Relating

D talks sometimes about how it’s easy to see each other primarily as respective childcare units. Tickets towards navigating the daily grind of childcare intact. We discuss which kid we’ll put to bed, whose turn it is to give them a bath, who should prep the diaper bag while the other changes clothes. We switch off kids if we sense the other person needs a change. We each take care of both kids alone enough to appreciate when the other person is around to help, but it can get to be where we see each other as more functional than relational.

This is in nearly comic contrast to how we related before we had kids. We’d talk about things like, what have you been thinking about lately? What has God been teaching you? What passions do you have in life? How has your family shaped you in this or that way? What personality strengths and weaknesses do you have and how does that fit in with mine? What ministry or vision do you feel God is leading you towards for the future?

And aside from talking, we’d think about the other person. Think of small kindnesses we could show, surprises we could buy, ways we could pray. Wonder how they were feeling as they went through the day. Plan an experience we could share. Encourage the other person to develop hobbies or other friendships.

It’s that element of thought and focus on the other person, for their own sake, not in relation to something else, that is the easiest to lose as the demands of life grow. I used to wonder at older couples in restaurants who barely speak to or look at each other the entire time, but it’s not so hard to see how that happens.

It can get like that with God too, more functional than relational—God, get me through this day, answer this list of things I want—instead of, God, who are you? How can I learn more about you today? Am I listening to you?

It used to be that I could get to that place easier, get over myself, set aside time; now it takes more effort. It helps to plan ahead for regular dates, to have helpful material, to put aside distracting media. With God, it helps to make the effort to go to church, have a small group, meet with someone I can share the answers to those questions with. This stage of life is just how it is, and some days are about helping each other get to the point where both kids are in bed, then zoning out afterwards, and that’s okay. But they aren’t the most important priority in our lives—just the most demanding sometimes—and it’s good to remember that.

Caregiver Fatigue

It’s been a hard week. Everyone but me got sick. D was holed up in bed. The kids got fevers followed by a state of permanent fussiness. Dee-dee has to be held constantly and has a meltdown at the slightest provocation, meltdowns that can last for over twenty minutes. E has taken her usual particularity to an extreme, losing it if I don’t do everything a certain way, refusing to eat most things.

It isn’t long before I start feeling the familiar symptoms of caregiver fatigue. I feel trapped, like I want to yell really loud or get out of the house, but I can’t. Every little thing the kids do tick me off. I can’t deal with another meltdown, another crumb falling into the carpet, another mouthful of unwanted food spit across my shirt, another cramp in my legs when I’m holding him while bending down to pick something up. I start bitterly comparing my life with my husband’s—he doesn’t have to take care of the kids all the time, his life is so much easier—or with that of other people (conveniently forgetting single parents or mothers of twins).

Most of all, I lose perspective. I feel like the kids are doing this to me on purpose. I feel like my whole world has narrowed to this house that gets messier and grimier, to heating up leftovers no one wants to eat, to washing the same sippy cups that get the annoying grime stuck in the straw parts that I can’t get out. I lose sight of the fact that I wanted to take care of the children more, of the help that I do have, of the fact that this will pass as they recover. I lose sight of who I am, what I do, aside from being a caregiver.

The closest way I came to feeling this way before I had kids was when I’d get burned out at the end of some ward rotation. I’d feel sick of wearing pants with drawstrings all the time, of eating peanut butter and graham crackers; I’d get mad at every stupid consult and social admission. But at least then there were other people on my team, people taking shifts with me or that I passed off patients to. In this motherhood thing you can feel very alone. All day, I’m trying to keep it together with the kids, be the better person, but there’s no one to speak for me. No one to understand what I’m going through. No one to point out what I might be losing sight of at any given time.

I cycle into this state every so often—a place of anger, resentment, bitterness and depression that eventually leads to some realizations. That I need time and space away by myself to regain perspective. That I need to remember who I am by doing things I enjoy for myself, both one-time experiences and cultivated interests. That it is okay to pay someone to watch the kids for all of the above without feeling guilty. That we need to constantly reevaluate the complicated balance we maintain of work, childcare and ministry to see if the things that are most important are staying that way. That we need to clarify expectations and needs with each other without placing blame or communicating resentment.

I’ve gotten somewhat better. I play in a worship band and have been teaching a resident lecture series, both of which account largely for why I’m much happier around the house. We're helping to plant a church, which has helped us focus on something outward together. I’m working on the concept that paying for help is okay. I control my temper around the kids (slightly) better. I try to recognize the signs earlier. I try to displace my anger less and talk through issues more. 

