I've never been big on giving things up for Lent, even though as a former Catholic, it should be a part of my cultural heritage. Prior to this year, I'm pretty sure the last time I partook in this ritual was 2006, when I gave up coffee. Needless to say, it was a rough six weeks.
This year, I happened to be perusing Facebook on Ash Wednesday and came across a "goodbye" post stating that one of my friends would be returning to the News Feed after Easter. On a whim, at that exact moment, I decided to make the same decision. It would be good for me, I reasoned, to spend less time checking my device, to refrain from sharing my every random thought, to put less stock in the number of comments or "likes" each of my posts received. The timing worked; I would most likely be back on the 'Book just in time for the arrival of baby number three.
After four-plus weeks of this experiment, here is what I have learned:
1) It's a Good Thing I'm Not a Smoker. Why? Because I suck at quitting. I did really well for a week or two, then I started to slip here and there. I mostly blame this blog, because Facebook remains the best way to announce a new post, and I can't resist reading my friends' responses. After I had cheated once, it was easy to do it again, just a quick peek to see if I had any notifications. Still, I would estimate that during Lent I have spent about 95% less time on Facebook, and for me that is a giant success, all things considered.
2) The Fear of "Missing Something" is an Illusion… Mostly. On a Monday morning a few weeks ago, I walked into school and was nearly accosted by a student asking, "Did you see the black and blue dress?!?!" Backing away slowly, I responded that no, I had not. A little further up the hall, another student stopped me. "Is it black and blue, or is it white and gold?" I seriously thought I was being punked, but apparently this was a thing that not only middle school students, but normal, well-adjusted adults were talking about and debating. It was exactly the kind of nonsense that I was happy to miss out on during my Facebook sabbatical.
At the same time, there were some things that I genuinely did miss: exciting announcements, birthdays, entertaining anecdotes or cute family photos from my friends and acquaintances. I know what some of you might say- if you're really friends with someone, you'll keep in touch with them somewhere other than Facebook. The disappointing truth is, I can barely keep up with my immediate family and few closest friends the "old-fashioned" way. Yesterday I attempted to video chat with my sister and her kids, but the connection kept freezing and my own two troublemakers kept talking over their aunt and cousin. Even returning a text often takes a few hours to a day due to the distractions of home, work, and ankle-biters. Facebook is simply the most efficient way to find out what is new in the lives of the wide array of people with whom I am connected. It doesn't matter if I'm related to you, if I know you well, if I haven't seen you in ten years, or if we don't even really talk that much when we see each other in person. If we're friends on Facebook, I have at least a passing interest in what you have going on or what you have to say.
3) It's Not Just About Me. Conversely, I didn't realize, until I significantly cut back on Facebook, how much other people, particularly mine and Matt's families, rely on Facebook for updates about us. My in-laws just happened to be out of the country on vacation for the past few weeks, and I got a text message from New Zealand: "We miss seeing pictures of the girls on Facebook. Send us some, please!"
4) I'm Not a Masochist. Now that I've broken the cycle of Facebook addiction and can cut my usage back from dozens of times a day to once every few days, I think I've accomplished what I set out to do. No, it's not Easter yet, but I have a pretty emotional and stressful couple of weeks ahead of me as I finish out my career as a teacher, for now, at least, and prepare to become a mother of three. I may need to vent, and I definitely need all the support I can get. I think (and I'll say a couple of prayers too) that God will forgive me for that.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Monday, March 9, 2015
The Countdown: For This Teacher, School is Almost Out
It is 4:55 a.m. This is not a time of day that I normally see (and based on my current observations, I'm not missing much), but insomnia has come to call. When my youngest woke up around 3:30 calling for her "bobby", a name she at some point gave to her pacifier and by which we all now call it, I couldn't get myself settled again. Perhaps it's my giant belly or loose, painful pregnancy joints that are keeping me from getting much-needed rest. More likely the culprit is my over-worked, over-active brain that just can't fit all of its worry and anxiety into the waking sixteen hours of the day.
I've heard other insomniacs refer to what they call "the list"- the items that occupy their mind like a revolving door during the hours when they should be asleep. Mine contains a litany of baby-related chores, most of which I have not yet gotten around to completing: order a better baby carrier, make sure my pump is in working condition, unpack and take stock of newborn clothes, get a "labor day" game plan in order, buy a leash for my one-year-old. On top of that, the stomach virus made its way into our home early yesterday morning, and though at this point we've only had one man down, I can't help fretting over who might fall victim next. Finally, I'm attempting to process the very recent news that, due to changes in funding, our four-year-old's fabulous, public-school pre-K program will now accept only children within a certain income bracket. This puts "find a new pre-school for Maggie" way up there on the list of things stressing me out. But there's one major item I've left off, which for me encompasses almost every conceivable emotion and is never far from my racing mind: what I have termed "The Countdown".
18. The number of school days remaining before my due date. The amount of time I have left to be a teacher- at least for a while. I have always had a love-hate relationship with my profession, wishing I could leave the meetings, planning, and paperwork to someone else while I bantered with my students and did my best to make sure they left my room having learned at least one new, valuable piece of wisdom or information. I have whined about the low pay, the innumerable hoops we teachers have to jump through, the hours after-school and on weekends that have been sucked away from my family and funneled into English or Social Studies prep. I have vented my frustrations about school dynamics (adults being just as cliquey and mean as middle-schoolers much of the time) and worried that my colleagues didn't respect me or recognize how hard I was working.
