Worry- wart

At the risk of sounding like a terrible mom, I'm gonna go ahead and say it... motherhood is exhausting and on some days even seems like a pain.  Yup.  Go ahead and cast every aspersion on me that you can think of.

But first let me clarify what I mean.  Yes, chasing Mabel around now that she's doing her own version of crawling is physically exhausting.  On Saturdays and Sundays when I don't have the angel who is the daycare provider to give Mabel her meals, yeah, I do think of the extra labor involved when I have to make the cereal and get the gross apricot- sweet potato substance set into a bowl and then into Mabel's mouth.  But I don't hate doing these things.  And the physical tasks required by motherhood aren't the exhaustion of which I'm speaking.

I'm instead referring to the constant worry that accompanies parenthood.  Now, let me be clear with the caveat that I am a worrier by nature.  No; scratch that--- I am an over- the- top, unbridled, no- holds- barred obsesser.  It has taken me years to become even sort of okay with this facet of myself.  I spent a good portion of my teen years trying to transform myself into a free- spirited, carefree, jocular young lady who couldn't give a shiz what went on.  No luck.  Then I tried the same pursuit in college.  When I was tense and would start picking with my fingernails at the skin on my thumbs, or shaking my foot restlessly, I'd make myself stop and try mantras like, "You're not worried, and you're not a worrier, and this issue doesn't need to be worried about."  I'm now 33 and am still up at night, fearing the ramifications of not having a working automatic car starter, and when I'll find time to buy white picture frames, and how I'll get that one pesky lamp shade to look straight.  My dreams and nightmares still wake me nightly too, and it's a rare moment I can truly say I feel at peace.  (Maybe when I'm getting a massage--- and now I'll worry about remembering to book one, and at which place, and on what day, and what will happen if I'm then late picking up Mabel.)

Eventually, maybe around my 28th year or so, I gave in.  I figured out that I could meditate and work out and do yoga and have a glass of wine before bed and schedule "worry times" in the day (yup, one of the thousand books I read suggested it), but after all, I am a worrier.  I'm hardwired to be so, and I need to give my mind and body a break and just let myself be.  Because ironically, I'm making myself worry more about the fact that I can't calm down.

Well, parenthood has opened the can of worry worms in ginormous dividends.  I spent approximately the first six weeks of Mabel's life incessantly nerved up about her very existence: how is it possible that I am in charge of another human?  What if she chokes on her milk, on the bottle nipple, on air?  What if she's allergic to milk, to the bottle nipple, to air?  What if one of us falls asleep on her or near her and she is smothered?  What if the marker J is using right now is toxic, and the air becomes poisoned?  What if the bar on the stroller gives and she falls right out?  What if the crib breaks?  What if someone comes through her window in the night and steals her?  What if she is blind or deaf and we don't know it?  What if I can't EVER stop thinking about these things?

While I've simmered on some of the more egregiously far- fetched fears, I've found new ones as Mabel has grown.  Yesterday I worried about what her day care provider would do if a masked man broke into the house and kidnapped everyone.  And I worried about the wood in the floor-- what if Mabel licks it while crawling?  Is the lacquer safe?

I used to entertain fears similar in their tragic nature (I've been to a couple docs and they call this type of worrying "catastrophizing" and have said it is a prevention mechanism-- a la 'If I worry about it, it won't happen') but these fears were always for myself or J or my other family members.  I'd picture J on the rocks while fishing and a huge wave crashing over him, swallowing him up into the deep, dark sea and nobody being around to see or hear, and then nobody being able to find him, and me not even being able to tell the authorities where to look because I didn't know the exact fishing rocks.  I'd keep myself up at night with these thoughts.

But worrying about Mabel is different, in that I feel that as her mom, and one of her main caretakers, I'm "supposed to" have these fears and make sure I "fix" everything for her, as well as prevent anything bad from befalling her.  Intellectually, I know I can't.  I can't predict or create ANYONE's future, my offspring or not.  Why is that concept so hard to digest?

Just when I think I'm over a fear, a new one emerges.  Last week, I was worried K wasn't making enough consonant sounds.  Last night I was scared because it was the first time she ever rejected a food, pursing her lips tight and crying a little, as if to say, "Nooo! I hate this food!"  I immediately turned that into a food allergy or a stomach issue.

I have decided that it won't do me or Mabel any good to be an incessant worrier.  She needs to live her life, and me, mine.  I'm not sure yet how I am going to minimize worries, but I know I have to try.  It's funny how the happiest happenings in our lives can also create the most tension, stress, and anxiety.  I suppose that means they're worth it.

Gate 'er up

We need gates in our house.  Period. End of story.  Mabel is so mobile now with her army crawl that even the makeshift mound- of- pillows- boundary that J created didn't stop her from, as always, crawling toward the only dangerous things in the room.  She could have 12 toys laid out in front of her, but she inevitably heads to the fireplace, or the outlet, or the shelf that holds breakables.  And while getting up to chase her is good exercise, we are both willing to give that opportunity up.  I'm proud of Mabel for her mobility, curiosity, and resourcefulness, but I'm thinking gates will do a much better job-- structurally and otherwise-- than we do keeping her within safe bounds.

