Month / October 2018

by bean2bird

Lexapro: A Love Affair

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Guys, I’m gonna square with you here: turns out I’m an actual crazy person.

It all started nine months ago. Well. Not quite, actually. Really it all started 29 years ago, when a little girl was born with a propensity towards anxiety and general nervousness. (I was afraid of The Little Mermaid when I was 5 years old, you guys. This is not a drill.) The anxiety wouldn’t become fully realized, however until the I was in high school and had all sorts of hormonal changes which wreaked havoc on my mental health. When I eventually started driving and experienced actual panic attacks at the prospect of navigating to an unknown location, my parents decided it might be a good idea for me to see a counselor.

That first experience with counseling was really helpful and for many years, the tools I was given during cognitive behavioral therapy were adequate at helping me manage my intermittent anxiety.

But time passed and eventually I started to create a bunch of tiny men…you know…as a hobby or side hustle or whatever. Because of my family and individual history of anxiety and depression, with each new baby came a nervous expectation that I might very likely experience a postpartum mood disorder, but I was unbelievably lucky. Three times in a row I was lucky. Yes, there were the baby blues with each one, but as time passed, so did the darkness of those extreme hormonal mood dips and several weeks later, my emotions would normalize again and I could get back to the task of figuring out how to manage life with an entirely new human to raise.

And then there were four. And apparently that was the magic number that made my brain go “nope”. And so it hit the big, red button labeled “panic” and that’s what I did for eight whole months of my baby’s life. Panicked.

It seems highly likely to me that one of the events that may have caused my brain to hit the panic button instead of riding the wave until it hit the shore again, was the traumatic nature of Number Four’s grand entrance. There’s something about having your worst fear almost realized (or worse, actually realized) that makes your brain go, “Holy bleep, nothing is safe and we could lose everything in less time than I can comprehend and so in order to keep us alive, I’m gonna do you a solid and make you feel like danger is lurking literally everywhere including in mundane, daily things like laundry piles and dirty dishes so that you approach every moment in every single day with a life or death mentality, thereby assuring our survival in this crazy, loco world. You’re welcome”

Life was exhausting. I mean, it would have been exhausting anyway (Hi. Newborn.) but this underlying, constant, absolute panic completely wiped me out. I had high functioning anxiety which basically meant that I felt like if I slowed down, the world would cave in on me. I needed every room to be clean at every moment. And I don’t know what you know about living life with four boys 6 and under, but it ain’t clean, ya’ll. You’ve heard the analogy that trying to clean the house while children are in it is like trying to clean the kitchen while making a smoothie in a blender with the lid off? Well that’s what I was doing 24/7 with the addendum that if the kitchen wasn’t spotless, it meant that I had lost all control of my life and would never get it back.

In my anxiety mindset, the state of my house, the cleanliness of my children, the consistency of our routines, the appearance of my body, the orderliness of our organizational systems, all became the measuring stick against which I determined how successful I was at managing my life as a mom of four.

And spoiler alert: it is 100% impossible for one person to be perfect in all of those arenas simultaneously.

But that’s not what my brain was telling me then. My brain was telling me that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t working hard enough, that my children were in the way, that the tasks were impossible (true) but essential to our survival (untrue) and so we either wouldn’t survive or we would survive but would all be much worse for the wear, and when I followed that thought through it brought me to the scariest thought of all; that my children would be much better off without me there to mess them up.

Contrary to what this all may seem to suggest, those eight months, while obviously riddled with debilitating, exhausting and near-constant anxiety, were also filled to the brim with joy, wonder, laughter and love. Here we were with our miraculous little boy who not only survived his birth, but was now thriving and growing and learning and I was there, but was unable to truly tap into it. Like I was experiencing it all from the other side of a thick sheet of plastic; hearing it all, seeing it all, but not quite able to touch it.

I found healing in holding my boy. There was peace in our bond and in my deep love for him. Not a single day went by (nor does one go by today) when I didn’t say a prayer of gratitude for his life while he slept in my arms or learned something new or laughed with his brothers.

