Happy Father’s Day…to My Perfect

Six years ago, I sat down and made a checklist in my journal (or, at least my attempt at a journal). My goal? To write down the qualities I wanted in a life partner. After a failed marriage and a shitty relationship that was wrong from the beginning, I found myself a bit hopeless that the passion for which I was searching actually existed. Then I received some of the best advice ever from my mom’s best friend. She told me I have the power to create my perfect; I was young, passionate, willing to take risks – and had a blank slate. So, before I fell asleep that night I wrote down a list of things I wanted for my life. And then forgot I did it.

It was a little less than a year later when my now husband – then (very dreamy) boyfriend – and I moved into our first apartment together. As I unpacked my things, I came across the book I tried to turn into a journal – and opened it directly to that submission. Then, with tears running down my face, I looked up at JF and realized I had in fact created my perfect. Before me, in our own kitchen, stood a man who made me laugh, loved children, knew how to love and communicate, was respectful and passionate. And, after two moves (one that took us more than 1,000 miles from the first), one child, a marriage, several new jobs – and many other experiences along the way – nothing has changed.

As I looked at this man’s face on Father’s Day, I was filled with love and gratitude. Not only for the unrelenting love he feels for me, but for the love he gives to his children. He is strict but loving; fun and educational; never afraid to say how much he loves them (and, even as important, never holds back saying the same to me in front of them); fair and respectful. Our son tells me he loves the way I look, what I’m wearing and glad that I’m his mamma – and that is fully due to the love JF demonstrates and encourages every day. 

There is no other man I would want to celebrate as the father of my child (and maybe even someday children). I am humbled by the universe, and the opportunity it gave me to create my own perfect. Six years later, and it is still perfection. 

For my sweet boy as you turn three

It seems like yesterday – and forever ago – that you were born. I am constantly in awe of how quickly time is flying, you learn new things and you are growing. At the same time, you have become such a part of who I am – and how I see the world – that I can’t believe we were ever not together. Three years doesn’t seem like enough time to accomplish the things we have, visit the places we have traveled or move into “our new house” that’s 1,100 miles from where you were born.  But no matter what we have done, you have been right there with a smile and rarely a complaint (except the time you had hand, foot and mouth disease which is one memory I’d like to forget). Which is one of the many things I love and admire about you. At three, when you should be complaining about the long car ride or throwing a tantrum in the airplane seat, you sit there soaking it all in. Always happy to be a part of it all. You have a deep trust and love for your “dadda” and me that makes my heart melt. It doesn’t matter where we go or what we do – when the three (or four when Little J is around) of us are together, you let go – and take it all in. I absolutely love that about you.

You are funny. In a way I am not. You take what you see in movies and shows and turn it into your own performance. From swatting a spider away with a placemat (Madagascar) or smacking yourself in the head (Frozen), you are always looking for something to perform – and someone to perform for. Who knows – you may be the next John Ritter or Dick Van Dyke with the way you do physical comedy.

You are sweet. Painstakingly sweet. Of all the things I hope for your life, I hope you keep this. You pay attention to other people. Notice when there is garbage on the ground and want to pick it up. You want to sing a song for Ms. Meg when she’s sick. You say “thank you” when cars stop and let us cross the street. And probably my favorite is when you yell out the window to passing cars, taxi drivers or people on the sidewalk. All by your little self you are making strangers smile. I beg you to never lose this. Never let the world take this away. People deserve to smile, and sometimes it just takes a sweet face and a kind word – and you will always hold that power. Use it wisely.

You love your family. It doesn’t matter who they are – Oma, Puppa, Grandpa, Grandma, uncle, aunts or sister (although, I have to say your sister probably takes the cake right now) – you love them all. You run to wake them up when they come to visit, ask them (incessantly) to come play in your playroom and show them off proudly to your friends. Even as young as you are, the time and distance doesn’t matter. You pick right back up – even if you haven’t seen them in a year.  

You love to sing. Taylor Swift is still a favorite of yours; I love how you call her “Trouble” (it’s safe at this point to assume that all girls are trouble ;)). Anything can be turned into a microphone – and you rock out, dance moves and all.

As you turn 3 years old, I am so proud of the person you are turning into. And am so grateful that I am on this crazy journey with your awesome dad. The peace, joy and love that you bring to my life only grows stronger every year. Even the sky couldn’t hold all the love I feel for you.

Happy third birthday, my sweet boy. 

Finding a balance

Since I started out my day on a negative note (first cursing my husband in my head, then cursing my job out loud followed by an “I hate today” post on Facebook), I figured it would be best to list the good things that happened today. You know, trying to find the balance in it all.

