From Maiden to Mother

I have this old brown battered case that has followed me from house to house. Often I’ve considered burning it, just burning the lot without even opening it for one last look at the contents, a symbolic letting go of the past and the painful memories locked away in that case.

I’ve been sorting out Tater’s room and making space for his ever growing collection of toys. And in doing this that brown case has resurfaced again, as it does every once in a while, dredging up with it old memories and feelings. Almost casually I decided to take a peek inside yesterday morning and while my other half dressed Taters I amused myself reading snippets of my teenage diaries. Predictably they made me cringe with embarrassment – it was all exactly as you’d expect, the insane crushes on pop stars and older boys, the jealousy and back stabbing amongst the girls in school (I was such a teenage cliché!) I tried to avoid reading my accounts of the bullying I suffered, but I can’t say I need re-read all that anyway, I still carry a lot of it around with me. I wish I didn’t, but there you go. There’s lots of other memorabilia in there besides the diaries, not all bad – there are letters from friends, magazine cuttings of my teenage crushes (they’re always fun to revisit), a sympathy card from my best friend when River Phoenix died. There’s later stuff too from my early days at University, much happier times – valentines cards from the man I went on to marry, a tape of songs he made for me.

Basically that battered brown case is a memory box filled with memorabilia from the most intense periods of my life and whenever I open it, the concentrated emotions that fester within can be overwhelming. That’s why I often think it would be healthier to just burn the thing (perhaps removing the nice things in there first). At the moment it sits hidden away half buried in corners of the house, almost polluting the atmosphere around it.

Anyway after my little meander down memory lane I sat on the bus to work listening to some old albums I’d recently uploaded to my ipod. It wasn’t a conscious decision to revisit my university years but as I listened it was almost like travelling back in time – I could clearly recall dancing in rock clubs to those songs, the thrill of the loud music, the dark room and the smoke machine veiling me, the alcohol and the dancing, the fantastic new friends and sense of belonging at last, I relived the first rushes of love and excitement as me and my now husband started seeing one another. I remembered the newness of life; the turbulent times now behind me, free for the first time, happy for the first time in a long time, the future full of hope and possibility. It was a truly magnificent time.

By the time I found myself listening to those same songs on the way back from work the effect was now somewhat draining. In fact when I arrived home I felt rather depressed, wondering why the memories of both those eras (teenage years and uni) burn so much more brightly than the more recent past? How can it be I remember something more vividly from ten years ago than from three?

I think the true source of yesterday’s malaise was the feeling that I’m losing myself, that girl burning with passion for life back then, packed full of potential and dreams for the future, that she’s fading and all that potential is wasted. In my darkest moods I feel like I didn’t blossom into the woman I hoped to back then and now I’m wilting. It’s partly because the old me is currently submerged in motherhood, struggling to find an outlet to just be “me”. It’s also a lot to do with getting older.

I am very much shaped by that era of my life, scarred by the memories of school I want to forget, moulded further by the memories of university that I try to hold on to; clinging to the same people, trying to do the same things, I still have the same hair, I don’t dress all that differently, it’s like I’m still trying to be the same girl. I supposed I’m scared to change the formula that worked for me. Yet I’m still viewing the world through the eyes of a 20 year old, which makes looking at my thirty something self in the mirror harder and harder. It doesn’t work for me anymore. Of course I’ve failed or “sold out” if I’m judging myself by the unrealistic, idealistic standards of a teenager. Yet here I am getting all depressed because I am viewing myself from that very perspective.

So is it time to burn that brown case and properly grow up? Let go of the pain of school years and the glory days of university. After all these are the new glory days and I hope in years to come they burn even more brightly than the last. But I do think I need to redefine myself as a grown woman. I’m not the maiden now, I’m the mother. Yes this is a new golden era, and there needs to be a new me to go with it. I don’t want to look like a faded version of my old self, I don’t want to be a faded version of my old self. I want a new self. I’ve resisted change for far too long.

The time has come to pull my socks up!

I’ve broken the rules and I don’t care. For the last few nights Taters has slept with us. Yes slept. We have all slept. I’m a new woman and long may it continue. Naysayers will tell me that I won’t get him out of our bed until he’s five now I’ve given in, but that’s fine – just so long as I’m getting some sleep. And yes I know it’s another one of my parenting “things I’ll never do” plans out of the window, but sometimes you just have to do whatever it takes to survive.

And so back in the land of the living I’m trying to rebuild bridges and make amends. It’s proving to be a frustrating task. I don’t remember friendships being this complicated before? Everyone is now so busy I have to schedule meetings with them sometimes months ahead of time. And sometimes it’s more like having keep-in-touch meetings with colleagues rather than spending time with friends. It only brings it home to me how separate our lives are becoming as we chat about things we’ve done with other people. Our lives used to be intertwined, we were almost inseparable, I have albums full of photos of the times we’ve had together.