Over the past ten years, since I joined AmeriCorps as a mentor straight out of college, I have been either Ms. Dunn or Mrs. Pray to over 1,000 young people. I have done my best to make my subject matter to them and to serve as a model of respect and concern for others. I have worked with and commiserated with some amazing, amazing, men and women. I have attended plays, musical performances, ball games. I have told my husband countless stories about kids that he would probably never meet, but who I couldn't help talking about when I got home from school. For the past several years, at least since having my own children, I have taken a moment out of every morning to say a quick prayer to God: "Lord, let me put aside my own worries and problems and be present for these children today."
When I made the choice to step out of the classroom for the time being in order to be more present for my own family, I knew it wouldn't be easy. Other moms I know who have made the same transition tell me that I'll never look back. I'm not so sure about that, but I can say that I am looking forward to each of the 18 days left on my school calendar. The ticking clock may be one more source of stress, but it is also a blessing, a rare opportunity to once again appreciate what it was that drew me to teaching in the first place. Maybe tonight, when sleep is once again eluding me, I'll try counting my blessings instead of sheep.
I've heard other insomniacs refer to what they call "the list"- the items that occupy their mind like a revolving door during the hours when they should be asleep. Mine contains a litany of baby-related chores, most of which I have not yet gotten around to completing: order a better baby carrier, make sure my pump is in working condition, unpack and take stock of newborn clothes, get a "labor day" game plan in order, buy a leash for my one-year-old. On top of that, the stomach virus made its way into our home early yesterday morning, and though at this point we've only had one man down, I can't help fretting over who might fall victim next. Finally, I'm attempting to process the very recent news that, due to changes in funding, our four-year-old's fabulous, public-school pre-K program will now accept only children within a certain income bracket. This puts "find a new pre-school for Maggie" way up there on the list of things stressing me out. But there's one major item I've left off, which for me encompasses almost every conceivable emotion and is never far from my racing mind: what I have termed "The Countdown".
18. The number of school days remaining before my due date. The amount of time I have left to be a teacher- at least for a while. I have always had a love-hate relationship with my profession, wishing I could leave the meetings, planning, and paperwork to someone else while I bantered with my students and did my best to make sure they left my room having learned at least one new, valuable piece of wisdom or information. I have whined about the low pay, the innumerable hoops we teachers have to jump through, the hours after-school and on weekends that have been sucked away from my family and funneled into English or Social Studies prep. I have vented my frustrations about school dynamics (adults being just as cliquey and mean as middle-schoolers much of the time) and worried that my colleagues didn't respect me or recognize how hard I was working.
Over the past ten years, since I joined AmeriCorps as a mentor straight out of college, I have been either Ms. Dunn or Mrs. Pray to over 1,000 young people. I have done my best to make my subject matter to them and to serve as a model of respect and concern for others. I have worked with and commiserated with some amazing, amazing, men and women. I have attended plays, musical performances, ball games. I have told my husband countless stories about kids that he would probably never meet, but who I couldn't help talking about when I got home from school. For the past several years, at least since having my own children, I have taken a moment out of every morning to say a quick prayer to God: "Lord, let me put aside my own worries and problems and be present for these children today."
When I made the choice to step out of the classroom for the time being in order to be more present for my own family, I knew it wouldn't be easy. Other moms I know who have made the same transition tell me that I'll never look back. I'm not so sure about that, but I can say that I am looking forward to each of the 18 days left on my school calendar. The ticking clock may be one more source of stress, but it is also a blessing, a rare opportunity to once again appreciate what it was that drew me to teaching in the first place. Maybe tonight, when sleep is once again eluding me, I'll try counting my blessings instead of sheep.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
The Pregnancy Progression: Lessons from One to Three
My kids don't even wear Luvs diapers, and I promise you I am not on the company's payroll, but if you haven't seen the series of "First Kid, Second Kid" commercials, and you have at least two children, please look them up. You will not be disappointed. From our labor plans to breastfeeding to the foods we allow them to eat and things we allow them to play with, our attitudes change significantly from the first child to the second, and, from what I've heard, to any subsequent children after that.
The same, it seems, is true of pregnancy. Let's do a quick recap:
Pregnancy #1
After waiting the requisite 12-13 weeks, I announced my pregnancy in person to as many people as possible in order to up the "specialness" factor. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting. (I tried to get my husband to read it too, but I'm pretty sure that was a fail.) Each week I looked up my growing child's milestones to find out if he or she was the size of a grape, a kiwi, or an eggplant. I did my best to follow all of the typical pregnancy rules: no soft cheeses, deli meat, sushi, etc. I went so far as to scour the grocery store for pasteurized blue cheese dressing which, by the way, exists, and is disgusting. A glass of wine was a rare treat; I think I snuck a glass of champagne at a wedding.
The focus of pregnancy #1 was mainly on taking care of myself and, by extension, our baby. I recall with extreme nostalgia coming home from work and napping on the couch while Matt made dinner. I slept in on Saturdays and then got up and went to the gym. If I were to find a picture of what my arms looked like when I was pregnant with Maggie, I would probably cry. Chin-ups and dips… two words that have not been in my vocabulary since 2010.
