Health & Well Being/Identity

Denied

Posted on by noemikjames / 7 Comments

My petition to the life insurance company was denied.

“The combination of depression and ADD/ADHD precludes [me] from being eligible.”

I don’t think I really believed it would work, but it still hit like a sledge hammer to the chest. I couldn’t get off the phone with the representative fast enough.

Those diagnoses. Depression. ADD. They are hard to pin down. I’ve always grappled with the appropriate incorporation. How do they define me? Sometimes their presence is an unbearable weight, stifling who I feel I’m meant to be. Sometimes they are a fog I walk through, a mist that swirls around the spaces where I brush it away, making it impossible to see. Other times they are a shadow cast behind me as I walk purposefully into the light, only visible when I glance back.

I’ve spent so long wondering how relevant they are to my own self-identity, and yet I’ve never formally denied them. Why then has it been so shocking to witness someone else, a nameless, power-wielding entity, conjure them into undeniable existence. It’s as if this one action, this single determination has forced them to materialize as solid evidence that I am forced to acknowledge. Certain. Indisputable. Obvious.

It’s so obvious to them.

Why isn’t it obvious to me?

These parts of me that I have fought for so long. That I have cursed at and cowered from and fought against and succumbed to and triumphed over. I have always suspected they were there, an inextricable part of me. So why does someone else recognizing them for the liability they are cut me so deep? Why do I feel so betrayed by myself?

Is there a part of me that has been denying them for all these years?

Did I need someone else to deny my denial so I could see them for what they are?

And what are they, really? Notes in my medical history. Coded authorizations for treatment and prescriptions. Abbreviations. Explanations. Generalized depression. Bi-Polar II. Anxiety. Attention Deficit Disorder. Referrals. Group therapy. Doses. Refills. Side effects. Co pays. Phone consultations. Thyroid tests. Milligrams. Take once a day with food.

May cause dizziness.

We are an under-diagnosed but over-medicated generation. Do I really suffer from these things? Or do I just want a quick fix to make myself feel better? Would I still “need” them if I ate all organic, raw foods and got eight hours of sleep and meditated two hours each day? Am I doing this to myself? Am I imagining it?

And even if they are “real”–whatever that means–should I have sucked it up and trudged forward without asking for help so that they wouldn’t have grounds now to penalize me?

They have always been there. Threaded through me. Stamped on the pages of my medical history. Were they they before the professionals identified them? Or did they only crash the party after they were formally invited? Before I existed in the uncertainty. Now they seem real, even if they may have once been imagined.

Now there are consequences. Now they are being claimed for me.

It’s strange how much it hurts. I guess I didn’t realize I wasn’t ready to claim them for myself.

Infertility/Life

Without Question*

Posted on by noemikjames / 6 Comments

On Saturday I walked with my son up the main street of our neighborhood to run some errands. I’ve walked down these particular blocks hundreds of times and while some of the store fronts have changed in the three years since we moved here, most are very familiar.

On this particular day I noticed a sign I had not seen before, touting a tarot card and palm reader’s expertise. Huh, I thought, Has that always been there? As I was slowing down to inspect the sign’s pedigree, I realized the proprietor was in front of her door, handing out leaflets. I found myself gently taking one, and smiling as I walked away.

I have never had my fortune told, not via tea leaves or tarot cards or the indecipherable map of creases on my hand.

It’s not that I’m not interested, or wouldn’t know where to go. There is a gaudy sign declaring a fortune teller’s presence on the way to my in-laws house that I’ve always been drawn to, but have never committed to stepping inside.

I’ve been passing that sign for almost ten years now and always I glance at it and wonder. In the time when we were trying for our first child, and then our second, my heart would race when it came into view. The mere possibility that someone inside might have a response for all my unanswerable questions was more than my aching heart could bear.

I thought about getting my fortune read a lot during those uncertain years. In the end it wasn’t the fear of wasting my time and money that kept me away, but the terror that she’d tell me exactly what I was most afraid to hear.

Because, while the uncertainty was unbearable (and I often lamented that the wait would go by in the blink of an eye if I knew for certain that it would someday be over), the suggestion that any other future might lay in wait would have destroyed me.

This Saturday, as I walked away from the woman on the street, the hint of a smile still smoothing the corners of my mouth, I realized I no longer want my future told. At this point I have everything I want, the only thing she can tell me is when it might be taken away.

Have you ever had your fortune told?

*The title is from one of my favorite children’s book. Can anyone name it?

