Mommy Brain

 

Once upon a time I could formulate complete sentences before hearing a crash, a scream or worse…silence. There was a time, that I could both develop and express both clever and insightful ideas … uhm?

Wait, where was I going with that?

As far back as I can remember, a fresh pad of paper and a brand new pen – zebra – were aphrodisiacs for my brain. I have books, and random pieces of papers with thoughts, poems, ideas and opinions that I always claimed I would “do something” with. I never really considered that “something” would come to be a big Rubbermaid box underneath the stairs.

I sometimes think that I should let someone read my poems. I was lucky enough to live a life that provided much inspiration, but unlucky in the fact that I was too caught up in it to give any serious thought to getting paid for what I love to do? My highest marks were consistently in the language and visual arts.

What made me think Business Studies was a wise choice?

I flipped through the course descriptions, avoiding the things I loved in favour of something that would “get me a job”. The fact is that math and science have a Gravol like effect on me, and anything with “arts” in it seemed more of a hobby than a career choice. I chose something that would get me a job – and hated it. I retrospectively realize that I was just afraid my writing was not good enough, and I never thought my drawings were that fantastic either. There is something extremely vulnerable about putting thoughts and emotions out there for public scrutiny. Being criticized for something we merely learned to do is so much better than being criticized for something we passionately love to do.

Ironically, I am neither doing what I learned, or what I loved. I’m simply doing what needs to be done.

I wish I hadn’t taken it for granted. I wish I had invested more of myself into myself. Not the person who I thought I should be but rather the person I know I’ve always been but now feel powerless to become. I wish I had written these words when I didn’t second guess my grammar, and the literary rules had not yet been pushed into the far reaches of my cranial archives to make room for more pressing things – like medication schedules, school events and corporate facts and figures – my mommy brain “non negotiables” if you will.

I wish I had written these words when writing wasn’t relegated to these precious few moments of solitude, and when my concentration wasn’t so hampered by lack of sleep and mommy brain. How can I possibly be witty and articulate under these conditions? How can I formulate anything remotely close to captivating and intriguing while …

Oh crap, the dog is eating my jump drive , anyway I belEIVE I was talking about – oh wait – “ “I comes before” E” except after” C” right?

Crap…where was I going with that?

What lies beneath…

When my daughter turns 18 I will remind her weekly to play the lottery.  If there ever was a child who embodied the phrase “what are the chances?” it’s her. What were the chances she’d be born with a cleft palate? What are the chances it would be a complicated form of the cleft malformation called “Pierre Robin Syndrome?  What are the chances she’d end up with colic as a child … and that it would continue into her childhood as a form of ADHD?  But wait, we’re not done quite yet, after all this how likely would it be that things would get much worse?  Bring on the motor / vocal tics that are now 3 short months away from being “officially” diagnosed as Tourettes Syndrome. I’m not sure who this journey has been harder on, me or her.  I’m not sure at what point I lost myself in her, the days and years blur one into the other with the sole purpose of survival. I think I’m finally coming to terms with the reality that having a child with a disability is emotionally disabling.

So many things other parents take for granted cause me anxiety attacks. Hiring a babysitter – what if she can’t handle her!. Going to school – what if people make fun of her? Is she blinking too much? Has she cleared her throat too much – another tic??  Going to a social event? What if she is bouncing off the walls?! Did I remember her meds? Am I doing this right?  Is she going to be ok?  People don’t get it, when I say I don’t have a babysitter.  People don’t get it when I say that my daughter MUST be in bed by 8:30. They don’t get that without structure, and routine and enough sleep my child can not function.  It’s NOT as easy as “let her stay up just this once”.  Her late nights affect my entire family for days. So please, don’t criticize me when I forego a night out, or for not having a readily available supply of child care that can accommodate our needs…you can’t possibly understand how much of everything I do is not in reality what I would chose to be doing.

Over the years I’ve developed a sense of unfounded urgency, and an obsession with being in control that often tears apart  the fragile seams of my sanity.  For years I have not been able to focus on the things I love. Writing. Photography. Reading.  Hobbies aside, I find it hard to focus on life in general and as a result my friendships, my career and my ideals have repeatedly been compromised in favour of our small, complicated universe.  I’ve learned to take the judgements and criticisms in stride after all, I don’t make it easy for people to get close to me.  I often become defensive and angry or emotionally retarded, completely incapable of anything short of a complicated blubbering of nonsense – over spilled milk as the saying goes. I hear of people having mental breakdowns, and I think to myself that I’m quite certain I’ve had several.  I suppose if I was looking at myself, with no knowledge of my own reality I would judge myself just as harshly – I too would see the stone cold “angry” everyone seems to focus on for so long that they miss the red rimmed eyes caused by yet another emotionally draining ‘behavioural’ episode.