And oh, the fearful anticipation of labor, of actually welcoming baby and bringing him or her home to keep. Maggie was due on October 2nd, a Sunday, and I had taken off of work for the entire previous week because I was so afraid of going into labor while teaching. So, for nearly two weeks I spent an hour or more each day walking, hoping it would speed up the process, and much of the rest of the day either napping or watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix.
When labor finally did kick in I went to the hospital hilariously early and was sent home with instructions to wait "until the pain became MUCH more intense". I spent the next day and a half feeling humiliated and willing myself to last until my next doctor's appointment so as to avoid another dread encounter with the labor and delivery night shift. After about a total of 48 hours in labor, it was a girl! and we began the difficult transition between a family of two and a family of three, a change for which not even nine months can prepare you.
Pregnancy #2
After Maggie we went through a crisis of "Do we or don't we?" Both my husband and I had always envisioned ourselves with more than one child, but we had started to feel pretty comfortable with the ease of finding a babysitter for one, which left us able to enjoy some of the experiences of our pre-baby existence. On top of that, Maggie was a willful child, and the thought of having to tend to the needs of an infant while supervising timeouts and tantrums was incredibly overwhelming.
Still, we decided to go for it, thinking that it would be better in the long run for Maggie to have a sibling. The feeling, upon learning of my second pregnancy, was more hesitant than jubilant, but when I started to bleed heavily around six weeks, all I wanted was for my new little not-quite-a-person-yet to pull through. I called my parents and tearfully told them the news, wishing I could have waited but needing their prayers and support. We did the same with Matt's family, saying something along the lines of, "There are complications, but we want you to know." It was a terrifying ten days or so until the bleeding stopped, but with continued observation and frequent ultrasounds my doctor finally coaxed me into believing that everything was going to be okay and, miraculously, it was.
After our initial scare, the second pregnancy very much revolved around reassuring Maggie of our love for her and preparing her for sisterhood. We spent a great deal of quality time together in the months leading up to Ceci's birth, eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream (my craving of choice for #2), getting Maggie situated in her new "big girl" room, working on potty training, and cuddling on the couch while I napped and Maggie watched back-to-back episodes of Sesame Street.
Did I feel 100% read for Ceci to arrive? Not really. Was I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Did I feel confident that we would seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But a planned induction (for the sake of convenience, which I probably would not do again) took some of the anxiety out of the equation, and in the end everything ended up entirely hunky-dory. Yup, I said it: Hunky-dory.
Pregnancy #3
It snuck up on me, it really did. Two kids seemed to be going well, and hey, why not? Let's have another! So, shortly after Ceci's first birthday, there was the plus sign on the stick yet again. When I found out, Matt was on an overnight concert trip with some friends, and it's a testament to the third pregnancy and the state of my brain that I honestly can't remember if I texted him or called him to share the news. Either way, he was in great spirits, and so was I, and we kind of just figured, "Hey, why not?- Can you tell this has been kind of the theme of this whole pregnancy? - Let's spread the joy!" We wasted no time in telling whoever we felt like telling.
There have been a host of other differences between this pregnancy and the others. As I said before, this has been the "Hey, why not?" time around. While my life with a four-year-old and a one-year-old is certainly NOT relaxing, my attitude toward the child I'm carrying has had to be. For example: Pregnancy rules? Seriously? If there is food in front of me, I am going to eat it. I like goat cheese. I like to lick the bowl after I make cupcakes, regardless of the presence of raw eggs. I mean, I'm not going to go out and eat ten cans of tuna and OD on mercury, but I am also not going to be made to feel guilty for eating a turkey sandwich.
Mostly (and I hope my unborn child won't take this the wrong way), I have just not had the luxury of being able to focus much on this pregnancy. I have two kids who demand a lot of my time and attention, and I know that with number three, this is the easiest part. She's contained. She doesn't talk back or stand on tables or cry inconsolably because I place the wrong cup in front of her. I don't have to chase her or worry that I will lose my patience with her.
At this point, I'm six-ish weeks from meeting my newest little girl, and do I feel 100% ready? Not really. Am I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Do I feel confident that we will seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But what I've learned by this point is that part of what makes being a mom so amazing is the ability to adapt and accept and make each child feel as special and loved as the next, and I do feel 100% ready to do that.
The same, it seems, is true of pregnancy. Let's do a quick recap:
After waiting the requisite 12-13 weeks, I announced my pregnancy in person to as many people as possible in order to up the "specialness" factor. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting. (I tried to get my husband to read it too, but I'm pretty sure that was a fail.) Each week I looked up my growing child's milestones to find out if he or she was the size of a grape, a kiwi, or an eggplant. I did my best to follow all of the typical pregnancy rules: no soft cheeses, deli meat, sushi, etc. I went so far as to scour the grocery store for pasteurized blue cheese dressing which, by the way, exists, and is disgusting. A glass of wine was a rare treat; I think I snuck a glass of champagne at a wedding.
