That little ticker on the side of my blog there → has me freaked out. That stork is getting pretty close to my imaginary cottage.
I did fill out a lot of stuff in my planner and get a few things checked off my list today (including finally making a chore chart), so I feel a little better, but generally, I'm pretty overwhelmed.
On the brightest of sides, Mr. Wolfman and I took another look at our budget and it turns out I can take a year off when the Hobgoblin gets here. So no more night shift insanity for me, at least not the kind you get paid for. I'm hoping I can take that year to make a really solid plan and then actually launch into (the beginnings of) a new career when I do go back to work. If daycare still isn't an option for us, I'll just have to find something I can do from home.
Showing posts with label SAHM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SAHM. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Survey Says...
It's a boy!
I don't know why I put that in blue, it's a bit gendery, but whatever, it looks nice.
I was absolutely sure I was having a girl - and absolutely shocked to feel actual disappointment when the doctor told us otherwise. I honestly and truly believe the only difference is what's between the legs, and since I already know how to change boy diapers, I've no idea why I was suddenly overcome with what I felt, which was grief.
It's not that I wanted this baby to be a girl. I was sure he was a girl. Like, deep down in my soul, sure. I think I'd built up this fictional daughter in my mind, I knew her name, I had dreams about her being born - I knew what her face looked like. So I think it was more that I was mourning a child who never existed. Part of it is knowing that number two is our last, so I know now that I'll never have a daughter. It's not that I think I'm going to miss out on mother-daughter bonding, or tea parties or dress up, either. None of that has anything to do with the sex of my baby.
The worst part was the doctor, suddenly going from saying they were really quite sure to maybe you'll be surprised in the delivery room - not because it was so fake, which it was, but because I could tell it was a reaction to my reaction - that I had utterly failed to hide my totally irrational feelings.
I cried pretty much all day. Mostly because I was so mad at myself for being anything other than over the moon with excitement. Because I know that my son is who he is and will be who we raise him to be, and that his genitals have nothing to do with any of it. Because Mr. Wolfman kept trying to comfort me by saying we could have a 3rd child, like this one is somehow insufficient.
Anyway, it only took me a day to get comfortable with it. One more day to get over my initial reaction completely, and now I can say I'm really excited about boy #2, our little Hobgoblin. Mr. Wolfman and I have been talking over names, and I feel like we're almost decided. We're leaving room for the possibility we'll see him and rethink our choice, but I'm pretty happy with our current selection, and I feel like it'll stick.
We don't stress sex and gender, so I don't think the monster has any idea what a brother is, vs. a sister. He's excited about the fact that the baby will have a bed, and he has his own bed, which has blankets and a pillow. Also, he knows that the play kitchen in fact belongs to both of them, but that he doesn't have to share with the baby until he can walk, which won't be for a long time. And, as the monster is fond of pointing out, he can already walk, and no one is stopping him from playing with the play kitchen.
Also, the monster knows that the baby is in my belly, that we went to the hospital in [town] and the lady pushed buttons and we saw the baby on the computer screen - but none of that is anywhere near as exciting as the fact that the lady pushed some other buttons and the bed came up. That was clearly the highlight of the trip for him.
I have a rant coming, about Dr. Ginger and the absolute clusterfuck that was my genetic screening blood work - and possibly one about yesterday, the horror show that wouldn't end, but I'll save those for another day. Right now, the monster has (yet again) ransacked the entire apartment and between that and trying to get stuff ready for Mr. Hobgoblin, I have a lot of cleaning to do.
I don't know why I put that in blue, it's a bit gendery, but whatever, it looks nice.
I was absolutely sure I was having a girl - and absolutely shocked to feel actual disappointment when the doctor told us otherwise. I honestly and truly believe the only difference is what's between the legs, and since I already know how to change boy diapers, I've no idea why I was suddenly overcome with what I felt, which was grief.
