a letter to my littlest

 

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Edie being Edie at eighteen months, laying on the floor and pondering the meaning of life.

Dear my sweet, sweet Edie Cooper,

When I found out it was you growing in my belly, I knew.

I knew it was you, Edie Bun.

I knew it would be you who would soften us, reminding us to kind always. I know it'd be you who'd serve as the living and breathing reminder of what's important and at stake and, also, what isn't. I knew it'd be you who'd remind me to slow down, to take a deep breath, and to revel in the magic that is being loved by you and your sister.

Whereas your sister knocked me off my axis, obliterating any semblance of what I thought my life would be and how little I was prepared for what life was about to become, changing the course of my life for the better forever, it was you who brought me back around to myself. It was you who reminded me of all that is good and hopeful. I knew it would be you who would heal old wounds, giving me the grace to forgive myself for all that I wasn't able to be after your sister was born. Whereas your sister made me a mother, you taught me how to be the mama I was always capable of being.

Edie, though I couldn't quite explain why at the time, I knew that I needed you, I needed you like I need air to breathe. I need you to know that I could do this and I could do it well.

In spite of how frustrating the last nine or so months have been with the eight+ ear infections, the surgery for tubes, mysteriously knocking out a tooth, consistently surviving on such very little sleep (much better than your mother, I might add), and, now, having Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease, you're still you. Even just one of those circumstances should justify anyone for feeling like a ray of pitch black. But not you.

Not, you, my little ray of sunshine.

Edie, you are my inspiration, you are our magic, and you are my daily reminder of all that is good.

I love you to the moon and back, Edie Bun.

Thank you for being YOU.

xoxo,

mama

five things | from the week I learned all the things

1. It's 9 a.m. on Saturday morning. I'm sitting on my front stoop drinking coffee while Edie watches people run a half marathon. Watching people run is the same thing as actually running, right? No? Any who, watching people run a race never fails to make me cry. I'm that girl who always cries watching people do something they've trained for, no matter the event. (Turns out, I'm not made entirely of stone. Whoodathunk?!) Partly because my body hurts for them because running has always felt like such a miserable experience but mostly because I'm incredibly inspired by anyone who runs for fun.

2. You remember when your mom used to go to Tupperware parties when you were younger and you would sometimes tag along because you were absolutely NOT about to turn down a dinner of crust-less cucumber sandwiches, red neck sushi (a flour tortilla, ham, cream cheese, and lettuce cut like a sushi roll), and store-bought cupcakes? Well, replace the Tupperware with silicone, water-safe adult entertainment massage devices *wink wink* and the cucumber sandwiches with wine and you've got yourself the highlight of my week. Sitting around and discussing the Art of the Female Orgasm really makes one realize how far women have come in a society that still likes to pretend that women aren't (or shouldn't be) sexual beings. I will say that being asked to draw your ideal penis on a piece of paper on top of your head without looking was much more difficult that one would expect. Hence the facial expression I'm displaying in this photo with my oldest and dearest friend, Jenn.

3. I wrote yesterday about not always feeling like I'm living up to the mom I want to be. I got a response on Instagram from a sweet mama who told me that she identifies with the expressed sentiment because she "often feels lost between all the mushy-love-of-my-life-as-a-mom women." And I get it. Women are often sold this idea that becoming a mother will somehow create this unique and life-altering shift where we no longer identify as the individual we once were because identifying as someone's mother makes the person we once were unidentifiable. "I don't remember what life was like before I had Lucy..." "I can't imagine life without Most Perfect Child Ever..." Well, I call bullshit. I definitely remember my life before I became a mom and it was glorious. I imagine a life without children and all I can see is a more well-rested version of myself who isn't anxious and constantly covered in something I can't identify. I'm absolutely not saying that I actually want that life again but I can sure as shit imagine it. Entering motherhood doesn't guarantee that we'll experience that epiphany that so much of what we once thought matters doesn't actually matter. Having a human exit your body or however you get ushered into martyrdom doesn't mean that you are no longer entitled to still the person you once were or that you were any less complete before your little gremlin showed up. There is a lot that could be said on this topic and I want to discuss it in further detail at some point. The bottom line is that I find the whole projection of Motherhood is Everything unfair while also setting so many of us up for failure. So, can we just stop? Can we quit selling (and buying into) this idea that motherhood is the end-all, be-all for ALL women? And if you aren't a mother by choice or you are and aren't entirely fulfilled by it, that maybe, just maybe, it's... I don't know... okay? *end rant*