The focus of pregnancy #1 was mainly on taking care of myself and, by extension, our baby. I recall with extreme nostalgia coming home from work and napping on the couch while Matt made dinner. I slept in on Saturdays and then got up and went to the gym. If I were to find a picture of what my arms looked like when I was pregnant with Maggie, I would probably cry. Chin-ups and dips… two words that have not been in my vocabulary since 2010.
And oh, the fearful anticipation of labor, of actually welcoming baby and bringing him or her home to keep. Maggie was due on October 2nd, a Sunday, and I had taken off of work for the entire previous week because I was so afraid of going into labor while teaching. So, for nearly two weeks I spent an hour or more each day walking, hoping it would speed up the process, and much of the rest of the day either napping or watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix.
When labor finally did kick in I went to the hospital hilariously early and was sent home with instructions to wait "until the pain became MUCH more intense". I spent the next day and a half feeling humiliated and willing myself to last until my next doctor's appointment so as to avoid another dread encounter with the labor and delivery night shift. After about a total of 48 hours in labor, it was a girl! and we began the difficult transition between a family of two and a family of three, a change for which not even nine months can prepare you.
Pregnancy #2
After Maggie we went through a crisis of "Do we or don't we?" Both my husband and I had always envisioned ourselves with more than one child, but we had started to feel pretty comfortable with the ease of finding a babysitter for one, which left us able to enjoy some of the experiences of our pre-baby existence. On top of that, Maggie was a willful child, and the thought of having to tend to the needs of an infant while supervising timeouts and tantrums was incredibly overwhelming.
Still, we decided to go for it, thinking that it would be better in the long run for Maggie to have a sibling. The feeling, upon learning of my second pregnancy, was more hesitant than jubilant, but when I started to bleed heavily around six weeks, all I wanted was for my new little not-quite-a-person-yet to pull through. I called my parents and tearfully told them the news, wishing I could have waited but needing their prayers and support. We did the same with Matt's family, saying something along the lines of, "There are complications, but we want you to know." It was a terrifying ten days or so until the bleeding stopped, but with continued observation and frequent ultrasounds my doctor finally coaxed me into believing that everything was going to be okay and, miraculously, it was.After our initial scare, the second pregnancy very much revolved around reassuring Maggie of our love for her and preparing her for sisterhood. We spent a great deal of quality time together in the months leading up to Ceci's birth, eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream (my craving of choice for #2), getting Maggie situated in her new "big girl" room, working on potty training, and cuddling on the couch while I napped and Maggie watched back-to-back episodes of Sesame Street.
Did I feel 100% read for Ceci to arrive? Not really. Was I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Did I feel confident that we would seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But a planned induction (for the sake of convenience, which I probably would not do again) took some of the anxiety out of the equation, and in the end everything ended up entirely hunky-dory. Yup, I said it: Hunky-dory.
Pregnancy #3
It snuck up on me, it really did. Two kids seemed to be going well, and hey, why not? Let's have another! So, shortly after Ceci's first birthday, there was the plus sign on the stick yet again. When I found out, Matt was on an overnight concert trip with some friends, and it's a testament to the third pregnancy and the state of my brain that I honestly can't remember if I texted him or called him to share the news. Either way, he was in great spirits, and so was I, and we kind of just figured, "Hey, why not?- Can you tell this has been kind of the theme of this whole pregnancy? - Let's spread the joy!" We wasted no time in telling whoever we felt like telling.
There have been a host of other differences between this pregnancy and the others. As I said before, this has been the "Hey, why not?" time around. While my life with a four-year-old and a one-year-old is certainly NOT relaxing, my attitude toward the child I'm carrying has had to be. For example: Pregnancy rules? Seriously? If there is food in front of me, I am going to eat it. I like goat cheese. I like to lick the bowl after I make cupcakes, regardless of the presence of raw eggs. I mean, I'm not going to go out and eat ten cans of tuna and OD on mercury, but I am also not going to be made to feel guilty for eating a turkey sandwich.
Mostly (and I hope my unborn child won't take this the wrong way), I have just not had the luxury of being able to focus much on this pregnancy. I have two kids who demand a lot of my time and attention, and I know that with number three, this is the easiest part. She's contained. She doesn't talk back or stand on tables or cry inconsolably because I place the wrong cup in front of her. I don't have to chase her or worry that I will lose my patience with her.
At this point, I'm six-ish weeks from meeting my newest little girl, and do I feel 100% ready? Not really. Am I nervous about having to do the whole labor thing again? Yes. Do I feel confident that we will seamlessly incorporate the new baby into our lives? Absolutely not. But what I've learned by this point is that part of what makes being a mom so amazing is the ability to adapt and accept and make each child feel as special and loved as the next, and I do feel 100% ready to do that.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
In Praise of the Pregnant Selfie
However, I do want to touch upon one type of selfie which comes up occasionally in my news feeds on Facebook and Instagram, but, in my opinion, is not prevalent enough: the pregnant selfie. (Note: I am dying to give this a nickname, like the "Prelfie" or the "Bellfie"- belly + selfie - but let's face it, there probably is a term out there already that I'm not cool enough to be aware of.)
I did not document my first pregnancy in photos, and I regret it. I was worried that people would view me as being self-indulgent, and feeling insecure about the changes in my body anyway, I talked myself out of it. Since then, I have seen some beautiful transformations happen before my eyes on social media, and the more I thought about it, why shouldn't I be proud of this huge, important undertaking? So, with my second and third pregnancies, I have tried to be more intentional about capturing the various stages of my maternity.