And so, because there was so much happiness, right on cue, guilt entered stage right. I felt guilt all. the. time. Guilt for feeling so anxious and sad despite the miraculous circumstances surrounding the Tomahawk’s life; guilt that he had come to this mama who was so inherently flawed that she would let his older brothers watch Netflix for hours upon hours at a time because there just wasn’t room in her anxiety-ridden mind for their noise and fights and rough-housing; guilt that at least three times a week, I had to leave the house the minute Shem walked in the door to walk around the park to clear my head, despite the fact that I was leaving everything I loved in that house and wanted to figure out how I could be with them again without my heart racing and my stomach turning. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

And fear, fear, fear. Fear they’d drown, fear they’d choke, fear they’d fall asleep and not wake up, fear I would die and miss them so much, fear that Shem would die and I’d have to raise them alone, fear that I was ruining them because I couldn’t stay patient (I’m not a yeller normally, and this was the first time in my life I was yelling almost daily) fear that I’d lost all autonomy forever, fear that I was stuck in it all and had no choices, fear that I might have a break down and actually leave…

But fear not, friends! Things did not stay so broken; hope is on the horizon. Stay tuned for part 2!

by bean2bird

Creation Over Consumption

I HEART BOOKS

I have a couple of book recommendations for you people. Numero uno: the one inspiring this blog post; Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. And numero dos: the one responsible for this whole love affair I’m having with my creativity of late; Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis (shout out to the Bakersfield natives who are crushing it!).

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First of all, drop whatever else you are reading and secure a copy of Girl, Wash Your Face. Assuming you are, in fact, a girl. If you are not a girl, go ahead and skip that one and head on over to Big Magic where all your dreams of creating without fear will come true. Just trust me.

Both of these books are quick reads, not because they’re particularly short, but because you will devour them completely in less time than you may have thought possible. And your thoughts and feelings and motivations will be forever changed for the better.

Every once in a while in the course of my daily living, stars will align in this very particular way and suddenly, my life will find itself on the right path no thanks to me, simply because I got out of the way and let things magically and miraculously unfold around me. I happen to believe in a divine Creator who loves me infinitely and takes a devoted interest in my progress and therefore gently nudges me in the right direction, but if that’s not your jam, you can think more along the lines of Elizabeth Gilbert who would likely believe that these moments are an attempt for inspiration or creativity to partner with a human host in order to become.
Here’s what happened to me:
                                                                 August 22, 2018 I post this very screen shot to my instagram story to complain about the insane wait list for the book Everybody was raving about.

6 Weeks later; October 3, 2018

Miraculously, inexplicably and unexpectedly, the book becomes available to me and I check it out. But I don’t start reading it yet because reading? Who has time for reading?

 6.5 weeks later; October 6, 2018

My church holds a semi-annual General Conference every April and October. This session during women’s conference, the prophet, President Russel M. Neilson, issued a challenge to hold a ten-day social media fast. In addition to abstaining from Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest, I also decided to lay off of my daily brain shutdown / television binge sesh during the little’s nap. (You guys, I pretty much thought this ‘down time’ was necessary for me to feel connected with the outside world and remember that I am a human being and not just a 24/7 Bed & Breakfast -and lunch and dinner- host of four tiny men)  With that time now free, I finally cracked open this book that had been waiting three days for me to see what all the fuss was about and oh. my. word you guys. It has literally changed my life.

See now, I have no idea how it worked out that this book which has launched me into maybe the most meaningful period of self-discovery I have experienced in my adult life, just happened to be available to me a full four months before it was projected to be and also just happened to coincide with the timing of this prophetic council to abstain from social media for ten days, but what I do know is that it can’t be a coincidence. Because here I am, blogging, drawing, writing, practicing piano, creating, and making things happen that I’ve been dreaming about making happen for years now.

In this highly motivated state, I next stumbled upon Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic which has been an unparalleled tool in helping me to finally overcome all of the deeply rooted, driving fears about blogging (and creating in general, to be honest with you). So here I sit with a shiny new blog and several dozen new photo editing skills and lots of new interests to explore. See? Magic.

One big takeaway I’ve experienced during this period of enlightenment and personal growth is the idea that living my best life will always have to include creating more than I’m consuming. I think that that part of my life had shifted out of balance a little as I scroll, scroll, scrolled through social media and binge, binge, binged The Good Place and This Is Us and episode after episode of my favorite podcasts and flip, flip, flipped through pages in the four books I was reading at the time. All of this consumption was part of a well-meaning but misguided attempt to feel connected to a community outside the little people I’ve created.

Adding to this problem is the reality that nearly everything I create daily as a mother (an extensive list, let me assure you) is destroyed in 5.6 seconds on average. Clean clothing? Stained immediately. Straightened living room? Cluttered instantly. Nice meal? Strewn about the kitchen willy-nilly and also harshly critiqued by three of the most obtuse culinary critics alive. It is the mother’s eternal struggle against entropy. So it hit me: I need to create something that will last. I need to make something I can go back to over and over and stare at almost as lovingly as I do my newborn children. I need to finish something that stays finished. And, because I, like Joan Didion “don’t know what I think until I write about it”, an updated blog seemed to be in order.

Unlike the last time I resurrected my blog, I have no expectations of this space or of the work that I will do here. It is for me. It is an outlet. It is an attempt at acting a conduit for inspiration; an opportunity for creativity to use me as it’s human partner to bring it’s work to life. At the urging of Elizabeth Gilbert, I will create without fear of judgement, without fear of rejection, without fear of misinterpretation, misunderstanding, or criticism.

