Some parts of motherhood come easily to me. I'm one of the lucky unicorns who escaped two full-term(+) pregnancies without any stretch marks on my belly, and slipped back into my old jeans the day after I came home from the hospital. I snubbed my nose at pain relievers during my 40-hour labor with May, and delivered my 9-and-a-half-pound baby boy standing up and felt like a damn birthing queen.
Newborns weren't as hard as everyone said they'd be either. I didn't mind all of the wake-ups or the yellow poop, and I got so good at breastfeeding that I still haven't stopped. I dodged PPD, and avoided an existential life crisis about losing the "old me." In fact, having a baby finally justified the old-lady lifestyle I've been living my whole life, and instead, brought my Pinterest boards to life with the most beautiful baby girl, and then boy, at the center of it all.
But year five.
Ya know that scene in the Lion King when all of the wildebeests run down the valley and trample Mufasa? That's year five.
The abbreviated background: The company Chris worked for from home unexpectedly closed their doors last April leading to several months of underemployment (re: MAJOR stress). I was twelve hours away from accepting a job offer back in Dallas when Chris got a job offer here that was too good to be true. And although his job is truly that good, it brings us to full-time preschool and daycare, which brings us to complicated drop-off schedules (all four of us spending our days in four different townships), packing (what feels like) suitcases every night, full of clothes and food and bedding and favorite nap-time stuffies, all the while trying to remember who needs to be dressed up for Dr. Seuss Day, who can't bring nuts in their lunch box, and which class needs St. Patrick's day napkins. It brought us vomit that splashed all over the walls, strep x2, the flu x3, adenovirus, four double ear infections, and Children's Motrin by the jug. And if that paragraph reads like a run-on sentence, just take it as a metaphor for our life.
But that's just the background noise. And although I'm an AWFUL mom-nurse, and just the thought of getting the kids out the door by 7:10am (with said suitcases in tow) sends me over the edge, that's not why year five is so hard. It's hard because we've been sprinting this parenting marathon day and night, and night and day for half a decade, and if I could pick my biggest parenting flaw (besides sleep-training), it's that I'm really, really bad at asking for help, or even accepting help when it's offered.
But year five.
Year five is the year that I am asking for help, because my daughter needs help, and I don't know how to help her. Although she couldn't wait to stay at school for lunch bunch and thought nap time (which she hasn't done since she was 20-months old) sounded cool, the reality of her new full-time school schedule uncovered yet another similarity between mother and daughter-- anxiety. There is so much to say, and so much to learn, but to protect her privacy, I'll just leave it at that.
The abbreviated background: The company Chris worked for from home unexpectedly closed their doors last April leading to several months of underemployment (re: MAJOR stress). I was twelve hours away from accepting a job offer back in Dallas when Chris got a job offer here that was too good to be true. And although his job is truly that good, it brings us to full-time preschool and daycare, which brings us to complicated drop-off schedules (all four of us spending our days in four different townships), packing (what feels like) suitcases every night, full of clothes and food and bedding and favorite nap-time stuffies, all the while trying to remember who needs to be dressed up for Dr. Seuss Day, who can't bring nuts in their lunch box, and which class needs St. Patrick's day napkins. It brought us vomit that splashed all over the walls, strep x2, the flu x3, adenovirus, four double ear infections, and Children's Motrin by the jug. And if that paragraph reads like a run-on sentence, just take it as a metaphor for our life.
But that's just the background noise. And although I'm an AWFUL mom-nurse, and just the thought of getting the kids out the door by 7:10am (with said suitcases in tow) sends me over the edge, that's not why year five is so hard. It's hard because we've been sprinting this parenting marathon day and night, and night and day for half a decade, and if I could pick my biggest parenting flaw (besides sleep-training), it's that I'm really, really bad at asking for help, or even accepting help when it's offered.
But year five.
Year five is the year that I am asking for help, because my daughter needs help, and I don't know how to help her. Although she couldn't wait to stay at school for lunch bunch and thought nap time (which she hasn't done since she was 20-months old) sounded cool, the reality of her new full-time school schedule uncovered yet another similarity between mother and daughter-- anxiety. There is so much to say, and so much to learn, but to protect her privacy, I'll just leave it at that.
Year five is the year that I am asking for help, because the only way to be a working mom with a working spouse, and no family for thousands of miles, is to ask for help. There's something about being a recovering over-achiever that makes asking for help nothing short of miserable. And even though my colleagues and bosses quickly and empathetically come by my side to shoulder my load, and our parents happily squish their legs into tiny airplane seats to come bear my load, I still think it's just that-- my load-- responsibilities that I wish I could carry on my own.
Let me rewind to when my parenthood began, before five years of interrupted sleep left me bone-tired, back when my God-given strengths matched my child's needs and I felt perfectly suited for motherhood. The thing I didn't account for at that time, is that parenthood, as unremitting as it is, is fleeting. It should be obvious to all parents that we won't get to keep our babies forever, or to hold on to the season that fits us best. Our parenting will have to grow and change right along with our children, who outgrow three shoe sizes a season, and whose whim and whimsy is more like a curlicue than a straight line. But no matter how basic this concept, I've stumbled and tripped learning and relearning how to be a mom and although I still feel like I'm buried under a herd of wildebeests right now, I've finally learned how to ask for help.
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