Holding My Breath

I return to Mama's Log after a hiatus of 9 months. An appropriate length of time given what's happened. This post should explain the silence, the hesitance to write publicly, and my renewed inspiration... 

Written August 18, 2012

I awake with a start, bolting up, then fall back onto my pillows as relief floods over me. 

It was a dream. A nightmare. There was blood where there should be none. And the me in the dream had to accept what the blood meant – again.

I’m 10 weeks pregnant today. And I was 10 weeks pregnant last Boxing Day. I remember receiving a notification on my iPhone telling me so, telling me about little baby fingernails appearing on the fetus within me. But by New Year’s Eve, I was spotting, and a week later, all traces of the pregnancy were gone.

I got that same notification again yesterday. And between that, and the crampy bloated feeling that overwhelmed me last night after dinner, it’s no surprise that I’m on edge and that my subconscious is playing out the worst-case scenario in my dreams.

Two more weeks and I’m home free - at least I hope so. Two more weeks and I will see a blurred fetus on the screen during the ultrasound. Two more weeks and the risk of miscarriage goes down substantially, according to statistics anyways. Will I be able to breath then?

In the meantime, I revel in the morning sickness that comes in waves all day, keeping me from eating, making me add lemons to anything I drink, then leaving me ravenous in its wake. I devour a jar of pickles, a bagel with cream cheese, two pieces of cheese pizza – nothing with much nutritional value – then kick myself with the resulting bloatedness. I sit in front of the air conditioner, staring at a spot on the ceiling for minutes on end, my normal rapid-paced brain on hold it seems. I already look and feel six months pregnant, donning my "fat pants" and flowy shirts. I melt in the heat, fall asleep during commercials, and wake in the night constantly to pee.

But I revel in all of it and I wouldn't have it any other way. Because it means this pregnancy is happening.

“How are you feeling these days?” my midwife asks.

“Crappy,” I say.

“I hate to tell you that’s great!” she says.

Hubby is relieved too. These symptoms look a lot like my first pregnancy – the one that resulted in Lucas, and not much like our last pregnancy that we lost, where I was just tired all time. When we first got the news, he was held his breath, unwilling to discuss the pregnancy while I flew off the walls in excitement. Lately, I've found myself putting up my own wall as I worry over the precariousness of pregnancy. Luckily, Hubby has come around - showing his enthusiasm by building a mini foam lightsaber with Lucas for our new Jedi baby.

Of course, Lucas has been on board since day one. In fact, he knew before I did, poking at my belly, “Mommy, there’s a baby in there.”

I laughed, “no, honey, it’s just fat.” But it made me realize I was actually a day late. I was shocked to get the plus sign on the pregnancy test, and when I showed Lucas, he just shrugged and said, “I told you!”

Last weekend, I regret that I lost my temper on him unnecessarily. He was smushing his face against my arm, and I snapped, “I hate it when you lick my arm!” Can I blame my outburst on the hormones and the heat?

He curled up into a ball beside me and when I realized I’d hurt him, I begged him to talk. He finally shared, “When you say you "hate", it feels like you are saying you hate me.”

Guilt and tears rising, I reassured him with hugs and words that there was nothing farther from the truth. 

Then he continued. “When you say words like hate, the baby might hear you and then it might go away again.”

My heart broke in half as it was the first time he had expressed his hurt over the miscarriage. Eight months after it all happened, he was finally sharing his own remorse. Back then, he had been very accepting of my explanation that the baby wasn’t ready to come and had to let go. I had placated him with a chocolate covered marshmallow which probably helped soften the blow. But all the time Hubby and I were sad over it, he continued playing beside without a word. But obviously it had an impact, and in a way, he’s holding his breath too.

Now he asks me every day, “Has it been 200 days yet?” I can’t bear to tell him it’s still 211 days til our due date. Some would advise that you shouldn't tell your other children until after 12 weeks, but I can't imagine keeping this from him. I can't imagine that I could do this without him. 