4. Stupid. That's what someone called me this week because we had a difference of political opinion. Don't most people learn how to respectfully agree to disagree in elementary school? I'm fairly certain that calling someone stupid because they don't see things in the exact light you do says a hell of a lot more about you as a human being than any opinion on any matter could ever say about the person you find stupid. It says you're very likely intolerant, close-minded, and judgemental as fuck. Calling someone stupid (or any other name) also leads me to believe that YOU are probably not very intelligent (and probably a giant brat) if you're a grown adult who still calls people names when you don't get your way. Interestingly enough, I've been called many things over the course of my life by many different people for a multitude of reasons. Some were true while others were obviously reaching with no basis of truth to fall back on whatsoever. And, yet, over the course of twenty-nine years of name-calling, stupid has never, EVER been one of them. I wonder if it's because I'm not?

5. I've been suffering from a bit of writer's block lately. It wasn't until this week when everyone started being assholes and everything in my life started acting like it was out to get me that I was able to realize exactly why I couldn't seem to form a sentence that was worth reading. The problem was that writing about being happy is much harder than writing about one's problems. As soon as shit started hitting the fan, all the words came faster than I could keep up. I find it ironic that I almost always tend to have the most to say (or the most to try to make sense of) when I have the least amount of spare time to figure out a way to say it. But whatever. I guess Hemingway was right. You should write hard and clear about what hurts, if only because it's easier to write about because being happy is boring. He could have, however, been a little more of a team player and advised aspiring writers to find another hobby when you don't have anything to bitch and moan about.

Happy Saturday, folky folks.

Let's make it count.

-C

the mom I want to be

So, here's the thing....

I very much want to be the mom who doesn't gets frustrated when her kid seems to always be sick. I aim to be the mom who doesn't lose her patience and begins crying at three a.m. because her baby is so uncomfortable and miserable that she can't stop moving and let herself fall asleep and there is nothing she can do to help her. I ache to be the mom who handles being tired well, never leading on to anyone she comes across that she's so fucking exhausted she can't see straight. I aspire to be the mom who doesn't resent her husband when he leaves to go out of town with their other daughter to go have fun in Chapel Hill while she stays back and holds down the fort and sleeps beside what looks like The Bubonic Plague. I should be the mom who is nothing less than honored to be the ONLY person her sick kid wants to hold her in the middle of the night. I yearn to be the mom who somehow always manages to make it better, no matter the circumstances, no matter the ailments, no matter the time of day (or night). I am desperate to be the mom who isn't anxious and worried about catching what her kid has and how that would affect her upcoming (already paid for) vacation in five days. I wish I was the mom who never felt sorry for herself because she knows that her life is still pretty fucking grand.

I am not that mom.

At least, I'm not that mom today.

But I am the mom who never turns down a hug or opportunity for her baby to nuzzle her neck, even when she fears she could catch the Bubonic Plague by doing so. I'm the mom who, when facing that feeling of helplessness, will always be helpful by soothing her baby's soul via her belly. I'm the mom who emotionally and mentally bears the weight of her baby being sick and would do anything in her power to take away the pain. I'm the mom who lays in the grass for over an hour as she watches her miserable baby touch every single blade of grass she desires because if being outside makes her happy, goddammit, this mom will stay out here forever. I'm the mom who knows her baby so intrinsically, down to every last detail, that she knows immediately, deep down in her bones, when something is off.

I'm the mom who gives herself some grace, apologizes for her exhaustion-induced grumpiness when she snaps, tries her best to be her best, and loves her family with every thing she has.

I'm the mom who has learned over the years that, more often than not, the mom we are is the only mom we need to be. The wishings and the wantings and those feelings of not quite measuring up to the ideal we have in our head of the mom we should be don't actually matter to the people who really matter. 