I will create without fear.

by bean2bird

It’s A Boy

I’ve been hesitant to write this post, so instead I’ve been writing nothing because this subject has been weighing so heavily on my heart, I can’t imagine staying genuine while posting anything else. It would feel like the ultimate in social media falsehood to post anything about our summer adventures, or our preparations for the impending ‘back to school’ season or even fun facts and pictures of our growing family (and my growing tummy).

Because one thought keeps running around in my head; one google search has dominated my web browser; and one topic keeps bubbling to the surface, only to be choked back by a false smile and quick laugh followed by reassuring words chosen to convince myself as much as others about how content I am.

First of all, please know that it is not lost on my how blessed I am; how lucky. I see people that I love so deeply struggle to start a family or navigate loss after loss and my heart breaks for them. I am filled with gratitude every day for my children. Every baby that has come to me has filled me with the kind of love that is surprising–until they handed me that first baby, I never knew a human had that kind of capacity for love.

It’s essential love, of course, because honestly if mamas didn’t love their babies that fiercely, babies wouldn’t make it. I’ve had eight things thrown at me just today. And last night I stepped in someone’s pee because making it into the toilet doesn’t rank super high on the priority list of a couple of my roommates. Who, incidentally eat all my groceries, color on the walls, poop in things I buy and don’t even pay rent.

…I digress.

My children are my favorite. Don’t try and approach that idea using logic because it’s really confusing. I don’t know how I can love them so thoroughly when they torture me so regularly, but there it is.

And here’s the thing: I love this baby I’m growing. Or I anticipate the love I’ll have for him. Because I know it now. I know what’s coming. I know they’ll hand me this wrinkled, smelly, screaming lump of flesh and my whole being will suddenly need to comfort him and make him understand how loved and safe he is and I’ll whisper “Hi, baby! Hi. Mama is right here. It’s okay, I’m here.” over and over and over until his crying slows and he just lays his head on my chest and breaths in my scent and knows that everything will be alright because his mama has him.

I can’t wait.

This is (probably*) the last time I’ll have that experience.

And (deep breath)

It’s a boy.

My fourth boy, to be precise. My fourth bouncing, energetic, twinkle-eyed, adventurous, out-door loving, mama adoring, daddy worshiping little boy.

I’ve dreamed of daughters since I was a kid. I had a list of girl names and as I got older, the names changed but the gender didn’t. I yearned for the frills and lace and bows and pink and nail polish. Early in my marriage, I created a board on Pinterest called “When I Have a Baby Girl” and pinned there frequently. Though, my pinning there started slowing after the third time I heard “it’s a brother!” And now I passionately avoid that board. And I highly doubt I’ll pin there again. I tried to delete it today, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

I’ve been reading articles by mamas with all boys, or mamas who’ve found out they’re having their third, fourth, fifth boy in a row. And each of them were helpful, in a way. They were quick to point out the advantages (We have all the clothes and toys already. Less drama. Boys love their mamas. They are protectors by nature. Etc.) and the fun things (We’re in a pretty unique club with other ‘boy moms’. Brothers are fun to watch. Sports!) and the things to look forward to (Grown men take wonderful care of their mothers. Missions. Daughters-in-law.) but none of them quite hit the mark for me.

I’m glad those women are so fully focused on all the positive parts of having all boys. And trust, there are so many good things and parts of being a boy mom that I’m genuinely looking forward to. But my brain can’t stay there yet. Because I’ll finally think I’m settled there and then I see ‘mommy and me apron sets’ in Williams Sonoma and my stomach flips and I will myself not to cry in public while surrounded by expensive blenders. Or Pinterest suggests a pin with a pastel pink and crystal themed nursery and I click “not interested” while internally shouting about how interested I really am, so that I can try and correct the algorithm and avoid any future sighting. Or I scroll through facebook and see someone’s precious baby girl with flowers in her hair and have to scroll a little faster so I won’t think about what my little girl would look like with flowers in her hair.

Because there isn’t a little girl for me.

I won’t paint a sleeping newborn’s fingernails. I won’t buy tiny tights or peruse the girl’s section in Target for pants with frills on the bum or newborn bows that are as big as her face. I won’t have built in girls nights while the boys are at father-son’s outing. I won’t wear matching Easter dresses. I won’t buy princess costumes or dress-up jewelry. I won’t commiserate about periods or go bra shopping or share sweaters or steal her shoes.  I won’t plan a wedding or go wedding dress shopping. And I won’t be in the delivery room when my grand-babies are on their way.

