Checking In Again

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. So long I’m almost not sure where to start.

It’s been a hard winter for us. Dee-dee is basically perpetually sick, in continuous cycles during which he manages to infect the entire family, till we’re all dropping like flies. Once he threw up a couple times, and boom, I’m in bed with the worst GI bug I’ve had since internship, lost to the world for four days. Last week green snot started to run down his upper lip again and boom, I get a cold so bad I stay up nights trying to breathe and lose my voice completely.

As a side note, an interesting discovery I’ve made since losing my voice is that E does not actually require answers to her now-endless series of “why” questions. Typically I try to provide accurate, scientific answers. If I have to guess or don’t know, we go into a discussion about the definition of faith (this topic is very disturbing to her. “I have to know the answer to everything!”). Today I discovered that while she will repeat her question about five or six times if she can’t hear a response, she’ll eventually start to make her own guess and then move on. “Ma-ma, do fish have gums?” “Do fish have gums?”… “well, everyone has gums, whether they are old or young. Teeth come from gums. Fish have small teeth, so I think they have small gums.” Etc.

A less exciting discovery I’ve made is how badly he takes being sick. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde. He turns from a smiling baby happy reading books in a corner by himself into a screaming ball of tantrums. He kicks and flails while I hold him, but if I put him down cries harder while holding onto my pant leg, tears mixing with snot and drool and his whole face getting so puffy and red I don’t know if I feel bad for him or mad at him.

Work has busied to the point where I’m seeing forty patients in five hours. D has gotten busier at work, directing two districts with high-profile events and endless meetings. We continue to host weekly small group, lead missions and outreach, and play for worship at church. It’s a lot. And when we’re all sick, when the kids are not themselves and I’m not feeling myself, it’s hard. I’ve been able to do some processing lately, which maybe I’ll write about more if I get the time, but mostly just trying to take it day by day.

Quote

“Back then I could leave him all day in the resort’s child-care program. This time he was clingy and heavily Oedipal. I began to call myself Jocasta; he began to call me darling.

“Every afternoon when I’d pick Sam up at the kids’ club, it was as if he’d spent the day in a workshop on Surviving the Loss of Your Mother. When I’d appear Lazarus-like to take him back to our room, his joy was huge.”

- Lamott, Traveling Mercies

He is reaching that particular kind of clingy stage where this really resonates. Every time he sees me, he acts like I’ve been gone for a year instead of five minutes.

Messy Christmas

Taking care of two mobile kids is a study in entropy. Now that he can walk, he loves grabbing random objects and toys around the house and dropping them off in a completely different place. He likes digging into our recycling bin and redistributing empty cartons and bottles around the house. She is always moving toys from one room to another. I'm constantly battling the clutter of plastic kitchenware, books, doll house furniture, empty Tupperware, stray wrappings and stickers.

Life is messy in more ways than one. The day doesn't always go as we predict. They don't always sleep, eat or act the way we think. Sometimes, like today, we find ourselves spent. We're helping to plant a church, which means I show up before dawn to set up the band and play for worship; D gets the kids ready his own and then ushers. We stay afterwards for lunch. We all come home pretty exhausted. And it's darned hard to be patient with each other and two fussy, irrational kids.

I was reading Mary's story to E today and it struck me how messy the whole journey to Bethlehem and labor in a stable must have been. Somehow we have romanticized the whole tableau; turned it into something with cute barnyard animals and soft lights. The last time I went to a barn, it stank. The last time I was pregnant, I had a hard time sitting on the floor of our new furniture-sparse house, much less on the bony back of some donkey. It would have been easy to be grouchy, to wonder why a reservation wasn't made, to think things were going all wrong, when instead it was exactly how it should have been.

So yeah, things are not all perfect around here. There a shoe under the couch because dee-dee fished it out and was walking around with it in his mouth; there is a plastic purple fork on the sofa because I was lying there pretending to be E's patient and that was my "medicine." But Jesus began his life in an unexpected place, in the dirt and hay. I think when he told the little children to come to him, he must have been someone who didn't mind their loudness and clamor, their untidiness and stickiness. So it's okay. Sometimes I get so stuck on wanting the day to go my way, on fighting all the spills and messes, that I forget the point of it all. I forget to be present. This Christmas, I want to be present in the unexpected. I don't want to be so intent on the inn room that I miss the king in the stable. I don't want to be so irritated by the mess and unpredictability that I forget to see my family for what it is and be grateful.

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.