{Reference given here.}

Identity/Life/Parenting & Family

Outlines in the Landscape

Posted on by noemikjames / 4 Comments

This weekend was pretty nice. We didn’t end up having much going on which was exactly what we needed after being away last weekend. I enjoyed some one-on-one time with both kids, which I really appreciate because those moments when my attention isn’t divided are the rare instances in which I really feel like I get to connect with either of them in a meaningful way.

Yesterday I took the kids to the Academy of Science while my husband cleaned the house so his friend who was stopping by wouldn’t think we live like savages. It was a chaotic trip, as one-parent/two-kid outings generally are, but I was happy to be out of the house. I go crazy when I’m stuck at home all day.

Parking was crazy and we ended up finding a spot a good 15 minutes away from our destination. Walking back with my son on my back and my daughter in the stroller (she is way too big for the stroller) was exhausting and I was starving and just wanted to get home. It took forever to get both kids strapped into their seats and all the jackets, food containers, water cups, diaper accoutrements and extra clothes (some soiled, some still clean) out from under the stroller and by the time I was in the driver’s seat I just wanted to shut my eyes for at least 15 full, uninterrupted minutes.

And yet, when I put on the tired mix of kids’ music we’ve listened to literally hundreds of times, I was struck by a feeling of contentment so deep, it gave me chills. I was suddenly reminded of the sheer terror I felt, after our ectopic, that I might never have a child or be a mother, and I felt a rush of gratitude for the two beings in my back seat so profound that my hands shook for a few minutes.

I used to have that feeling all the time in the year after my daughter was born, and in the months after my son joined the family, but I haven’t felt it since he became mobile and my world started to implode in slow motion. It was a relief to touch that deep well, to know that I could still access the enormity of my past sorrow despite the deep chasm time has carved between that terrified woman of so many years ago and her ambivalent, present day counterpart.

All that to say, there are good days. Some of them are even great. There are moments when my life with two kids unfolds like a faded photograph from so many years ago and I recognize the outlines of my former dreams in the landscape of my future.

It’s only the colors that don’t quite match up, and I think I have more power over the filter than I let myself believe.

Minimalism

Minimalism, revisited

Posted on by noemikjames / 22 Comments

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASo. Minimalism.

It’s been many months since I embraced minimalism and attempted to make it a part of my life. Immediately I saw the benefits of owning less stuff and was relieved to see that if I parred down my belongings I could actually keep my house in order. For the first time in my life, house keeping seemed somewhat manageable. This is a HUGE accomplishment and if this were the only benefit it would be enough for me to embrace minimalism forever.

It’s not the only benefit of course. Minimalism helps me stay within my budget, which is another thing I’ve been failing to do for pretty much my entire adult life. For one overarching philosophy (we are happier with less stuff) to improve, or even resolve, two of my biggest challenges is a pretty extraordinary thing.

Clearly, I NEED to embrace minimalism.

So why is it so fucking difficult for me?!

I read so many stories of people who decide minimalism is the thing for them. They get rid of their stuff. They realize they don’t need any more stuff. They are exceedingly happy. They never look back.

They don’t seem to have relapses or struggle with the new arrangements or restrictions. They are born again, they have seen the light and will be forever bathed in it. Then they go out into the world and preach.

That has not been my experience.

Even though I can see the very real, very concrete benefits of embracing minimalism, even though I absolutely agree with the philosophy and recognize why it is not a only superior, but necessary, way to live if we want to achieve sustainability as a species, even though I agree with it fundamentally, I still find myself struggling. I still want a new purse and that cute pair of shoes my friend was wearing last week. I’m still pining after a new pair of jeans because I just don’t love the way the ones I have fit (that whole keeping only what inspires joy exercise has actually made me want to get more clothes–getting rid of the ones I have that I don’t love of course–which I don’t think was the point). I still want to get my kids new toys, even though I’m constantly giving away the ones we no longer play with.

I guess I thought it would be easier. I thought I’d embrace this ideal and all my previous wants and desires would melt away. I expected something would click and this new mindset would override a lifetime of messages (subliminal and overt) asserting that acquiring more makes us happier. I assumed it wouldn’t be so much work, that it wouldn’t require constant admonitions, that it would just be the way I was.

But I am the way I used to be. And it’s hard work to override a lifetime of one message with its complete opposite. I’m constantly reminding myself of my new ideals. I’m continually assuring myself of how good it feels to have less, and how buying things doesn’t actually make me feel better. The habit of wanting to solve problems with more things is so deeply engrained, that I find myself constantly talking myself out of wanting something.

It’s exhausting. And I’m disappointed in myself. I’m disappointed in my materialism and how easy it is for me to fall back into my old, destructive patterns. I want to be the person who doesn’t care if she has new shoes or a new pair of jeans. I want to be the person who cares about the things in life that really matter.

