In the interests of trying to get back into the swing of life, I went to a gym dance class today. So I went and shook my tail feathers for almost an hour and enjoyed the hell out of it! It has been literally years (three years, I think) since I last danced. I gave it up with the nausea of my first pregnancy, and always kept meaning to get back to it...
So now, as a mid-thirties mother of two, I felt a little self-conscious and ridiculous to be shaking it all about like I did as a teenager. But it was great fun, and from the amount I sweated I'm sure it was good for me too! Whether I still think so tomorrow remains to be seen. Besides, I was about the middle of the class demographic. I suppose I have to realize that "suburban housewife" now means me. Odd thought - I still think of myself as "professional woman" not "stay at home mother of two".
I have to admit that my goal was not simply enjoyment and fitness. I am very aware that my body is not what it was prior to having two children. I am probably in denial about this, but I aim to get back into my pre-baby work clothes. It only makes me more determined that I've been told it can't be done. (Stubborn much?) I'm giving myself six months, and then we will see who is right!
For those of you not familiar with the dance craze phenomenon, the title here is a riff on DDR (Dance Dance Revolution).
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Lent journey: embracing failure, rediscovering grace
Lent 2010, my first attempt at a Lent fast while breastfeeding. The year I had Evie I chickened out, so this year I decided to do it properly. I set myself a moderately difficult fasting discipline, but not as difficult as some years. Something that should stretch me and make me suffer a bit, sacrifice a bit, but be achievable. Seven weeks isn't so long, really.
Over the first week of Lent it became evident that the fast was going to be more difficult than I had realized. I revised my targets downward, allowing myself more leeway in how I performed the fast. Maybe I was expecting too much and motherhood of a 2yo and a 3mo was going to make a rigorous regimen of fasting impractical.
By the end of the third week of Lent it was not going well. I wasn't meeting my targets for most days and I was ending up breaking the fast on more days than I was keeping it. In addition, I was becoming irritable and guilt-ridden, but I was determined to persevere. Paul writes in Romans that perseverance produces character and character produces hope. Lent had always been about hope and character development for me before - what was going wrong? I must not be doing it well enough - try harder!
By the end of the fourth week of Lent it was all falling apart, and I was falling apart with it. At my appointment with the maternal and child health nurse she did a post-natal depression screening test and I checked out in the "borderline, possible clinical depression" range. I was shocked. I had no idea what was the matter with me. Depression runs in my family, but I had a much harder time in Evie's newborn period and I never had any symptoms of depression then?
It just *couldn't* be my fasting regimen. Spiritual disciplines are supposed to build strength, and OK, maybe I had got a bit out of training since having Evie, a bit "spiritually flabby" but surely the solution would be to train harder, try more? If you want to build strength, you have to stress your body a bit. Besides, it would be ridiculous to be so dependent on food as an emotional crutch that a simple partial fast for seven weeks should cause me to be an emotional mess? That can't be right. Christians should not be dependent on anything but God - surely praying more would be the solution?
By the end of the fifth week of Lent I was so out of sorts I decided that not only was this hurting myself it was also hurting my family. I don't want to be the kind of mother who screams at her children and husband because she is having issues of her own. It felt like failure, like giving in and giving up, but so be it. I decided to embrace failure.
So what does it feel like, being a failure?
Strange. This is not an experience I have had very often. Sure, I've had plenty of times I haven't done as well as I would like, times when I haven't exactly "won" but very few times that I've actually given up and not completed the task. I'm one of those people who hangs on to the bitter end and reads every last word, even when the book is torture. Offhand I can think of three books I've started and not finished, in my whole life. Stubborn, much?
Being a failure made me hypersensitive to criticism for a while - I know I've failed, now just leave me alone! People pointing out that I'd not met expectations just made it worse. But then I relaxed into it. OK, admit it, failure means letting go of those expectations, that idea of myself as someone who doesn't do that kind of thing. It is a very different feeling to going down fighting. I suppose I am being stripped of a kind of pride in losing the ability to say "I would never do *that*!"
