Too Tired to Write

Right now, I feel a little depressed. It's one of my few precious afternoons to write, however, I'm too tired to focus. 


First, I needed to take a shower, vacuum the floor, sort through old mail, and sit by the window with a cup of tea. Then, though still tired, I forced myself to move to my computer to either finish a blog post I started a couple weeks ago, or to start a new one. It depresses me when I leave a piece of writing hanging too long, it depresses me that I can't just whip out a post in one sitting. It depresses me when I go too many weeks without writing, for certainly there is no shortage of things to say. There's just too little time, this same old story. Too many missed opportunities to go write, because instead we are visiting friends one weekend, or instead, I decide I'd rather hang out with my husband and baby at home. To go to the cafe, sit and focus for two hours and pound something out takes discipline. I deserve a break. 


Only breaks don't feel so good in the long run, because breaks don't produce new writing. 


So, today, I finally hauled my ass over to my desk. My computer is working a lot faster these days, thanks to finally adding more memory and paying someone to clean it up for me, only now, I discovered that after the person cleaned out a bunch of cat hair from beneath the keys, the space bar is sticky and won't work unless I pound it with my thumb. Needless to say, this did not aid the process of sitting down to write, when my whole tired body and mind was already resistant. Instead, I decided it was way overdue that I go lay down on my bed and cry.


I'm surprised I haven't cried more as a new mom. I used to look forward to a good monthly cry-- or at least every few months. But interestingly, I've barely cried at all lately, and it's not for lack of surging hormones. I think I'm just too damn busy. At the end of the day, I'd rather sleep than dwell in my emotions. Or, I can't drink enough wine while breastfeeding to get me to that place that several glasses used to open up access to (cue dark, melancholy music, some Damien Jurado perhaps, or Bjork's Vespertine if I'm really feeling angsty.) In any case, I haven't been crying much lately. Perhaps it's because I'm so damn happy and content. Part of me is joking here, and part of me is completely serious. Living my daily life with Cedar, a part of me is wildly happy, in love, and content. Meanwhile, somewhere in my underbelly, the lover of solitude, wind, and aimless wandering seethes, plots, and rebels. She wants more time. Alone. To write. Or drink. And dance.


But anyway. So my computer wasn't allowing my words to flow, so I went to lie down and cry. Cried a little, felt a little better, and contemplated Plan B. I could go bring it back to the computer store and have them fix it right now, but use up the rest of my break from motherhood doing so. I could go pick up Cedar early and beg my mom to watch him again tomorrow, whereupon I could get a fresh start (and hopefully get more sleep tonight). Or, lightbulb flash, I could use my husband's laptop and just sit down and compose directly into this blog and hit publish, instant gratification. Even if I would not be writing about one of the topics I've been yearning to write about, at least I'd get something out there, not risk another week or two of cyberspace silence. 


So here I am. On a beautiful, sunny, early Spring day, sitting inside, in a silent home, listening to the wind blow the branches outside, blow the chimes from the North, as my fingers click the smooth keys. Sitting with wet hair, watching the time tick, always, measuring how much time I have left-- on my own, or before Cedar goes to sleep, or before he's bound to wake up again, which he still does, all night long.


I'm exhausted. Yet I've adapted. I get by on less sleep than I ever thought I could, and I think I'm doing pretty good, even finding time to read novels, email friends, pay bills. And yet, my brain is a little soft and fuzzy. I am not very articulate. I do not have any excess reserves of energy. I am multi-tasking all day long with a baby hanging from my body, constantly making lists and trying to get things done, trying to cross things off my list so I'll feel better about myself, my day, my life. So I can feel somewhat productive. 