Some of the things are small, like still pining after a new purse even though the one I have now works fine. Every once in a while the desire bubbles up and I do a little online “window shopping” and realize there is nothing that I love so I shelve the whole thing for another month, but the fact that I keep coming back to it makes me feel icky. Who cares about a stupid purse? Why can’t I just be happy with the one I have?

Other things are bigger. We rent an in-law unit under our kitchen so we can afford our mortgage. The “plan” has always been that in five or so years, when we’re done paying for childcare, we’d build inside stairs connecting the in-law unit to the rest of the house and make it our “master suite.” We currently sleep in what is supposed to be the living room of our house, with only a Japanese screen between our bedroom and what is supposed to be the dining room (but what we use as a living room). Right now the layout works fine for us, but when our kids are older and want to watch TV when we want to sleep, or when we find it hard accommodate four people’s needs with only one bathroom, we’ll want the space, or so we assumed.

But then we watch documentaries about tiny houses and see the spaces people live in and I wonder why we I’ve let myself be convinced that we need more space when 1200 square feet is way more than 99% of families around the world inhabit (and most of them are bigger than ours) . We clearly have enough, we clearly can make it work, and we are resourceful enough as a family to manage with only one bathroom even when our kids are older. If we kept renting our in-law unit we could save that extra money for our kids’ college funds, and maybe even travel some day. Aren’t those things so much more important? Why do I feel such a devastating loss when I think about giving up the dream of moving into that space?

Sometimes I get the feeling that really, deep inside, I want to be a fundamentally different person. I wish I just saw the world differently, that I didn’t spend so many weeks and months of my life slipping into and crawling out of depression, that I saw the world in a more positive light, that I was more grateful, that I complained less. I wish I were kinder and more giving, less selfish and less self-serving. I meet people who seem to live life in all the ways I wish I did, and they seem to do so effortlessly. I always wonder if were they born that way, or if they have to work at it.

It feels like I have to work at everything that matters to me in my life. Nothing comes naturally to me except depression and disorganization and overspending and negativity and despair. I have such an amazing life and yet I spend all the time trying to get myself to see how amazing it is. And when some incredible way of living becomes known to me, and I’m 100% sure it’s the way I want, and NEED, to live myself, I can’t even embrace it. It’s hard not to feel frustrated with myself sometimes.

When I write these posts people tell me I need to be kinder to myself. And while I’m sure that’s true, there is something more here that I need to figure out. I can’t just shrug these feelings away telling myself to be kinder and more forgiving. I feel like something needs to change inside me, but I don’t think that kind of change is possible, and I’m not sure where that leaves me.

Have you been able to embrace fundamental changes in your life? How did it happen? 

Marriage/Parenting & Family

More thoughts on Parenting (and some on Marriage)

Posted on by noemikjames / 21 Comments

I wanted to write a follow up to those last two posts for Friday, but I’m glad it didn’t happen. My perspective has changed a little since the weekend and now I appreciate the time and space these last days have given me.

As I expected, publishing those posts was cathartic. While I didn’t feel like I learned much from writing them–there was no revelatory moment as I processed those feelings, in fact I don’t feel like I processed them so much as vomited them, but it was all I was able to manage, so I’ll have to take it–the comments were so eye-opening and validating and interesting, I feel like I can look at this topic with a new perspective and that is something I value more than words can say.

I was thinking a lot about my posts and everyone’s responses over the weekend, as my family and I spent two days at a beach house with my parents. My husband came, which is a rare occurrence, and I’m so glad I had those two posts, and their comments in the back of my mind as we meandered through the weekend.

It ended up being a really nice two days. The kids were pretty manageable, all things considered. We got decent sleep, it wasn’t torture keeping my son safe (and the house undamaged) despite the fact that it wasn’t child-proofed. The weather was beautiful and we didn’t have any grand expectation. The kids played at the beach a lot, shivering with their feet in the waves, then warming up in the dry sand. My parents provided just enough support to allow us to make small, but important, strategic moves throughout the day, but didn’t get in the way of our parenting. The close proximity to the beach meant our son’s nap schedule could be accommodated for without trapping our daughter in the house. We each had time with the kids one-on-one and also hung out as a family.

Actually, it was a pretty perfect weekend. It was exactly what I was lamenting we don’t do in my last two posts. It was exactly what I envisioned having a family would be like.

Sure there were meltdowns. Sure my daughter was being difficult a lot of the time. Sure my son required constant supervision (and still managed to give himself a few shiners). Sure my husband and I hardly got to exchange two not-parenting related words with each other. Sure it was exhausting. But it was also fun, and I made some really wonderful memories with both my kids, and I felt closer to my family for having braved the weekend away.