Parents in general, face an unprecedented expectation to measure up.  In fact, it seems as though the minute you announce you are pregnant there are hard and fast rules that MUST be followed – the competition is fierce even in infancy when gushing mothers sit around musing about how fabulous, and smart and quick their children are.  Children too, are born with a duffle bag of expectations and obligations for how they should behave, and think and be.  Sometimes the rules don’t apply.  Sometimes expectations must be modified to suit the situation, and we are forced to realign our own preconceived notions of how we  hoped, I dare say wholeheartedly believed our own children would be.  It’s hard to let go of the ideal and face the reality.  Some moms thrive in their new role as “SOCIAL ADVOCATE FOR THE CAUSE”.  They quickly adjust and go on to run successful fundraising, and awareness campaigns, championing whatever disability or disorder their child struggles with.  I’m simply not one of those mothers.  I wish I was but frankly…I’m so tired to be.

Maybe one day I’ll get there.  One day I will come to a full and complete acceptance of my situation, losing all desire to change it.  I will not feel the knot in my stomach, dreading how she will behave at social functions. I won’t feel the need to helicopter parent or worry that people will not like her. One day my heart won’t break yet again, when I see a new tic develop (just before a dance recital!).  I hope to God one day I will be able to escape the worry that suffocates me like a noose around my neck…one day. 

People often meet Andraya and exclaim –”Her condition is not that bad!!  it could be much worse!”, or,  “Oh wow…I didn’t even know!”. Let me tell you, “not that bad”, to a parent of a child with any kind of disability is bad.  Discrediting it won’t make it go away and it certainly won’t make us feel any better.  In many ways I am blessed.  She has her health, she has spunk, she has lots of friends who love her and she has more life coursing through her tiny little veins than anyone else I’ve ever met.  She is my little firecracker, and on a day to day I don’t even stop to think about the challenges she must face as she grows.  Kids are mean, life is mean and it is in the stillness and quiet of my post bedtime house that that old familiar, numbing fear sets in and the tears start to flow. I can not protect her from what may come.  My reality is that I will spend the rest of my life consumed with trying to do just that.

Still waters run deep, hiding the turbulent waters that lie beneath.

“That kid…”

 

IMAGINE: watching three television sets all tuned to the same channel, and listening to the stereo system at max volume, while trying to run around a racetrack with frequent loss of muscle control at the same time as you attempt to carry on a conversation and solve a complicated math equation.  This is the mind of my 7 year old.  The expected chaos, a perfect representation of my life for the last 7 years.  I am the parent of ``THAT kid``.  Thank you for not judging.

My daughter recently went to her first sleep over, while most parents feel a little pang of anxiety with the arrival of this milestone, what I experienced was more kin to a full on panic attack. I knew she would love it, I knew she would not miss me or call me at 3am to pick her up – but would the other mom “get it”?  Would she accept my kid, known by the ever decreasing number of people who don’t have one in their own families as “THAT” kid.

We all know “THAT” kid.  We are most likely guilty of looking down our noses at him or her and saying ,” if that were MY kid, he wouldn’t be THAT kid”.  As it turned out, the sleepover was being hosted by a mother who not only got it and accepted it, but was also very adept at handling my child because wouldn’t you know it, she has a THAT kid too! 

I was relieved, both for my daughter and myself, because for once we would not be judged, or gawked at or misunderstood and if I’m being completely honest, misery loves company and it felt so good not to be alone.  Since then, this mom and I have spoken several times. Admittedly,  we’re both a little neurotic, the loud swish of our helicopter blades drown out the rushed, emotionally charged banter about being our children’s advocates, wanting what’s best for them, while repeating the mantra; “they really ARE really great kids”.  The beauty of having a conversation with a fellow parent of “THAT kid” is that we completely understand the frustrated and desperate undertones behind that statement.  Please please please accept my kid for who they are, please please please don’t judge my parenting and please above all else, don’t judge my personal feelings on the matter. The beauty is that we are not judged, even when we follow up that statement with the familiar pause that says, “…but GOD I want to strangle her sometimes!” 

