Summer Me-Time: Selfish or Stupendous?

Last Friday was the final day of the school year. This Monday was the first weekday of summer break. I don’t have to step foot on my school’s campus for eight glorious weeks.

And yet, I dropped my daughter off at daycare on Monday and Tuesday and I’ll do so again today. Just like I’ll drop her off tomorrow and Friday and almost every day for the rest of the summer.

You see, I have to pay for my daughter’s spot all summer to secure her admittance for the fall. Our preschool is a working parents’ preschool, open 8am to 6pm, 50 weeks out of the year. It makes perfect sense that you need to keep your child in all year, or else someone else will swoop in and take your spot.

I have to pay for my daughter to be there, and so I plan on taking her. Sure I dropped her down to three days a week (the lowest attendance package they offer) for the month of July, and I would have done that all summer except a month is all they’ll give me. And sure I’ll pull her out a few days here and there, to go to on special outings that will be more fun on a weekday than a crowded weekend. But most days my daughter will be at day care, even though she doesn’t have to be.

And I don’t feel bad about that.

But I do feel kind of bad about not feeling bad. I do wonder if I’m a horrible mother for not just paying for my daughter’s spot but keeping her at home. Isn’t that what someone who really loves this mothering thing would do? Isn’t that what someone who really loves their child would WANT to do?

I honestly don’t know the answer to those questions, but I assume everyone else does. And I assume they’re judging me for the choice I’m making.

The thing is, I’m paying for my daughter to be at day care. The idea of paying for something I’m not even using really bothers me. Especially when that thing is an opportunity for my daughter to improve her ever-growing Spanish language skills. Sure I can speak to her in Spanish, but not like three native speaking teachers can. Plus she gets to be with all her friends, playing and painting and sculpting with playdough and clay. It also provides a regularity I know she craves.

And yet, I wonder if all of those reasons for why she should be there are just excuses that I use to make myself feel better. Because the reality is, if I have to pay for it, I’d rather drop her off every day and have the 5-7 hours to myself. I actually really enjoy having that time. I’m getting good stuff done. And it’s nice to be away from my little girl for a bit, because frankly, she drives me kind of crazy. The thought of being home with her all day, every day for eight weeks is kind of terrifying.

Of course I’m dropping her off WAY later than I normally do and I’m picking her up earlier too. She’s not there for the full-time working parent day like she is when I’m teaching. And twice a week I use that freedom to tutor, making important extra spending money for our family. But the rest of the time? The rest of the time I’m just running errands or doing dishes or finishing laundry or exercising or working in the yard. I’m doing things that I usually don’t have time to do, and I’m reveling in the opportunity to do them without anything else getting in my way.

I’ve never had a summer with my child in daycare before. Her first summer she was a newborn and I was home on maternity leave. Her next two summers I was with her every day. And honestly, if I could have saved the $2000+ I would have pulled her for the summer this year too, but I couldn’t. And since I can’t save the money, it seems foolish to waste it.

So I’m not. And I’m getting some much needed me time. And I’m trying really hard not to feel guilty about it, but it’s hard, because feeling guilty is what mother’s do best.

If you had to pay for your child’s daycare spot while you weren’t working, would you send them to school or would you keep him or her home? Would guilt be involved either way?

Thank you for your words (UPDATED)

I don’t know about all of you out there in the ether, but when I set a blog to publish in the night, while I’m sleeping, I wake up eager to see if anyone has responded. Feeling the connection through people’s comments is one of the main reasons I keep writing this blog. That connection, that community, is my life line.

So last Friday, when I put up that post, I was sad that no commented. I kept refreshing my inbox, waiting for an email from WordPress but none came.

I assumed it was because I posted on a Friday, because the post was about pregnancy, because of my warning not to read if baby loss was a trigger. I mean, who in this community doesn’t consider baby loss a trigger? Surely that is why no one reached out, because they hadn’t read it in the first place.

Still, I had poured my heart out in that post. I had laid my fears bare for the world to see. I was hoping at least someone would reach out to me, that at least someone would understand.