It was in coming home from that weekend, awash in the salt and sand and sun of a successful trip, that I realized what has really been bothering me about parenting. It’s not so much that I think it’s hard and that I don’t feel like anyone talks about that. It’s that I disappointed, heartbroken really, that it doesn’t resemble my expectations in the slightest.

When I wrote before that my greatest aspiration in life was to parent, I thought I was explaining that my current ambivalence toward parenting was not rooted in some previous ambivalence about becoming a parent. But what I was actually doing was explaining why I am so deeply disappointed by my reality of raising two kids. This was supposed to be my life, and it was supposed to look and feel… well… positive. But it doesn’t. And I think there is a part of me that is mourning the life I thought I’d have. The life I fought so hard for. The life that I thought I couldn’t live without.

Part of the disconnect, for me, is rooted in the idealized version of parenting we, as a culture, espouse. But ultimately, my disillusions about parenting are wrapped up in my disillusions about my marriage.

Ultimately, the vast majority of this is actually about my relationship with my husband.

It’s not that I hate parenting, it’s that I hate how we handle parenting together. It’s not that I’m overwhelmed managing my children, it’s that I’m overwhelmed managing my children without the support of my husband.

It’s that most of the time, I feel like I have to manage him.

I’ve started reading a book about marriage. I’ve read parts of it before, but never finished it. I REALLY want to finish it this time. I want to do the exercises. I want to do the work so that we can get to a better place. I think, if we came to some kind of understanding, all of this would be so, so much better. And I think we can arrive at that better place.

At least, I’m making myself believe it right now.

Because if I don’t believe it, what is the point?

Just the first fifty pages of this book have been really eye opening. I have been reminded of all the negativity I bring to our marriage, all the things I’m doing wrong, and there are a lot of them. A LOT. I have been kind of mortified by how much antagonism I’ve bringing to our interactions. I really need to change the way I do things.

I’ve talked to my husband about it. I know it’s not his thing to read a book or see a professional (I think both would be IMMENSELY helpful for him, but I’m trying hard to accept what he is and isn’t willing to do), but he has said he’s willing to do some exercises with me on Friday evenings when we have a little time. I’m letting myself believe that things will get better between us and that I can be happy with where we end up, even if my husband never has the attitude toward raising kids I’d hoped he would have.

I think, if we get to a better place, the parenting challenges will seem a lot more manageable. There will still be issues that I have to accept to enjoy the arduous task of raising small children, but I think I can get there. And even if I never truly enjoy it, I hope I can get to a place where I feel some contentment at the end of the day.

Does your marriage mitigate or exacerbate the challenges of your daily life?

Uncategorized

Not So Positive (on) Parenting, Part 2

Posted on by noemikjames / 39 Comments

{Thank you ALL SO MUCH for your comments yesterday. They made me feel so much less alone. I really, really appreciated them.

I wrote this at the same time as yesterday’s post but I broke them up because of length, so this post doesn’t really address from yesterday’s comments. I do hope to write a final post kind of wrapping up ALL. THE. THINGS about this complicated topic for Friday. We’ll see if that actually happens.}

…continued from yesterday’s post.

My daughter remains a very intense little girl. In two months she’ll be five and just this past weekend I had to hold her like a straightjacket to keep her from hitting, kicking and scratching me. She still managed to bite me hard on the hand. She almost broke the skin. She’s 45 inches tall and weighs 42lbs. She is a big girl to keep safe from herself in the midst of that kind of tantrum. We try really hard to accommodate her needs, giving her plenty of time at home and not over-scheduling her. We watch her for signs that she’s overwhelmed and we go home, even if it’s the middle of the party or a trip out. Her mood absolutely determines everyone else’s experience, and it can be impossible to know what will set her off. While she can be the most amazing person to spend time with, she is absolutely exhausting.

When my son was born we called him Mellow Man. He was content to be anywhere or do anything. The minute he started moving that all changed. Now he needs constant supervision. He is constantly putting himself in harm’s way. My daughter never opened cabinets or investigated outlets. That’s all my son does and he does it constantly. When he is awake there needs to be an adult with him every single second. Where my daughter is emotionally exhausting, my son is physically exhausting (and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate they are different kinds of exhausting, I guess I just kind of wish one of them weren’t so exhausting).

Separately my kids are totally manageable, I actually really enjoy being with them one on one, but together they become completely overwhelming. My afternoons/evenings consist of my daughter shutting herself in her room for some much needed quiet time (totally understandable) and my son slamming himself against her gate, screaming because he can’t be with her (totally understandable). That is basically the foundation on which their relationship is being built: he wants to be with her constantly and most of the time she wants to be alone.