So who IS that kid?  You can’t miss them – much to their parents dismay their arrival is seldom low key. They are the kids who runs while everyone else walks, scream while everything is silent, fidget while everything is still and dance while everyone is sitting.  They are the child who has a melt down when their socks don`t fit JUST right, they crumble when their routine is off and GOD FORBID, they get a scrape because they will demand to see a doctor!  Nope, you can`t miss them, their departures are much like their arrival.

It’s so easy then, to judge these behaviours as obvious parenting flaws.  After all, we can`t hold the child accountable, so naturally we blame the parents.  It makes absolute sense to do so, but it`s not fair and frankly it makes an already strained existence that much more unbearable. Behind every label `THAT kid is wearing, whether it`s ADD, ADHD, OCD, AUTISM, TOURETTES and everything else in between there is a parent on the verge of an emotional breakdown.  Behind the label, and often standing between the daggers, and dirty looks directed at the labeled child is a parent who sacrifices, advocates, worries, and fights an uphill battle for their child every single day.  Behind the scenes, far away from the judgements of those who don`t know, or simply don`t care  there is a parent who is lonely because they avoid social situations, depressed because they have no outlet, frustrated because they have no help, confused by the ever fluctuating joy and frustration that comes with parenting THAT kid.  These parents (me included) are often overwhelmed by the parallel adoration they feel for their child while wanting nothing more than a break from them, mostly however these parents are desperate for someone ANYONE to simply reach out and agree with them – THAT kid, really IS a really great kid!

…  something to remember the next time you stand in line behind the tantruming toddler and their frazzled parent.

Sometimes you gotta do…what you gotta do.

 

I recently purchased a laptop with the intent of being a more active “blogger”.  It’s taken me a long time to justify the purchase, I guess I just don’t really see my writing as a justifiable expense.  I sat down and did the math though, it’s way cheaper than therapy!   Steam up the latte, and clear the comfy seats – I’m officially a Starbucks loiterer!  Oh yea!

Body Snatchers

...My name is Sarah. I am 6 months pregnant. It’s cold. I can’t move. I hear them calling this “the maternity ward”. The babies don’t stay here – they are taken to “the nursery”...their cries haunting and heartbreakingly close by. The hum of the massive lights, and the clanging of machinery dull my senses. I hear the rustling of those around me, the pained moaning of the sick and the coughing and gasping of the dying. In the distance I hear screaming – they are at it again. My heart races with fear, and I shut my eyes tight. I know what they are doing to her. I wonder how old she is? Probably still only a child. I wish that I could go to her and comfort her. I can hear someone screaming for her to be still. It doesn’t hurt as much if you stay still...they don’t hurt you if you don’t fight them. Oh God, why do they keep us here? Who are these beings that keeps us prisoner here, victims of their perversions? The screaming in the distance is getting louder – I hear them yelling at her, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCH”. I hear her cry in agony. I know what they are doing to her and I cry out involuntarily. I hear the baby. The young one has given birth. She is screaming again. Begging pleading “STOP...MY BABY NO!!! MY BABY, PLEASE GIVE ME MY BABY” There is a loud thump. The baby is not crying anymore...the mother is. It is her first born, it gets easier.
There is an uneasy shift as the bodies around me struggle to move away from the main corridor. Oh NO...THEY ARE COMINE...Oh GOD I HOPE THEY ARE NOT COMING FOR ME!!!!!!! All around there is panic, some are crying some are screaming. Thrashing around in their confines in vain, trying to escape. They are getting closer. I can hear the dull thuds of metal on flesh, the cracking of bones...the smell of burned flesh. I am lucky, I have only been kicked but I have seen many get beaten with rods, and wrenches. They so love to take the smoke billowing fire sticks in their mouths and crush them on our flesh. My babies wiggle inside me, and I mentally tell them to be still... “PLEASE...PLEASE...BE STILL”.
They like to torture the young – sometimes before they are even born. They laugh while they kick my swollen stomach. They seem to enjoy my pain. Why do they give us so many babies, only to take them from us??? How many babies have I had? 10’s...100’s....I’ve lost count. I don’t see them, I only feel them inside me before they are cruelly, and painfully ripped out. Sometimes they kill the babies before they are born, foot long iron poles rammed deep into the mother’s vaginas , left to die a slow, excruciating death as her body involuntary expels her young. Sometimes the babies are ripped out, and slammed against the cold hard concrete, or stomped on...their new born cries quickly silenced by the heavy boots of the beings on their little heads. The mother is powerless to stop it, and beaten for trying...
The ones who survived are taken away, never to be seen again. The mothers, recognizing the cries of their young in the “nursery” are driven to madness in their confines. They hurt themselves trying to get out – their desperate heartbroken screams echoing and vibrating off the metal walls. We watch, silent. We know full well that we are next.
No one truly knows what happens when we are taken from the “maternity” ward. We only know that no one ever returns. Some, say they have witnessed mothers having their legs sawed off so they can not run from the beings. Electrical prods thrust painfully into the mother’s mouth, ears, vagina and anus as she is kicked and pushed down the corridor and out into the vertical white rectangle the beings use to enter and leave the “maternity ward”. No one wants to be here – but no one wants to take that walk down the corridor either. ..
Last night they came and thrust the thin metal rod into my body. I could feel the cool liquid course through my veins. The babies always come soon after I am poked by the thin metal rod. I can feel them, wiggling happily inside me. For now they are warm, safe completely oblivious to the horrors of the “maternity ward” that await them. I do my best to shut out the hum of the lights, the clanging of the machinery and screams and moans that surround me and focus every fibre of my being on my babies. “Mommy loves you” I try to mentally convey to them, knowing all too well they will never be able to hear these words from my mouth...