And I am hungry. I have been deprived of cheese, coffee, garlic and tomatoes for too long. I want a prize for all my effort. I want to know that I'm making the right choices when it comes to feeding my baby solids. I want reassurance that it's okay that I haven't started giving him meat, and grains, and foods with lots of iron. Or that the benefits of going slow and being cautious with what and how I introduce foods to him, outweigh whatever vitamins he might be missing out on. I mean, he hardly looks malnourished-- that's what the naturopath said, too. And he's getting most everything he needs from my breastmilk, my breastmilk which I should be proud that I am still producing abundantly, my breastmilk which he still drinks hungrily every few hours each day. But still, you hear so much conflicting advice as a mother, and who has the time to do in-depth research? You grab at pieces of advice here and there, whatever sounds about right, and hope your intuition fills in for whatever gaps in knowledge you may have. You try not to worry too much about all the things you worry about. You know, all in all, you are doing a great job. You try to breathe and just flow with your days. Make your lists. Get around to things when you do. Some things might stay on your list for months, even years (like fixing my computer). But eventually, you do get around to almost everything. No one but you really knows this, so you must congratulate yourself, pat yourself on the back, cross them off with dark, decisive strokes. 


Anyway, where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. Is this a rant? Not really. Just a sigh. A deep sigh that says, I am not mentally equipped today to write about what I really want to write about, not with sensitive lyricism and wit. Nope. So I'll just go easy on myself by writing this, writing whatever stream of conscious blather comes to mind, at the same time that I'm not really going easy on myself at all, because I'm not entirely capable of that. I would only feel more depressed if I decided to crawl in bed for the duration of my precious time off, or sit in the sun, or god forbid, watch a movie. I do enough mindles sitting around all day with Cedar, granted, I know it's not the same as truly having a moment alone just to sit and breathe. But, I compromise. I give you this. I give myself this. This act of writing to soften the edges of the blues. This act of writing to sharpen the mush of isolation.

A Different Kind of Tired

I was talking to my husband the other day about how tiring it is to care for a baby, but how it’s a different kind of tired than going out into the world to work each day. Anticipation of another day with my baby doesn’t keep me up at night with worry, or make me nervous in the same way that I might be if I am about to teach a new class or meet a new roomful of students. It can be utterly exhausting, to be sure, but it isn’t a kind of work that fills my mind with obsessive thoughts or anxiety. It’s a kind of work that for me, for the most part, is blessedly devoid of ego.

There’s no boss to please or clients to impress. There are no communication games to play or battles to wage, no guessing games about hidden intentions, unspoken resentments, or judgments harbored inside. There’s no fear about whether people like you, what impression you are making, all the self-judgment that we pass on ourselves each day. It’s just me and my baby, doing my best to stay present with his needs.

True, his needs are near constant and incredibly demanding with no breaks scheduled in, much less any autonomy to claim them at will-- not even to take a shit or a shower. But at the end of the day, when I am utterly drained, I never have a sense of dread about waking up the next morning and starting a new one. Caring for my baby simply is what it is. In spite of my recent worries about my son’s gas, allergies, and sleep patterns, caring for him is still a cleaner, simpler kind of tired. I trust in my role as his mama. I still worry, yes. But at core I know that I’m doing the best I can.

Caring for any child holds forth an immediate, constant lesson in being present with each moment. It teaches patience and acceptance like no other job I can imagine. If you can master these skills, then you are liable to enjoy child-rearing as your full-time occupation. Days can feel long and spacious. One activity flows into the next. One has the ability to slow way down and to come closer to taking in the world from an infants or child’s perspective. Look at the brilliance of this yellow sunflower. Listen to and watch the magical spray of the water coming out of this hose. Feel the rhythm of this swaying reggae music. The world holds such an infinitude of wonderment and discovery. This is what we wake to each day.

But lest I paint a too idyllic picture of what our days are like, and thus perpetuate the myth that staying home with the kids is somehow easier than going to work in a suit and tie, let me just reiterate that it is not easy, only different. More devoid of psychological maneuvering, yes, but more constant and never-ending—and often compounded by sleep deprivation, chores and housework, and a gnawing reminder of all the other things you’d like to be doing which you no longer have time to do.

My good friend who holds a demanding position at a nonprofit and who recently returned to near full-time work after over three months of maternity leave, has said that the days where she is at work all day are actually less tiring than the days she is at home with the baby. She’s come to appreciate little pockets of time, such as riding the bus to and from work each day, in which she is not doing anything, and where she can just be by herself. Herein lies a key difference. When you are a full-time mother or childcare giver, you don’t have any moments to yourself to take a breather.

