Resistance is Futile…

The waves are coming. Don’t try to fight them.

I can recall a hot day, sipping chai with my favorite Ukranian (link, in case you read Russian) in Delhi. We called ourselves “The Revolutionaries,” and were discussing the difficulties of ‘thinking a lot,’ that is, being interested in philosophy, religion, history and politics…the basics of  our ideas around trying to save the world, or at least, trying to impact our small little corner. I remember her saying, “life is difficult,” and being impressed (or baffled?) by those we saw around us who just…lived without seeming to analyze everything to death. These people seemed happy with their lot in life, though, of course, I’m leaving room for that to be an illusion, too.

I’ve noticed, lately, that the straining and analyzing I do is actually causing suffering in my life. Now I’m not advocating becoming a doormat, but I have realized that it’s taken a good 6 weeks for me to really find rhythm with this whole…play-at-home-mom-summertime gig. There’s been nights of “FUCK YOU” to Boof, where I text in anger, or grump when I have to get up YET AGAIN TO BREASTFEED, and the long, hot days where all I focus on is making my kid another damn meal.

There’s something about the straining for something to be different. The resistance to what simply is, without labeling or judging it as good or bad. When I’m sitting at home with my kid watching another episode of Jake & the Neverland Pirates, why do I strain and grouse and grump about what society thinks about stay at home moms? Why do I feel like I have to have ALL THE IDENTITIES happening at one time? Because, when I surrender to what is, this moment of being at home or this moment without Boof around, or this moment of being hot outside by the “pool” (aka a bucket of water), I am actually so much happier.

There’s been several moments this week where I’ve felt this contentment. Content is something that I really strive for, and can tell that people around me are possibly perplexed by it. I think I can read a tone of…apprehension when Boof texts, expecting me to be pissed that he’s not home NOW. I’m sure my bitchy resistance mood will return, but for now I’m just going with the flow…not fighting what is. Not trying to judge what this moment is compared to moments that could be.

King Midas Syndrome

it’s hard being his world

This morning, after a particularly rough night of anxiety (Boof was gone, again, for the 3rd night in a row…5th night this week), I nestled into my bed and read Charlotte’s post  Exhaustion over on her lovely Momaste blog.

The things she said are so striking and so true. While I don’t think I’m sliding into depression, I certainly can relate to the image of spending days or weeks in bed, and then resting in the sunlight of recovery. This week when I got a massage, Courtney asked me what I wanted, and my answer? A hotel room, with big white down comfortors, by the ocean, where I can stay in bed all day listening to the ocean, and sleeping, and reading, and sleeping. Because, I, like Charlotte, and so many mamas I know, am exhausted.

In my exhaustion the anxiety has become overwhelming. After a wonderful day yesterday I found myself with a toddler who refused bedtime. At 9:30 he finally fell asleep, but not after I cried for 30 minutes and threw his lego car across the room. While I’m not actually afraid I would hurt him, or myself, the thoughts that run through my head are a level of crazy that even a non therapist would recognize as destructive.

I’ve given up the idea of weaning. We were down to two times a day and it was working out so nicely. But, with Boof gone so much, I have no other options in my arsenal. I just need five more minutes of sleep and nursing is the only way to get it. And I blame myself for being this exhausted. Like King Midas, who wished for everything he touched to turn to gold, realized the destructiveness of his wish when he turned everyone and everything into gold.  I wanted desperately to have an attached baby. In the beginning I loved that only I could soothe him this way. I loved breathing in his soft baby smell, and laying next to this angelic creature at night was beautiful.

And then, everything turned to gold. And being bodily responsible 5-6 times a day, again, is becoming an albatross around my neck. I’m feeling drowned, a choking closed throat feeling that I can’t get rid of. I’m beginning to be resentful, of Potamus, and Boof who doesn’t have to worry about this issue. I worry that maybe I made the wrong choice, that I was trying to be something I’m not, and that I will grow to resent ever becoming a mother. I worry that our talk of adding another will make me end up in the loony bin.