See, when I’m processing something, feeling stressed or anxious, I write. I don’t talk. I have always written. It’s What I Do ™.
And when I don’t have time to write – well, I’ve NEVER not had time to write. I have always made time to write because I know it will help. So this is how deep down an emotional gopher hole I was:
Exhibit A: Two nights ago I was sitting on the couch at midnight having just watched Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip on a one hour delay because of the MythTV. This was notable, not because I was watching a TV show the same night it was broadcast (which is novel but not notable) but because I am never awake at 12 am. I never have problems sleeping. I have always slept. It’s The Other Thing I Do. ™ If I am up at 12 am it is either because I want to be (parties!) or because I feel obligated (babies!)
I looked on Facebook to see if anyone was up and there were some people I knew. I commented to one of them that I was awake and it was weird. He commented back that I should write it down or let it go.
Hmm. What? You say there are infomercials that need watching?
Exhibit B. Yesterday I was quite tired, because apparently the baby doesn’t sleep later in the morning when I have insomnia. (Whose idea was it to cut that umbilical cord anyway?) I spent the day shopping for big box stuff, hanging at my parents’ place; a peaceful, easy day. Except when I was driving home with Trombone during rush hour. I will save you reading the details but I got incredibly, passionately angry with a garden-variety lane ziggy-zaggy idiot. I honked at him and yelled at him and afterwards, felt much better.
As though a much-needed release had been achieved.
Exhibit C. After an evening watching What Not To Wear and eating a very large burrito, I headed to bed exhausted, only to lie in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking: Am I anxious? Am I stressed? Is there something I should be doing? Is there a pill I could take? Is there a reason I am still awake? Am I in a crap rock band now? Because this bad rhyming has to stop.
Thankfully I passed out before I could come to any conclusions.
Exhibit D. This morning I put Trombone down for his morning nap and went to Superstore. It was there, fingering the $3 flip flops that I suddenly realized what a fucking idiot I am.
I am, as the kids say, a hot mess.
I am not dealing. Not well, not easily, not at all. I am keeping my head up, looking off in the distance at the Very Interesting Seagulls while the tide laps up against my neck.
Instead of writing or heaven-forbid, talking or even, just for a second, thinking, I have been busy flipping off and yelling at strangers in traffic, seriously considering $3 flip flops and getting misty-eyed when I hear Fergie songs on the radio. Uh. I am a quirky individual but those things? Are not my quirks.
Saint Aardvark is now watching Caddyshack, which provides me with something more pressing to avoid than my own emotions.
Let’s unpack.
There’s the Fear of Unknown. My job, when I get back to it, will be exactly the same as when I left. Exactly. The. Same. But how I get to my job will be different. My mornings before work, my evenings after work, my night’s sleep; all of these things are unknown quantities. Packing lunch. For a baby. What?
But: my home is my home. If I can create the familiar for Trombone (favourite books at daycare [in lieu of cuddly toy, of which he has none], special nap blanket) I can do it for me. I have favourite books. I have a nap blanket. Well, no, but I have photos. I have my red stapler too.
There’s the Fear of Known, too. It’s going to be hard. Getting up early, getting myself and my kid ready to leave the house every day except Wednesday, (when he stays home with his dad) leaving him with people who won’t – can’t – love him as much as I do. Who don’t know him as well as I do. Who might not know that “UCK” means “duck” but “U-UCK” means “Peas.”
But: I am delighted with our childcare arrangements because of their variety. Because it will give him a chance to get to know other people as well as he knows me – because he deserves to know more than just me. Trombone will spend two days a week with his gran, a retired preschool teacher who a) loves him very much and b) knows a thing or two about babies. He will spend two days a week with a very nice, extremely competent daycare provider who looks after a wee daughter of her own as well as a little girl 9 months older than Trombone. He will get to socialize with kids his age – something that wouldn’t happen if I were to stay home with him because I am fairly atrocious at socializing myself, let alone another human being. He will also have one full day a week with his father and that, after a year of Saint Aardvark seeing the baby on weekends and for about 45 minutes a day during the week, is a goddamn blessing.
He will learn things, just like with me, he will be treated with respect, just like with me and be cared for with just as much patience – actually, even more patience, I would wager – as I offer.
No one does things the way I do because I’m his mom. So I’m just gonna follow him around for the rest of his life and tell people not to talk to him because they might do it wrong? Yeah. Not really practical. Or, you know, the point of it all.
Then – there’s the mourning. This is the only thing that I can’t rationalize away. This is the true gut churn, the tightening of the knot so hard it makes bulges under my clothes. I just spent a year doing something incredible and like any Something Incredible, when it ends, you mourn.
Imagine you spend grade 11 in Spain. Sure, you’re homesick at first. And the food is weird but sometimes really good. There are very dreamy boys/girls in Spain. You have brief flings and lots of rides on mopeds under the moonlight. You must return home at the end of the year and you really want to see your parents, your brother, your old crushes, your dog. But you know there will never be another year in Spain like this past year. You may go back to Spain but it will never be the same. Grade 12, back at your old high-school, you wear the sandals you got in Spain and everyone thinks they’re weird but sometimes you take one off and smell it and the smell of the leather brings that whole year back.
The first year of parenthood has been a lot of things. Because I have an end-date, it feels like it’s ending. It isn’t, of course; I will still be a parent after I go back to being an administrative assistant. I will be in both countries. What’s ending is what has already ended: the year that’s passed. Ever conscious of my impending “deadline,” I am simultaneously loving every moment, hating every moment and remembering each previous moment fondly. Yes, I am often dizzy.
Fear and mourning. That’s manageable. And I am aware and appreciative of the fact that I can mourn the end of my year only because my year is ending. If my year wasn’t ending, I would be mourning the continued loss of my freedom.
Because I’m human.
Now. I should like a good night’s sleep. That means No Dreams About Caddyshack. Dreams about Xanadu are permitted.