While she's zipping around the floors, Mabel has, unfortunately, been slowed down by what I think is a cold, but perhaps is an attack of fall allergies.  She's congested and runny, but she doesn't have a cough yet.  Yesterday presented a fun little event, as Mabel contended with the post- nasal drip making its way down her trachea and toward her tummy: she ate her solids (apricots with sweet potatoes) begrudgingly (whining the whole time) but then about twenty minutes later threw them all up.  And I don't mean spit them up-- I mean all- out vomited, the poor thing.  I feel like an awful mom looking back, strictly demanding that she eat up despite her moaning, because an empty belly at bedtime would only make her feel worse.  Here she was, trying to send me a sign-- a pretty clear one at that-- that she did NOT want any more food.  And there I was, shoveling it in.  I got her upstairs to change her diaper, and as always, she made my job hard (but in the very cutest way) by wriggling and twisting her body all over the place, "singing" all the while.  Suddenly, her shirt, naked thighs, the changing pad, and even her hair were puke- covered.  This ralphing was powerful.  Her hair was so badly assaulted that it began to stand up in a spike.  Oh, so now I get it, you really didn't want those sweet potatoes-- and for a good reason...

All I can assume is that the post- nasal drip made actual swallowing and digestion too tough.  We got her bathed and cleaned up promptly, and the little angel STILL slept through the night.  We have her increased mobility to thank for the all- out exhaustion that comes over Mabel before bed.

J and I plan to get the gates this weekend.  I'm foreseeing a clutzy accident, likely involving me, as I try to hurdle said gates.  It ought to be funny.  Once the gates are up, Mabel's crawl space will be limited which may tick her off, but will also minimize the rug and floor burn she gets on her tummy when we let her scoot naked.  It's just the most adorable darn thing seeing her get around the room in only a diaper.  Oh, Mabel, you've gotten us again!

Ugh, it happened

Hi, everyone.  My name is Jojo, and I am addicted to Etsy. 

I admit to many senseless obsessions in my life-- the Kardashians probably the most egregious.  (No matter how I try to justify that addiction as something more than plain old enjoyment, it still just is what it is.  No, it's not "an insatiable but intellectual curiosity for how the undeservedly wealthy live life."  It's just a pathetic relishing of the escapades of the K clan.)  But my newest addiction is a shopping site-- insert eye- roll.  No, it's not Amazon (though I do my fair share of "browsing" there too-- which almost always ends up with a package on the porch and would explain my HAVING to have Amazon Prime even though now we have to pay for it). 

Etsy is, in case you are unfamiliar with it, a crafters' community.  It's also worldwide.  Artists and crafters sell their work-- from jewelry to housewares to furniture to notebooks to gardening tools.  I've always liked Etsy, as is evidenced by my jewelry and place mats I so love.  But now that we have Mabel, Etsy has become a dangerous behemoth of an addiction.   I might need to block myself from it soon.  Doesn't Yahoo offer some program that does that?  Or isn't there an app?

While I'm definitely expressing disdain for and a little embarrassment about my addiction, I must also say it makes me feel good to buy from artists.  A lot of the people who run Etsy shops do so as their sole means of income.  And their stuff is simply gorgeous. 

I think at the heart of my new addiction is a bit of envy.  A former jewelry- maker (though I don't fancy myself NEARLY as talented as most of the Etsy shopowners I've perused) and dabbler in home- made wall hangings and home crafts, I wish I had it in me to build the motivation to start my own Etsy shop.  I think if I worked hard enough on honing in on one craft, I could maaaaaaybe pull it off, and that's a double- bolded, capitalized, and italicized "maybe."  I'd be horrible with upkeep, and I'd get anxious and would fall into a frenzy if my orders began to proliferate faster than I could fill them.  I'd be messy with paperwork too.  And I wouldn't begin to know how to run the financial aspect.  Don't even get me going on the sheer terror that would ensue if a package were to get lost or someone hated my product.

So, since I'm not with- it enough to start my own Etsy site, I will continue to stalk and purchase from others.  I was stopped in my tracks last night, though, when I realized I'd bought too many things for Mabel's room.  Her room doesn't have enough walls.  Nor does her play room.  I need an Ets- ervention. 

The interesting thing about this new habit is that I've never really had what some call a "shopping problem."  I buy clothes and shoes when I need them.  I've never had to cut up a credit card.  And I've never had to keep myself away from a mall (contrarily, I HATE malls).  So why this now? Once I figure this issue out-- and what it says about me-- I'll catch you up.  For now, I need to at least stay away from Etsy until my most recently purchased products arrive and I figure out how to hang them without making Mabel's room into a collage.

