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The TRUTH About Motherhood

Category: Confessions

  • First Day of Kindergarten Hurts Like a Mo Fo

    First Day of Kindergarten Hurts Like a Mo Fo

    It’s the night before kindergarten again and I am not ready for this. UGH! I am dreading it now. I’ve been breaking down all day because my dog’s very sick and we’re not sure if she’s going to make it and now, I am sure tomorrow the crying will be of inappropriate proportions. As I sit here typing, the thought of reading that damn book “The Night before kindergarten” has me choking on tears and knowing what the kindergarten hallway looks like, think a mine field with mothers crying like they are Mary and their kindergartener is Christ on the Cross. It’s every thing I can do NOT to turn around and say fuck it. Never mind, I will home-school; thank you very much.

    Oh yeah, I fell prey to this menagerie of crying Mommies last year when I had to tiptoe over their strewn carcasses as I made my way to the 1st grade corridor. It was brutal. I was holding it in and squeezing my Bella’s hand to reassure her. Damn the letting go. It hurts so bad. I hate the first day of kindergarten. I’d like to throat punch the first day of kindergarten or maybe even roundhouse kick it in the nuts.

    kindergarten, first day of kindergarten, back to school

    The First Day of Kindergarten

    I started this post yesterday when I was filled with trepidation and bursting at the seams with nauseating nostalgia.  I was up most of the night unable to sleep. Gabs woke me up twice and the dog woke me up about three times. There was not much sleep to be had anyways. This morning I woke the girls up and the Big Guy too. The Big Guy made pancakes while I got the girls dressed, one by one, in a haze of no sleep and a fog of can I really do this? Let my baby start the leaving process. I don’t think I am built to let my children go.

    If it were up to me, I would keep them snuggled up in my arms for all eternity. I know it’s crazy. Babies are born to grow up and become adults and go off on their own but why does the letting go have to start just when they are really starting to be interesting? I dressed both girls to perfection in their cute little navy uniforms with the hairstyle of their choice and we were off. Me with the camera on hand and the Big Guy under strict instructions to video tape everything.

    As we drove along the same route we have driven so many times before to drop off her sister, I looked to the backseat and saw the baby I loved so much beaming with excitement and fidgeting with nervousness. I pretended not to notice the trepidation. She caught me staring at her and smiled just a little bit bigger. My heart, my mommy heart was starting to quiver. Silently I command myself, “ Don’t ugly cry, lady. You have to wait until you get outside of the building. Never let them see you cry.” Yes, my inner monologue is a pretty bossy bitch.

    She has no compassion for me or the first day of kindergarten.

    When we arrived at school, she was the first one out of the car. “Mommy, take my picture!” as she posed in front of the welcome sign. I followed silently snapping photos, committing every second of the letting go to memory. Smiling my nervous smile that only my husband recognizes. Gabs and her sister bounced through the hallways, sprinting towards the new year of new experiences; toward growing up. I could feel the pull at my heart as I watched their tiny bodies walking away from me.

    After a photo or two beside the “KINDERGARTEN “ sign, it was time to let her go and trust someone else in the world with my most prized possessions; my children. This is the hard part. This is where I swallow hard and hug tight and slowly watch helplessly as I do the right thing and encourage her to go. Oh, how it hurts my heart and stings my eyes. Swallow that lump lady! I swallow so hard that I almost choke on this familiar lump. She runs back for one last hug and whispers, “I love you, Mommy. I’ll be okay.”

    I slowly turn and walk away. I sneak one last backward glance she is smiling and coloring with new friends. As I walk away, I can hear her giggle and engage in excited conversation and I remember the words she just spoke to me, “I’ll be okay.” I know she’ll be okay and I trust that she’ll be safe there because of how commended this kindergarten is just like https://www.paulofreirezapopan.edu.mx/.

    I know she will. Will I? I didn’t cry, though I really wanted to. I loosen my white knuckled grip on my little girl’s childhood and I look forward to afternoon pick up when I can once again fill my arms with my little girls and my heart can be happy. How did you deal with the first day of school, daycare or kindergarten?

    I know eventually this won’t be so hard but today, on the first day of kindergarten, letting go hurts like a motherfucker.