A few arguments for the pregnant selfie:
1) The people who think your pregnancy photos are annoying have never been pregnant. They simply don't get it, and they will surely change their minds as soon as they have a child of their own.
2) Pregnancy is hard. Lugging around anywhere from 25-50 extra pounds is exhausting and takes a toll on your self-esteem. Why not accept the positive comments from friends and family on social media as a reminder of what pregnancy is really about: the joy of a new life? Without the ordeal and responsibility that is pregnancy, there would be no cute little baby pictures for everyone to ooh and ahh over. The journey is just as important as the destination!
3) Your child will be able to look back on the time you carried him or her and know without a doubt that mommy was excited and happy, that despite all the hard stuff she still relished the knowledge that a new life was about to begin and would be forever joined to hers.
With that said, I encourage those of you who are expecting or hope to be one day to put it all out there. Well maybe not ALL of it, but you know what I mean. These are some of the most important months of your life, and let's be honest- you're more photogenic now, with your pregnancy glow, than you will be in the sleepless weeks ahead of you!
Sunday, February 1, 2015
The Whole Work Thing… Part II
Almost two full years ago I published my third post ever, a somewhat anguished plea for advice about the classic mom question: to work or not to work? Since then, I've settled into a position teaching social studies at a public magnet middle school for the visual and performing arts. It's a nice small community, with colleagues I respect and relatively well-behaved students, by middle school standards at least. I have been, for the most part, pretty happy.
Sometime around November or December, however, I suddenly stumbled upon a realization: I am about to have a third child. I mean, I knew what the end result of my pregnancy would be, but for some reason it had never occurred to me to revisit the whole working question. I was going to finish out this school year on maternity leave and continue humming along in my usual routine. Easy.
I can't remember what triggered the panic. It could have been a frantic morning, the kids screaming about something as I rushed out the door, leaving their dad to deal with the aftermath because I was already running twenty minutes late. It could have been a larger than usual pile of grading to tackle, knowing that the only way to reduce the number of papers on my desk would be to stay after school, sacrificing any hope of going to the gym, or to stay up late, sacrificing any hope of spending a little quality time with my husband after the girls went to bed. Maybe it was one of those classes that just falls flat on its face, when my students don't seem to care about learning and I don't really blame them because the lesson I've planned on the industrial revolution is even boring ME. Honestly, I don't know why one day it just dawned on me: I'm not sure I can keep doing this.
It's not that I don't want to keep teaching. There are so many things that I love about my job. I love when my students laugh about historical humor, like the fact that one of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand's would-be assassins threw a bomb at the motorcade and immediately attempted to jump to his death in a nearby river that happened to have only four inches of water in it at the time. I love how even seventh-graders can be sweet and adorable: just the other day a girl ran up to tell me that one of her friends would be absent that day - "But she told me to tell you she'll miss you and hopes you have a great day!" I love teacher camaraderie. I love knowing that even though I'm underpaid and overworked, and my job is SO hard, it's important. But is it more important than being able to be there for my own kids?
There is no reason for me to make a decision right now. I have almost two months until baby arrives, and then another two until the school year ends. Yet every day the decision weighs on me as my heart and mind swing wildly from one side to the other. Don't I want my daughters to see their mom doing important work outside the home? Won't I go stir-crazy stuck in my house without adult conversation? Am I seriously willing to let go of the benefits of being a state employee? Those questions are there all the time, but so are these: Am I crazy enough to think that, with three kids, I can fit in all the work I currently do and still spend any quality time with my family? What about all the doctor's appointments, school pick-ups, extracurriculars? Shouldn't I have a better knowledge of my husband's business, considering that it's technically mine as well? When was the last time I even stopped by his office? Or he and I had lunch together? What's more important: the money I make at my job, or the time I could be spending with my family? The pride I feel in my work outside the home, or the pride I could feel in actually having some organization within my home?
There are many women out there who don't have the luxury of even debating these questions, so please be clear that I am not complaining. I know that there are no bad choices here, and no permanent ones either. I know that my fabulous husband is supportive of whatever I decide to do. So why does this still feel so hard?
The subtitle of this blog reads, "Mom. Wife. Teacher. Me." To take one of those descriptors away feels a bit terrifying. Without it, after nearly ten years devoted to the profession of education, I'm afraid that the others won't sufficiently add up to "Me". But a girl can always reinvent herself, can't she?
Sometime around November or December, however, I suddenly stumbled upon a realization: I am about to have a third child. I mean, I knew what the end result of my pregnancy would be, but for some reason it had never occurred to me to revisit the whole working question. I was going to finish out this school year on maternity leave and continue humming along in my usual routine. Easy.
 |
| Trying to imagine one more kiddo working at this table... |
It's not that I don't want to keep teaching. There are so many things that I love about my job. I love when my students laugh about historical humor, like the fact that one of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand's would-be assassins threw a bomb at the motorcade and immediately attempted to jump to his death in a nearby river that happened to have only four inches of water in it at the time. I love how even seventh-graders can be sweet and adorable: just the other day a girl ran up to tell me that one of her friends would be absent that day - "But she told me to tell you she'll miss you and hopes you have a great day!" I love teacher camaraderie. I love knowing that even though I'm underpaid and overworked, and my job is SO hard, it's important. But is it more important than being able to be there for my own kids?