So, I take his advice, and think nice thoughts, and try and avoid negative words. I tell this baby in words and in song how much we can’t wait for him or her. “We’re going to have a blast,” I say to my belly regularly. Part of me feels like I'm trying to persuade him to stick around, doing my little promos on how great this physical experience will be. 

"It will be so fun, Little One, when you come. Your brother will kiss you, your father will sing to you, and I will nourish you. And the hole that we have felt in our family since the miscarriage will be filled. We will be complete.

Just hang in there."

Is My Blog Over?

"Is your blog over?" my friend asks me over dinner.

I'm embarrassed immediately as I didn't know he read it, nor that he or anyone cares about its status.

"It think it could be, but I don't know," I answer, surprising myself with the answer. But upon saying it, I feel a wave a relief as the idea takes hold in my mind that I can give myself permission to take a break.

For it seems that this piece of writing, this 100,000+ word piece of work has evolved to a natural pause. I began it to explore the contrast of motherhood - its inexplicable highs and lows, the joy impossible to share without sounding cliche, the anger that made me guilt-ridden to share, and, as my friend Wendy said, the "push and pull'' of motherhood.

And its not that I no longer feel pushed and pulled, but the angst has dissipated and I'm left feeling like I can do this, it won't be perfect, but I can manage imperfection now. More often than not now, I wonder if it isn't the child guiding the parent, not the other way around. And in that case, I realize, I don't have to have it figured out.

It doesn't mean I've stopped writing. Recent events have me writing like a fury, and for the first time in four years, I'm not interested in making my words public as I work through the pain.

Pausing my blog doesn't mean my writing journey is over. But like the two novels I've written, and the secret pregnancy blog I kept for Lucas, when they ended, there came a space. It was uncomfortable at first, but the space always allowed for new buds of inspiration and creation.

I hope it is the seeds of my book that are germinating right now. Writing and publishing my own book will be my dream until it is done and I know that the focus it will take, will also take me from here. I appreciate all the publishing I've been able to do, but I'm no longer obsessing with adding to that list and I'm not sure that marketing and germinating can actually co-exist.

For those of you who follow me and find me here, I am so grateful. My aim in publishing my meandering journey has always been for my words to find resonance with others, to perhaps make a small impact on someone so that they feel less alone or more hopeful or have a new perspective to consider.

This site will still be updated, though I expect it may see a renewal when I emerge from the silence. And I will re-emerge, here or elsewhere.

But for now, I grant myself this pause.

Too Busy to Blog or Have I Made Peace with Motherhood?

I can't look my blog in the eye these days. I don't need to either - I know she's got her arms crossed,  shaking her head and tut-tut-ing me because I hear the rhythm of it in my head. It's been precisely a month since I last posted, and she is not pleased. I haven't been this delayed since 2008 when I was juggling my return to work after maternity leave, my masters, and the agonizing transition to daycare (for me and my babe). And while I might have excuses that could rationalize my silence, I'm not going to let myself make them.

I'm simply not one of "those" bloggers who starts a blog and lets it fizzle. When I start something, I take it seriously. My blog's only getting bigger and better has been my intention. But I'd be lying if I say I wasn't worried. Because something's missing.

For three years, I felt this rabid compulsion to write. As I wrote in a blog post "I Write Because I have To" last year:

"I write because I have to,
There is no choice about it,
Just a pull from within me
Urging me, calling me, pestering me...
They don't understand that it eats at me
if I don't comply
It consumes me until I can
no longer ignore it"

I can only liken it to an addiction, a need I had to fulfill. I scoffed at people who said they had writer's block, not even considering how it could be possible. Even though I'd been a writer with writer's block before, I conceitedly thought I'd overcome it.

More than just writing though was this need to express motherhood. I needed to bear witness to my experience, to dissect its newness in written word, to cry over the keyboard as I admitted my feelings. I needed to release my words into the ether in the dire hopes it would reach someone, anyone, who could tell me - you're not alone.