  • I Swore I Wouldn’t be This Person

    I Swore I Wouldn’t be This Person

    I swore that I wouldn’t be this person. The woman who lost a child and then feels like she gets kicked in the gut every single time someone she knows announces their pregnancy. Fuck. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to suck all of the joy out of the room. I want to be happy and excited. I really do. I tell myself that I am and then it hits me like a sledgehammer, right in the heart. A painful reminder of what I can’t have, of what I’m too afraid to ever let myself want again, of what I will never get to experience again because I won’t. I can’t. I am too afraid to go through that pain again. Once almost killed me. It changed me. I don’t know if I can handle another shift like that. I might become unrecognizable, even to myself.

    I remember that morning at the hospital, seeing a small child, not even a year old, sitting with her parents in the waiting room; waiting to be called back for her surgery. I remember sitting there, with my silent womb, not a stirring, thinking to myself, I am glad I am not those parents because there is nothing worse than having a sick baby and feeling helpless. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe it does to someone who has been through it or maybe the pain was just too much and I had to detach myself from what was really happening to me.

    I saw that same little girl in the back when they were prepping us for surgery and I was again overwhelmed with gratitude that I was not sitting there as the parent of a child who was sick. I looked at my husband and I said (out loud), “It could be worse, we could be here with one of our girls who was sick.” He looked at me sort of bewildered. I guess he thought I was crazy because our baby was as sick as a baby could get, our baby no longer had a heartbeat. I was grateful that I could not hold my baby, see its eyes looking to me to save it, it’s cry begging me for relief; it was not tangible. My hurt was underlying. My baby was a promise that had been broken before I ever had the chance to fully appreciate it. In the first days, I wanted nothing more than to have had the chance to hold my baby but now, I know that if I had, the pain of the loss might have killed me on the spot.

    Now that broken promise haunts me. I can’t stop it from infiltrating my thoughts. I can’t stop being this fucking person who feels empty and a little bitter. I’m pissed. Pissed at the situation. Pissed at myself for still feeling so vulnerable. Pissed at myself for still getting so pissed. I fucking want to punch somebody. I’m envious of other people’s happiness and I don’t want to be that person. I want to be able to genuinely feel happy without the happiness carrying with it a tinge of pain; the reminder of my loss. I’m afraid to be around my friends who are pregnant because I’m afraid I will spontaneously burst into tears and ruin their happiness. Every first of the month, I mark the day that my baby died. It coincides with my period just to remind me that my womb is in fact empty.

    I know this sounds morbid and maybe a little crazy. I am so sick of pretending that everything is normal. I’m sick of pretending that I am all right. I’m not. All. Right. I am all wrong and I am afraid that I will not find my way back to my normal and that’s all that I want. Is normal so much to ask for? I am slowly beginning to live again but there is this damn underlying anger that I can’t shake. How does one shake the anger caused by a promise that can never be fulfilled? How do you fix a problem with no solution?

    Linking up this morning with Just Write because sometimes you just need to write it out to move through it.

  • It’s Official, I am a Helicopter Parent

    It’s Official, I am a Helicopter Parent

    helicopter parent

    I’m a helicopter parent because free range scares me

    It’s official I am a helicopter parent. I know the exact moment it happened. I’ve been dipping my toe in the helicopter parenting pool for about 8 years now but I’ve tried to keep from jumping into the deep end. I tried to fool myself into thinking, I had a little bit of free range in me but I was wrong. (more…)

  • Stream of Consciousness ~Lingering in Loss

    Stream of Consciousness ~Lingering in Loss

    loss, miscarriage, stream of consciousness, pain, pregnancy

    Loss~ Sometimes it crashes over me like a giant wave; swallowing me up and drowning me.

    I am all alone with this secret sadness.

    Everyone thinks I’ve forgotten & that I’ve gotten over my miscarriage.

    My pregnancy that I never got to share with the people I love.

    My baby who I never got to welcome into the world; into our family.

    Life carries on but I can’t forget. It’s always right here with me.

    It’s in my heart and bubbles to the surface and almost chokes me on certain occasions.

    When I see a pregnant woman who is about as far along in her pregnancy as I should be; my heart silently breaks.

    I am not bitter. I am envious that she does not know the pain of loss.