And, some days, the simple reminder that you and your best are enough is enough to make you feel like the mom you so badly want to be.

thoughts on being a mess

You know how when a bunch of little nothings all amount to what feels like big fucking somethings and the weight of all those nothings-turned-into-somethings finally breaks any ability you typically have to maintain any semblance of perspective?

Because that's me right now, shoulders actively bowing down under the weight of life occasionally being a real son of a bitch. 

While the finer details of all those said nothings aren't even worth their weight to get into here, they are still enough of something to mentally and emotionally wear on me because I'm human. When they're then compounded by Edie coming down with a case of hand, foot, and mouth disease, I am not only human but I become a human bound to lose her shit.

And I did.

As I sat at my desk on the phone with one of my best friends this morning, the levy broke and I unloaded, tears streaming down my face for no reason and for every reason. I typically pride myself on being able to keep life in perspective during the days that require more effort than others, always making a point to remind myself that it could be worse and, for many people, it is. Sometimes, though, a girl just needs a good ugly cry in her best friend's empathetic ear in order to pull herself together.

But, for fuck's sake, Life. Give a girl (and her littlest girl) a break, will you? 

I live under the assumption that things going wrong is simply par for the course of life. I also know that I can't always fix whatever is going wrong and that's okay with me. Usually, anyway. 

Motherhood is the one area of my life where not being able to fix whatever is wrong isn't and never will be an easy pill to swallow. Feeling helpless as a mother feels cruel, like pouring salt in an already open and incredibly vulnerable wound. Lately with Edie, it's only felt as if I've been sitting outside of that realm of control and, admittedly, I'm struggling with that. Not because I'm a control freak but, rather, because I can't find anything to grasp onto for balance when shit is hitting the proverbial fan. It's making me dizzy. And tired. Very, very tired.

All of this is, I guess, just to say that I'm human and sometimes need to talk about it. And that life is hard. It's even harder when your kid is sick (again) and people are assholes. 

Here's to trekking through the trenches of motherhood, the dear and empathetic ears willing to listen, and bless all of the wine consumed in the process...

five things

Happy Friyay, folks. Here are this weeks Five Things.

1. Last night, I spent about two hours uploading three thousand or so photos to my computer and iCloud (and backing-up three times to be safe) and came across a slew of photos from right after we brought Edie home. While browsing these photos documenting the last seventeen months or so, it was made clear to me that all of my worry about how to somehow not suck at raising two kids was possibly excessive. I told myself that it would all work out, of course, but I also had my doubts. I shouldn't have because they are happy and healthy and, most days, big fans of each other. All in all, we're doing pretty okay.

2. Do you watch Between Two Ferns? The most recent episode featuring Hillary Clinton is a riot. My favorite part? "They're a good cut of meat. Probably from the asshole." Ba dun dun! *DISCLOSURE: You do not need to be a Clinton or Trump supporter to appreciate this skit because there are digs for each side of the political spectrum. You just need a sense of humor.*

3. Mo had a major sleep regression when she was around eighteen months old that lasted for about two weeks and it nearly killed me. Of course, I couldn't really complain about a measly two weeks because she'd been sleeping twelve to thirteen hours through the night ever since she was eight weeks old. Which brings me to Edie. She's clearly our payback for having a child who sleeps. I'm starting to come to the conclusion that there's no real rhyme or reason why this kid doesn't sleep other than possibly being allergic to it? That or she hates us? Both seem logical to me. Is there such a thing as a sleep regression that lasts for eighteen months? We're DYING over here.

4. I walked into Mo's classroom to pick her up and without even saying HI, she exclaimed, "Wow, Mom, you look great." As she went about her business saying goodbye to her friends and teachers for the weekend, I just stood in the doorway, wondering if she was simply perfecting the fine art of sarcasm. (Read: I don't feel great and look like shit.)

5. Mo is supposed to be having quiet time while I get some work done but has refused and, instead, is sitting beside me and has not taken a single breath in about seventeen minutes while she describes every last detail of the American Girl doll (and her outfits!) that she wants for Christmas. CHRISTMAS!!!!!! She would also like me to know that she wants a vanity for her bedroom "to store her make-up and all her special fings" and wants to make sure I'm still letting her get her ears pierced because I said I would and "when you say you're going to do somefing, you have to follow through. No. matter. what." And here I think she doesn't listen to anything I say...