But now it's gone. I feel no drive to rant over motherhood anymore, to need to confess my bad mommy moments or to observe my son's developing grasp on reality. I'm not saying I won't ever do it again, but at this moment, the well is dry and I'm not thirsty enough to replenish it.

Does that mean I've got it now? Have I solved the dilemma that motherhood presented me? Have I accepted that the endless push and pull is just my reality forever? Am I finally able to let go of the anger, shock, and disillusionment that propelled me to start blogging in the first place? Am I really okay with letting moments of wonder go by unrecorded?

It seems that way. That perhaps, dare I say it, I've made peace with motherhood. That maybe, just maybe, I've figured out how to be both Liesl and Mama without feeling like I'm compromising one or the other all of the time. Not that I've lowered my expectations but I've let go of some of the need to control it all and do it all and be it all.

And if that's why I'm struggling with writing, because I've reached some peace, then that's okay, right? And instead of worry about it, I should actually celebrate it.

Because sooner or later, and likely sooner rather than later, life will call me again. And I'll feel that pull to create again, that need to sort through the latest dilemma or mark the newest experience. And then I'll crave for this space of quiet, where the urge does not pull me from my sleep to my laptop, and wonder why I complained about it in the first place?

Missing Pieces

I’m sitting in Coffee Cultures in Kitchener, Ontario, savouring my first bite of this Caramel Carrot Cheesecake. Oh, I should take a picture of this. I should text Hubby about this. I should update my status on Facebook with this. But really, who cares?

And the thought occurs to me that no one in the world knows where I am right now. And I could step outside as I’m crossing the road, get hit by a car and die here. And no one would go looking for me as I’m here alone in Ontario. No one is expecting me home tonight. No one knows where I went when I rented a car this afternoon to tool around the area.

And it’s not that it’s important to check in wherever I go, but that it’s rare for me not to. When you’re a wife and a mother and a full-time employee, you tend to let people know where you are. This past week on a “business trip”, when that hasn’t been necessary, it’s felt freeing. But then after a couple of days of freedom, it starts to feel just a little less meaningful.

It’s not that I can’t be alone. I love being alone. People rarely believe me when I say I’m an introvert. True, I need people and energy around me in my life, but I get drained easily after socializing. As a mother, where demands for attention are endless, I crave solitude. And once found, I pull my laptop to me, write and write until I’m renewed, or if extremely indulgent, I’ll curl up with a pot of tea and a book. When I have hours to kill (another rarity) I’ll go out to a café and relish a treat, browse a used bookstore, or meander through a market.

I’ve done all these things now. Devoured two novels and a chick flick after busy and very full days of work. But instead of feeling spoiled, I feel a little empty. Cause there’s no one to share this with. There’s no one to discuss and debrief the days’ events with. No one to laugh at a tv show with. No one to reach across the table with a forkful of cake and see what they think. No one to cook a meal for or give a bath to or tuck into bed.

Last year I got the chance to spend a week in PEI – my first real time away from my husband and son. I left a stressed-out mess and returned renewed. I hoped that would happen again this time, but the need for renewal was not so strong. This trip, I’ve gained an appreciation. Of course I appreciate my dear boys, but to appreciate the role they play in my life and the role I play in theirs. To appreciate the interconnectedness we share that is an entity in and of itself.

I used to say that I write my journals in order to prove that I exist. For years I wrote and wrote without a soul reading a word. Then I began blogging and getting published and opened up the world of sharing my thoughts and my words with others and I can never go back. Because a relationship forms with readers that goes beyond the words.

And when you are in relationships as intense as marriage and parenthood, and used to sharing your life, you really can’t go back. I glimpse the idea of what it must be like to lose a partner or a child, and I shudder. It’s not only loss of the other, but of that part of you that was connected to them. You must have to rebuild your life, your identity, your idea of wholeness.

Despite feeling extremely whole in myself these days, I clearly feel the calling of my two beloveds - the call for mommy, the call for wife, the call for me to be more than me. And it is not about me satisfying them with my presence. It’s about me satisfying my own need to be needed.