This is a story of rape, sodomy, infaticide and unspeakable torture and abuse. Should you be any less disturbed when i tell you that Sarah is NOT a human being? Should that really make you not feel for her?

Sarah is one of billions of factory farmed Sows. PLEASE GO VEGAN

Change

It seems the stagnant water I'd been treading is finally moving. In the blink of an eye everything has changed. Change is good. Change is scary, and often just as uncomfortable as it is necessary. I embrace change.

Sometimes however, change is like a two headed coin. Tossed in the air, it will land you nothing more than a new side of the same face. Sometimes little changes are not enough. It's time to dig deep into my purse and find a new coin to toss.

Toxicology Report

Everyone has that pair of jeans in the back of the closet. You know the ones I'm talking about, you wore them in college and they made your booty look GOOOOOD! They were there on your first day of class, that spontaneous trip to Grand Bend and they were there that night at "The Drink" when you finally got the nerve to dance on the speakers. They hugged all the right places and felt just like a good friend. You know the jeans I speak of, and you know that:
1. you will NEVER fit into them again.
2. you only keep them around for nostalgic reasons.
3. everytime you try to put them on they make you feel old, fat and frumpy.
So you keep them in the back of the closet, refusing to part with them, but also keeping them out of sight to avoid the depression of not fitting into them.

They are emotional toxins.

Some people are like those jeans. They were there in college, they supported me on my first day of class, they were the co-pilots on that spontaneous trip to Grand Bend and they were there that night at The Drink to help me get down off of the speaker without falling on my face. Their friendships surrounded me like a warm blanket through lifes chills. I feel that warmth now only in memories, and I know in my heart that:
1. we will NEVER be that close again.
2. I only stay in touch with them for nostalgic reasons.
3. everytime I'm around them I feel emotionally drained, socially defeated and perpetually inferior.

So I keep their profiles on facebook, their phone numbers in my cell phone refusing to delete them but also keeping them at arms lengh to avoid the sense of loss that would acompany admitting the superficial reality of the friendship. They are emotional toxins.

Why do I do this to myself? Women in particular are always prone to dragging the dead weight of expired friendships. We have coffee dates, attend weddings, baby showers and the like. They subject themselves repeatedly to the the fake smiles, feigned interest and icy hugs that keep up the facade.

I spend so much time "decluttering" my cabinets, my closets, the toy boxes, and my car, yet I've remained surprisingly oblivious to the overflow of emotional and mental clutter in my life. There are people in my life who are just as toxic to my psyche and my wellbeing as those impossibly skinny jeans! Their judgements and negativity are like emotional equivelents to the muffin top created by those jeans. Their company elicits and invigorates feel good memories of days gone by, while simultaneously draining and demoralizing my self worth. They so poison my emotional stability and invade my comfort level that they should have "hazardous" written on their forehead, but still I entertain them time after time, hoping with every new invitation for a coffee date that "THIS TIME" will be different.

It's never different, just like the jeans, it's never a good fit. Ever.

Spring is just around the corner, and I definately think it's time for spring cleaning, both inside and out. Sometimes you just have to admit to yourself that things have changed, and sometimes the hardest part is accepting that change is necessary.