    I would not wish the loss of a pregnancy or a child on my worst enemy.

    I am sad for my baby that I will never know. I feel cheated.

    I am pissed that this happened to me.

    I long for what I should be experiencing too.

    No one hears me. When I lie awake at night unable to sleep & one of my daughters comes into get me, I lie there looking at my 2 beautiful babies and I yearn for something I’ll never know, someone I’ll never meet: my baby.

    The little life that lived inside me for only 10 weeks, who I loved more than words can ever convey.

    Loss is not fair.

    Why did this happen to me?

    Everyone gets to move on with their life but I can’t. I’m stuck in my loss being swallowed whole and I don’t think I’ll ever break free.

    I feel like everyone has forgotten; no one remembers or cares to remember the little life that almost was but my heart breaks and yearns daily to feel my baby in my arms and at my bosom. I never will.

    I try to carry on & be strong because that’s my nature. I’m not the victim who sits around and lets life happen to her.

    Though my miscarriage immobilized me completely for a month.

    Loss has crippled me emotionally.

    I pack my pain up in a tiny box & push it way, way down.

    I try not to drone on or linger too long. No one likes a Debi Downer but I’m down, down in the pits of hell alone.

    Not every day or constantly but the pain of loss lingers just beneath the surface; haunting me from within.

    Crying into my pillow in the middle of the night. Screaming, yelling hating the pain, wishing I didn’t know this pain so intimately.

    I don’t know how people carry on normally after their loss.

    I don’t know how or when life feels normal again. When does my heart stop aching?

    When can I stop pretending to be okay and actually be okay?

    There will always be a hole in my arms where my baby should be.

    There will always be a part of our family missing in my heart.

    I will never be the same.

    I will never be okay.

    My loss is my constant companion.

    Photo

  • A Thousand Years

    A Thousand Years

    It seems like it’s been A Thousand Years since I first found out that I was going to be a mother for the third time. It’s been 3 months today since that test showed two lines. I was surprised and exhilarated and scared all in that moment. But mostly I was unexpectedly blessed beyond my wildest dreams. I’ve always wanted three children but it just didn’t seem to be in the cards and then it was and now it’s not. Mother’s Day was yesterday. This was my 7th Mother’s day. Every year, I thank God for blessing me with my beautiful children.Now, I know to thank God for my children every second of every day. I’ve always known that some women were not so lucky to be sitting, holding their children in their lap on Mother’s day but I never honestly knew their pain. The lingering emptiness and void that remains long after a baby is gone.

    I have been waiting for you for a thousand years

    I’ve always felt like I don’t deserve my children. I have days when I am grouchy and sometimes I am less patient than my girls deserve. I lose my temper and say “No” to a lot of requests to what seems to me to be frivolous requests. I rush them and hush them. But what if they weren’t there to ask? Then what? I’d give my life to be sure that they are here so why not give in to frivolous requests? Because maybe those requests are not so frivolous after all. I am now painfully aware how very important every moment of every day is with my children. I had to learn this lesson the hard way.

    Yesterday, I had lots of love sent my way. I thought I would be okay. It’s been two weeks since I saw that life changing ultrasound. I’ll NEVER be over it. I will never forget the baby that I was looking forward to introducing to my family this Thanksgiving. I feel like I loved that baby for a thousand years and I know I will love him for a thousand more. As far as I am concerned, I am the mommy of three babies. I just never got the privilege of holding my third baby in my arms. I feel robbed and cheated and sad. But a little part of me, feels grateful that I ever got the chance to feel that incredible love that a mommy can only feel for the baby growing inside her. It’s been a hard two weeks, the hardest of my entire life. I am learning to live in my new normal.

    I have loved You for a Thousand Years

    I feel like a ticking time bomb of emotions. The song that was playing that morning as we drove to the hospital, the very same song that I sang to my belly in the car the week before, A Thousand Years by Christina Perri, every time I hear it I bitter-sweetly smile at what might have been and cry at what I had to lose to truly appreciate what I had. I have new perspective. Mother’s Day to me is a day to give thanks for all the beautiful mother’s in my life.A day to appreciate the power of a mother’s love.

