Struggling for Understanding

As I watch Hoarders and am given the motivation to clean up the toys that my daughter, the tornado, deposited throughout my entire apartment, I’m also struck with a painful realization.  I’m watching this episode about a woman in Hawaii, whose home is so cluttered, dirty and filled with roaches that she is at risk of having her children taken away from her.  But what strikes me so much about this isn’t the deplorable condition of her home or the risk to her children.  What strikes me is her husband, who is by her side, helping her clean up, helping her deal with the emotional and mental struggles that she is being faced with during the clean up process, who is going to counseling with her to help keep their family from ever being in that situation again.  I watch him cry for his wife and for her sickness, despite the enormous frustration that it’s caused him.  And I think, that is love.

There’s a lot I still struggle to understand about my own situation.  I have looked inside of myself and have faced the truth of my own flaws and shortcomings and looked at what I can do to try to become a better person.  I have come to terms with the disease that I was afflicted with after my child’s birth and I am proud of myself for how far I have come.  I believe that I’m strong, forgiving, loving and compassionate and I’m happy with the person I am. I’m not perfect and will continue to falter now and then.  I’m human.  I’ve made apologies to the man I love, to the father of my child, for how my disease impacted him.  And I have tried everything that I can think of to suggest to work on repairing our family.  Not just for our daughter’s sake but for us as well.  Because we deserve to have love.  Everyone does.

What I can’t understand is the unbreakable wall that I am met with.  I fell in love with a man who talked to me.  Really talked.  About feelings.  I swear, I’m not making him up.  They do exist.  I fell in love with a man who wasn’t afraid to tell me or show me how much he loved me.  He wasn’t afraid to tell or show everyone else how much he loved me, either.  He showed up at my place after a disagreement and apologized, telling me that he doesn’t ever want to let me down again.  And what I can’t understand is how there doesn’t appear to be a trace of this man left.

CC admits that he has changed.  He’s implied that I’m responsible for that change and, he’s probably right.  I said and did some unexplainable things during the first few months of my daughter’s life. For which I’ve already apologized.  There is nothing more that I can do.  I can’t take them back.  I can’t turn back time.  All I can do is say that I’m sorry.  And I’ve done this over and over again.  Despite his admitting that he is no longer that same person that I fell in love with, CC is adamant that I’m the only one who needs to change in order for us to ever be able to be together again.  When I try to talk about working towards reconciliation, I’m repeatedly told that “You haven’t changed.”  But I can’t understand how one can expect change when they’ve done nothing to help facilitate it.  We don’t talk. We make small talk about our child.  But even trying to have a conversation about her birthday turns into a battle of wills and it winds up being a fight and I wind up crying.  When nothing is done to work on improving our communication with one another, nothing will change.  I can’t understand how someone can expect change to just happen.

I can’t understand why I’m blamed for so, so much.  I can’t understand how two people can see one situation so differently.  I can’t understand how someone can put their foot down and say “I will xyz” when trying to have a conversation about our child’s best interests, instead of having a calm, rational conversation, and yet state that I’m controlling and everything always has to be my way.  I’m not the one putting my foot down.  I’m the one trying to talk things out, to find a way for everyone to be able to live with the decisions that are made.

I can’t understand how someone can truly believe that they were always there for you when they left you alone because they “couldn’t stand to be around you” and told you that you had to leave your home, saying that it was never your home to begin with and they just allowed you to be a guest there.  I can’t understand how someone can say that they are still always there for you yet they won’t go to counseling, won’t stay after putting your daughter to bed so that you can talk like adults, and when you ask for help with your child because she’s sick and you’re exhausted, they tell you no.  I can’t understand how someone can do all of these things and still believe that I’m the “bad guy” for saying that he wasn’t there for me. Being there for someone means getting on the floor with them while they’re crying and holding them. It means accepting their apologies. It means being there. Physically.