It's not that I wanted this baby to be a girl. I was sure he was a girl. Like, deep down in my soul, sure. I think I'd built up this fictional daughter in my mind, I knew her name, I had dreams about her being born - I knew what her face looked like. So I think it was more that I was mourning a child who never existed. Part of it is knowing that number two is our last, so I know now that I'll never have a daughter. It's not that I think I'm going to miss out on mother-daughter bonding, or tea parties or dress up, either. None of that has anything to do with the sex of my baby.
The worst part was the doctor, suddenly going from saying they were really quite sure to maybe you'll be surprised in the delivery room - not because it was so fake, which it was, but because I could tell it was a reaction to my reaction - that I had utterly failed to hide my totally irrational feelings.
I cried pretty much all day. Mostly because I was so mad at myself for being anything other than over the moon with excitement. Because I know that my son is who he is and will be who we raise him to be, and that his genitals have nothing to do with any of it. Because Mr. Wolfman kept trying to comfort me by saying we could have a 3rd child, like this one is somehow insufficient.
Anyway, it only took me a day to get comfortable with it. One more day to get over my initial reaction completely, and now I can say I'm really excited about boy #2, our little Hobgoblin. Mr. Wolfman and I have been talking over names, and I feel like we're almost decided. We're leaving room for the possibility we'll see him and rethink our choice, but I'm pretty happy with our current selection, and I feel like it'll stick.
We don't stress sex and gender, so I don't think the monster has any idea what a brother is, vs. a sister. He's excited about the fact that the baby will have a bed, and he has his own bed, which has blankets and a pillow. Also, he knows that the play kitchen in fact belongs to both of them, but that he doesn't have to share with the baby until he can walk, which won't be for a long time. And, as the monster is fond of pointing out, he can already walk, and no one is stopping him from playing with the play kitchen.
Also, the monster knows that the baby is in my belly, that we went to the hospital in [town] and the lady pushed buttons and we saw the baby on the computer screen - but none of that is anywhere near as exciting as the fact that the lady pushed some other buttons and the bed came up. That was clearly the highlight of the trip for him.
I have a rant coming, about Dr. Ginger and the absolute clusterfuck that was my genetic screening blood work - and possibly one about yesterday, the horror show that wouldn't end, but I'll save those for another day. Right now, the monster has (yet again) ransacked the entire apartment and between that and trying to get stuff ready for Mr. Hobgoblin, I have a lot of cleaning to do.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Extract Foot, Insert Humble Pie
This has been a long time coming.
I grew up with two parents who worked* and whether intentionally or not, they instilled in me a disdain for mothers who opted to stay at home. When I was younger, I would use derogatory terms for them, like Suzy Homemaker and swear I'd never be one. I needed more from my life.
When my sister had her first, and became a stay at home mom, I was shocked by how messy her house always was, how she could spend days playing video games instead of doing fun activities with her daughter, how sometimes dinner didn't get on the table until 8:00pm. Taking care of her house and child was all she had to do, after all.
Frankly, I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about - and neither does anyone else who's never been a stay at home parent.
It's hard to put into words the sheer emotional drain that's caused by being needed every second of every day, of waking up one morning and realizing that you're actually looking forward to taking a poo that afternoon, because it is the only time you'll get to yourself. Of knowing that, no matter how drained you are, how little sleep you've had in the past week (or, let's be realistic, year), no matter how much you just want to curl into a ball and do nothing for, like, ten seconds, you need to buck up, suck it up and bring your A Game, Princess. Of knowing that this is your life, now and forever, no backsies.
Not that I want to take it back. I love my son, and I'm so, so glad that I get to witness his milestones as they happen, and cherish those quiet moments that are completely insignificant to everyone outside of my family, rather than having them disappear into history unobserved. Right now, my monster is asleep in my lap, 99% calm, 1% sensing my agitation, but comfortable, content, and loved. My Dr. Pepper is getting flat and warm out of reach, and there's stuff I need to do around the house, but I'm the luckiest Mum alive, and I know it.
Today, Mr. Wolfman let me nap while he cleaned the kitchen. A gold star moment, one would think. I got up and told him thank you for the glorious nap. He told me he doesn't know what I'm doing all day, the baby was paying quietly and he managed to get the whole kitchen clean. He can't even understand where the mess on the counter came from**. It felt like I got punched in the gut. May as well tattoo inadequate on my forehead right now.
