Tag Archives: motherhood

Motherhood Vs. Perspective.

Some days are good. Some days are bad. Lately there have been more of one than the other. 

I’ve been seriously considering finding a doctor in the area that can get me a prescription. I stopped taking what my ob/gyn had given me, they were expensive and I felt like they weren’t working at all. There’s been hardly any change since I stopped them several months ago. My husband wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t told him. I need to have a real sit down with a real professional. Not that the ob/gyn wasn’t a pro, but her expertise ends with postpartum, and that’s not what I have. 

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’ve been doing some reading. I’d like to better myself, my understanding of my little slice of the world. Being a stay at home mom, the struggles of day to day life. I just finished All Joy and No Fun by Jennifer Senior. There were many wonderful things brought to light in the book, but in the current state I’ve been in, the last bit of the book struck me the most. 

I wonder why I’m unhappy, why I find life with one little three year old so challenging. Even normal parents, without personality disorders, face these kinds of dilemmas. All day long, I’m in proximity with my son, and rarely have any actual FUN. Why is that, he’s the light of my life, the reason I live and breathe. But I don’t find being in his company fun? 

Apparently we have two selves. A remembering self, and an experiencing self. The remembering self looks back in fondness on things that the experiencing self found not so entertaining. “Our remembering selves are in fact who we are, even though our experiencing selves do our actual living for us.” Sure, I don’t have a lot of fun being cooped up in the house with a three year old, day in and day out, but that’s not WHO I am. WHO I am, is a mother who looks back on the most mundane tasks, and remembers with fondness how excited he got when he found a toy he’d thought went missing. When he does a task he didn’t think he could do, and jumps up with a big smile and flings himself into my arms for a celebratory embrace. When he sings the alphabet song for the tenth time in a row, I find it grating on my nerves, but look back at it and think “Wow, he’s such a smart little guy, I’m so proud of him.” Our memories make us who we are, and my memories are brimming with proud moments, hugs and kisses, and his big smiles and silly sayings. 

This revelation also concerns me. He’s getting old enough, that I think he’ll maintain some of the memories he has now. If memories are who we are, who will I be in his memories? Will I be the mommy who encouraged him, helped him learn, got into tickle fights and spent lazy afternoons with him on the couch watching Blue’s Clues? Or will I be tyrant mommy, yelling at him for the hundredth time not to do head stands on the couch, telling him in a stronger tone than necessary that chips are’t a dinner, and he has to eat real food. At an age where he’s learning how to push boundaries, the day is full of ‘no,’ ‘get down from there,’ ‘If you don’t do what I say I’ll take your game away.’ Doing a little math, I figured that if the average parent modifies a child’s behavior every three minutes that they’re together, and I spend every minute with him from wake up to bed time, I will correct, yell at or otherwise discipline him two hundred and sixty times a day. 

Are those the memories he’ll hold onto, the ones who decide who I am in his memories that carry over to his adulthood? 

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Live like you were dying. 

That’s what  I’d like to do. Communicating unconditional and eternal love every day. Make the snowy static of the outside world fade away. In my son’s memories, I want to be the mother who loved unconditionally. Who had patience for days and a gentle hand with everything. Behind closed doors, I might be falling to pieces, collecting myself so I don’t punch a wall or worse. But when he’s looking, when he’s creating memories, I want to be the WHO I’m supposed to be, the best mother I can be in his eyes. I want to make memories worth keeping. I want the experiencing self and the remembering self to find a happy place in the middle, where they can both be happy in the respective nows. 

It’s a lovely thought. And a really great goal. But I know, as soon as my kid comes in my room at seven in the morning and the day starts like all other days, and drags on like all other days, I’ll lose some of this willpower. I do believe, that medication would help. The right medication, from the right doctor. Maybe, it will help me keep some of this new found perspective. 

 

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Motherhood Vs. Mornings

Me, not so much a morning person.

My son gets up at 8am, but he’s super good about it though. I hear him playing on the baby monitor, he talks to himself or plays with his toys. I lay in bed another fifteen or twenty minutes then go get him. He’s so happy in the morning. He beams at me and says “Good morning mom!” We come out to the living room and eat breakfast in front of Netflix. He has toast, pop tarts or fruit and watches Cars or Special Agent Oso. I have my slimfast at the computer while I check my messages. All is well, for about twenty minutes.

I know a good mother would cook breakfast. We’d sit at the table, with the tv off, and enjoy a meal together. There are two problems with this. First, he doesn’t eat breakfast foods, so it’s really a waste of time. No eggs, bacon, pancakes; nothin. Second, I’m not entirely awake yet, and it takes me time to clear my head and prepare for the day. So I check my messages, in relative silence. It might be the only time all day I will be left alone for five minutes.