And for some people, sadly, I just don’t think my life is all that interesting to them anymore, babies just aren’t their thing!

All in all it’s a sad state of affairs and I’m feeling a bit lonely. I miss the deep connection I used to share with these people, I used to feel like I could take on the world after a conversation with them but it’s becoming obvious we’re all drifting apart. I don’t make friends easily either and so this is leaving a gaping hole in my life.

Work, ouch, work – that’s another tricky area. While I was on maternity leave many of my colleagues were made redundant. I came back to a very different work environment to the one I left, my once passionate and enthusiastic workmates rather battered down. I was surprised to find myself back at all. And now round two of changes have begun. Further cost reductions need to be made, functions have been merged and what the future holds, well no one as yet knows. This is the time to really prove yourself, to demonstrate what a hard worker and asset to the team you are. It is certainly not the time to be wandering round like a zombie with a migraine, struggling to keep your eyes open in meetings and contributing nothing to the team whatsoever. So maybe it’s too late for me, I do suspect it is. And to lose my job now would be terrifying – what are my chances of finding another part time role that will pay the mortgage? Part of me thinks it’s time to go anyway, this is such a depressing, soul crushing environment to work in. A new challenge would do me the world of good and I know that. But I’d rather that challenge be a new and exciting job, in this climate however the challenge is more likely to be finding a job when there are so few around.

Well, that was a cheery post wasn’t it? The future is looking rather daunting. But you know, so long as I’ve had some sleep, at least I can put up a fight!

A long, long night

It’s uncanny; every night as I’m drifting off to sleep the sound of stirring in the room downstairs breaks the silence on the baby monitor. How does he know? Does he sense my brain waves changing? Is this the maternal bond they speak of and if so, why is he using it to torture me?

The shuffling builds to a few soft cries. My heart leaps to attention, my stomach flips and my spirits crash. Again? Really? I hold my breath, will he find the dummy in time and go back to sleep? Please, please, please, I’m so tired from doing this last night, I don’t think I can do this again! A loud cry bellows out, followed by another and another…

I throw back the quilt and swing my legs out of bed, I feel like stomping down the stairs but no, softly, softly I go, quietly into his room with a gentle “Ssshhh” to reassure him mummy is here. Back up dummy is located and quickly shoved in his gob. The arms go up. Still “sshh-ing” but not speaking I stroke his arm and try to encourage him to go back to sleep in his cot, like all the good books say. Gritting the dummy between his teeth his cries become more insistent, arms up reaching out again demanding to be cuddled.

With a sigh I scoop him up and we settle into the rocking chair. Oh I know I shouldn’t pick him up, but I’ve tried resisting and as a result spent hours with a baby screaming blue murder at me, night after night we’ve done that. Then one night I picked him up and he fell soundly asleep in my arms, so soundly just minutes later I was creeping out of the room and back in my own bed. Bliss!

Yes he soon got wise to that one. Now he dozes in my arms with one eye open, I stroke his cheek and his little eyes close in blissful relaxation. Until I stop and they spring right back open, or I continue too long and he gets bored and yes, they spring right back open.

I try every technique with a history of success. I stroke his arm, I stroke his hair, I shush, I stay silent and do nothing, I rock, I sit still, I sing, I hum. I put him back in his cot and do it all over again. I know, I know, I need to be consistent, that’s what the good books say!

Sometimes he torments me and lays silent and still for long enough to build my hopes up. In my head I am making my retreat back up the stairs, I might even allow myself to doze a little so that when I get back to bed in oh, 15 minutes or so? I can fall asleep more easily.

He knows what I’m thinking. It’s that maternal bond again. But he’s evil, and so he waits until I make it to the door and then, bam! He flips onto his back and commences to cry.

I look at the clock, it’s 11:30pm. Worst case scenario I’ll be back in bed by 3:30am, he never lasts more than four hours. Then I’ll be up at 7:00am, well if I’m lucky and he doesn’t wake up at 6am. Can I get through a day at work on that little sleep? I keep having to!

We’re back in the chair only now he’s sitting up and bouncing in my lap like a little chimp, throwing me irresistibly cute smiles and teasing me by resting his head on my shoulder for brief moments before flashing me a cheeky, knowing grin as he sits back up. Yes, he’s evil.