Yes, I'm mad at him. Yes, I've told him. But I can't work up the red hot ire that's become part of my day-to-day the past few months, for a couple of reasons. 1) I don't have the energy and 2) He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. Oh, the baby was good for you for a whole hour and you got the kitchen clean? La-dee-frickin'-da. Now try not having a full night's sleep in over a year, spending months not being able to walk properly, give up half-your caloric intake to someone else and while you're at it, scrape some teeth across your tender nipples like ten times a day, and then clean the fucking kitchen.
Pity partying and ranting aside, it got me to thinking about how judgmental and ridiculous I was before having the monster and how completely ignorant I was about stay at home parenting. So I'd like to take a moment to sincerely apologize to every stay-at-home parent who I secretly judged, thinking that they had it easy, thinking that I had it harder as a working singleton. Please forgive me; I knew not what I did.
Honestly, I feel like being a working parent would be easier in a lot of ways, but in no way can you quote me on that; I'm done with making assumptions and talking out my ass.
*My mom was and has always been a huge workaholic, my dad has always worked long shifts to make ends meet.
**Um, that would be from cooking pasta sauce from scratch at your request, only to have you order takeout, decide to eat it later, then not eat it later, as well as cooking a separate batch for the monster without salt or onions, only to have him throw it all over the floor the second it was placed in front of him, thankyouverymuch.
I grew up with two parents who worked* and whether intentionally or not, they instilled in me a disdain for mothers who opted to stay at home. When I was younger, I would use derogatory terms for them, like Suzy Homemaker and swear I'd never be one. I needed more from my life.
When my sister had her first, and became a stay at home mom, I was shocked by how messy her house always was, how she could spend days playing video games instead of doing fun activities with her daughter, how sometimes dinner didn't get on the table until 8:00pm. Taking care of her house and child was all she had to do, after all.
Frankly, I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about - and neither does anyone else who's never been a stay at home parent.
It's hard to put into words the sheer emotional drain that's caused by being needed every second of every day, of waking up one morning and realizing that you're actually looking forward to taking a poo that afternoon, because it is the only time you'll get to yourself. Of knowing that, no matter how drained you are, how little sleep you've had in the past week (or, let's be realistic, year), no matter how much you just want to curl into a ball and do nothing for, like, ten seconds, you need to buck up, suck it up and bring your A Game, Princess. Of knowing that this is your life, now and forever, no backsies.
Not that I want to take it back. I love my son, and I'm so, so glad that I get to witness his milestones as they happen, and cherish those quiet moments that are completely insignificant to everyone outside of my family, rather than having them disappear into history unobserved. Right now, my monster is asleep in my lap, 99% calm, 1% sensing my agitation, but comfortable, content, and loved. My Dr. Pepper is getting flat and warm out of reach, and there's stuff I need to do around the house, but I'm the luckiest Mum alive, and I know it.
Today, Mr. Wolfman let me nap while he cleaned the kitchen. A gold star moment, one would think. I got up and told him thank you for the glorious nap. He told me he doesn't know what I'm doing all day, the baby was paying quietly and he managed to get the whole kitchen clean. He can't even understand where the mess on the counter came from**. It felt like I got punched in the gut. May as well tattoo inadequate on my forehead right now.
Yes, I'm mad at him. Yes, I've told him. But I can't work up the red hot ire that's become part of my day-to-day the past few months, for a couple of reasons. 1) I don't have the energy and 2) He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. Oh, the baby was good for you for a whole hour and you got the kitchen clean? La-dee-frickin'-da. Now try not having a full night's sleep in over a year, spending months not being able to walk properly, give up half-your caloric intake to someone else and while you're at it, scrape some teeth across your tender nipples like ten times a day, and then clean the fucking kitchen.