Some days it’s tough. Today, for instance. I’m checking my messages, I Just want to be alone with my coffee and see what the rest of the world is doing. (I hardly ever get out of the house) My son wants to find his red helicopter. He tugs on my arms at the computer so I can’t type or use the mouse. He yells over and over ‘Where’s red helicopter?’ I tell him to give mum a minute, go look in his room and I’ll be right there. But no. He understands, he’s just got a toddler’s impatience. He wants it now. He wants mom to help him now.

This is probably not even a hiccup in a normal mother’s daily routine. She’d drop what she was doing, and go into his room with him and find the red helicopter. He’d be happy and she’d go back to what she was doing. My brain doesn’t work that way. I just get irritated, irrationally and overly irritated. I’m irritated that my morning routine got interrupted, I’m irritated that I’m even up at eight am. I haven’t been getting much sleep, my husband just started working the night shift and when he’s not home in bed with me I’m up every couple of hours, and getting really restless sleep in between. So today, it’s especially irritating. I just want him to sit on his little couch, watch Cars and eat his breakfast.

Most moms, I believe, aren’t so selfish.

So he’s tugging at my arm, screaming about his red helicopter. I’m taking deep breaths and trying to talk to him in a calm manner. (Don’t yell at him, don’t yell at him) He’s not doing anything wrong, he just wants his toy. My mind knows what’s best, just go look for the helicopter. My ‘nature’ is fighting it, saying ‘I just want to check my messages and drink my coffee damn it!’

Deep breaths. Don’t yell. Go look for helicopter.

We don’t find it, but somewhere along the lines something on tv gets his attention. He’s back to his show, he’s content. And now I’m back at the computer. Pat on the back, I didn’t overreact to having my morning ritual interrupted. I didn’t raise my voice. My son is still a happy camper.

These are the challenges I face every day. Sometimes all I want is something for myself. To check my messages, to work on a project, to read a couple chapters, to get out and go shopping alone. ALONE. I really need to be alone sometimes. But for about fourteen hours a day, I have these responsibilities. Take care of the lil dude, who’s in the terrible two’s and needs almost constant attention to avoid a nuclear explosion. Clean the house. Feed people. (My husband normally takes care of dinner, I mainly just focus on lunch)

I was able to steer clear of an episode this morning. Who knows, two hours from now, five hours from now, there might be another opportunity to have one. Which reminds me, I haven’t taken my medication yet this morning. I’ve been on medication for about five years give or take. I stopped taking it while I was pregnant and breast feeding but I’m back on it now. An anti depressant. I suppose it helps, I can tell because if I haven’t had it that day, I’ll start to notice that I’m even more irritable in the evening than I would be if I’d have taken it. That’s normally when I realize I forgot.

So I’m off, to face the day. To fend off toddler tantrums, boredom and anxiety attacks. It’s a never ending battle.

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Motherhood Vs. Introduction

Some women are just born to be good wives and mothers, it’s in their genes. Some have to work at it, in which case some succeed and some fail. Some choose not to work at it, or are indifferent, or motherhood was thrust upon them and want nothing to do with it period. I’m none of these things, I’m something different. 

Parenthood comes with it’s own challenges for each individual. Not one challenge is the same, not one person’s challenge is greater or less than another’s. They’re just different. My life comes with a unique set of challenges, I have a personality disorder that directly affects my role as a parent every single moment of every single day. 

I have borderline personality disorder. This disorder is in constant conflict with motherhood. life with BPD is challenging enough on it’s own, then it gets more and more so when you start to add a husband, an extended family, a child. I have to work very hard at being a good wife and mother. I wouldn’t say I’m the perfect model of motherhood, but I’m not a bad mother. I think I’m probably about average, which I think is doing very well considering my situation.

 

So this isn’t a blog for perfect housewives. It’s a blog for average housewives, and we need to see more praise for the average housewife. We can’t all be the perfect example of motherhood with perfectly pressed clothes, a clean house, polite children and dinner on the table at six every night. It’s not the fifties, and society doesn’t demand it of us anymore.  

This blog is a journey of understanding. Generally speaking people don’t understand why we can’t all be perfect. After all, my only job is being a wife, mother and housekeeper. Surely I have enough time in my day to go above and beyond. But I have to work every bit as hard, if not harder, than the average housewife. I’m hoping this blog can shed some light on the lives of stay at home mothers with personality disorders, or any other mental illness. I can’t possibly be the only one. 

We need to be understood. We need to be accepted for what we are and how hard we work at it.