Mama

A few days ago, something startling happened. While listening to our child whining from her crib about her impending nap on the monitor, we heard something. We both stared at the little white box. And my husband said “I think she just said mama.” Then we heard it again. Definitely. Maybe. "Mama.”

After that it turned into a string of verbiage “Mama. (quieter: ma ma ma ma ma) Mama.” She started doing this again when my husband was watching her while I was at work. He said “Mama’s not here.” And she quietly stared at him, then resumed playing. Or switched to general whining.

At 7 1/2 months old I hesitate to assume this is her first word, her first real clear word. M noises are simple to make and it’s likely just a progression of that… right?

I’ve been struggling lately with my own personal concept of being a good mom. I have never been and organized person. I only cook because I like to eat. I like baking but detest the cleaning that comes after. My “mama” goals for myself include cooking more “homemade” meals, doing laundry more regularly, and cleaning more frequently.

My husband helps by keeping an eye on the baby, feeding the baby etc. while I tend to these chores.

So far, I’ve added two new recipes to my very limited repertoire. But on evenings when I do venture to “cook all the things” it comes with a completely destroyed kitchen. So one improvement makes another thing on my list more difficult. Add a screaming, teething baby and I tend to collapse in a chair and do none of “the things”. 

Mama.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled my baby loves me. I adore holding and cuddling her while she giggles. But I’m tired. And there is a ton of whining and screaming between giggle sessions.

“OK sweetie, repeat after me — Da-da."

Bless her heart

Hi! I’m the friend that means well. I suspect the term “bless her heart” or something of that nature is used in reference to me frequently. 

It’s amusing to me when people think I’m outgoing or social — I’m really not. I’m a mess in nearly all social situations. Particularly just before something begins. My palms sweat, I pace the floor. 

I constantly worry that my friends dislike me in some way. One social misstep or misspeak and I beat myself up for months. 

I’m the friend that means well. 

I suspect my husband is often puzzled as to why I’m so jubilant after we have friends over — it’s because I was reassured by their mere presence that there are people out there who like me and enjoy my company. I need that reassurance. I thrive off of it. If I go to long without it, the worry festers and makes me miserable. So I push myself to host gatherings, and leave the house and do things, so that I can breath again. So that I can get the validation I need and stop the voices of doubt in my head. 

Unfortunately, this often leads to my being taken advantage of or letting myself be mistreated in my constant desire to be liked, because I am the friend that means well.

This all feeds into my New Year Resolution: To stop dwelling on past hurts on a daily basis and focus more on the positives the future holds with my husband, daughter and our loved ones. I am tired of making myself sick over events from the past year that I can not fix or change. I’m tired of blaming myself when in truth I did nothing wrong. 

I am liked. 

I am loved. 

And that’s all that matters. 

Grandpa

My grandfather — my last living grandparent — passed away late yesterday afternoon.

I remember when I was in college trying to tell him what I was planning to do with my life. Journalism was never an acceptable venture in my grandfather’s mind. I could always be a waitress, “if you’re good at it you can make good tips ya know,” or even an onion farmer — anything but a “journalist.”

When I told him I was getting married and introduced him to my then fiancé, he said something along the lines of "Oh, that's nice" and proceeded to tell my husband all about the government and how my husband's job at DFAS actually works, as opposed to how my husband explained it to him.

To be blunt, my grandfather was a narcissistic bastard, a trait that only got worse with age. He was opinionated about everything. And lord knows he loved to pick fight. 

But in addition to all of that, he was also there for every play, every concert. He proudly took photos of my high school graduation, though no one ever saw them — I suspect the film is still in the camera wherever that ended up. He nursed me through countless ear infections and stomach bugs. He told me funny stories about his youth and fought with me over the black olives at Easter dinner.  He made me pancakes for supper and taught me how to play golf. When I was young, he did everything a grandfather should do, and for a girl with four grandmothers he was the only “grandpa” I felt fit the role. 

Simply put, I loved him. Despite everything, every negative comment or action, I loved him, and I know that he loved me in his own way— and perhaps that was enough.