    My mother who loves me so much that she stepped back to allow me to feel my pain at my request, knowing that, as a mother, all she wanted to do was run to me and comfort me. My sister, who lost her own angel, 10 years ago. I never understood the solitude in  her pain and I now wish that I could just wrap her in love and make everything alright for her. She is so brave and beautiful. I admire her for her heart. My baby sister, who just celebrated her first Mother’s day but loves me so much that she held me as I cried and felt my pain so that the force of it did not kill me. To all my friends who have never felt this loss but love me so much that they surrounded me with love, prayer and understanding and to all of the beautiful friends and strangers who I am joined to forever in our loss., my heart goes out to all of you because I know how hard it is to lose something that means so very much. Please hold those babies you can in your arms every day and be thankful they are there and hold the ones that are not, in your heart where they will live and be a part of you forever.

    I’ll Love you for a thousand More

    Today is a new beginning. Today, I am rising from beneath the rubble of my heart. I am summoning all of my strength and I will get up out of bed, love my children with all that I am, live my life and be thankful for all the wonderful people and opportunities that I have been given. I am counting my blessings, wiping my tears away and coming back to life. I am no longer who I once was and things that seemed so important last month have no importance at all today. My priority is my family; my husband who has been my rock and my beautiful daughters who light up my life and show me how very precious life is and how very blessed I am to have them.

    Positive, how long I’ve waited for this

    An unnatural calm has over taken me

    I am happy but afraid to be excited

    Afraid my joy will be sort lived and snatched away

    My whole life this was the moment I was meant for

    But maybe it’s not to be, maybe it’s the cruelest joke

    To give such a precious git & take it away just as quickly

    I feel a sick feeling in my stomach which accompanies the thought of losing you

    I pray to God to spare me this misery

    To let us be together until the sunset of my life!

    The above quote was written July of 2004 when I was spotting with my first pregnancy.

  • The Kindness of Strangers

    The past week has been the hardest of my life, thus far. I’ve been walking around in a surreal state of existence since last Monday, only half-feeling my grief.

    I can’t seem to get the ultrasound image of my perfect baby out of my head. He looked so peaceful. In my heart, that was my baby boy.

    The girls have been distracted. I’ve gone out of my way to keep them occupied. Partly because I don’t want to see them sad, partly because I can’t survive another round of my 4-year-old ugly crying telling me that maybe if she loved the baby more, the baby would still be alive. My heart can’t handle being broken into too many more pieces or it may never heal.

    I’m not crying constantly anymore. I’ve spent most of the last week in a Vicodin induced fog and I’m all right with that. I need the physical and emotional pain dulled. Each ache and pain is a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

    People are afraid to talk to me and when they do, I see the pity and sadness in their eyes. I’m able to talk about it now, a little bit. I still can’t say the word miscarriage aloud without crying. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around all of this. It’s hard. I’m trying to see the purpose but I can’t make myself understand.

    One thing has gotten me through without jumping out of my skin or curling up into the fetal position and dying, and that is you. All of you. Your love, support, kind words and endless prayers have given me the strength to survive this tragedy. People I have known my entire life, my parents, my family, my friends and my beautiful husband and children have been here to love me, to hold me and to give me the space I needed to muddle through.

    But you have given me a steady stream of reassurance and by sharing your stories of your own losses; you have made me feel not alone when I have felt the loneliest of my life. When I felt my whole world was spinning out of control and I was losing sight of any hope of normalcy, you have been my touchstone. A terrible thing has happened to me but through it, it’s been made clear to me how blessed I am in my life by the people I know. You are all so much more than just readers, followers and people I know on the computer, you are friends because only a friend could show such genuine love and continued compassion. Your words have saved my life and my sanity. Thank you does not seem to express the gratitude and love I feel for what you all have done for me in this past week but it’s the only words I have, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  • The End of the World as We Know It

    Telling my daughters was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. My husband decided to tell them the truth out of concern for me. My 4-year-old has been begging to be a big sister and he was afraid that in my fragile state, her relentless requests would be to torturous for me to endure. I think we should not of told her. My 4 year old took it especially hard. She is devastated. All I can do is cry.