{My husband has been talking a lot about how our daughter clearly isn’t the kind of kid who does well with a sibling. He thinks we did her a huge disservice giving her a brother. Yeah, that’s been fun to hear.}

Honestly, I know my kids aren’t that hard. I know SO MANY parents have it a lot harder. I absolutely believe we should be handling all this better, if not in what we actually do with and say to our children, but in how we feel about it all at the end of the day.

Lately I’ve been trying to figure out where the disconnect is, why we, as a unit, are being totally taken down by our two kids when so many other couples in much more challenging circumstances are not as overwhelmed by parenting as we are.

Because I see other people with two kids who are making it work. They go out together as a family and even when it’s crazy and hectic, they seem to enjoy themselves. We never go out as a family. We always divide and conquer or one parent takes both kids so the other parent can get a rest. I can count the number of times all four of us have gone on an outing, or even to a birthday party, in 2015 on one hand. I don’t even need all my fingers.

I don’t know if it’s my husband’s attitude toward parenting–he is easily overwhelmed and very defeatist–or my own, or if it’s more specifically the way our attitudes affect each other.

I don’t know if it’s how different he and I are as people, that we have totally contrasting needs that can only be met by burdening the other person.

I don’t know if it’s just that our kids are particularly challenging to us as people, because of our unique compilations of temperament and personality.

All I know is that the end of every day feels like we just fought a battle. Does that mean, for us, parenting is a war?

I wanted to have kids more than anything. It was the only thing I really WANTED in my life. My job, my social life, even my marriage, everything else was background noise. I had big dreams for my family, all of us together, enjoying the zoo or the amusement park or the science museum or a birthday party. I imagined my kids re-enacting all my most cherished childhood traditions.

But it’s not like that. The trip to the zoo is marred by multiple meltdowns. We have to leave the amusement park early because someone won’t wear sunscreen. There is a standoff at the science museum and I have to sit with my kid in a corner while she writhes and screams. My husband and I bicker about when we should stand firm and when we should give in. No one wants to eat the lunch we packed, but if they don’t they’ll get hungry and lose their shit.

The family traditions take five minutes to re-enact and at the end my kids are tired and I’m disappointed. We spend the rest of the time with extended family chasing after our children, or making them a meal they’ll hopefully eat, or trying to keep my son away from my daughter so she can get some space. I swear haven’t really talked to my sister, who I mostly see during holidays, in five years. I don’t get to enjoy any of the parts of the special occasions I used to love because my kids need constant supervision. There is almost always a meltdown over presents or dessert or just eating dinner. Everyone is exhausted and disappointed before it’s over.

I don’t know what we are doing wrong. I honestly don’t. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe I’m too selfish. Maybe I need to just suck it up and realize this is the next five years of my life and then maybe it will get better. Maybe I have to realize that this is the next five years of my life and the hard parts will change and it won’t really ever get better.

I know what an asshole I sound like, what a selfish, ungrateful bitch. I know there are people in the world, people reading this post, who would give anything to parent one child, let alone two, and they would do so without ever complaining about meltdowns or not getting to talk to family during the holidays.

I know I sound like an asshole, but I’m still putting this out there, because it’s my experience right now, and I suppose for that reason, if that reason alone, it’s valid. And maybe someone else is kind of feeling this way too, and it might help that person feel a little less afraid of being judged.

And if no one else can relate, if I’m the only one who is grappling with this dissatisfaction about parenting, then I can own that. I’m working on what it means, and what I need to do to change it. I’m hoping my husband and I can do some work with someone professionally, but I know how hard it is to get him on board with that stuff. (Even though I believe my husband, and our habitually interactions, is a big part of this, I’m working on taking responsibility for what I can do differently, for not taking on everyone else’s emotional burdens and for taking care of myself in the ways I am able. It’s hard, but I think it’s helping.)

Thank you so much for your support on these posts. It has been really uplifting.

Parenting & Family

Not So Positive (on) Parenting

Posted on by noemikjames / 37 Comments

I’m struggling to find my way back to this space. Where I used to cherish the opportunity to process hard experiences and confusing feelings in a post; now I dread it. If I have a little time at the end of the evening, I briefly consider writing, but almost immediately put it aside to make time for reading a book or watching mindless TV. I just don’t want to expend the mental and emotional energy needed to wade through the muck.

Right now there is a lot of muck. I have to wade through it, but I haven’t been all the interested in waxing philosophical about what wading through it is really about.

I’m not sure if this is the beginning of the slow and drawn out death of my blog. While a huge part of me considers the possibility with teenager-like apathy, there is a small voice buried deep beneath the growing layers of lassitude that begs me to fight this stubborn insouciance. Just write something, anything, and see how it feels.