There is no reason for me to make a decision right now. I have almost two months until baby arrives, and then another two until the school year ends. Yet every day the decision weighs on me as my heart and mind swing wildly from one side to the other. Don't I want my daughters to see their mom doing important work outside the home? Won't I go stir-crazy stuck in my house without adult conversation? Am I seriously willing to let go of the benefits of being a state employee? Those questions are there all the time, but so are these: Am I crazy enough to think that, with three kids, I can fit in all the work I currently do and still spend any quality time with my family? What about all the doctor's appointments, school pick-ups, extracurriculars? Shouldn't I have a better knowledge of my husband's business, considering that it's technically mine as well? When was the last time I even stopped by his office? Or he and I had lunch together? What's more important: the money I make at my job, or the time I could be spending with my family? The pride I feel in my work outside the home, or the pride I could feel in actually having some organization within my home?
There are many women out there who don't have the luxury of even debating these questions, so please be clear that I am not complaining. I know that there are no bad choices here, and no permanent ones either. I know that my fabulous husband is supportive of whatever I decide to do. So why does this still feel so hard?
The subtitle of this blog reads, "Mom. Wife. Teacher. Me." To take one of those descriptors away feels a bit terrifying. Without it, after nearly ten years devoted to the profession of education, I'm afraid that the others won't sufficiently add up to "Me". But a girl can always reinvent herself, can't she?
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Our Children Are Not Ours
It's the Christmas season: a time to bake cookies, watch crappy Hallmark, Lifetime, or ABC Family movies, and stress over Christmas lists, hoping upon hope that I haven't somehow forgotten someone or something. It's a season of joy, but a hectic, bustling season, a time when days fly by and to-do lists only get longer, students only get crazier, and pants only get tighter.
Since becoming a parent, Christmas has also been a time when I attempt to steer my family away from the inevitable commercialism and make the holiday about something other than Santa Claus and presents. We try to spend time together, to think carefully about what we can do for others, and to keep the focus on the birth of Christ.
During this season, my adult Sunday school class has been engaged in a study of what Christmas meant to Mary. A couple of weeks ago we spent some time discussing whether we thought Mary really thought of her newborn child as the Son of God, the savior of all mankind. We wondered if she understood what she was signing up for, that she would have to watch her child go through a living hell and eventually die in agony. When did she come to the realization that although she brought him into this world, she could not protect him or stop his suffering?
As the one former Catholic present, the group looked to me to answer their questions about the elevated role of Mary in the Catholic Church. I'm no scholar, so all I could think to say was, "Of all the humans in the Bible- other than Jesus, obviously- she was hand-picked for the most important job there was. She had to give birth to a child and raise him knowing that in the end he wasn't really hers." Or something like that- I'm probably improving my wording in hindsight.
As I said it, I realized how true this statement is for all parents. Our children are not ours. Unlike possessions, they cannot be stowed away for safe-keeping, though our greatest wish is to protect them from pain. The life of a mother is a life of fear completely unlike any fear experienced prior to becoming a parent. The fear of what others think of me, the fear of failure, the fear of all the possible things that might cause me physical harm- a vicious dog, a stranger on the street at night, a reckless driver- none of these compare to the fear that at some point my children may be the ones to experience pain or hurt at the hands of another.
From the moment my oldest daughter was born I sought to control her environment and make the best possible choices for her well-being. Breast-feeding as long as possible. Organic baby food. A consistent schedule. As she grew, I struggled (and still do) to enforce discipline so that she would learn healthy boundaries and have positive social interactions. I encourage creative play, limit screen time, moved her to a new pre-school that I thought would better suit her precocious nature. I'm attempting to follow suit with her sister, though let's be honest, the second one has it a little better than the first.
But when it comes down to it, as much as the thought terrifies me, there is only so much about my daughters' lives that I can control. Today happens to be the anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. The mothers of those twenty little boys and girls probably had done everything in their power to bring their children up to be healthy, polite, smart. Perhaps, at this time of year two years ago, these parents were even struggling with some of the same holiday-related issues that I am having: Why does inundating my children with presents have to be what makes Christmas "magical"? How can I get them to think of others? How can I make it special for them without losing sight of what Christmas is actually celebrating?
We can agonize over every choice we make that deals with our children. We can, and should, take precautions to teach them how to keep themselves healthy and safe. But our children are not ours. In Sandy Hook, these parents' beloved babies were senselessly ripped from them in an event that none of them could have foreseen or stopped. Even if we get to keep our children and watch them grow into adults, we are going to see them hurt. Despite our fear and watchfulness they will fall down stairs, burn their fingers on the stove, have choking scares with food that we could have sworn we cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Other kids will be mean to them. At some point they will feel that they aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough. They will get their hearts broken. They will move away from home and call us when their car breaks down or their purse gets stolen or they didn't get the job they really really wanted.
