a letter to my littlest

 

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

 

 

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...

post op

Yesterday is over. I wouldn't label it easy but it was bearable. It was a means to an end. 

 

I was able to hold it together though it's quite likely only due to the mom whose baby was also getting tubes in the triage directly beside us and her radical stoicism pressuring me to do the same. I didn't want to embarrass Edie in front of another baby like that. Like she doesn't have enough to deal with already, being known as the girl with "the cry baby Mom" at playschool seemed a little unnecessary on my part to add to the pile.  

 

Joe told me that I surprised him. Truth be told, I surprised myself. I was expecting hysterics once they took her from me so it's reassuring to know that I'm more in control of the outward expression of my emotions than I believed. WHO KNEW?!

 

Have you ever witnessed a baby coming out of anesthesia? Trying to hold her through this ordeal looked a lot like me trying to not drop a terrified, flailing, possessed twenty-five pound tree sloth who also bites. We were assured that her behavior was normal but it was kind of alarming as fuck. 

 

Beyond that, the day was rather uneventful which, given the circumstances, I wasn't mad at. I napped, Edie napped, Mo and Joe napped. A lot of baths were taken. Edie seemed to be in better spirits than she had in weeks. The night did get a little lively around 1 a.m. when, apparently, Edie remembered the day' events and decided that she was positively pissed. Around 3:30, she finally got bored with her own voice and fell back asleep.

 

After walking back down the short hallway from her room to my own, after collapsing back into bed face first, and after feeling convinced that, contrary to Google's promise, one could die from exhaustion, I found myself so deeply overwhelmed with gratitude.

 

For a lot of things.

 

But mostly for her.

 

Even when she doesn't sleep and even when she screams at me in the middle of the night, I am so, so grateful for my Edie.