·         An expected connection

·         A good laugh shared with my lovely colleagues (which came on the heels of a negative client experience)

·         A (somewhat creative) mind that can re-position a message to make it stronger

·         The HUGE hug I got from my nearly 3 year-old when I got to daycare

·         A trip to downtown Nashville with my incredibly curious and free toddler (who talks to everyone we walk past)

·         Dinner with Frozen – and being able to make my little boy smile when I sing along

·         The unsolicited “I love you, momma”

·         The returned “how is yours?” when I asked “How is your dinner?” (he is really listening!!)

And, while it hasn’t happened yet, I anticipate enjoying some quiet time as I sit in front of the computer doing more work and catching up on my favorite new guilty pleasure – House of Lies.

Sometimes all it takes is a few hours to clear an angry and overwhelmed mind – and come to a slightly new perspective (who’s kidding – perfection isn’t worth trying to attain at this point). 

The Stranger in the Mirror

As long as I can remember I have wanted to be a mom. And that doesn’t mean when I turned 20 – it means since the time my memories began taking shape as a child. At four years old when my brother was born, I would pull the rocking chair in his nursery over to his crib and drag his tiny belly over the sides every morning. Sometimes I would even climb in with him. That feeling never went away. I started babysitting at 11 and loved every minute of it. I always dreamed of growing up, getting married and having lots of kids (at least four).

I had an amazing pregnancy. No vomiting. No stretch marks. Minimal weight gain. (Before you decide to hate me, please keep reading.) It was 41 ½ weeks (yes, you read that correctly) of sweet anticipation and excitement for the life I was growing inside me.

The day my son was born is one I will never forget. My husband was stuck at my side guiding me with his silent strength, coaching me through the process which ended with him catching our son in his arms. We called out at the same time “It’s a boy” as we suddenly – and immediately – became a family.

From the outside, the days, weeks and months that followed that day likely seemed picture perfect. After all, I had everything I had ever wanted. I was part of the club…I was a mom.

So why did I feel so far away from myself?

It started with mild anxiety. Traffic. Errands with a newborn. Then a near panic attack on an international flight. My mind wouldn’t focus. I tried to reason with my very self-aware self. Nothing worked.

I started seeing a therapist. I told her to move quickly and push me through the process. The sooner I could be back to myself, the better. Then she took me to a place I wasn’t ready to go. I fell deeper. And I stopped going.

A year later, a female guest at a friend’s wedding was being nice to my husband. Nice. I couldn’t handle it. I was afraid of losing him. Afraid I wasn’t good enough anymore. Wasn’t fun enough. These thoughts scared me. They weren’t me. It was as if some stranger had taken over my brain. I called my therapist immediately and asked to come back. She welcomed me with open arms, and promised to take it slow. Neither of us knew just how fragile I was before.

Therapy helped. It gave me a safe place to unravel as I got worse. The words “anxiety” and “depression” quickly become all too familiar to me. They began defining who I was. I couldn’t go anywhere without them tagging along. The fear soon set in that I had lost myself forever. My sweet son would never know the woman I used to be when I dreamt about being his mother. My husband had lost the woman he loved more than anything…his partner. I was a shell of who I used to be. It was terrifying.

I became thin – no, skinny. Anxious. Scared. Insecure. Sad.

Months went by. I was committed to healing, but scared – frightened – of taking medication to get there. I tried acupuncture. I went to doctors. I got worse.

All the while my therapist stuck by my side. Committed to helping me cope. To find my way back. Funny thing is, she didn’t even know who I was before – but she wouldn’t give up trying to. The day she convinced me was one of the best days in recent memory. She told me drugs would allow me to stop gripping so hard. Would allow me to let go. At least help me heal. You see, it’s hard to heal when you’re holding on so tight. I could sit back, even if just a little.

It’s been about six months now since I let go. I bought a house and moved my family 1,000 miles to a new city. A few months ago I laughed so hard I cried while watching an episode of Modern Family. That’s when I knew it. I was coming back.

Laughing feels good again. Loving my son feels amazing. Trusting and appreciating my husband is a sweet gift.

In my wildest dreams I never thought this sort of thing could hit me. Not the girl who wanted this so bad. Not the one with the picture-perfect pregnancy and delivery. I never dreamed it would be this hard. That I would go so far away from who I was. Who I wanted to be. But, post-partum doesn’t discriminate.

I am still terrified by the thought of having a second child. I have an internal reaction every time a friend tells me she’s pregnant for the second time. Those feelings of inadequacy and the fear of being a bad mother can creep up without warning. But, I’m choosing my life first. And my son’s. And sweet husband. We are all healing.

And I’m learning that’s a process.