    The morning of my D& C, I awoke at 3:30 A.M. My 4 year old woke soon after and wanted to say good-bye to the baby. She put her arms around me and whispered quietly to my belly, “good bye, baby. I love you!” Then she begged me to get a photo of her baby for her. My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. Then she looked up at me and said, “ Maybe if I knew the baby was in your tummy I could have loved the baby more and he wouldn’t have died.” I whimpered, holding back the flood of hurt and pain that wants to come crashing out and consume the entire world. I have failed her and cannot give her what she’s wanted so badly.

    5:30 am May first, 2012. It was a warm Tuesday morning. I walked into the hospital feeling lost and discombobulated, in a fog. We slowly made our way to the registration desk. It all seemed otherworldly, like it was a bad dream and wasn’t really happening but I couldn’t make myself wake up.

    After what seemed like an eternity they called us back to prep for surgery. All I could think of we’re my children; my oldest trying to understand and comfort her sister, my youngest mimicking my inner breakdown, completely distraught that the baby was dead, and my baby who I loved so desperately but would never have the chance to hold, to look into his/her eyes, to kiss and nuzzle their tiny head.

    Everyone was extremely kind to me that morning and I will always be thankful for their kindness. The kindness of strangers has truly helped me to survive the last few days. I’ve realized that sometimes its easier to speak to those who don’t really know you because they can offer an empathetic kindness and understanding unlike those who love you and have known you your entire life, because they are too vested and behind their love and support, you can see the pain and heartbreak they share with you and sometimes the burden of causing that pain is too much to bear.

    The doctor arrived and I told her that I needed one last ultrasound to be certain there was no heartbeat. I. Had.to.be.certain! There was no heartbeat only a beautiful, perfect baby with a profile that reminded me of my oldest. I was thankful for one last look and asked for the ultrasound photos so that I could grant my daughter at least this one simple request. I did not get overly emotional. I did not cry. I had my photo. In had my proof. Proof that my baby ever existed.

    The procedure was explained to me in ad nauseum and I was reassuringly told that it would be over in ten minutes. I found that to be the most unsettling thing of all that my entire life could be altered, my baby’s lifetime of promise and all of our hopes and dreams completely gone in a matter of ten minutes.

    Tuesday morning my life was changed forever. I am not the same woman I was yesterday or the day before. She is gone. I am part of a new club, the saddest club ever. The one filled with all the mothers of the world who never got to meet their babies. That morning, one of the worst of my life, I met 4 of the kindest nurses I’ve ever met, 3 out of the 4 had experienced miscarriages. Each time they offered their sympathies and shared their own loss, I found myself feeling overwhelmed by my sadness for their loss.

    I feel like a raw open wound and the wound is my heart and I’m not sure it will ever truly heal. I feel like I am on an emotional rollercoaster in hell and I cannot get off and I so desperately want to. I just want my mind to quiet and my heart to stop hurting so badly. I just want to survive. A quote was sent to me by one of my readers and it made me cry but I think it is beautiful, so I am sharing it here.

     

    “An angel in the Book of Life wrote down our baby’s birth and whispered as she closed the Book: “Too Beautiful for Earth!” ~Anon 

    It ‘s beautiful to think of it that way but it doesn’t stop the pain. I hope someday, I will meet my baby again and get the chance to hold him/her in my arms, kiss her upon her cheek and be his Mommy.

    *This and the previous post were written in my notes on my phone, as I was experiencing the hell of this week. It was written in a very vulnerable state and it may not make sense, or there may be misspellings or grammar issues, or jump all over the place because it’s hard to write logically when your world is falling apart and you can barely see to write through the tears and swollen eyes.

  • All I Can Do is Cry

    All I Can Do is Cry

    Estimated reading time: 3 minutes

    Cry is the only response my body could muster when I heard the word miscarriage.

    I want to scream but I can’t. I can barely think. All I can do is cry.

    My heart has been irreparably broken.

    This unexpected blessing that shocked me when I first saw the two lines, this baby that I didn’t deserve is now gone.

    My miracle labeled a miscarriage.

    I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is cry.

    I went in this morning because I was spotting; no cramps, no heavy bleeding; nothing. I expected everything to be ok. It wasn’t. It isn’t. I don’t know if it ever will be again.

    I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. All I can do is cry.

    We had only told a very few people, not even our little girls who have been begging for a baby brother or sister.