Last year after my trip away, I wrote these words (that are now published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: O Canada!), and they still ring true:

“I had to travel across the country to find myself, only to discover that I needed to return home to be whole again.”

Out of My Comfort Zone

Okay, here I am in the departure lounge of the airport – on my own. It occurs to me that this is the first trip I’ve really ever taken completely on my own. Sure, I’ve flown by myself and been to conferences, but I always meet up with someone or share a room with a colleague. The most I’ve travelled on my own is the couple of days I sometimes add after a work trip for sightseeing and self-renewal. (See Flying Solo). But they’re always cushioned by the familiarity of people and places I’ve had time to get comfortable with before going solo.

But now it’s just me for a week in Waterloo to visit students working at Research in Motion (who make the Blackberry) and one of my university’s largest co-op employers.

I barely could check in by myself. Begged Hubby to drag my luggage and our son into the airport and completely allowed the Westjet guy to do my entire “self-check”. It’s not that I’m not capable, but I seem to have developed this learned helplessness since my partner is such a solid, smart, supporter. That, and I have a tiny bit of princess in me. (Though said partner might dispute the “tiny” part.)

And that’s why I need to do stuff like this. It’s why I put my hand up when they asked who wanted to do this term’s “site visit” to Ontario. I was surprised when no one else had their hand up but me, and now that I’ve organized the 54 meetings and one pub social that need to take place in the span of 4 days, I have a slight clue as to why. But still, while I have to leave my family to represent my university, I’m also aware of what a great opportunity this is to challenge myself.

I so want to be a traveller. On paper, I’ve travelled the world – my family lived in Mexico when I was 4, my parents took me through western Europe twice, and my dad lived in Taiwan for two years so I got to visit there. I’ve enjoyed $5 steak dinners in Venezuela and had a fancy dinner at the top of the Eiffel tower. I love travelling and dream of hitting Greece and the Philippines in the not too distant future.

But the fact is, I like my creature comforts and I don’t do the whole adapting to new situations so well. Embarking on any kind of travel means channeling my type A-ness into spreadsheets with organized itineraries based on copious amounts of research. The whole immersing into local cultures sounds good on the surface but causes me a great deal of anxiety. So, instead I opt for all-inclusive resorts in Mexico where they ferry you to the hotel in a giant air conditioned bus so you can whiz by the third world reality of it all. Or cruise ships which create a reality that is so indulgent it’s not funny. It’s not real travelling, but I’m not complaining.

And travelling on my own to the very safe residential neighbourhood in Waterloo is not real travelling either. But it gives me a chance to flex my muscles, to take some baby steps along the road towards flying further afield one day.

Co-op site visits give me the chance to exercise my ability to adapt to new situations. They are the most exciting and most terrifying part of my job. Exciting because I get to meet a student immersed in an important growth experience for them – personally and professionally and hear all about what they are learning. Exciting because I get to walk into an organization – be it a small business, non-profit, federal government, or large corporate, like I will tomorrow – and get a sense of what they do, what industries they play in, and what needs they meet. Exciting to meet the employers and find out about their backgrounds and how they are mentoring their student.

Terrifying because I never know exactly what I’m walking into. Terrifying because I have no idea whether said student and employer are having a happy marriage. Terrifying because I have about 20 minutes with them each to absorb everything going on, assess the situation, and offer guidance, all while filling in forms and explaining program requirements. And that’s of course after navigating myself through traffic and parking to get to the building, and packing several of these visits into each day.

But over all, it’s more exhilarating that not. I try and remind myself that I’m not there to fix anything. I imagine I’m a facilitator for them to hear the words they need to hear to make the best out of their work opportunity. After a day of site visits, I’m often exhausted, but always more assured that I’m in the right job. I get to bear witness to students experiencing amazing opportunities, while rising to my own challenges. I always wonder who learns more from whom during our interactions.

Now, I hear Westjet calling out my flight number. I better figure out what gate that’s coming from. My husband usually deals with that kind of thing.