Pity partying and ranting aside, it got me to thinking about how judgmental and ridiculous I was before having the monster and how completely ignorant I was about stay at home parenting. So I'd like to take a moment to sincerely apologize to every stay-at-home parent who I secretly judged, thinking that they had it easy, thinking that I had it harder as a working singleton. Please forgive me; I knew not what I did.
Honestly, I feel like being a working parent would be easier in a lot of ways, but in no way can you quote me on that; I'm done with making assumptions and talking out my ass.
*My mom was and has always been a huge workaholic, my dad has always worked long shifts to make ends meet.
**Um, that would be from cooking pasta sauce from scratch at your request, only to have you order takeout, decide to eat it later, then not eat it later, as well as cooking a separate batch for the monster without salt or onions, only to have him throw it all over the floor the second it was placed in front of him, thankyouverymuch.
Monday, July 13, 2015
That about sums it up
So, I saw this yesterday evening, when I really needed to see it. It gives me hope, but it also drives home that I need help. I can't get out of this on my own.
I don't believe I have chronic depression, but the way he describes the loud room, and all you can do is deal with how loud it is - that pretty much sums up how I've felt since getting back from the hospital. Actually, no. How I've felt since my parents' visit. I was tired as fuck, but I was coping pretty well before they came.*
There have definitely been moments of pure joy, but mostly I am just overwhelmed. The monster is truly amazing, but I get hung up on his neediness and it's all I can do to just get through the day.
I don't know if I need medication, but I definitely need to go back to therapy. I haven't been back since my last post - everything is just getting on top of me. I was going to call today, and instead ended up scrubbing diarrhea out of my carpet. So there's that. Now I have to clean the kitchen and cook dinner and throw myself off the balcony.
OK, not that last part, but damn. I need something.
Mr. Wolfman only has 1 more 16 hour day, then tomorrow is an 8 hour, then one day off. But he's already said he's spending tomorrow afternoon sleeping, so I guess I don't get a break?
This was supposed to be a relatively upbeat post because of how much that video helped me last night, but now I'm just pissed off at the situation I'm in. Mostly because I feel like I should just be able to snap out of it, but partially because I feel like I shouldn't have to. I mean, if I had two jobs, but only needed one and Mr. Wolfman was telling me daily that he was struggling, not coping, drowning, needed help - I'd fucking quit one of my jobs. Or at the very least, call in sick for one day and try to work through it - or something. I sure as shit wouldn't be signing up to take on extra hours in the fall.
I get that he just wants to provide for the family, and I get that with me not working, that must be a lot of stress on him. But fuck. I don't know how to get him to understand that I'm just not handling it well. I'm not cut out to be a stay at home mum generally and/or I have postpartum depression. And, even though I know this likely isn't the case, I feel like a bath (alone, and without a crying baby on the other side of the door) and 8 hours of sleep could easily solve everything.
That's a pipe dream, of course. It isn't going to happen.
Right. Cooking and cleaning. Time for myself is just a silly idea, and I should put it out of my head.
*Not saying my parents gave me PPD, but their visit was ill-timed and certainly didn't help matters. And I do think that all their baby-hogging and all of my Dad's weird, passive aggressive comments and shit did a number on my brain.
I don't believe I have chronic depression, but the way he describes the loud room, and all you can do is deal with how loud it is - that pretty much sums up how I've felt since getting back from the hospital. Actually, no. How I've felt since my parents' visit. I was tired as fuck, but I was coping pretty well before they came.*
There have definitely been moments of pure joy, but mostly I am just overwhelmed. The monster is truly amazing, but I get hung up on his neediness and it's all I can do to just get through the day.
I don't know if I need medication, but I definitely need to go back to therapy. I haven't been back since my last post - everything is just getting on top of me. I was going to call today, and instead ended up scrubbing diarrhea out of my carpet. So there's that. Now I have to clean the kitchen and cook dinner and throw myself off the balcony.
OK, not that last part, but damn. I need something.
Mr. Wolfman only has 1 more 16 hour day, then tomorrow is an 8 hour, then one day off. But he's already said he's spending tomorrow afternoon sleeping, so I guess I don't get a break?