The lesson I need to learn from all of this is that while I make dozens of parenting decisions each day, the most important questions are these: Was I present for my children today? When I go to bed tonight, can I at least say "I did my best"? If an unthinkable tragedy were to befall our family tomorrow, could I find peace in the thought that my children knew I loved them, not from the foods I put in their lunch or what time I put them to bed, but from my words and actions?
Christmas is no doubt a time of miracles, when angels speak to the lowliest among us and the world's greatest king comes in the form of a baby boy. But for me there is also the miracle of time spent with my children, my greatest gifts, and that is a miracle that I will try to treasure fully, without letting fear or worry get in the way.
Since becoming a parent, Christmas has also been a time when I attempt to steer my family away from the inevitable commercialism and make the holiday about something other than Santa Claus and presents. We try to spend time together, to think carefully about what we can do for others, and to keep the focus on the birth of Christ.
During this season, my adult Sunday school class has been engaged in a study of what Christmas meant to Mary. A couple of weeks ago we spent some time discussing whether we thought Mary really thought of her newborn child as the Son of God, the savior of all mankind. We wondered if she understood what she was signing up for, that she would have to watch her child go through a living hell and eventually die in agony. When did she come to the realization that although she brought him into this world, she could not protect him or stop his suffering?
As the one former Catholic present, the group looked to me to answer their questions about the elevated role of Mary in the Catholic Church. I'm no scholar, so all I could think to say was, "Of all the humans in the Bible- other than Jesus, obviously- she was hand-picked for the most important job there was. She had to give birth to a child and raise him knowing that in the end he wasn't really hers." Or something like that- I'm probably improving my wording in hindsight.
As I said it, I realized how true this statement is for all parents. Our children are not ours. Unlike possessions, they cannot be stowed away for safe-keeping, though our greatest wish is to protect them from pain. The life of a mother is a life of fear completely unlike any fear experienced prior to becoming a parent. The fear of what others think of me, the fear of failure, the fear of all the possible things that might cause me physical harm- a vicious dog, a stranger on the street at night, a reckless driver- none of these compare to the fear that at some point my children may be the ones to experience pain or hurt at the hands of another.
From the moment my oldest daughter was born I sought to control her environment and make the best possible choices for her well-being. Breast-feeding as long as possible. Organic baby food. A consistent schedule. As she grew, I struggled (and still do) to enforce discipline so that she would learn healthy boundaries and have positive social interactions. I encourage creative play, limit screen time, moved her to a new pre-school that I thought would better suit her precocious nature. I'm attempting to follow suit with her sister, though let's be honest, the second one has it a little better than the first.
But when it comes down to it, as much as the thought terrifies me, there is only so much about my daughters' lives that I can control. Today happens to be the anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. The mothers of those twenty little boys and girls probably had done everything in their power to bring their children up to be healthy, polite, smart. Perhaps, at this time of year two years ago, these parents were even struggling with some of the same holiday-related issues that I am having: Why does inundating my children with presents have to be what makes Christmas "magical"? How can I get them to think of others? How can I make it special for them without losing sight of what Christmas is actually celebrating?
We can agonize over every choice we make that deals with our children. We can, and should, take precautions to teach them how to keep themselves healthy and safe. But our children are not ours. In Sandy Hook, these parents' beloved babies were senselessly ripped from them in an event that none of them could have foreseen or stopped. Even if we get to keep our children and watch them grow into adults, we are going to see them hurt. Despite our fear and watchfulness they will fall down stairs, burn their fingers on the stove, have choking scares with food that we could have sworn we cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Other kids will be mean to them. At some point they will feel that they aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough. They will get their hearts broken. They will move away from home and call us when their car breaks down or their purse gets stolen or they didn't get the job they really really wanted.
The lesson I need to learn from all of this is that while I make dozens of parenting decisions each day, the most important questions are these: Was I present for my children today? When I go to bed tonight, can I at least say "I did my best"? If an unthinkable tragedy were to befall our family tomorrow, could I find peace in the thought that my children knew I loved them, not from the foods I put in their lunch or what time I put them to bed, but from my words and actions?
Christmas is no doubt a time of miracles, when angels speak to the lowliest among us and the world's greatest king comes in the form of a baby boy. But for me there is also the miracle of time spent with my children, my greatest gifts, and that is a miracle that I will try to treasure fully, without letting fear or worry get in the way.
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| Photo Credit: http://www.newsweek.com/dont-forget-children-massacred-sandy-hook-290250 |
Monday, November 24, 2014
A Thank You Letter to My Children
To My Daughters:
In a few days it will be Thanksgiving. In school, daycare, and church you have been reading stories about turkeys, crafting cornucopias, and making lists of all the things you are grateful for. On the wall in one of your classrooms is a brainstorm chart that reads: my bed, my room, the food I eat, my mommy, my daddy, my teachers. You are told to think of all the people you love and things you are lucky to have. I'm doing the same thing.
What am I thankful for? Obviously I'm thankful for both of you, and the brother or sister that you'll get to meet in the spring. But it's not enough to stop there, because being your mom has made me more grateful than any other experience possibly could. It has amplified my appreciation of everything. Let me try to explain what I mean:
I was thankful the minute I knew about you. It was so hard to believe that I could have been granted such a gift that I often found myself anxious without knowing why, counting the days until the next doctor's appointment just to prove that you were still there. When I heard your little heartbeats I could breathe easier for a while. Sometimes when the worry set in I would prop my feet up and eat gummy worms, just to wake you up and feel you kicking.
