4

Expanded From My Journal: The Concept of Mine

I wrote this last night as I reflected about motherhood on the evening of my oldest son’s third birthday.

At this time, 9:35 on the third year of his birth, we were relaxing into our huge suite. My Husband was showering and I was spending some time alone with the little baby that was my newborn son. His eyes were mine. His face was mine. He was mine. I remember being overwhelmed with that concept, the concept of mine. I had gazed in eyes that were mine before but the child, herself, had not been mine in the end. And to look at him and know, without a doubt, that he was coming home with me was so amazing… and so scary… that my breath caught in my throat and my heart stopped and time stood still.

That feeling of “mine” still strikes me from time to time. I’ll be doing something very grown up and motherly and I’ll stop and think, “Wait? This is my life? These are my children? When did this happen?” In those moments, I realize that these two little boys are, in fact, mine. I am their mother, their mom, their mommy. I make the decisions. I soothe the boo-boos and hurt feelings. I plan the birthday parties and pay for the overly expensive cake. They rely on me for everything. At night I tuck them into their beds. And in the morning they wake me long before I’m ready.

It took me some time to grow into that after my oldest son was born. Perhaps it takes all parents some time to adjust to that reality even if they have never relinquished a child for adoption. I’ll never be able to personally attest to the differences because I can only live the one reality. I do believe, however, that I had more panic over someone taking him, especially while we were in the hospital. When he was taken in the morning for tests, I kept staring at the clock. I asked my nurse when he was coming back. My heart was tight in my chest. When they brought him back, I could finally breathe again. I didn’t want others to hold him (except for my Husband whom I trusted to give him back). I believe some of that fear attributed to that bout of postpartum depression. I was so fearful and anxious that something would happen to take my child away.

All the same, here I am, three years later. Another boy later. Another mine later. And I’m still caught off guard by all of it at times. I’ve been entrusted to raise these two boys. To help them learn to be great men. And the whole idea of it is so big and large that sometimes I feel just as overwhelmed as I did when I was making my decision to relinquish. What makes me think I’m a good enough parent to do any and/or all of this? I get into this cycle of self-doubt, pointing out any time I’ve lost my patience or forgotten to brush their teeth in the morning or generally dropped the ball as a parent.

And then I remember that all parents are human. We’ll raise these kids up just fine.

Somehow.

3

Someone Said Snow

Apparently some snowfalkes are in our forecast here. Not a snowfall, as it were, but some flakes. I just sipped a mug of hot chocolate in hopeful anticipation. If only we had a fireplace to curl up next to, well, life would be just about perfect.

Munchkin’s Mom called me two weeks ago. Simply because it had snowed that day and she thought of me. This, in turn, warmed my heart and soul. To be thought of, by anyone, when something as magical as a snowfall occurs is quite possibly one of the biggest honors in life.

Snow, for me, is the most amazing and magical thing in the world aside from birth. It is a birth itself, or, rather, a rebirth. Every winter, the world is washed clean from the brown, ugliness of leaf-stripped autumn. The world once again sparkles with hope and even as adults we find ourselves believing in what might happen as opposed to wallowing in what never does.

The magic of this season comes at a time when I fully feel myself finally exiting the emotional cave of this past year. I’ll knock on wood as I type this sentence but I feel that my last journey with postpartum depression is drawing to an end. I am not always patient with my children but I have so much more patience than six months, four months or even two months ago. My thoughts have returned to their normal anxious state instead of their overly panicked and paranoid state. And, shock of all shocks, I can honestly say that I feel happy right now. I could use a nap, sure, but, folks, I said happy!

Is it merely the season? I think not.

Or…

I hope not.

Comments Off

Swaddle Me

I need a swaddling blanket. I’m not sleeping well as of late. And it’s not because of the boys. Being back at home (despite being away for my brother’s wedding this weekend), they’re sleeping normally again. But no. I’m waking. Frequently. Bad dreams. Thoughts. Memories. Grocery lists. I wake. And, because it figures, I can’t go back to sleep.

This is where I am regarding PPD right now. I’ve got my daytime anxiety basically in check, if you will. I have moments where the elephant on my chest won’t really move. But, nights are hard. I want to sleep. And stay asleep. And get rested up for the day.

What ranks as the worst night time internal drama is when the memories of relinquishment come back to haunt. I don’t even bother going back to sleep. I don’t think about those days when I’m in my busy, wakeful hours. But at night, they come to me, in vivid detail. Wallpaper on the walls. How the clock would make this noise in the minute before a new hour. That smell. While I’m glad that I can remember, right now I don’t need to remember. I need to focus on being healthy and complete… and remembering everything I have lost by placing my daughter for adoption makes me feel everything but complete.

Sleep. I miss it.