The next day I wasn’t at all surprised that no one commented on my bump comparison. That shit was boring even for those who like to see baby bumps. Still, I felt a loneliness deep inside and I started having those conversations with myself about whether or not I’d keep writing if no one ever responded. I also chided myself a great deal for not commenting enough. We can’t possibly ask for that which we’re not willing to give.

I forget what brought me to my own blog early this morning but I’m so glad I went there and scrolled down to Friday’s post, because there, at the bottom, was the little note that told me there were nine comments. Nine comments that had been sitting at the bottom of that post for over two days while I assumed no one had read or responded. I was flabbergasted; how had I gotten nine comments and not know about it? I quickly clicked over to my email and checked my spam folder and sure enough, over a dozen comments were sitting there, unread. For some reason gmail decided to start forwarding my WordPress emails to spam and I missed all the alerts to your kind words.

Reading through all the heartfelt comments on that Friday post I was so filled with love and gratitude. I can’t tell you how much all your words meant to me. I have reread them again and again today, finding strength in all of you when my own resolve falters. I felt you all there with me when I explained my fears to my OB, trying (and failing) to keep my voice from cracking into that thin whisper of those who are losing the good fight against unavoidable tears. I thought of you all as I let those same tears fall in the elevator on the way out of the building and I thought of you all when I pulled myself together later in my car.

So I guess all of this is just a long, drawn out way of saying thank you. I never realized how much much your words mean to me until I thought you weren’t leaving them for me to find. And while I’m super annoyed at my email for tricking me like it did, I’m grateful for the reminder of how important comments are. I am determined to remember that as I read posts this summer, to be generous with my own words of support, whether I think people are writing for them or not.

UPDATED NOTE: I hope this post doesn’t make anyone who does not or has not been commenting feel bad. That was not my intent. I have been a piss poor commenter of late myself. I probably comment on 1/10 of the posts that I read, and that is most assuredly a generous estimate. I know why comments don’t get left, even when someone has something to say (which is definitely not all–or even most–of the time, I’m sure). There have been so many instances where I haven’t left a comment because the idea of navigating the comment box (and then captcha) on my phone makes me literally cringe. So I GET IT. I really do. But I also want to let all those people who do take the time to comment, on ANY post, know that I appreciate their words. I know it’s not always easy to leave them, and they mean a lot, so thank you. And a HUGE thank you also to those people who read because that is also a gift, knowing my words are read. So thank you to everyone who frequents this blog. I very much appreciate it.

Are comments a big reason why you blog? How do you feel when an important post doesn’t get the response you hoped for or expected?

Project Dreamcatcher: Outlining My Steps to Success

It’s time for some more Project Dreamcatcher! Today I define my steps toward success!

So I have this massive backyard project waiting for me and I REALLY want to get this thing done this summer. My new goal is to have a “garden party” celebrating our new backyard sometime in August. There are only two weekends that work for us so hopefully I can have the space finished by then. Here are the specific steps I’m focusing on this summer.

(A HUGE thank you to my parents who removed those horrendous weeds from our backyard last week so we could eat outside for Isa’s party. One of my five goals is already finished because of you!)

WEEK 1 (June 16-22)

1. Buy grub hoe, good gardening gloves and a hose.

2. Pull out both side lawns plus the rose (????) bush.

3. Prepare space for new soil and plants.

4. Get recommendations for what drought resistant plants to put on the side yard spaces.

5. Choose drought resistant ground cover for main lawn and order enough for 325 sq ft. (if necessary).

WEEK 2 (June 23-29)

1. Buy plants for side yard.

2. Put in soil and plant at least 5 new plants on each side.

Week 3 (June 30-July 6)

Take a break while we’re in St. Louis AND remind Mi.Vida to water my new plants!

WEEK 4 (July 7-13)

1. Pull out main lawn.

2. Prepare soil.

3. Plant drought resistant ground cover.

WEEK 5 (July 14-20)

1. Measure stairs.

2. Choose and buy latice work.

3. Secure lattice work to stairs.

WEEK 6 (July 21-27)

1. Pull up grass/weeds of back strip.

2. Take apart crappy picnic table and haul to dump.

WEEK 7 (July 28-August 3)

1. Get new table and chairs.

2. Buy potted Japanese maple.

20 Week Comparison

WARNING! BUMP SHOTS AHEAD!

