something more?

I am unsure and at times unwilling to find out. My issues with the way I write, wishing it to be so much more than it is, stop me from pouring fingers onto keyboard clicks. I don’t truly know what to write, and I fear of sounding juvenile, of bringing to something a lack of meaning from a contently led life. I fear not knowing enough to truly write from lived knowledge, but rather bits and bots placed on paper made to make happy those who know my writing. Aimed to impress with overly used clichés, familiar heartache and the same old swoons.

But the satisfaction of those swoons quickly thaw, and I long for more. I long to be deeply understood. I long to pour all of me out, thin and transparent against the screen, and to then be carefully collected and embraced. I don’t truly know what there is of me inside this brain and body that doesn’t feel embraced or understood, however, but there lays a hunger — a dull ache of words having gone unsaid. Emotions not given their due right. Hope and fears diverted rather than divulged.

I want to follow that ache, to live it, to drown in it, to write it – and to come up from its depth with eyes wide open.