Baby smiles

Almost a week into month four of parenting and I am utterly exhausted. And while the notable lack of sleep is the main culprit, my husband and I are starting to suspect a more direct drain point — whenever we feel the most tired, the most sapped, we look over and see our child giggling and flailing around with the vigor of a fish just dropped on shore. When we see her so happy, so energized, we’ve come to the conclusion she’s taken the ebullience directly from us.

And this in combination with the screaming at random, the bottomless tummy, the dirty diapers, the projectile spit-up, the head-butts and hair pulls make us glad for the moments of peace when a loving grandparent spirits her away for a couple of hours. 

But if there’s one thing (thus far) that makes it all worth it, it’s her smile. 

Some time between 5 and 7 a.m. she’ll whimper her declaration of “I am awake incase anyone is interested.” Invariably my husband or myself will grudgingly drag ourselves from our chairs or bed to retrieve her. When I enter the darkened room and turn on the crib side lamp, she flinches away from the light. Once she again opens her eyes the first thing she focuses on is my face, and she smiles. She smiles as if to say “Oh hi! You came back. Love me mama!” And I scoop her up in my arms and cuddle her within an inch of her tiny life, because I can’t believe I’ve ever been mad or frustrated with this helpless little thing that beams up at me with such utter adoration. 

The way my child loves us and wants us is worth more than gold, and I feel privileged to be loved by her.

(please note that the photo is a stock image, not a picture of our actual child, however the expression is just about perfect)

Woman in the mirror

Thus far on my quest I have determined that beauty, or more specifically feeling beautiful, comes partially from how one is treated by others. Beauty is a matter of perception after all. In the last few weeks I have made great strides in regards to loving myself again. A major factor in this has been my wonderful husband. The affection he has poured upon me has helped in an immeasurable fashion — being loved helps you love.

Beauty is perception. And, as superficial as it may sound, the second thing that has helped me is a batch of new clothing. 

I really believe that trying on a daily basis to pry on clothes that no longer fit was dragging me further and further into a state of despair. Granted — the process of trying on new clothing in the store caused me to want to curl up in a corner and cry, but once that part was over and I had the occasion to wear my nice new duds out in public, I very quickly started to feel better about myself in general. The woman in the mirror no longer seemed so misshapen, and started to transform into someone a bit more attractive and confident. 

Now, that’s not to say I don’t still have bad days or that I don't still hate the way I appear in photos, but for the moment, the woman in the mirror and I area getting along much better, and that’s a start.

Learning to love myself again

I have been absent from this space for some time now, partially due to my becoming pregnant with our first child. Our darling daughter was born in August.

Post-pregnancy I’ve been dealing with a number of challenges, including one I really wasn’t prepared for — my self-image.

While I was pregnant I was proud to show off my baby bump. I was relieved and pleased that the hormone influx did not cause me to become one of those women who complain about becoming “fat” (you’re not fat, you’re pregnant!).

I spent months mentally preparing myself for the remaining weight that would be — possibly permanently — added to my physique.

I have never been a skinny girl, I’ve always been a tad “solid” in regards to my weight.

I was determined to be OK with myself because I had had a baby — of course I was going to be heavier than I was before, of course I was going to have stretch marks, it’s all OK because I had a baby.

Truth is, now that I'm there, it’s not OK — I’m not OK.

I look in the mirror and I see fat and flab. 

In the photos taken of us with our daughter I could not see past the double chin that seemed to come out of no where when I looked down at our precious bundle of joy. I feel odd, out of sorts and not like myself — I used to love myself but now I’m not so sure.

These photos are an act of courage on my part, to post my imperfections for all the world to see. In my mind this is the first step down a long road to loving myself again, as I am. 

I want to accept my battle scars with pride. I want to be self-assured that I am beautiful, just as I am.

I want it. I’m just not sure how to achieve it.

Path of the author

"...For yea verily, the path of the author is strewn with dying liver cells." 

(Quote from the awesomeness that is Tea with the Squash God)