Being at home alone with my baby for four days a week, I want my husband to understand how hard it is, even when to him it may sound like most of my days are fairly carefree (met so and so at the park, walked to the pond, watched Family Feud, etc.). It may look like I do a lot of laying around on blankets or nursing in bed, but those moments of “rest” are never really restful in the way that one can rest when you have the ability to completely “check out”. For when you are caring for a child, you are always “on.” And this seems doubly true for a new mother, in which your body is programmed to tense and jump and sometimes, yes, run, at the slightest call and need from your baby. Even when you sleep. You are always on call.

I certainly don’t envy my husband, however, when he has to pack his bags on Monday mornings and head out onto the road, giving presentations to doctors and trying to get his foot in the door at clinic after clinic. And I do possess a certain freedom and luxury in my ability to stay home all day if I please, hang out with new mom friends, and not have to engage with many of the stressors of the outside world. But if he could live my 24-hour a day reality for even just a week, I’m sure he’d have a new appreciation of what I do. And likewise, if I lived his job and work week, I would too.

But as it is, I envy his ability to take off to the river alone at the end of a long, hard day and fish in the elements until nightfall. Or to meet up spontaneously with a friend for dinner and a beer. Or to even have a beer without waiting till nightfall, and even then, still feeling slightly guilty for it. I envy the ways in which he is still very much a free agent in the world, with an identity that is separate from the baby still intact, or, at very least, still easily accessible. I envy the fact that he’s gotten hours upon hours of time away from the immediate demands of being a new parent since Cedar was born, whereas I could probably easily tally the short, two-hour dashes to a café breaks I’ve had they are still so infrequent and precious. And most recently, I envy the fact that he can eat whatever he wants without worrying about how it will affect the baby, and how he still sleeps sound and hard most nights, whereas I wake up every couple hours to have to nurse and settle Cedar.

And yet, I still wouldn’t trade places with my husband. For I can’t imagine giving up the intimate bond I have with my baby; I would feel sad to not be the one who is closest to him. Despite my complaints, I am grateful to be the one who stays home with our baby. I can’t imagine being on the road, away from home, so many days a week. And I am grateful that my husband is out there, working hard to support us.

In my ideal world, I could still work part-time, and we could trade off more of the care for our baby. But the problem is, the kind of work I do, as a freelance writing teacher, editor, and mentor, never did bring in very much money. And the work I miss the most—my soul work, my creative work, my writing--  hardly brought in any money at all. So this is the way it must be for now, the best arrangement we have found. I must continue to learn the lessons of patience and acceptance from my baby and my role as full-time mama. And I must allow for this work to feed me as much as it can, to not pine so much for what I’ve given up, but to hold fast to all that I’ve gained.

Yes, everyone said it would be tiring, and it is. But it’s a different kind of tired than I’ve known before. It’s a kind of tired that is less existential, and more rooted in the present moment. For there’s no question in my mind that what I’m doing right now is what is most important, and that it’s what I’ve chosen.

Tears and Decaf

This has been a hard couple weeks, maybe the hardest since Cedar was born. All of his gas and allergy problems, plus me being run down with a cold, plus health issues in my extended family, all compounded by my lack of sleep and rest, has resulted in a swelling of my emotions, all of my worry and exhaustion coming to the surface in tears.

I have always been a fan of tears, however. That is, I am usually relieved when I finally come around to crying again, especially if I can really have at it in privacy and let out those wailing sounds of desperation. Because then, usually, I feel better, even if there are still more tears that need to be let out. For tears are always inside of me, dormant, waiting to build up enough that they finally must be released. So when they do come, I welcome them with a degree of relief. Oh, yes. You again. What took you so long?