And I just want it to be okay that the loss of those experiences is absolutely breaking my heart. I need to be sad for a while. I need to miss that little girl and grieve the loss of what she represented to me.

You know that part in Inside Out where Bing Bong is so sad because they’ve dumped his rocket and Joy is trying desperately to distract him with all her positive thinking and silly games and tickle fights? She just can’t stand to let him grieve. But Sadness finally comes over to Bing Bong and sits next to him and says how sorry she is and how sad it is that they took his rocket from him. She lets him talk about his memories with Riley and how much he misses her and how sad he is that she’s forgetting him and moving on. And she lets him cry.

My internal monologue is Joy. I bounce around from thought to thought and point out all the reasons why everything is going to be okay; why there’s no reason to be sad; why I shouldn’t even think about it if it makes me feel anything other than happiness. But I need Sadness right now. I need her to sit down next to me and let me talk about how sad it is that my girl isn’t coming. And how much I miss her. And how confusing it is to miss someone I’ve never known. I need her to tell me that it IS sad and then just let me cry.

When that baby boy, that fourth boy, is put on my chest in January, my only emotion will be love. I won’t be grieving a little girl, but will be rejoicing in my boy. I’ll be overwhelmed with love and adoration for this new man in my life. And as I watch him grow, it’ll be the same. I’ll never look at him and wish he were anyone other than who he will be. I will love him completely and I’ll wonder how I could ever picture my life without him. So I’ll hold on to that hope while I grieve the loss of a future daughter, but I have to let the grief be okay.

For now.

*I reserve the right to change my mind about the size of my family and not have to listen to anyone ask me if I know how birth control works

by bean2bird

Motherhood: Battling The Unmakers

Entropy:

Noun

1. Lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder.

…or…

2. Toddlers.

I’ve been thinking about the principle of entropy a lot lately. My dad was the king of inventing games and then using those games to introduce his kids to highly advanced theories and scientific principles. We used to play a game called “Rock, Paper, Scissors, Screwdriver” where you basically pick anything in the entire world -theoretical principle, idea, person, place, thing, etc.- and then have a five to ten minutes debate about why your item of choice beats everyone else’s item of choice.

One time, my dad chose entropy. After he taught us what it was, we collectively banned it’s use. Because, hi. That’s cheating.

I started a really good book series a couple of weeks ago. Orson Scott Card’s, “Alvin Maker” series. I just finished Book One: Seventh Son. It’s wonderful and I highly recommend it. The ultimate Boss Level bad guy in that series is called the “Unmaker” which, in my imagination, is basically the equivalent of entropy. It desires to ‘unmake’ everything and turn it into nothing; disorder, chaos. Alvin Maker, if you couldn’t guess, is sort of his arch nemesis.

I relate to Alvin Maker.

Because my kids are tiny Unmakers.

Examples?

The laundry.

All I want to do is make clean clothes for everyone. And fold them and put them all neatly away. All the tiny Unmakers want to do is spread it all around on the floor, wad it all into tight little balls to see how wrinkly they can make it, and see how far they can throw each individual sock across the room. (Spoiler: It’s far.)

Dinner.Pretty straight forward…I’d like to make dinner. Preferably a dinner that my kids will actually eat, but at the least a meal that I can put in front of them to assuage myself of potential blame that may come my way right before bed when they inform me that they’re all ‘starving’. The Unmakers? They want to “help”. I’m pretty sure that word is just their way of lulling me into complacency so that they can get up close and personal in order to more effectively destroy the entire kitchen.

Cleaning.My goal: to clean. Their goal: to make new messes while I’m busy cleaning up the decoy messes.

Bath Time.It seems so simple; I’d like to get the kids clean and keep the water in the bathtub. Theirs is more of a three step process. Step 1. Run around butt-neked. Step 2. Either a) stay dirty OR b) dump the entire bottle of baby soap on their heads in an attempt to ‘help’ -there’s that word again- get clean. Step 3. There are bonus points for every liter of water that ends up on the bathroom floor, apparently. Maybe it was a bad call for me to give them a bucket as a bath toy. *ponders*

So, you see…we are at odds my Unmakers and I. They are entropy. I am the attempt at creating order in the chaos. We wage daily battles. Sometimes I lose, sometimes they lose. Mostly, I take my victories while they’re asleep and then I wait for the wakeful state wherein they will promptly undo all I’ve done.

Occasionally I see glimpses of their potential as future Makers. They seem to be Makers-in-training as it were. The older Luke and Samuel get, the less entropic they become. (Entropic. It’s a word.) From time to time, I can enlist them to engage in battle against the Lead Unmakers in our house, and from time to time they successfully resist the urge to get sucked into the alluring prospect of destruction. It’s a beautiful thing.