Showing posts with label back to work. Show all posts

I am a canoe (and other summations of March-y feelings)



It has been an unspeakable kind of Winter, but with new streaks of sun motivating me to scrub scary dark places and organize neglected pan cupboards, I think I shall endeavor to speak it.


I have been in hibernation for 22 months.  Yes, I suppose I have always been unsatisfied as a stay-at-home-mom, this much is true.  It wasn't that it wasn't meaningful work or even that I was unhappy, but that it was not enough to make me be the most me. 

I had been actively looking for work for almost two years, and had all but given up on the search when my previous employer contacted me about a technical writing position (one I had, in fact, applied for several months ago, but they took me on as a contractor instead). 

 I jumped at the chance and for exactly the 15 minute ride home from the job offer meeting to arriving at Jess's to pick up Bowie, I was elated, empowered, and really excited.  

Then something odd happened.  I started feeling these chords yanking, these ties binding.  They were not unwanted, and their presence wasn't entirely a surprise; however, their intensity surely was!  The bond with Bowie had always been there, but without it being yanked on, I suppose I didn't realize how strong it was.  For the next three weeks (to now, as I write), I have been decidedly heartsick.  No one I knew could watch Bowie full time, so I was left with having to hire a nanny.

I realize so many people do this, and so many people have practice that I never had at leaving their kids with people they didn't know (and how I will become accustomed as well, building a necessary callous to the pain).  I realize now how hard it is for people to leave their children, how many people we interact with daily are in a torn place, actively fighting guilt and confusion about how to maintain themselves, their work, and their families.  Surely I wasn't carefree before kids (have I ever been carefree without help from gin?),  but it's awfully tempting to remember it thusly.  The freedom of decisions, the leaving the house easily, the simplicity.




I looked around me and began to notice that perhaps every parent feels these yanks when they are apart from their children.  My thoughts further horrified me into realizing that perhaps these yanks NEVER STOP.  When I wanted a baby, I wanted a BABY.  I never thought fully about the fact that she would spend the majority of her life on earth NOTWITHME.  Perhaps it gets easier, perhaps not.  

These thoughts spiraled me into a pit of mud-soaked anxiety and deep weepiness. My heart began to feel bigger than my brain.  Where once I had developed a logical distance from Bowie's crying, now every single time she cries I am flooded with horrible visions of abandonment and sadness.  I cried during the singing time at preschool.  I cried making her breakfast.  I cried in my bedroom while trying to work from home and hearing her say my name desperately.  This reaction bothered me, yes because I fancy myself an evolved mother who can see beyond her instincts (I KNOW she is not abandoned or traumatized, but feeling the transition deeply and doesn't know what to expect each day now), but more because it hurt.  It fucking hurt.




I think I am more dealing with the truth of my long-term place in Bowie's life than I am about leaving her with a nanny for the next months.  I will not know everything about her from now on, know everything she ate or said, know how much she slept, know her mood.  My job is to raise someone to take care of themselves and in so doing extend themselves and their own resources out into the world.  I cannot keep us in this bubble, this little stage of life where it's just she and I and we sit at home and read.  Not only because I can't, but more importantly - because I don't want to, and that simply has to mean something.

I need help; I need work; I need my own thing.  I need Bowie to see a woman pursuing herself and working outside of the home (or staying home) as an empowered, free choice.  Not just because she has to financially (another nuanced question to wrestle with here.  It's hard to think that we are all miserable because I wanted this change, not because life forced it upon us.  It's my doing.), but because she is most fulfilled in this manner.

Oh, the shitshow that was finding a nanny.  I thought I had one that was fabulous, but she took another position in a strange miscommunication.  I then flew up my mom last minute, and she stayed with Bowie for two weeks while I interviewed and hired someone else.  15 conversations, 7 candidates, 5 interviews, 1 hired nanny from SPU (she's awesome! English Lit major!) and then all the logistics of training and care. So.Ex.x.x.hausting.