I was thankful when you were born and you were just fine, much better than fine, the images of perfection. I was thankful to bundle you into your carseat for the very first time and introduce you ceremoniously into our home and family, making you officially ours.
I have been so thankful to watch you grow and learn, from first smiles and laughs to first steps, first words, even first tantrums. Every day, in some way, you bring joy into my life. You make me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times without knowing what you said that was so funny. You are amazing. You are awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. I am awed by your beauty and brilliance. I have been since day one, and I don't think I'll ever stop.
I am thankful for you because I get to watch my husband be your dad. I watch him pick you up and make you squeal. I listen to him read to you, sing to you, and try to coax you into your pajamas. I hear your delighted cries of "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" and I couldn't be more thankful that you get to grow up with a dad as proud and loving as he is.
I am thankful that you have each other. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the two of you playing together. I love to sneak up and spy on you as you hide behind the crib and "read" each other books, or chase the dog, or try to do somersaults.
I am so grateful that you will always have one another.
I am thankful for every single person involved in raising you, every person who loves you or has helped me when I needed help taking care of you. The list is long. I am thankful because I want to be with you all the time and when I can't be, I know that you are in good hands, and my mind is at ease.
I am thankful for all that you have taught me. As your mom, I have learned how to be patient, creative, efficient with my time. You have taught me that splashing in puddles during a rainstorm really is more fun than sitting inside by the TV. I have had to sort through and reexamine my beliefs and priorities as I've realized that everything I say or do, every decision I make, may impact who you both become. Consequently, I know more about myself now than I did before I was your mom.
I thank you for giving me the experience of motherhood, for helping me join a community of wise, brave, exhausted women with whom I can connect and empathize. Because admit it, darlings, you can be rough on your mama, and sometimes I just need someone to tell me that they get it and you will inevitably grow out of whatever stage is driving me bananas.
Honestly, I am an ooey-gooey, rain-boot-worthy puddle of gratitude. You made me that way, and even though a couple of hours ago you were both screaming your heads off for a reason that only you know (or perhaps you don't), I wouldn't want to be any other way.
In a few days it will be Thanksgiving. In school, daycare, and church you have been reading stories about turkeys, crafting cornucopias, and making lists of all the things you are grateful for. On the wall in one of your classrooms is a brainstorm chart that reads: my bed, my room, the food I eat, my mommy, my daddy, my teachers. You are told to think of all the people you love and things you are lucky to have. I'm doing the same thing.
What am I thankful for? Obviously I'm thankful for both of you, and the brother or sister that you'll get to meet in the spring. But it's not enough to stop there, because being your mom has made me more grateful than any other experience possibly could. It has amplified my appreciation of everything. Let me try to explain what I mean:
I was thankful the minute I knew about you. It was so hard to believe that I could have been granted such a gift that I often found myself anxious without knowing why, counting the days until the next doctor's appointment just to prove that you were still there. When I heard your little heartbeats I could breathe easier for a while. Sometimes when the worry set in I would prop my feet up and eat gummy worms, just to wake you up and feel you kicking.
I was thankful when you were born and you were just fine, much better than fine, the images of perfection. I was thankful to bundle you into your carseat for the very first time and introduce you ceremoniously into our home and family, making you officially ours.
I have been so thankful to watch you grow and learn, from first smiles and laughs to first steps, first words, even first tantrums. Every day, in some way, you bring joy into my life. You make me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times without knowing what you said that was so funny. You are amazing. You are awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. I am awed by your beauty and brilliance. I have been since day one, and I don't think I'll ever stop.
I am thankful for you because I get to watch my husband be your dad. I watch him pick you up and make you squeal. I listen to him read to you, sing to you, and try to coax you into your pajamas. I hear your delighted cries of "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" and I couldn't be more thankful that you get to grow up with a dad as proud and loving as he is.
I am thankful that you have each other. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the two of you playing together. I love to sneak up and spy on you as you hide behind the crib and "read" each other books, or chase the dog, or try to do somersaults.
I am so grateful that you will always have one another.
I am thankful for every single person involved in raising you, every person who loves you or has helped me when I needed help taking care of you. The list is long. I am thankful because I want to be with you all the time and when I can't be, I know that you are in good hands, and my mind is at ease.I am thankful for all that you have taught me. As your mom, I have learned how to be patient, creative, efficient with my time. You have taught me that splashing in puddles during a rainstorm really is more fun than sitting inside by the TV. I have had to sort through and reexamine my beliefs and priorities as I've realized that everything I say or do, every decision I make, may impact who you both become. Consequently, I know more about myself now than I did before I was your mom.
I thank you for giving me the experience of motherhood, for helping me join a community of wise, brave, exhausted women with whom I can connect and empathize. Because admit it, darlings, you can be rough on your mama, and sometimes I just need someone to tell me that they get it and you will inevitably grow out of whatever stage is driving me bananas.
Honestly, I am an ooey-gooey, rain-boot-worthy puddle of gratitude. You made me that way, and even though a couple of hours ago you were both screaming your heads off for a reason that only you know (or perhaps you don't), I wouldn't want to be any other way.
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