So in proper me fashion, I’m going to write one of the harder posts, on a topic I’ve been avoiding for a looooooooong time. If writing here can help me process this, maybe there really is hope for my blog.

It’s no big proclamation, at least not in this space, for me to say I feel a lot of ambivalence toward parenting. I see myself as someone who has always been a little more outspoken than most in declaring the negative aspects of raising children in this day and age. I’ve always told myself that I write (and talk) about the hard parts of parenting because I think we need to change the dialogue around parenting in general, but motherhood more specifically, because it can be detrimental to new (and even more experiences) mothers. I believe our society puts motherhood on a pedestal that creates unattainable expectations and damaging standards against which women judge themselves and their experiences. I believe talking more openly and honestly about what parenting is really like will help us all feel less isolated and more successful.

Yes, that is what I’ve been telling myself for the past almost five years. Except lately I’ve been wondering if I’m so outspoken about the underbelly of parenting, because I don’t actually like parenting that much.

Wow, it’s amazing how hard it was just to write that sentence. It’s incredible the deep fear I have of being judged and rejected for admitting that I’m exploring the possibility that I don’t enjoy parenting, at least at this stage.

Because, let’s face it, it is truly something WE DO NOT vocalize in our society. To say you don’t like parenting is tantamount to declaring you don’t like your kids (even though they are completely different things). I remember how people crucified Ayelet Waldman for saying she loved her husband more than her children, and loving someone more than someone else still leaves a lot of room to love that someone else. What happens if someone says they not only don’t love parenting, but they don’t even really like it?

But let me back up a a bit.

It all started earlier this year when I began seeking out new women to build friendships with. For the first time in a long time I was introducing myself to other women who didn’t know me at all, intentionally selecting what I wanted to share about myself and carefully tailoring how I presented it. Interestingly, none of the women I’ve met this year have children, and even more interestingly, I’ve been really excited about that. Women without children are so much easier to meet up with, and they never want to talk about kids and all the mundane drudgery required in having them. Turns out I have very little trouble avoiding the topic of my own children, and I’ve really enjoyed talking to other women about the myriad other subjects women talk about before motherhood hijacks their lives and their identities.

Of course the subject of me having children usually comes up, and I am obligated to provide a quick summary of my family and my experience parenting. I keep this part short and sweet, assuming that a person without kids doesn’t want to hear much about mine.

{It’s been interesting to see how I choose (usually in the moment) to present our family building experience. I hope to write more on this later, as I’ve thought about it a lot.}

There are times, though, when someone else broaches the subject and I’m asked to talk more about my kids or motherhood or parenting in general. It is in these conversations that I’m struck by what comes out of my mouth. Sometimes I walk away wondering if my new friends think I hate being a mother. The truth is that most of the time, I can’t think of very many nice things to say about the day to day realities of raising kids.

A lot of the time I find myself envying my new friends’ childfree lifestyles.

Now if this isn’t sacrilege to declare in public, it sure as hell is in this community. How can I talk about how I don’t really like parenting right now to a bunch of women who fought long, hard, tragic, traumatizing battles to be doing (or in the hopes of doing) that which I clearly don’t appreciate myself? I can’t think of a way to seem more ungrateful for the amazing children in my life.

Oh. My. Gawd. The. Guilt.

And here is the thing (and yes, I feel like I have to say this because I’m hyperventilating right now): I love my kids. I love being their mother. They are incredible beings and I am humbled by the massive responsibility I’ve been entrusted with. I feel incredibly fortunate to bear witness to their journey through life and I hope I can serve as a decent mentor and guide, now and always.

I am very grateful for my children, and I would sacrifice anything to keep them safe, but the day to day task of raising them in not something I enjoy. In fact, right now, it’s downright unpleasant.

And because this ended up being a 2000+ word post, I’m going to stop until tomorrow. If you feel compelled to comment today, please be gentle.

To be continued…

Health & Well Being/Identity/Life

Insecurities and Self-Advocacy

Posted on by noemikjames / 12 Comments

I electronically accepted the terms of my life insurance policy this weekend. I have continued to feel a lot of ambivalence about purchasing this policy, and a lot of shame and regret about my ADD meds resulting in an increased premium. Whether or not I NEED my medication and whether or not I should stay on it is a source of constant anxiety for me, and to be financially penalized for doing so has brought up a lot of difficult and painful feelings for me.

