Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Dark

This has been a dark week.  Mike went to Orlando for work.  He left last Friday and he returns tomorrow.  It will have been 7 days and 6 nights that I took care of the girls all by myself.  I think I did a lot better than I thought I would be able.  I made them reasonably healthy meals, we got to school and work on time each day, and I handled them at home... getting dressed, brushing teeth, making meals, wiping asses, giving baths, reading bedtime stories... it's a full-time job from which there is no break.  And I guess that's what has worn me down.  I can take care of them.  Of course I can.  And I love them.  And they were sweet, most of the time, and we've really had some special bonding time, I think.  We slept together every night (not by my choice, but I am powerless to stop it once I'm half asleep, and, hey, I like a warm body next to me, too!)

But by Monday evening, I was Very Emotional.  And it has come and gone since then, each time coming back more suddenly and lasting longer.  I am emotionally exhausted, and nearly anything could make me cry instantaneously.  Commercials.  Country songs.  Blog posts that make my heart ache.  A photo of Mike and me on our honeymoon.

All of this makes me have very confusing feelings about Mike.  I miss him; I resent him.  I feel weak (i.e. "How does anyone DO this alone?"); I feel empowered (i.e. "See?!  I can DO this.  I am strong.  I don't NEED him.")  I want him to come home quickly so we can have some family time and get back into a routine; I want him to come home quickly so I can escape.  I think about single parenting.  It sounds so hard; it seems like a fantastic arrangement.  I am envious of mothers who have their kids all week, and then send the kids to the other parent, and are adults for the weekend.  They get to be real adults.  With lives.  For two whole days, every week, or every other week.  And it is disturbing that this appeals to me.  How empty must I be?  How drained and lifeless must I be, to feel like I need a separation in order to have an identity?

I know this is a problem.  I know that I have made serious mistakes to have gotten to this point.  I gave up my identity a long time ago.  I quit trying, when I should have been fighting to keep some part of myself alive.  And now it feels like Too Much.

But I know I can overcome this.  I know that these feelings come and go, and I'd rather have the feelings, experience them, admit them, and move on.  No, not just move on, but do better.  To work towards fixing the problem.

I think my fears, sadness, and indifference are being fed by the uncertainty that exists between Mike and me right now.  I am so afraid that he is not taking this, not taking me, seriously, or that he is waiting for this to blow over.  I want to address our problems, all of them, and I want to fix them.  I struggle with accepting that this won't happen overnight.  I know that.  And so I know that I have to be patient.  But I also have to keep driving forward, for myself.   I am satisfied with progress.  I don't demand instant gratification, and I am not seeking immediate solutions.  I'm not delusional.  But fixing problems takes work.  Hard work.  Daily work.  A little at a time.  It's like exercising, maybe.  If you want to make a life-long change, you have to force yourself to do it.  I think the work needs to be scheduled at first.  Planned for.  I think we have to force ourselves to do it every day until it is routine.  We are not good at talking through things.  We need practice.  A lot of practice.

I read about relationships, and what marriages should be like, or what they can be like.  I read stuff by professionals, and I read everyday people stuff--blogs.  And I cry when I read something especially poignant, when an everyday person speaks of her gratitude for her spouse.  And I'm not talking about gratitude for washing dishes or folding laundry.  I'm talking about emotional gratitude.  I'm talking about a feeling of strength you can get from another person, a feeling that you are unconditionally loved and a feeling that someone else would put your needs and desires above their own.  I don't feel that.  And I don't mean to suggest that I am a victim here.  I very much doubt that Mike gets that feeling from our marriage either.  But where we disagree, I guess, is what to do about it.  Or whether to do anything about it at all.  I feel that pursuing a meaningful marriage is essential to my well-being.  I feel that he'd just rather not pick at that wound, and he doesn't want or need anything else from our relationship.

So.