    I’m always afraid. Always afraid that I’ll say something too soon and something bad will happen.

    Terrified that I’ll have to explain a miscarriage, afraid my happiness will prove too bold.

    My sister lost a baby at 9 weeks. I am 10 weeks and 4 days, I thought I was safe. I wasn’t.

    The ultrasound showed 9 weeks and 2 days. That’s when our baby died.

    The moment I saw the tech’s face, I knew.

    There was no tiny heartbeat.

    Only a perfect, still baby.

    What does it feel like to have a miscarriage?

    It feels like all the wind has been knocked out of me. I feel numb.

    I want to crawl up inside myself and be still and never move again.

    I want to die. I want my heart to stop beating.

    I can’t bear the thought of people looking at me with pity. The thought of people trying to talk or understand my pain away weighs on me like an anchor around my neck.

    Just let me be. Let me feel this insurmountable loss.

    Let me cry my primal animalistic screams and pretend you don’t hear.

    Don’t touch me.

    Don’t speak to me.

    Just let me be alone with my darkness, my abyss; my hell.

    My baby was a promise for something better. The promise has been broken and I feel empty. I feel betrayed and let down by life.

    I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. All I can do is cry.

    While you are reading this, I will be at the hospital having a D & E because the thought of walking around with my perfect baby without a heartbeat inside me while waiting for it to pass on its own is too much to bear right now.

    I appreciate your love, prayers and support and I was hoping to be sharing with you our pregnancy this month, instead, I’m sharing my loss. It’s the only way I know how to move through my pain…to write it down.

    I believe that there is a reason for everything and that God has a divine plan for us all, but right now, today my heart is breaking.

    All I can do is cry.

    This miscarriage makes me feel like my body has completely failed me and I don’t know how to survive this gaping wound in my soul.

  • Embracing the Unexpected

    Embracing the Unexpected

     

    unexpected, family, life, change

    Last week, the Big Guy had an unexpected job interview. Unexpected because he loves the job he has, it’s his dream job. The past three years have been insanely chaotic for our family. I started this blog, the spring that my husband first had to leave us for a job; my daughters we’re 2 and 4. They are currently, almost 5 and 7. Many of you know the story of our two-year commuter marriage and all the upheaval that has come with that. The moving, the separation, the hurt and finally, the reunion, we have survived as a family. It’s been really hard. (more…)

  • The Test

    The Test

    the test

     The Test

    I drove the long trip home with the test, it seemed like hours; it was only 20 minutes. Next to me, on the passenger side of the car, sat a tiny plastic bag that held a small pink box, that held the key to my future. I felt slightly nauseous and filled with trepidation, exhausted and scared. This wasn’t what I had planned. This would be a life changing surprise but one that I think I knew the answer to before it was even asked. He knew the answer. He had a feeling. I think I knew, I was just afraid to say it out loud. If I say it out loud, it will be real. I drive in my denial of silence a bit longer but this is all speculation. This tiny little box with a tiny little test could change my life forever.

    My mouth was dry, it was impossible to swallow.The car was so quiet I could hear the road meeting the tires and the wind as it hit the car. I could hear the line in my forehead furrowing as I drove in deep thought. I could barely remember to breathe. I drove in solitude, completely alone. Just me. Inside my head. Alone. Well, maybe not completely alone but that was the million dollar question that the stick in the tiny little pink box was going to answer. I could hear the blood rushing to my head at a dizzying rate. I inhaled deeply. I was driving but I wasn’t seeing anything. I was on autopilot. I was exhilarated. I was terrified. This must be what it feels like when you get everything you ever wanted and didn’t realize it.

    The Test

    Breathe, Debi. This may not have been planned exactly but you can’t really be shocked. After all, you are a grown woman. You know how the works. You’ve had the talk…decades ago. Breathe! You may be surprised but you know how and when this happened. You made a choice. You both did.

    I pull into the driveway and, as if in slow motion, I make my way into the house alone. I walk to the bathroom, remove the tiny stick from the pink box and follow the instructions. I hold my breath and I wait for my life to change and then I  took three more tests, just to be sure. The first test that truly changed my life was the positive pregnancy test with my first daughter. How did you feel the first time you took a pregnancy test?

    The Test