This was supposed to be a relatively upbeat post because of how much that video helped me last night, but now I'm just pissed off at the situation I'm in. Mostly because I feel like I should just be able to snap out of it, but partially because I feel like I shouldn't have to. I mean, if I had two jobs, but only needed one and Mr. Wolfman was telling me daily that he was struggling, not coping, drowning, needed help - I'd fucking quit one of my jobs. Or at the very least, call in sick for one day and try to work through it - or something. I sure as shit wouldn't be signing up to take on extra hours in the fall.
I get that he just wants to provide for the family, and I get that with me not working, that must be a lot of stress on him. But fuck. I don't know how to get him to understand that I'm just not handling it well. I'm not cut out to be a stay at home mum generally and/or I have postpartum depression. And, even though I know this likely isn't the case, I feel like a bath (alone, and without a crying baby on the other side of the door) and 8 hours of sleep could easily solve everything.
That's a pipe dream, of course. It isn't going to happen.
Right. Cooking and cleaning. Time for myself is just a silly idea, and I should put it out of my head.
*Not saying my parents gave me PPD, but their visit was ill-timed and certainly didn't help matters. And I do think that all their baby-hogging and all of my Dad's weird, passive aggressive comments and shit did a number on my brain.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Aaaand Fail.
Some history: About a week ago, the day after a massive emotional breakdown, I was very happy to meet a neighbour with a little one a couple of months older than the little monster. She's also a SAHM, and is also isolated and suffering from perma-cabin fever. So we basically decided to be friends, instead of becoming friends. We exchanged numbers and agreed to go for walks together when the weather is nice.
Yesterday, I had arranged with my sister to meet at the park. She said she'd be there in about an hour, which, as she showed up a full hour late to our last get-together, I didn't worry about. I remembered some chores I had to do at the last minute, so I didn't beat her to the park. I left the house the same time that she texted to say she was on her way.
After pushing the stroller through slush, I arrived at the park about 25 mins later, in time to see her text me again. I didn't look at the text, just went over to her. My brother in law already had the truck running and one kid inside, she went to talk to him and then said we could walk to the grocery store. So I got to follow my sister around while she bought cereal and chocolate milk. What a treat! Her husband came to get her, and I pushed the little monster home.
On the way home, my new friend texted to see if I wanted to come by, but we ended up arranging to meet today, after 1. At 2:30, she texted to see when, and I said I was ready. Her baby was sleeping. Then she woke up, but needed to eat. Then she finished eating, and we were going to meet outside. It took me about 15 mins to get the little monster ready, got out there, no sign of my friend. A few minutes later, she sends "we're coming". After another 15 minutes go by before she actually exits the building (I can see it from mine). By this time, it's ten to 5, the sun is mostly down and there are storm clouds rolling in. So we (and another mum who friend invited) tromp through the snow and slush to go to a playground that our kids are too young for, stay for a bit and come home. Complete waste of time.
I'm so pissed at myself. The little monster was in such a good mood at 2:30. It was sunny and really warm, and I could have just taken him out. I didn't because I was waiting around. And by the time we finally left, I had no interest in going. I just wanted to go back inside. But I convinced myself that having a happy mummy will be better for the monster in the long run, and I thought if I could make a friend, I'd be happier. But really, I feel like shit. I feel like shit because I let two people in two days walk all over me, and didn't say anything. Because I'm so fucking desperate, that I'll put up with anything. Like high school, but worse.
I'm not ok. I'm not, and it's scary. I don't feel like I can talk to anyone about it, except for Mr. Wolfman, who, because he's wonderful, tries everything to make me feel better, including unintentionally gaslighting me by trying to convince me that my only issue is sleep deprivation. Which it isn't.
I ended this here, because Mr. Wolfman came home. I'm posting it now, because I have a happier blog to write.
Yesterday, I had arranged with my sister to meet at the park. She said she'd be there in about an hour, which, as she showed up a full hour late to our last get-together, I didn't worry about. I remembered some chores I had to do at the last minute, so I didn't beat her to the park. I left the house the same time that she texted to say she was on her way.