It’s hard not to compare this pregnancy to my last pregnancy. At 20 weeks (well, what would have been 20 weeks when compared to my first pregnancy) I was not nearly as big (nor had I gained nearly this much weight). I don’t feel these comparison belly shots really do justice to how much bigger I feel now than I did then. Of course back then I pulled my shirt up, but there ain’t NO WAY I’m showing skin this time. Oh hellz no.

First, a cute photo of my cat, in case you use a reader or Flipboard or some other app that will automatically show you a picture…

And now…

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(bump shots ahead, please click away if you’re not in the headspace for seeing them)

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(okay, I feel I’ve given you enough opportunity to click away and avoid the bump shot onslaught)

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A comparison at 20 weeks.

I know, I know, it’s not all that exciting. But I want to document it somewhere.

My story is not hers

********WARNING – BABY LOSS DISCUSSED BELOW. IF YOU HAVE EXPERIENCED BABY LOSS OR BABY LOSS IS A TRIGGER FOR YOU IN ANY WAY, I SUGGEST YOU SKIP THIS POST.*******

I’ve decided I’ll tuck pregnancy posts away on Fridays, when fewer people seem to read/comment anyway. Hopefully this way they will be easily avoidable for those who’d just rather not read about pregnancy right now. I have been where you are and I support you 100%! So please feel free to click away, like two sentences ago.

So we found out almost three weeks ago that we’re having a boy. I have to admit, I was surprised. I didn’t realize I thought we were having a girl until the tech was like, yep, there’s the penis. I just sat there, flummoxed, wondering how and why my second daughter had male genitals.

Turns out she has them, because she is actually a boy.

After about three days of processing this information (and I still seem to be processing it, I will admit), the fear started hitting me in waves. You see, I was always a little worried that I would have a boy, not because boys are considered to be more rambunctious, not because I worry I won’t know how to foster a son’s love of team sports (which I know nothing about), not even because boys are more likely to be interested in violent video games that I don’t want to think about, let alone making responsible decisions about (and yes I know all these examples are incredibly stereotypical, and might not apply to my son at all), no the reason I have always been so scared to have a boy is because my mother lost all of hers.

My mother gave birth to four girls, three of them were very healthy. She also lost three boys, all around 20-24 weeks. From what I can piece together, at least one was a stillbirth and the other must have been a preterm labor because the baby was alive when it was born. I haven’t really figured out what happened to the third; my mother doesn’t really like to talk about it.

My mom lost her three boys and she was never properly allowed to mourn them. She did not give them names or bury them or have memorial services in their honor. They were just unceremoniously disposed of at the hospital and she was asked to move on with her life.

She never found out why she lost all her boys. I’m sure a big part of her blames herself, her body. She says she would get these horrendous fevers and then she’d birth her dead or dying sons. There was nothing she could do to stop their coming. In her mind, her body rejected them.

Of course back then they didn’t do any genetic testing to determine what might have been wrong. There was no way, really, to know why she lost her sons. Maybe her body really did reject boys. My friend–who is now an MD–believes there may have been something wrong with my father’s X chromosome. She assures me the chances of that being the case are way higher than my mom not being able to carry boys to term. And there is always the possibility that it was just random bad luck.

But carrying four girls to term, even when one had significant health issues and losing three boys? I can’t fathom that that was just a really shitty coincidence.

So when I heard that I was carrying a boy I almost immediately started to worry that I might lose him.

I know I am not my mother. I know her story is not my own. And yet, I share so many of her reproductive issues. What if she did have some rare physical condition that makes it impossible for her to carry a male child to term? What if I share that same rare condition?

Right now I am 21.5 weeks pregnant, but really, if you go by the date of my last period I’m only 20 weeks (the baby measured 10 days ahead at both my 12 week and 20 week scans so they moved up my EDD). That means this month is the one where it may happen. If I am going to loss my son like my mother did hers, it will happen in the next four weeks. And I will admit, these four weeks will be terrifying for me.