I’ve cried a few times in this last week already. The last time was on Monday morning when I was finally going to get my long-awaited date with myself and my journal at a café. Only since I am on an elimination diet now, I could not have my usual coffee (much less dairy or soy). So I ordered a decaf, which was lukewarm and sour. I drank it down nonetheless in the midst of chattering parents and noisy children at Top Pot, and tried to begin a new blog post about finally visiting a naturopath for Cedar’s allergy and gas issues. But I gave up after a few paragraphs. Not only did I not feel like rehashing the ordeal that we’ve been going through right then (especially since that morning Cedar’s red cheeks looked even worse than the day before, right when I thought they were getting better which left me demoralized and sad), but I also was not getting that usual caffeine kick that I’ve come to depend on to get me started with these blog entries. Normally, I can quickly overcome a bad night’s sleep, sit down, focus, and crank a first draft out in an hour or two, but not this day. Instead, I gave up after half an hour and drove home in tears, proceeding to bury my head in my husband’s chest. “What’s wrong?” he asked (he later told me he thought it was something awful, like I’d gotten in a car accident). “I’m too tired to write,” I cried. “And I just had the worst cup of decaf.”

I decided I just needed to sleep, forget about writing today. Matthew left to take Cedar on a walk, I got in bed, cried a little, then lay there for almost an hour, unable to go to sleep. Finally I got up to eat and resume the thus far disappointing day. Later on that day, I tried to sleep with Cedar three times while he napped, but every time my mind wouldn’t turn off, especially when fueled by the knowledge that I needed to fall asleep quickly if I wanted to get in more than a few minutes before he woke up again. No luck.

Later, at 9:30 in the evening, after Cedar had been down for a while and I’d finally managed to send off an important email, I decided to go to bed early, despite the fact that my husband was still home, the last night of his five-day weekend. Again, I lay in bed for an hour and could not fall asleep. So, I got up, took a shower, poured myself a glass of wine, and joined my husband on the couch. Slowly I felt myself begin to decompress. I guess I needed to unwind my mind, let out all this worry and exhaustion I’ve been carrying, even if it meant that I yet again wouldn’t get enough sleep that night. It was more important that I sit and be with my emotions. Sift through all those layers that were now churning in my chest where they’d risen to, more fluid and accessible than before. Still liable to spill out with the right word spoken at the right time, but easier now at least for me to sit with them calmly, breathe in and out of their pores.

I didn’t mean to write this blog entry today. I wanted to go for something more positive this time, about an aspect of motherhood that I’m grateful for, and have wanted to write on for weeks. I don’t want to people think that I complain a lot, or am depressed, or that I am not, at core level, enjoying motherhood, because I am. But I guess I still need to get this other stuff out of the way first. And there is a lot of “stuff” that builds up when you don’t have the time to properly take care of yourself.

Today, my mother is watching Cedar for three hours after returning from L.A., where she has been taking care of her mother. When she wasn’t here for three weeks, and right in the midst of a lot of my stressors, I realized how much I’d come to depend on this weekly Wednesday afternoon break, how much of a difference even just a couple hours to myself can make, especially when they are a scheduled into my life, and I can look forward and depend on them each week.

I don’t always write during this time. Sometimes I get a massage, and other times I simply do chores and run errands. But these days, even doing chores and running errands can feel like a break, if you aren’t trying to do them while still caring for a baby.

But I don’t want to end this blog now on a complaining note like that. It’s not that I always want to tie a Pollyanna bow on the end of every post or essay, but it’s more that I am striving to keep everything in perspective, to remember how good I still have it compared to so many. Things have been rough, yes, but I feel like I hit my low point last week, and now things are on the upswing. Things will get rough again, and again I will finally come to the point of tears, and then slowly, things will get better again. And it is only through reaching those low points that I can finally be blessed with my tears again, and start to realize how hard it really has been, and then remember that I can and should ask my community for all the love and support they can give me.  

I feel like during the first couple months of this motherhood endeavor, I was surprised and pleased by how good I was handling things, especially the single-mom for four days a week aspect of my arrangement. These last couple months have been more challenging. I still think I’ve been handling it pretty well, but I also now acknowledge how much it has caught up with me. It’s been hard. And no need to tell me “it will get better” or to “hang in there,” because I know it will get better, and then it will get worse, and then it will get better—and around and around—because that is how life goes. And I will hang in there, of course, because I have to, and because I’m still breathlessly in love with my son, and with this thing called life.