I can’t understand why I can’t win, so to speak.  I know that there are wonderful things that CC has done and continues to do.  And I have bragged about him many times.  When I was recovering from childbirth, a bad infection and a back injury all at once, I couldn’t pick my child up from her bed.  CC would bring her to me for her night feedings and then put her back to bed for me afterwards.  He changes diapers.  Gives her baths.  He would leave breakfast on my nightstand before leaving for work in the mornings because I wouldn’t eat otherwise.  He shoveled my car out of the snow for me during our recent snowstorm.  He has a good heart.  Underneath all of the hurt and anger and frustration is a wonderful man.  I can’t understand why me bringing up something that’s hurt me or that I don’t think is right seems to negate all of that to him.  It’s as if just because I think he does one thing wrong, it means everything he does is wrong.  And that simply isn’t the truth and for the life of me I can’t understand it.

I can’t understand why I’m always wrong.  What CC took away from my heartfelt post, The Day the Earth Stood Still was that he wasn’t there for me and he’s to blame for our relationship falling apart and that I love him.  And yet, I spent so much of that post talking about what I did to contribute to our relationship failing.  I took ownership of my part in all of this and I can’t for the life of me understand how nothing I said in that post could touch him in any way.

I can’t understand how someone who held my hand and cried watching the amount of pain I was in during labor could later turn around and tell me “Women give birth every day.” Like it was no big deal what I went through to give him the incredible child he loves so very much.  I can’t understand how this man who told me that I was his best friend, could truly believe that we always had a poor relationship.  I can’t understand how this man who has left work to go to the aid of a family member who suffers from seizures could not show any compassion for the challenges I faced as a result of my disease.  I can’t understand how, when I point out how much I have changed already, when I talk about how I get up and shower and get dressed every day and my home is maintained (whatever that is with a ten month old) and I’m singing and dancing and taking our daughter out somewhere every day, how he can respond to me with “that’s what human beings do.”  It’s cold.  It lacks any kind of understanding or compassion.  It’s belittling.  Because it isn’t my fault that there were times I was in the same clothes for three days straight.  It isn’t my fault that I couldn’t stay on top of a breastfeeding newborn, recovering from major surgery and a serious infection that landed me back in the hospital when my daughter was only a week old, a back injury that made caring for my daughter incredibly difficult and trying to maintain our home.  It isn’t my fault that I was sick.

It isn’t my fault that I suggested counseling several times before we actually went.  Or that, after only two sessions, CC gave up, while I kept going – alone.  It isn’t my fault that I went to the church to speak with a Deacon about the state of my family – alone. And that when I ask him to go he tells me no because “I don’t have to.”  It isn’t my fault that every thing I do to try to be pleasant with one another, to try to rekindle some spark between us is interpreted as “manipulation”.  I can’t understand how he can question my motives so very much when all I want to do is anything in the world that I can to somehow be a happy family.

I can’t understand how someone can be so admittedly unhappy.  How they could say that they do want to have their family back together but just don’t want the arguing, yet be unwilling to do anything to facilitate that happening.  It took months for us to destroy our relationship.  It will take time to fix it as well.  But if you want a family, if you want to be together, you make it happen.  You try anything you possibly can.  Because, really, what more do you have to lose?

I like my apartment, for the most part.  I could do without the noisy neighbors and unassigned parking spaces.  And the flight of stairs.  But it’s mine.  No one can tell me that it isn’t.  It’s cozy.  It’s warm.  It’s inviting.  It feels like a home.  It’s filled to the brim with toys.  And love.  I feel more at ease here then I did in his house for a long time.  Perhaps because it was his house.  At one time it didn’t feel that way, it felt like home, but that was a long time ago.  And yet, I still fell asleep every night next to the father of my child.  I kissed him goodnight every night, no matter what.  He was always there next to me for me to curl into, to put an arm around.  He was there for me to cook dinner for and to enjoy family days.  And that is greatly missing from my home.

I made a lot of mistakes.  I hurt people who I cared about.  I stopped truly showing appreciation for the good that I had.  But I stopped being appreciated as well.  I stopped being understood and loved for who I am unconditionally.  I stopped being allowed to take up residency in his heart.  And so, here I am, confused.  Lost.  Because I can’t understand how two people can want the exact same thing and yet not be able to find a way to work together towards that common goal.  I can’t understand what more I’m supposed to do.  And I can’t understand how to not feel guilty for my daughter being in the middle.