After pushing the stroller through slush, I arrived at the park about 25 mins later, in time to see her text me again. I didn't look at the text, just went over to her. My brother in law already had the truck running and one kid inside, she went to talk to him and then said we could walk to the grocery store. So I got to follow my sister around while she bought cereal and chocolate milk. What a treat! Her husband came to get her, and I pushed the little monster home.
On the way home, my new friend texted to see if I wanted to come by, but we ended up arranging to meet today, after 1. At 2:30, she texted to see when, and I said I was ready. Her baby was sleeping. Then she woke up, but needed to eat. Then she finished eating, and we were going to meet outside. It took me about 15 mins to get the little monster ready, got out there, no sign of my friend. A few minutes later, she sends "we're coming". After another 15 minutes go by before she actually exits the building (I can see it from mine). By this time, it's ten to 5, the sun is mostly down and there are storm clouds rolling in. So we (and another mum who friend invited) tromp through the snow and slush to go to a playground that our kids are too young for, stay for a bit and come home. Complete waste of time.
I'm so pissed at myself. The little monster was in such a good mood at 2:30. It was sunny and really warm, and I could have just taken him out. I didn't because I was waiting around. And by the time we finally left, I had no interest in going. I just wanted to go back inside. But I convinced myself that having a happy mummy will be better for the monster in the long run, and I thought if I could make a friend, I'd be happier. But really, I feel like shit. I feel like shit because I let two people in two days walk all over me, and didn't say anything. Because I'm so fucking desperate, that I'll put up with anything. Like high school, but worse.
I'm not ok. I'm not, and it's scary. I don't feel like I can talk to anyone about it, except for Mr. Wolfman, who, because he's wonderful, tries everything to make me feel better, including unintentionally gaslighting me by trying to convince me that my only issue is sleep deprivation. Which it isn't.
I ended this here, because Mr. Wolfman came home. I'm posting it now, because I have a happier blog to write.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Staying at Home
I get the distinct feeling that I'm not cut out to be a Stay at Home Mum.
I love my little monster. I love him so much that sometimes I cry about it, just break down sobbing at how wonderful he is. But I don't think I was built to be a stay at home parent.
I always knew I wasn't maternal. Even as a child, I knew it. Which is why until I was about 25, I was dead-set against having kids.
When I met Mr. Wolfman, kids weren't something we discussed and not long after we moved in together, I found out that he thought he was too old. I was fine with this. Then, a year or so later, I was looking at him, and I thought, I really want this man's babies. So I asked him if he didn't want kids, or just thought he'd missed his chance. Turns out, he did want them, and so did I.
But that doesn't mean that my personality just changed and I suddenly became a big ball of maternal sunshine. It didn't and I'm not. And while I love my son, literally more than life, I still don't particularly care for babies in general. And I don't feel like being home with him 24/7 is my calling, per se.
It's hard to put into words. It's not that I think there is anything wrong with being a SAHM. In fact, I think it's incredibly noble and something that is far, far more difficult than people (including me, before I was one) realize or give credit for. So when I say I want to do more with my life, I'm not saying that dedicating your life to your children isn't doing something.
The truth is, I do want to do more with my life. I want to be more. I don't want to be defined as the little monster's mummy, or Mr. Wolfman's wife. They're roles I love, but I don't feel like they should make up the whole of who I am. The truth is, that in 20 years or less, the little monster will move out and move on. If we do a good job raising him, and maintain a good relationship, we'll still see or talk to him frequently, but he's not going to need us day-to-day. The truth is, that long before I came along, Mr. Wolfman had defined himself as a strong, educated, confident man. He has a lot going for him, and if you took away me and the monster, there would be no question about who he is.
Me, I feel like I just sort of squeeze myself into whatever role suits the moment. I spent my young adulthood putting off my own development. I was raised to get by, so I've been getting by for my whole adult life, working jobs I hate, filing away lists of things I want to do, or learn, or be, when I have the money or when I have the time. Now that I'm a mum, it's becoming painfully obvious that I will never have the money or the time, unless I steal it or make it.