Reorientation. Now I can see things slightly differently. I'm down - I tried and failed. Is this how the disciples felt when they fell asleep in the Garden of Gethsemene? I always thought before that they just didn't try hard enough, but now I'm on the other side, on their side. And Peter, my favourite disciple, what is it that I like so much about him? That he failed and then came back again. It wasn't a single lapse for him either, it was a conscious decision repeated three times over and yet, he experienced forgiveness and reconciliation to a degree that made him stronger and a better example than ever.
Could it be that there is more for me to learn about God and grace in this experience of failure? During the last two weeks of Lent I decided to live in this space - having failed to meet expectations and forgiving myself for that. Allowing God to speak to me of being humbled in my own strength, and yet still lifted up by God's grace. Seeing myself fallen and realizing again that I can *not* help myself, can not do it myself, that I rely on God's grace completely and utterly.
This has brought me to a new place this Easter, and infused a whole new meaning into Good Friday - or perhaps it is the same old meaning made new again. Truly, I feel more grateful and reconciled to God, and more in need of God's reconciliation than I can ever remember feeling since I first became a Christian. Humbled and brought low, rolled over in surrender, here I am. Yet while lying on my back on the ground, I can see the stars and the glory of God better than ever before.
It has been a strange Lent journey. I haven't come out of it with the spiritual "muscle" I had hoped to develop. But I think I have found something else instead. I haven't trained, I haven't worked out, I haven't sweated for it this Easter - but I've been given a precious gift. I have rediscovered my first love - the love that God had for me before I knew anything about faith or holy living, when I came with open and empty hands, knowing my own poverty and begging to be filled. How did I ever forget how that felt? That was the love that took me from being who I was before, to being a Christian who wants to follow God and learn more about that amazing love. Once again, I am renewed by the transforming power of God, made over, forgiven and lifted up in a way that I could never do myself merely by applying more effort. Once again I am a child coming hurt and in tears to the One who can, who will, make it all better. Letting go, relaxing into God's hands - I am held close.
I originally called this reflection "embracing failure" but I have gone back and added the second and more important part - rediscovering grace.
Over the first week of Lent it became evident that the fast was going to be more difficult than I had realized. I revised my targets downward, allowing myself more leeway in how I performed the fast. Maybe I was expecting too much and motherhood of a 2yo and a 3mo was going to make a rigorous regimen of fasting impractical.
By the end of the third week of Lent it was not going well. I wasn't meeting my targets for most days and I was ending up breaking the fast on more days than I was keeping it. In addition, I was becoming irritable and guilt-ridden, but I was determined to persevere. Paul writes in Romans that perseverance produces character and character produces hope. Lent had always been about hope and character development for me before - what was going wrong? I must not be doing it well enough - try harder!
By the end of the fourth week of Lent it was all falling apart, and I was falling apart with it. At my appointment with the maternal and child health nurse she did a post-natal depression screening test and I checked out in the "borderline, possible clinical depression" range. I was shocked. I had no idea what was the matter with me. Depression runs in my family, but I had a much harder time in Evie's newborn period and I never had any symptoms of depression then?
It just *couldn't* be my fasting regimen. Spiritual disciplines are supposed to build strength, and OK, maybe I had got a bit out of training since having Evie, a bit "spiritually flabby" but surely the solution would be to train harder, try more? If you want to build strength, you have to stress your body a bit. Besides, it would be ridiculous to be so dependent on food as an emotional crutch that a simple partial fast for seven weeks should cause me to be an emotional mess? That can't be right. Christians should not be dependent on anything but God - surely praying more would be the solution?
By the end of the fifth week of Lent I was so out of sorts I decided that not only was this hurting myself it was also hurting my family. I don't want to be the kind of mother who screams at her children and husband because she is having issues of her own. It felt like failure, like giving in and giving up, but so be it. I decided to embrace failure.
So what does it feel like, being a failure?
Strange. This is not an experience I have had very often. Sure, I've had plenty of times I haven't done as well as I would like, times when I haven't exactly "won" but very few times that I've actually given up and not completed the task. I'm one of those people who hangs on to the bitter end and reads every last word, even when the book is torture. Offhand I can think of three books I've started and not finished, in my whole life. Stubborn, much?