“Right now it don’t make sense I can’t make it all make sense So I’m gonna sit right here On the edge of this pier Watch the sunset disappear” ~ Luke Bryan

I’m a Mommy

I’m a mommy.

I don’t always find time to shower every day. Sometimes a toothbrush and deodorant have to suffice. My hair dryer is collecting dust and, while my hair has grown beautifully long from my pregnancy, it is almost always piled on top of my head to avoid pulling, etc. And because I just don’t usually have the time or energy to do it. I have traded in my skinny jeans and heels for sweatpants and flip flops most days. My latest fashions come with clip-down straps instead of designer tags. And they are almost always covered in spit-up by the end of the day. I haven’t watched a full TV show, uninterrupted in months and movie theaters and restaurants have become mostly foreign to me. My child has started sleeping through the night but I am still awake every hour – checking that she is breathing. I wake at every sneeze/cough/fart/thumb-suck. I eat most of my meals standing up or driving or while playing with musical elephants. I hear the song from that musical elephant everywhere. I don’t entirely remember how to hold down an adult conversation that doesn’t include the words “poop” or “nipple”. I hear phantom crying while in the car/shower/backyard/supermarket. I have had to pack away 80% of my clothes and buy a new wardrobe, two sizes larger than my pre-pregnancy clothes. It took me weeks to actually figure out what size I am because trying on clothes with the baby with me is like Defcon 1 and is, therefore, impossible. My previously rock hard booty is now slightly saggy and adorned with stretch-marks. While I have the desire to work out, the time and energy to do so are simply fantasies. My house has gone from neat and organized to a state of almost constant disarray.

Silly time with my girl ❤

I’m a mommy.

I am beautiful without silky, blown-dry and straightened hair. My skin glows from the inside out with love, nurture and pride. I am filled with so much love that my body simply cannot contain it inside. I have traded in my compulsive shopping for the latest fashions for compulsive shopping of clothes I am comfortable in and allow my child comfortable and easy access to nursing and snuggling. I have learned that, more important than the clothes on my body is my body’s ability to provide my child with life, vitamins, nutrients, immunity and love. I have worked through raw, cracked, bloody and painful breasts to provide this benefit to my child. And I would do it all again in the blink of an eye. I’m strong and now my child will be too. I don’t miss my TV shows. I’ve replaced them with teaching my daughter how to get that crazy little elephant to turn on and play music all on her own. Instead of filling my time with make believe lives, I now fill my time with helping another life to thrive. I’m a teacher; Of language skills, smiles, laughter, cause and effect, motor skills, social skills. I teach trust, love, healthy-sleep habits. One day I will sleep through the night again. And I will miss the days when my little girl was so little and would wake me up, needing to be close to me. So I cherish the middle of the night feedings, where she looks up at me and smiles, holding on tight to my finger. If my old clothes never fit me again, I will find comfort in providing them to someone who desperately needs clothing on their back. My new body is incredible just the way it is. That body grew and brought forth life. It nourished my child, enabling her to be able to survive on her own and become her own, independent person. Every new wrinkle, sag, pound is a symbol of the irreplaceable bond between my daughter and I. A bond no one else will ever have with her. A bond that means more to me than the size printed on the inside label of my jeans. I do not have stretch marks. I have tiger stripes. They are a symbol of my strength as a woman and mother. They are a symbol of my greatest accomplishment in my life, now or ever: My child. One day, they will fade. But my love and pride will remain strong. As for my house? That disarray isn’t “mess”. It’s love, knowledge, fun. When my daughter grows up, she will not look back fondly on how clean or spotless our home was or wasn’t. She will look back fondly on the memories we’ve created spending time together, being silly and snuggly.

I’m a mommy. And I’m beautiful and so is my life. You’re beautiful too, mommy.