In theory, this should be inspiring. I can make the time. I can save some money to pursue what I want to pursue. But, fuck. I'm tired. I'm so tired that the thought of thinking about the necessary steps to get a part time job is exhausting. The act of considering starting a little at home business puts me to sleep.
And anyway, all of this should be done after the housework, which is never, ever, ever done. Because the contemplation of doing dishes puts me into a zoned-out coma. The very idea of laundry makes me want to weep. I feel like it's a struggle just to keep my head above water, which is shameful, when I have a wonderful husband who goes above and beyond, and literally all I have to do is look after the monster and at least attempt to keep the place tidy.
Time for a diaper change. And then a feed. And then, and then. One of these days, I'll do something productive.... one of these days.
I love my little monster. I love him so much that sometimes I cry about it, just break down sobbing at how wonderful he is. But I don't think I was built to be a stay at home parent.
I always knew I wasn't maternal. Even as a child, I knew it. Which is why until I was about 25, I was dead-set against having kids.
When I met Mr. Wolfman, kids weren't something we discussed and not long after we moved in together, I found out that he thought he was too old. I was fine with this. Then, a year or so later, I was looking at him, and I thought, I really want this man's babies. So I asked him if he didn't want kids, or just thought he'd missed his chance. Turns out, he did want them, and so did I.
But that doesn't mean that my personality just changed and I suddenly became a big ball of maternal sunshine. It didn't and I'm not. And while I love my son, literally more than life, I still don't particularly care for babies in general. And I don't feel like being home with him 24/7 is my calling, per se.
It's hard to put into words. It's not that I think there is anything wrong with being a SAHM. In fact, I think it's incredibly noble and something that is far, far more difficult than people (including me, before I was one) realize or give credit for. So when I say I want to do more with my life, I'm not saying that dedicating your life to your children isn't doing something.
The truth is, I do want to do more with my life. I want to be more. I don't want to be defined as the little monster's mummy, or Mr. Wolfman's wife. They're roles I love, but I don't feel like they should make up the whole of who I am. The truth is, that in 20 years or less, the little monster will move out and move on. If we do a good job raising him, and maintain a good relationship, we'll still see or talk to him frequently, but he's not going to need us day-to-day. The truth is, that long before I came along, Mr. Wolfman had defined himself as a strong, educated, confident man. He has a lot going for him, and if you took away me and the monster, there would be no question about who he is.
Me, I feel like I just sort of squeeze myself into whatever role suits the moment. I spent my young adulthood putting off my own development. I was raised to get by, so I've been getting by for my whole adult life, working jobs I hate, filing away lists of things I want to do, or learn, or be, when I have the money or when I have the time. Now that I'm a mum, it's becoming painfully obvious that I will never have the money or the time, unless I steal it or make it.
In theory, this should be inspiring. I can make the time. I can save some money to pursue what I want to pursue. But, fuck. I'm tired. I'm so tired that the thought of thinking about the necessary steps to get a part time job is exhausting. The act of considering starting a little at home business puts me to sleep.
And anyway, all of this should be done after the housework, which is never, ever, ever done. Because the contemplation of doing dishes puts me into a zoned-out coma. The very idea of laundry makes me want to weep. I feel like it's a struggle just to keep my head above water, which is shameful, when I have a wonderful husband who goes above and beyond, and literally all I have to do is look after the monster and at least attempt to keep the place tidy.
Time for a diaper change. And then a feed. And then, and then. One of these days, I'll do something productive.... one of these days.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
A Long, Long Overdue Post
I'm bad at this, apparently. But the Little Monster takes up so much time (I know, surprise, surprise, right?). This post will be a little hectic, but the following ones should be better. I just need to remember to write, then find the time.
Upcoming posts will have to do with:
This post, just to keep it relatively short, will be an update on everything that's happened in the last 4 months, and where we find ourselves.
The Little Monster is 4 months old. He's huge, or at least he seems huge. His hands are massive, but they always have been, compared to the rest of him. He can push himself up on his belly, and roll front-to-back and back-to-front and although he used to hate it with the firey passion of a thousand suns, he now tolerates tummy time. He can't quite sit up on his own, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Crawling is much the same.