But then there was the work, the work that I wanted so badly, the work that would make the leaving her okay.  Only it wasn't.  It never will be.  That sick little punch-to-the-gut lesson being learned, I began to enjoy the work immensely.  I am doing more marketing technical writing than technical writing, and I absolutely love it so far.  I get to be on the cutting edge of exciting technology AND get PAID TO WRITE. PAIDREALMONIESTOWRITEWORDS.  It's magic.  Each task feels almost tailor-made to my desires and strengths, and the work culture is fabulous.  My manager is perfectly suited to me (former teachers unite) and I have the flexibility in scheduling I need.  There are significant challenges in staying creative all day, but I welcome the use of atrophied brain muscles.  

First day of work bathroom self-portrait


I want both lives; I guess I'm greedy that way.  But I do feel severed.  Heart-wrenchingly torn.  Stuck between two shores of a lake like a canoe set adrift **.  I am buried in it and holding on. It's harder than I ever imagined.

But I know myself, know what I need to be happy, and have done everything in my power to make sure Bowie knows she is loved and known.  I've taken pains to ensure that this new person in her life will be just another chapter in the Bowie book, the same story I've been telling her all along.



Bowie, you are loved and love is everything.
Bowie, look up.
Bowie, you are worth attention and respect.
Bowie, you are independent and capable.
Bowie, you are a part of something bigger than yourself and you must contribute your passions to find meaning.
Bowie, you are not immune to the confusing conflicts of life.
Bowie, you are allowed to be scared.
Bowie, you are never alone.
Bowie, you have your own story and the power and support to write it however you desire.
Bowie, you have to learn to let go and are able to courageously adapt.
Bowie, dance it out.
Bowie, question everything.
Bowie, be courageous, but know that caution is not lack of courage.  Be wise.
Bowie, live long and prosper.

It's the same story I read myself night after night.
It's a page turner.

crm


**my favorite song/band right now.  sorry about the lude cover, but it makes me laugh.
back to work inner conflict motherhood
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est-il Automne?




Is this Fall, this nothing
and everything feeling, the gray
bright shadows sinking deep into the bones of my quiet house?

This morning, after I put my child down for her morning nap,
I cooked myself a big breakfast. Biscuits
Bacon, the whole lot.
I thanked Bardot and Ginger, the hens who gave me these eggs to
scramble
                even though I don't believe animals have souls to thank.
                   Sometimes I hate being pigeonholed by beliefs.  Like,
                   for instance, if you love animals but don't believe they have a soul.
                      Or if you love babies, but don't want to have any of your own
                      Or if you advocate for social healthcare but want to encourage self-reliance.



I've been told that when someone needs to imagine a face in their head telling them that it's okay to care for yourself, to be nice to yourself, to love yourself...that face is mine.  My friends regale me with the news of personal indulgences, solitude, hot baths, an extra pour of wine, asking for help, buying a new pair of shoes.  You can therefore imagine my shame when earlier this summer a new, nasty, scaring bout of self-hate made itself my companion.

I had to shop for a swim suit for camping, so I hated my body for the pregnancy.  Then I hated myself for hating the pregnancy.

I had to camp, so I hated myself for all the ways camping stretches my personality.  Then I hated my personality.

I had to be a mother to a new phase, so I resent my daughter for demanding of me, thinking that perhaps I didn't like her.  Then I hated myself with all the hate I had in my hater for disliking my daughter.  But then I knew many mothers feel this way, so I should say it for them.  Then I hated myself for saying anything at all.

I had to live with family for a few days during vacation, so I felt anxious and misunderstood.  Then I hated myself for anxiety and misunderstanding.

I had to speak of what I am learning regarding sexism, gender identification, and feminism, so I did so - loud and opinionated, like a child who yells before it can speak eloquently.  Then I hated myself for how it ostracized people, hated myself for being a feminist.

Then I hated myself for hating all these things I usually have the power to love about myself.  My body for bringing forth life and carrying me, my personality for all its strengths, my daughter for her ability to dislodge my guts, my anxiety and fear for how it introduces me to myself in new ways.

Two of my friends recently agreed that I drop wisdom bombs.  I wonder where my the ability to detonate those for myself has wandered off to.

But Fall, it demands a harvest.
I am ready, I say.
I pick up my left-handed sickle and stand attention, eager for assignment.

But it's been several hours.  No one stands with me, they've all been purposed.
Why wasn't I picked?  Everyone else has new school clothes,
fancy trapper-keepers that smell like plastic and smarts.