Also, last night, adding to my dark week, Anna had a little breakdown while trying to go to bed.  She had been up for a while, complaining that she couldn't sleep, and she was quite tired but fighting it, and so she got emotional.  I went up to her room for the final time to tell her I was sorry her belly was hurting, and to ask if it would help if I lay down with her, and so I cuddled her and put on some music.  She told me she had switched the CD (thank goodness, too, because we'd been listening to the same Norah Jones album for months!), and I noticed she put in our old copy of Lullabies: String Quartet.  I haven't listened to that in ages, and it brought back such vivid, pleasant memories.  I told her that we used to listen to that CD a lot when she was first born, how I'd wake up throughout the night to feed her, and we'd lay in bed nursing listening to soft music, or sometimes go downstairs to the couch and watch some television together--well, how I'd watch, and she'd sleep in my arms. It was some deep stuff, a really tender moment.  And then we fell silent, and I held her and listened to her breathe, waiting for that gentle, rhythmic movement of her body, that complete relaxation.  And instead, I heard some sniffling.  And then a whimper.  And I asked, "Anna!  What's wrong, honey?!"  And she sobbed.  And I asked, "What?!  What is it, honey?  Why are you crying?!"  And she blubbered, through gasps of air, "I just had such a terrible thought.  I thought," *gasp,* "I thought about when you will die!  I don't want you to die, Mommy!"  And a flood of emotion went through me--sadness, amusement, love, pity.  "Oh, honey, you know what?  Do you know what I think?  I think that when I die, I will be really, really, really old, like even older than Bubba.  I bet you will be old yourself when I die.  You will probably be a grandma!"  We talked about this a little bit, and I tried to explain to her that while it's hard to understand, when she gets older and has babies of her own, that she will love them so much that it won't seem quite as scary.  And that everybody has to die sometime, and it's usually when you're very old, and by the time I die, she'll probably have her own children and grandchildren to love her and take care of her, and that's the way families work.  The oldest people die, and more babies are born, and there are always people to love each other.  Somehow, this made her cry even harder, more pathetically, and she wailed, "But I want my babies to look like you!!!"  I told her that her babies probably will look like me, because she looks so much like me, and her babies will look like her.  And she said, "No!  I want them to look exactly like you!" and her eyes darted up and down my body, squinting to see through the darkness.  "I want them to have your hair," *gasp,* "and your glasses," *gasp,* "and to wear the same clothes every day..."  And I couldn't help myself--I burst out laughing, apologized, and squeezed her tight, whispering comforting words.  It's true, though.  I wear the same thing every day.  Nearly.  I have my mommy uniforms.  I have an orange t-shirt, a green t-shirt, and a blue tank top.  And those are the things I wear in the mornings and evenings, while I'm taking care of her.  While I bathe her, read to her, rock her.

I continued to hold her, and she eventually calmed and drifted to sleep.  I lay there thinking about the magnitude of my role--of all our roles, really--as parents.  It never occurred to me that the clothes I wear could matter to her, but I think they do.  I can remember some things my mother always wore when I was a child.  Some of her nightgowns, and those famous (awful) robes that she'd lounge in all day, drinking coffee, gabbing on the phone.  That was home to me.  I can remember rubbing my cheeks on her legs when she wore something soft.  I can remember, so clearly it's frightening, lying in my grandmother's lap, twirling her Italian horn pendant (closest likeness I can find).  Having that necklace, though I would never wear it, would mean the world to me.  That necklace is my grandmother. I wonder if Anna feels that way about some of my things.  Or if she will when she's older.  She must have memorized by now the feeling of lying in my lap, head on my chest, stroking my t-shirt or rubbing my necklace.  I know that I have memorized the feeling of my children lying on me, the gentle curves of their bodies, their bony backs and hips, where each of their hair parts, which direction the hair lies, and which little section of hair on each has a mind of its own.  Will I forget those feelings?  I suppose I will, mostly, because who could imagine that after thousands of hours nursing my children that I could forget what it feels like?  But I do.

Ah, I wish I had a point here.  (Do you see how emotional I am?!  Lord.  I mean, really.)  But, yeah.  Heavy stuff.  Dark.

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