He talks constantly. Just chatters away, sometimes to us, sometimes to his toys or his feet. The cutest thing he's done recently was smile and start saying "Boo boo booo" with a mouth full of boob.
He smiles and laughs a lot and every time he does, I feel like I could just die of happiness. It's the most wonderful thing in the world, and it's nearly impossible not to do silly and ridiculous things 24/7 just to try to get a smile.
He has a favourite book. I didn't think it was possible for babies this young to have favourite anythings, but he has a favourite book and a favourite toy and a few songs which he clearly prefers over others. Neither Mr. Wolfman or I are particularly musically inclined, and the Monster finds it hilarious when we sing to him. Except at night, when I sometimes sing him to sleep. Sad music makes him sad, the same way as it always did for me as a child (until I was maybe 11 or 12).
Where I am: I'm not getting any sleep. Last night, I was up with the monster every 45mins-1.5hrs and had nightmares in between. My wonderful Mr. took the monster for 2 hours(!) this morning and let me sleep. It was absolute bliss, but nowhere near enough to catch up on 4 months of next-to-no sleep.
Also, I've confirmed what I've long suspected: I'm a terrible housewife. I am not cut out to be a stay-at-home mum. My husband suggested we switch in a few months, and if I can find a job that will pay enough, I'm all for it. Mr. Wolfman has so much on his shoulders right now, and I don't feel like I'm pulling my weight, but at the same time, I'm permanently exhausted and starting to go nuts with cabin fever.
Well, the little monster is waking up. He's been napping behind me on the couch, but, of course sleeping when he sleeps doesn't work if he can roll off and hurt himself.
More posts to come :)
Upcoming posts will have to do with:
- Cloth diapering
- Vaccinations
- Circumcision
- Sleep (or the extreme lack thereof)
- Staying at Home
- Toys
- Some other Stuff
This post, just to keep it relatively short, will be an update on everything that's happened in the last 4 months, and where we find ourselves.
The Little Monster is 4 months old. He's huge, or at least he seems huge. His hands are massive, but they always have been, compared to the rest of him. He can push himself up on his belly, and roll front-to-back and back-to-front and although he used to hate it with the firey passion of a thousand suns, he now tolerates tummy time. He can't quite sit up on his own, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Crawling is much the same.
He talks constantly. Just chatters away, sometimes to us, sometimes to his toys or his feet. The cutest thing he's done recently was smile and start saying "Boo boo booo" with a mouth full of boob.
He smiles and laughs a lot and every time he does, I feel like I could just die of happiness. It's the most wonderful thing in the world, and it's nearly impossible not to do silly and ridiculous things 24/7 just to try to get a smile.
He has a favourite book. I didn't think it was possible for babies this young to have favourite anythings, but he has a favourite book and a favourite toy and a few songs which he clearly prefers over others. Neither Mr. Wolfman or I are particularly musically inclined, and the Monster finds it hilarious when we sing to him. Except at night, when I sometimes sing him to sleep. Sad music makes him sad, the same way as it always did for me as a child (until I was maybe 11 or 12).
Where I am: I'm not getting any sleep. Last night, I was up with the monster every 45mins-1.5hrs and had nightmares in between. My wonderful Mr. took the monster for 2 hours(!) this morning and let me sleep. It was absolute bliss, but nowhere near enough to catch up on 4 months of next-to-no sleep.
Also, I've confirmed what I've long suspected: I'm a terrible housewife. I am not cut out to be a stay-at-home mum. My husband suggested we switch in a few months, and if I can find a job that will pay enough, I'm all for it. Mr. Wolfman has so much on his shoulders right now, and I don't feel like I'm pulling my weight, but at the same time, I'm permanently exhausted and starting to go nuts with cabin fever.
Well, the little monster is waking up. He's been napping behind me on the couch, but, of course sleeping when he sleeps doesn't work if he can roll off and hurt himself.
More posts to come :)
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