I know there is nothing I can do to reassure myself that I will not lose my son. I try to tell myself that medicine is so much better now, that even if my body does try to reject my baby boy they may now be able to save him. I tell myself the chance of this even happening are so small, that I have no real reason to worry. I tell myself all sorts of comforting things and some of the time, they actually make me feel better. Some of the time, I’m not worried at all.

But other times, I am terrified.

Last night I lounged in bed as my little man danced and flipped inside me. For thirty minutes or more, I lay there still, cherishing each and every kick and eventually I just started sobbing with this immense gratitude. I am so incredibly thankful for having this baby inside of me, for those moments when I feel him move and my heart swells to bursting with this love I can’t quite articulate. I just can’t believe I have been given this second chance, this opportunity to experience pregnancy again, to have another baby. I know I could lose this baby at any moment–I’ve heard so many stories of those who have–but I am so overwhelmed with what I’ve been given so far, I find that this time around I am able to be truly thankful for what I have without needing a guarantee of what I WILL have. Last night, feeling my son kick inside me was enough to make me cry with happiness. I didn’t need to know he’d be okay, and that is a huge step. I hope I can hang on to that throughout this difficult month and the less difficult months that will hopefully follow.

Whenever I feel my fears tugging at me I remind myself that I truly believe this pregnancy was meant to be. I was meant to know this little boy, even if I only ever know him as playful stirrings inside me; he was meant to be a part of my life. And I take great comfort in that, despite the fear that I still might lose him.

I am carrying my son inside of me. From what the doctors can tell, he is healthy and strong. I am not my mother. Our story, my son’s and mine, is not hers. And I am so grateful for our story, no matter what the ending.

Reflections at the end of a unremarkable day

Sometimes the words call you, even when you have nothing to say.

I’m sitting at my computer. I have my two sports bras on under Mi.Vida’s old boxers and his much too big tshirt. I’m ready for the elliptical but I’m sitting at my computer instead. The two machines are only a few sparse feet from each other.

I just finished one memoir and I’m about to treat myself to another. My Kindle is all charged up and ready to go. It is 9:35 and I really must go to bed soon. But I have on my workout clothes and that, really, is the most difficult hurdle. I will get on the elliptical eventually and I will end up going to bed late. Very, very late.

These are the decisions we make. The consequences must be reckoned with.

I feel like that is the definition of motherhood–difficult choices and their inevitable consequences. Everything is give and take. So much involves sacrifice.

Today I took my daughter to school with me so I could attend graduation without asking Mi.Vida or my in-laws to pick her up. I was saving other people’s participation for tomorrow’s end of the year staff party. A mother’s special events must be prioritized.

Isa shone like the sun at my school today. Everyone basked in her warmth. I realized that next to her I am a dim light. She outshines me at every opportunity; even I revel in her.

I watcher her all day with a mixture of pride and delight. She is this incredible creature that I helped make and yet she is not mine. She is her own person and yet I am responsible for her. The thin line bordering the neighboring territories of mother and child is a delicate ribbon, dancing in the wind; it is impossible to map out or navigate and yet its powers of division must be carefully adhered to, constantly respected.

At the end of the day I am sure it was the most wonderful, and most exhausting, of my life. Much like motherhood I couldn’t imagine not experiencing it and yet it leaves me ravaged in a way I can’t quite explain.

After we eat our take-out hamburgers and french fries and Isa is finally asleep, I chug Children’s Tylenol from the small bottle and Mi.Vida wraps his arms around me, thanking me for all I’ve done this week. I mentally remind myself that these displays of physical affection are exactly what I asked for. I must keep them tallied somewhere so I don’t forget. I’ve made such a big deal about them; they must be recognized, acknowledged. My appreciation must be shown.

Mi.Vida sits on the couch now. Isa has finally lost the hard fight against sleep. I am in the back bedroom, trying to decide when to stop typing. The elliptical sits to my right, so quiet and still. It’s hard to imagine what it is about to do to me.

I will get on it, because I must. It was a promise I made to myself, to move this every expanding body with some regularity. Next Monday is my 22 week OB appointment and I want to know that I took every opportunity when I’m standing, panicked, on that scale.