I’m not sure what finally compelled me to call them about it this morning. I suppose having actually accepted the policy and paying for the first month was part of it. I knew I had a month to terminate the policy if I found another provider that wouldn’t penalize me as much (or at all) for my prescription and I wanted to call them to see if it were possible to stop taking my medication for 12-18 months and then either reapply or request a reclassification.

The person I spoke to was very kind and very helpful, as has been everyone I’ve dealt with there–the customer service at this company is exemplary. He explained that I could submit a letter from my doctor explaining that my prescription is not for a life-threatening condition and that it does not represent the existence of, or pose, any immediate or long term health risks. The underwriter can then determine if I am eligible for the reduced rate.

My psychiatrist is amazing and already wrote me the letter and put it in the mail. I’m not sure if this will qualify me for the reduced rate but I’m so glad I’m at least making the attempt. I can’t figure out why I didn’t ask about this immediately; it seems the shame, regret and self-blame was paralyzing me. (I’ll be thinking about why this was a lot in the coming weeks.) I REALLY hope that this letter works, and if it doesn’t, I’ll be contacting them again to see if I can stop taking my medication for a certain amount of time and again request a review for a reduced rate. I’ll also shop around and see if there are other providers that won’t penalize me as much, or at all.

Identity/Writing

Missing My Compulsion

Posted on by noemikjames / 13 Comments

Things have calmed down a bit this week. I’ve had some time to write. The problem is, I haven’t wanted to.

I have a long list of post ideas, but I can’t seem to get excited about writing any of them.

I tried to force myself to write a post that has been bouncing around in my head for about a month. It didn’t end well.

It’s weird, not wanting to write. It’s usually, quite literally, a compulsion, and when that compulsion is gone, and there isn’t even a vague desire taking its place, I start to feel panicky. What does it mean? What if I never want to write again? I ignore these thoughts, pick up a good book, or open FB, or turn on the TV, and go about my day.

It could be said that I’m reading an interesting piece of fiction.

It could be mentioned that I found an awesome new Spanish language series on HBO and have to give it all my attention to understand.

It could be posited that there simply isn’t enough time, especially now that I’ve recognized the very real, and very negative effects of the 4-5 hours of (usually broken) sleep I’ve grown accustomed to, and have started falling into bed the minute I’ve left my daughter’s room.

It could be suggested that, during the beginning of the trimester, when three classes worth of plans need to be prepared for, I can’t spend half an hour before school writing a blog post.

There are plenty of reasons I could give (you all, and myself) for why I’m not writing, but the truth is I could find the time. I could put down the book. I could set aside the TV show. I could write. That is what I usually do. I write even though there are a hundred more pressing obligations. I write because there are a hundred more pressing obligations, but writing compels me in ways dish washing and laundry folding and paper grading (and even book reading and TV watching) don’t.

But that being compelled? It just isn’t there. I’d rather put on Girls and grade papers. I’d rather curl up on my bed with an honest-to-god, paperback book. I’d even rather put in my earbuds and load the dishwasher (even though that’s not my job!).

Just writing this post has required three attempts. Clearly, something is just not there right now.

And it makes me wonder what it is, what invisible force usually compels me. It makes me wonder where it went, and it if will ever be back.

I’m not freaking out. Not yet. I assume it will return. And in the meantime I’m cutting myself some slack, because really, there is no reason for me to write. I do feel obligations to the people who read me, but I don’t feel delinquent in meeting those obligations, at least not yet. And I know that if I ever had to bow out of my unwritten agreement with all of you, you’d accept my reasons graciously.

Much more graciously than I would accept them myself.

So I guess I’m taking a break. I’m not sure if it will be a long, protracted silence or a short jaunt away. I don’t know if it will be peppered with sporadic posts, or marked by a complete absence. I don’t know when my muse will return, but I’m not going to go knocking on doors trying to find her. She knows where I live.

See you all on the other side.

{Post Script. I DO want to keep responding to comments and I know I’ve been spotty about that. I plan to get caught up this weekend and stay caught up. I apologize for my absence in my own comment section. I will remedy that presently.}

What compels you to write? Does the urge ever go away? Do you push through when it’s gone, or just stop writing for a while?

Uncategorized

Neither Here Nor There

Posted on by noemikjames / 12 Comments

Sunday night my five hours of sleep was broken every 1-1.5 hours by an inconsolable boy who can’t yet express his needs. It was exhausting.

Hauling my ass out of bed at 5am on Monday morning felt damn near impossible.

* * *

At work, Monday was one of those days where I’m perpetually behind and I spend the precious spare moments of every period frantically trying to get things ready for the next period. I couldn’t even get my coffee made until after my first break, over half way through my teaching day. Days like yesterday grind me into the ground. I could barely keep my eyes open on my commute home.