It’s a work in progress, but I think the biggest thing is realizing that this thing called caregiver fatigue exists. It’s not that I’m a bad mother or person. It’s not that I’m not cut out for having kids. It’s not that my kids are abnormally bad. It’s not that my life is unfair or horrible. It’s just what happens when you are constantly giving to meet demanding needs. You just can’t do that forever; we don’t have inexhaustible reserves, and that’s okay.

One Year Old

I'm pretty sure the reason why kids are often spaced two years apart is because they get so darned cute right around a year. It's this golden window, between about nine to eighteen months, where they are nothing but adorable, tottering and crawling around, all grins and babbles and chub. Old enough to be sleeping through the night (mostly), self-feed, and self-play; too young to say "no" or throw tantrums. You get lulled into thinking, why not another?

Journal Excerpt

I’ve noticed one very endearing thing about her: she likes what I like. She loves Legos, probably because I like personally like Legos. When we were living with my parents while house-hunting, and it was too hot or I was too tired from being pregnant to go out, we would build things with Legos all morning. She got a huge dollhouse for her birthday, which I may be more excited about than she is; my new hobby is hunting online for cheap deals for dollhouse furniture. She plays with the house for hours, exclaiming, “I love it!”

She goes to sleep with a pink stuffed bulldog purse (as tacky as it sounds) held next to her face. I asked her tonight, why do you like the pink dog so much? And she said, “because ma-ma gave it to me.” It was a dog she’d seen at a consignment store and wanted, but I told her we were getting other things, and she gave it up. I went back later for other reasons, and couldn’t resist getting it for her as a surprise.

She is also charmingly brain-washable when it comes to buying things. She’ll run up excited about a toy, I’ll tell her, hm, I think it’s not a great color, maybe we shouldn’t get it, and she’ll pause and say, “yeah. Not a good color.”

I know this won’t last forever, but I’m enjoying it while I can. I can’t see myself getting excited about cars or superheroes, so we’ll have to see how it goes with him.

Attitude

I remember my attending in residency, the only one who liked talking about being a mother—she would tell me not to prescribe these drops after cataract surgery to prevent risk of macular edema and then offer to check if my car seat was installed right—she used to say, there are three big milestones with kids. When they start sleeping through the night, when they stop breastfeeding, and when they get potty trained.

E sailed through all three with surprising ease and little effort. Because she was so sleep-deprived in daycare during our residency years, she conked out for twelve hours every night starting at three months. No exceptions, except maybe violent illnesses or severe thunderstorms. She self-weaned after my milk ran low. She potty trained in a day without a single accident, which I attribute to the fact that I dreaded the idea of a personal encounter with poop so much that I put it off until she was nearly three. She heard the word “lollipop” and the rest was history. I told her once that she could pee in the pool, and she looked at me like I was crazy.

Not so with dee-dee, our dimple-cheeked bundle of grinning stubbornness. He refused to take the bottle and was driven in for me to nurse every three hours at work. My milk ran low and I had to fill the bottle with orange juice to get him to take it. And he still, at ten months, does not reliably sleep through the night, regardless of what we do. Once every three or four days he’ll cry, mostly briefly, but enough to wake us up and leave us sleep-deprived the next day.

I remember my mom saying once that taking care of children is a privilege. Maybe it’s because I’m tired, but I’ve been viewing each day as more of a chore. I wake up each morning feeling exhausted, counting down the hours until I leave for work, hoping he naps so I can prep dinner and/or give E the solo attention she needs to avoid a descent into whininess. I get to work and count down the hours until I leave, seeing patients or operating nonstop. I arrive home to clingy kids and more chores, counting the hours until their bedtime. Then I spend an hour or so trying to feel like I have my own life, before waking to start it all again.

Those are the days I work. For the other four days of the week, I have a one- to two-hour spell of time off in the afternoon when their naps overlap, but it feels much the same.

It’s strange to realize that here I am, with two adorable kids, and most of the time I just feel tired and want them to be sleeping. I fantasize about weekend vacations without them. I think more about how to prevent spills and what to cook for dinner than how to enrich their days. I’m getting by rather than being present in the moment, playing defense rather than offense, being reactive instead of proactive.

Some of that probably just means I need time off or a full night’s sleep. But some of it is in my mind and choices. When I live in my grumpiness instead of in the Spirit; when I complain instead of being thankful. When I take them for granted.

But that is what’s so difficult about having kids. They wear you down, physically and emotionally. You get so used to doing things because you have to that you forget about doing them because you want to. I know bringing them up right—demonstrating Christ, teaching important things, discerning specific needs—is a privilege. I know my mood determines the mood of the entire house. I know we want our home to be a place of safety and peace. And I sure know now that none of that is possible unless I’m asking God for help. I’m trying to change my thinking, to enjoy each day. And I’m praying he starts sleeping regularly through the night.