Lots of Changes

I haven't written in a bit-- and this time it's not because of procrastination.  I've actually been wanting to blog for a while but haven't had the time.  We've had a NUMBER of changes-- though all exciting ones- in the D household.  I recently went back to work after being home with Mabel for 6 months.  I was very lucky to get a lengthy maternity leave, and I adored my time with Mabel. I look back most fondly upon our mornings together, when she would first wake up and I'd pull her into bed with me and she'd either nod back off or we'd play silly games and she would make her little nutty sounds as she greeted the day.  It's fun watching a baby in the morning-- each new day is like entry into a new world all over again.  Mabel would stare at every little corner of her room, mouth agape in what seemed to be amazement.  I will also miss our Sesame Street viewings; I'm aware that a 6- month- old doesn't know what the hell she is watching on the TV, but she certainly recognized Elmo, or to her, that red blob that makes the funny noises.  I LOVED seeing her light up and coo when Elmo would take to the screen.  I could go on and bore you for a while, but I feel emotional about and nostalgic for our time together, especially those first few months when having a baby in the house was so new, and even anxiety- provoking, but so very cool.  All this sentimental blabber carries a "however" though... I was ready to get back to work.  People told me I might cry.  They told me I would both love and dread receiving texted pictures of Mabel from the day care provider, that I would miss her terribly and it would be an incredible adjustment.  People even said, graciously, "Reach out if you need anything!  This week's gonna be a killer for you!" Thus, anticipation gripped me, but when August 27th rolled around... dare I say it?  I was F-I-N-E fine.  Now, I do realize that much of the challenge in going back to work after a maternity leave comes when you have to leave the little munchkin at the day care, and as you walk out, she is following you with her eyes, seeming to plead, "Dooooon't goooo!" But maybe why this was all so much easier on me was because I had my mom watching her for the first few days, which offers a certain elevated level of comfort, and when Mabel did go to day care, J was dropping her off, not me.  I didn't have the actual "leaving her behind" image in my head all day; in fact, when I leave in the mornings, Mabel is often still comfortably asleep.  Another reason why I didn't go to the super- sad place might be that I really like and trust our day care provider.  T is utterly thoughtful, conscientious, and devoted.  When I arrive for pick- up, Mabel is often marveling at the toddlers working on a puzzle, smiling up a storm.  It makes me feel relieved to know she enjoys being at T's house so much.  But if none of these reasons make sense, then maybe I am missing a certain Mom gene that makes ladies cry when their tikes go off to someone else's care.  When T texts me pictures, I light up seeing Mabel attentively concentrating on a toy or crazily laughing while in a swing at the playground.  I never feel sad.  Maybe I am an oddball?!  But frankly, and I hope folks don't judge, but I couldn't wait to get back to some adult interaction.  Elmo is dear to me, but I needed more.  I guess that's who I am, but figuring out my own parenting path and my identity as a mom is part of this whole rookie gig to begin with.  I like having routine in my day, and working with teenagers as a high school teacher.  As much as I grouse, I actually enjoy putting on work clothes and making early morning coffee and scrambling to get my lunch made in time (J very kindly has alleviated this responsibility lately for me!).  As much as I know I am going to be bitching and moaning like crazy about stress soon enough, I know where I need to be and what I need to be doing in order to be a happy mom, which to me is the best mom I can be to Mabel.  I'm digressing a bit, but I heard an author on NPR the other day (wish I knew her name now); she has recently published a book about parenting, focusing on the argument that having kids often doesn't fulfill people in the ways they had envisioned.  She is a feminist and some of her theories seemed a little harsh to me, a bit tough to wrap my head around (ie- her claim that being a parent is NOT the most important thing you will do with your life if you are indeed a parent).  But what I liked is that she made the point that parenting can be a joy, and it can also be a challenge.  Kids make us laugh and grant us happiness, but it's not their jobs to MAKE US HAPPY.  That's a lot of responsibility to put upon a baby.  We can love our kids more than anything, but not love every second of time we spend with them, and that's okay.  I think Mabel's going to day care is good for all three of us.  She's experiencing new people, places, and activities, and J and I are both working doing things we are passionate about.  I see it as a win- win.



The other big change is that we moved into our new house.  Formerly renters, we are very excited to be owners!  Closing on the purchase AND moving in the same day was a herculean task, but we got it done.  Mabel seemed out of sorts-- both excited and confused- for a couple days, but now she's back to stompin' and sittin' and swingin' and sleepin' just as before.  We are elated to have more space-- especially because various baby gear was taking up almost our entire previous living quarters.  I couldn't get from the couch to the kitchen without stepping on the "Lights n Sound Gym" thing or stubbing my toe on the swing posts.  Mabel gets her very own play area in the new digs.


Fun new adventures for us all... And we are loving them. When I start to beat myself up for not being more sad about leaving M at day care, I can make myself feel better with my gushy, sentimental reaction to the fact that our little apartment, in which I was pregnant with Mabel and to which we welcomed Mabel as a newborn, is now just a memory.  For all the complaining we did, that time when she was so new and teeny will stand out as one of the most memorable of my life, and it all took place in that little living space.  I'm sure I will be driving by it a few times here and there, swabbing a Kleenex across my cheek.