* * *

Sharing my medical history with my would-be life insurance provider has been a very negative experience for me. I didn’t realize how much I cherished the privacy of my medical information until I had to share it with a non-medical provider. I hated having someone at my house taking my vitals, determining if I measured up. The whole thing felt incredibly invasive and it’s taken me a while to work through the feelings it has brought up. Maybe more on this later? I’m not sure.

* * *

My husband was away at SXSW in Austin for five days. Now he is back. I missed him and glad’s he’s home, but my house was a lot cleaner when my mother and in-laws were here in the morning covering his “shift.”

* * *

I started searching for jobs in my area this weekend and, as I suspected, there isn’t much. I realize I have to decide what I’m comfortable pursuing. Do I want to work at a private high school for gifted and talented kids? Not really, but am I willing to? Maybe… I found a few positions that I would be very interested in if the worst bridge in history didn’t sit between where I live and the school that’s hiring. Maybe I will apply to those to practice writing cover letters and maybe even interviewing, if I even get that far. The idea of doing all the work for a job I know I wouldn’t take might be hard for me to actually do, and part of me is worried that if I did get it I’d say fuck it and try to brave the most horrendous traffic in an area with truly soul crushing traffic. I’m realizing that my current set up is pretty awesome in a lot of ways. My commute is very manageable, I make good pay and I have a decent schedule. It might be harder to find something that doesn’t require a hit in all those areas than I thought.

* * *

Having said that, I’m feeling more negatively about work than I have in a long time. Mostly I just dread my work day because it feels boring and I don’t want to do the same thing I’ve been doing for ten years. I keep reminding myself that I can change what I’m doing, I have the ability to switch things around, I just need to find the time to prepare my lesson plans accordingly. I have a few things I want to try this year that I’ve never done before, but I’m not sure I’ll have the energy or time… I’m trying really hard not to get into a negative head space about work, because that pit of quicksand is hard to crawl out of once I’m stuck fast in the muck of it.

* * *

I have a LOT to write about budget and money stuff, but I want to dedicate a few actual posts to it. Needless to say, this month has been eye opening, and while I’m not proud of what my spending looks like, I’m thrilled that I’m still writing down all my purchases. I look forward to documenting a few more months of spending as I lay out a more accurate budget and start planning some bigger expenditures down the road.

* * *

I want to write more about minimalism. I think about it a lot. I oscillate between feeling like I’m failing and accepting that I’m embracing a version of it that works for me. I hope I can keep moving in a more minimalist direction but it’s so hard for me. Why do I love stuff so much? Ugh. Stuff is my downfall and yet I crave it constantly…

* * *

I’m feeling better about my daughter’s school but the aftercare situation (or almost lack thereof) is really stressing me out. How do they only have 20 slots in the rec and park program? How can the registration date for this elusive program be in MID JULY?! How can all these parents pick up their kids at 1:50pm every day!? This is when being a working mom is logistically super stressful. These thoughts consume me.

* * *

This being a VERY expensive city to live in (maybe the most expensive city in the US right now), where a lot of women wait to start having children until their mid to late 30s, there are a sizable number of families at my daughter’s day care with only one child (by choice). March has been “birthday month” and I’ve been taking the kids by myself to most of the parties. I’ve really noticed how the parents with one kid at these soirees can chat contentedly with other parents (sometimes even holding meaningful conversations for prolonged periods of time) while those of us with two kids run in circles like a chicken with its head cut off, constantly scrambling to keep track of two kids, let alone meet their frequently contrasting needs. The parents with one kid seem well dressed and well rested, and they seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Those of us with two kids seem harried and frenzied, unable to manage the basic logistics of the the immediate moment. We are weary and we are overwhelmed, and we fail utterly in our desperate attempts to maintain even a simple dialogue. This is not meant to be a commentary on the realities of having two kids versus one, just something I’ve been noticing.

* * *

I’m typing this to the soundtrack of our leaky bathtub. We’re in a REALLY BAD drought here so I’m catching the water in a bucket and using that water to fill the toilet basin when we flush (only 4-5 times a day). Yes, that means I have to take the super heavy lid off and clumsily pour a ton of water in the top part, while inevitably spilling a bunch on the floor. I have to do it though, other wise the guilt subsumes me. And yes, calling the plumber is on my to-do list. (Just texted him! Yay!)

* * *

I guess I’ll stop here. This got long and it’s been whiny since its inception. Things aren’t all bad, in fact there is plenty good to celebrate: I’m all caught up on contract work, we’ll have our tax refund in a couple of months, and I’m planning some fun things for this summer… There is a lot of good stuff to write about and I promise I’ll do that soon.

How was the start of your week?