I have so much more to write about, like the undercurrent of fear pulling me ever forward during this pregnancy, but now is not the time.

Now I put aside my own words and distract myself with those of another.

Now I make my body move.

Later, much later, I will finally sleep.

Time Warp Tuesday: Decisions

When Kathy over at Bereaved and Blessed announced that this month’s Time Warp Tuesday theme would be decisions, I was immediately intrigued. I knew I wanted to participate though no specific post, or even topic, immediately sprang to mind.

When I did a search on “decisions” in my archives I was met with a most interesting–and eclectic–set of entries; so many different topics, all equally captivating. I could tell it was going to be really hard to decide which topic to tackle.

I was also struck by how many huge issues we had survived, that I had almost completely forgotten about. There were blog dramas and disagreements with my in-laws and uncertainties surrounding my choices as a mother and reflections on couples counseling… oh so many posts about couples counseling. I knew, in the end, I would have to revisit one of those posts just because they made up such a significant percentage of my search results.

Ultimately, I choose one of the posts I wrote during the very dark and difficult time we experienced before we started TTC#2, when we were trying to decide if and when we were even going to have another child. How could I have forgotten how hard it was for us to come to a place of resolution on this hugely divisive issue? How could I have forgotten how hard I fought, and how devastated I felt, when it seemed we would never agree on what to do, when the decision seemed far too difficult, and all seemed exceedingly hopeless.

In the end I choose to revisit, this post, called Two Losses, which describes the utter devastation I felt when we decided–with the help of our couples counselor–to wait 1-2 years to start trying for a second child.

What really touched me about that post was how raw it was, and how vividly it addressed the pain and disappointment we can sometimes feel when making a decision as a couple seems to negate who we are as an individual. At the time I was contemplating giving up my most precious dream in an attempt to secure my relationship. I had never felt so forced to make a decision that I did not personally agree with. The post is about sacrificing who I was to be a part of something bigger. It was about how hard it is to know what to do when you love someone as much as you love yourself.

Relationships are so hard. When big decisions have to be made and two people don’t agree, they can feel impossible. During those many months that we stood at the crossroads of trying–or waiting–to have another baby, I wondered if the decision would tear us apart. I think there were moments when I was sure it would.

When we finally made the decision, it almost broke me. Maybe, in the end, it did. Maybe that is why we ended up making a different decision entirely.

Because, of course, we ultimately decided not to suspend our family building attempts. We didn’t wait another 1-2 years to try for our second child. When I consider our diagnoses of DOR and MFI–and what a 1-2 delay probably would have meant for our family building endeavors–I am filled with a renewed sense of gratitude that we abandoned our original decision and started trying sooner than we had planned. In the end we got that 1-2 years anyway, it just came in the form of secondary infertility and not in a deliberate choice to wait. When I think that we might have never become pregnant again had stuck with our original decision, well the possibility makes me shutter. Revising this dark time gives me yet another reason to believe this pregnancy was meant to be, that it is truly a miracle.

So many of the posts in my search results were about Mi.Vida and I the decisions we’ve had to make. Looking back on all the uncertainty we faced, all the steps we took into the inscrutable unknown, I am reminded of how far we’ve come. Reading those posts I recall how unsure we were that we could ever afford a house or that we should buy one at all. Now we have our forever home and we marvel at how lucky we are to live here. We didn’t know if we should look for other jobs, or if we could even find something that would be right for either of us and today Mi.Vida started a new career that seems to be a perfect fit for both him and our family. We wondered if we should have another child and now we count down the months until our son’s expected arrival.

So many of the big, looming, terrifying decisions have been made. So much uncertainty has been resolved. I know we can’t see into the future and know that the security our decisions have provided us will still be there, but right now, at this moment we are reaping the rewards of what we decided to do. I suppose that is why we feel more confident making decisions as we move forward, because we have the confidence that we can make them well. Sure we’ve made mistakes, we’ve taken missteps, there have been poor choices along with the good, but I stand by each of the really difficult decisions we had to make. And I’m confident that we will be able to navigate all the future decisions that come our way.