He points to his cot, hoping I’m understanding his cues correctly I put him back in and gently stroke his back, shushing again. He sits up, then stands up. I quietly say “sit down”, he obeys. I quietly say “lay down”, he bends over and attempts a head stand – he doesn’t quite have that down yet. Then he springs back up, grinning. The arms go up again. I lay him back down. He’s up again. I lay him back down. He starts to cry. I relent and we’re back in the rocking chair. I know, I know, I’m too soft on him!

As he alternates between playful chimp and quietly relaxing in my arms seemingly on the verge of sleep for hours, I alternate between calm and understanding mother, and frustrated and sleep deprived nutter. Unfortunately for me husband cannot help in case you’re wondering where he is, Tater’s gets hysterical rather quickly if mummy does not come to him in the night. He steps in to give me time out if I really feel my temper boiling over, but this usually only extends the waking period even further. So mostly I sit in my rocking chair in that quiet, dark room by myself. After mentally rearranging his nursery and imagining scenes in which someone I admire is observing me and commenting on what a wonderfully patient and caring mother I am, I start to lose my marbles. Last night I tried to think it through rationally, determined to get to the bottom of it. What I needed was a plan! If I have a plan then I can be consistent in sticking to it, it will at least make me feel that I have a modicum of control. Husband will be on board and we can work together. Yes, a plan will sort us out.

I hastily hatched my plan. It went like this: Tater’s is most likely awake simply because he wants to be up. So I have to make being up so boring he will prefer to go back to sleep. I read that in one of the books. Yes, I already do it partly in that he is only allowed to either sit on my knee or be in the cot during these mammoth wake-a-thons, but I’m still entertaining him with the singing and the sodding Winnie-the-Pooh light show and music box – “I think I will sing a sleepy song..” Grrr!. So other than being there I will do nothing. Yes I will cuddle him at first, but in a few days I will step back further and not even get him out of the cot. I will be firm but understanding. He won’t like it because he won’t be getting his own way, but soon he will learn that there’s nothing to be awake for and we will all be happier as a result.

I decided to begin right away. It didn’t take long for him to get pissed off with the new regime. Soon he was sat in my lap screaming his head off and trying to shove my arms away from him. I felt like the biggest meanie in the world. Ever. But I had to be strong. This is for his own good too, he’s such a happier child when he’s had proper sleep. Okay so he didn’t want to be on my knee so I put him in his cot, he stood up and screamed. I remained resolutely boring. No talking, no singing, no Pooh Bear light show on the ceiling. Nothing to stay awake for here Mister.

I started to crumble, am I damaging him doing this? Isn’t this just cry-it-out with me in the room? Have I given this enough thought? My now worried husband keeps coming into the room to check everything is okay. Is he sick? Should we give him Calpol? Call an ambulance? My god that kid can paddy! He sounds like a scalded dog!

Finally I scoop him up in my arms and head up to our bedroom, defeated, weak, exhausted. FAIL! It’s not that it even helps half the time, after he’s finished bouncing around on the bed, elbowing and kicking us both in the ribs, head, neck, groin, eventually we all pass out and when I awake a few measly hours later it is with painfully stiff limbs and a cold arse hanging off the edge of the bed. Very ladylike! Dr Sears makes co-sleeping sound so charming too.

And so there we have it, a night in our house. I don’t know what on earth to do. I don’t feel strong enough to sit out the gentler version of crying it out on my own. And we’ve had months of doing something similar and it hasn’t worked at all. So I don’t know, I need another plan!

8 hours straight would be lovely, please?

My how time flies when you’re living existing in a fog of sleep deprivation! Writing a blog does fall by the wayside when it takes everything you have just to get through the day. I’m turning out to be a useless blogger! (not to mention an unproductive member of the workforce, a useless friend who doesn’t even know what is happening in her friends lives, a lazy, snappy wife who looks terrible all the time…) And this has been dragging on for so long I’m scared that by the time this phase is finally over I’ll “wake up” and find myself to be a stranger in my own life, an unemployed one at that. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic but it feels like life is passing me by while I wander round in my sleepless daze, neglected friends are drifting away from me, I feel isolated and frustrated at my inability to achieve anything, almost as though I’m fading away.

We’ve had periods of sleeping through, or near sleeping through at least, but we’ve also had prolonged periods of waking up every hour throughout the night, refusing to go to sleep, refusing to go back to sleep. This current phase has been going on since he turned one. That was four months ago. I just don’t know what’s going on, I don’t understand why – what causes him to wake up in the night and then proceed to stay awake for anything up to four hours – demanding my attention for the entire period? Is he too warm? Too cold? Hungry? Thirsty? I just don’t know! Why won’t he go back to sleep? I don’t want to do the old “cry it out” but one thing is for certain, we can’t keep going on like this.