So what am I do to? Give myself my own Fall purpose?
I am so tired of that.

So I ask you Fall.
Are you here to stay?
Or will that late summer Sun persist in rays of hope and energy and lazy daze?
I simply don't think I could bear it.
I've always thought Rain and Thunder were better playmates anyway.

Or perhaps this question.
Should I keep buying Rosé or move to Reds?
I kinda need to know.
back to work fall purpose
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Back to Work

I made it through my first day back to work.  I cannot say the same for my mascara.

I recently learned that human internal organs have a dual function. There is the physiological aspect as well as the emotional.  Apparently, the lungs hold grief.  This may explain why I could not catch my breath today; not once could I lull myself to peace via deep breathing.  I am guessing I had a few things to mourn.

107 days ago, I became a Mum.  When I began maternity leave, I intended to go back to work, but my position was trimmed (I was fat, apparently).  I then planned to just stay home and suck it up - as I was never convinced about what I wanted to do anyway.  I was then offered a 4-week contract that I decided to take.  That contract work began today.  

When I accepted the position, I was thrilled and in serious need of a break from Mommy-hood.  I was lucky enough to line up Jessica as Bowie's nanny, so the pain of leaving her would at least be that little bit easier.  However, between then and now, something strange shifted with Bowie and I.  I found myself enjoying nursing, craving time with her, even wanting to peak in and snuggle her while sleeping.  Before, I was way too exhausted to do anything but exist.  Since I could leave for dates with Joel as soon as she was 1-week old, I figured maybe I wasn't as attached as a Mother is supposed to be.  

This of course was a direct result of Bowie beginning to sleep consistently through the night.  I was much more capable of loving her. But it still seems like I blinked and suddenly motherhood has engendered a choking kind of love.  It sits on the back of your throat, somewhere between your heart and your mouth.  It's as if I am perpetually watching a deeply-moving cinema and stuck on the part just before the flood of tears.  

I'm stuck at the edge of catharsis.  

I was fine most of the day.  I couldn't breath, but I was managing.  But then night.  Oh.God.Awful.Night.  

After an hour in rainy traffic, after feeding and changing Bowie, after washing and organizing all the shit from pumping breast-milk at work all day, after an hour of trying to get Bowie to sleep (that NEVER happens), and after more pumping, I had to lie down on my bed and weep like a baby.  Dinner was not made, relaxation was nowhere in sight.  Bowie cried in her bedroom and I cried in mine and the poetic symmetry broke my ever-lovin' heart.  

Joel rescued with a cocktail and a hug, and I lost it even more.  It's just so much work to get to and from work, even though I am leaving Bowie with my best friend.  I still don't get to spend the day assessing her every little movement.  I come home and feel like a stranger and read WAY too much into the fact that she won't go down easily and has to cry it out for up to an hour (don't judge me!).  She finally drifted off to sleep somewhere between my Negroni and 2nd pour of Chardonnay, but man - I just had no resilience left.   

I am so glad this is a short contract.  I think I needed this to realize that I am happy at home - and that whatever structure and mental stimulation I need, I need to provide it for myself - income would be nice too.  

Time to dream again.

Tonight, Joel went in to comfort Bowie and as soon as she saw him, she not only stopped fussing, but looked at him with a huge grin.  He said he had no idea how much she had hooked him.  Looks like I am not the only one being manipulated by biology.

I just returned from peeping in on her as I make my way to my own bed.  I never used to do that.  I never wanted to risk waking her.  Now, I am so enamored of her smell and personality and cute little jammies that it's almost worth the risk of losing sleep just for that one last cuddle.  I might have to go in and sniff that head.

Yeah. I'm 'effed.  This picking up of a soul only to let go of a soul - it may be my undoing.  My body cannot contain it.  Mothers, how can you walk around and not be completely undone by one prick?  I guess we all get used to it - like I've become accustomed to Bowie's varying cries and therefore less traumatized by them (hell, she almost never cries anyway).   

Moms are my new superheros.  Yoga pants aside.



Monday, I am not sad to see you go.  But I am glad to see that Motherhood is happening to me, just as it should and in its own time.  

Worry not, Candace.  Your biology will not betray you.  It's supposed to hurt this much.
back to work becoming a mother bowie andromeda
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