Being a failure made me hypersensitive to criticism for a while - I know I've failed, now just leave me alone! People pointing out that I'd not met expectations just made it worse. But then I relaxed into it. OK, admit it, failure means letting go of those expectations, that idea of myself as someone who doesn't do that kind of thing. It is a very different feeling to going down fighting. I suppose I am being stripped of a kind of pride in losing the ability to say "I would never do *that*!"
Reorientation. Now I can see things slightly differently. I'm down - I tried and failed. Is this how the disciples felt when they fell asleep in the Garden of Gethsemene? I always thought before that they just didn't try hard enough, but now I'm on the other side, on their side. And Peter, my favourite disciple, what is it that I like so much about him? That he failed and then came back again. It wasn't a single lapse for him either, it was a conscious decision repeated three times over and yet, he experienced forgiveness and reconciliation to a degree that made him stronger and a better example than ever.
Could it be that there is more for me to learn about God and grace in this experience of failure? During the last two weeks of Lent I decided to live in this space - having failed to meet expectations and forgiving myself for that. Allowing God to speak to me of being humbled in my own strength, and yet still lifted up by God's grace. Seeing myself fallen and realizing again that I can *not* help myself, can not do it myself, that I rely on God's grace completely and utterly.
This has brought me to a new place this Easter, and infused a whole new meaning into Good Friday - or perhaps it is the same old meaning made new again. Truly, I feel more grateful and reconciled to God, and more in need of God's reconciliation than I can ever remember feeling since I first became a Christian. Humbled and brought low, rolled over in surrender, here I am. Yet while lying on my back on the ground, I can see the stars and the glory of God better than ever before.
It has been a strange Lent journey. I haven't come out of it with the spiritual "muscle" I had hoped to develop. But I think I have found something else instead. I haven't trained, I haven't worked out, I haven't sweated for it this Easter - but I've been given a precious gift. I have rediscovered my first love - the love that God had for me before I knew anything about faith or holy living, when I came with open and empty hands, knowing my own poverty and begging to be filled. How did I ever forget how that felt? That was the love that took me from being who I was before, to being a Christian who wants to follow God and learn more about that amazing love. Once again, I am renewed by the transforming power of God, made over, forgiven and lifted up in a way that I could never do myself merely by applying more effort. Once again I am a child coming hurt and in tears to the One who can, who will, make it all better. Letting go, relaxing into God's hands - I am held close.
I originally called this reflection "embracing failure" but I have gone back and added the second and more important part - rediscovering grace.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Motherhood and positive reinforcement
My 2yr old is currently at a stage where she will do just about anything to earn praise and attention from me. So I spend a large proportion of my day saying things like: thank you for waiting, good job helping Mama, well done with your drawing, very nice cleaning up, excellent use of your words... etc, etc, and ad-really-truly-nauseam.
Which has led me to realize that motherhood itself involves very little positive reinforcement for the mother. All the little sacrifices, triumphs, times you bite your tongue and *don't* say what you are really thinking, all the times you grit your teeth and smile patiently and ask *one more time* for sweetie-to-please-do-whatever, or even more importantly to *not* do something... All of these go essentially unnoticed.
The chid doesn't notice, naturally, because they are children. I don't want or expect them to notice. At the end of the day the co-parent doesn't notice, except the bits that didn't get done, and there are no other adults around during the day *to* notice. And the same thing goes on day after day, week after week, until Mother's Day. Then there is a sudden shower of flowers/chocolates/I don't know how you do it comments, and the next day it starts all over again.
I think this is why motherhood feels very lonely and isolating. All these experiences are being lived, lessons being learned, and there isn't anyone on the spot to share it with. Motherhood is a very challenging and dynamic time, but there isn't anyone to see or appreciate your personal growth. Even when mothers talk to each other about their experiences to the extent that drives non-parents up the wall, there are often significant parts which are not shared.
It has been a big change for me, going from working in a close team environment to being at home alone. Working in a busy Emergency Department there was always someone around to say "Guess what I just saw!" or to bounce ideas off, or to say "I'm not sure that went very well, how could I have handled that better?" In a house, or a park, or a shopping centre this just doesn't happen. I think this is one of the reasons mothers often say that motherhood has taught them to appreciate their own mothers.
More on why mothers don't fully disclose to one another to follow...
Which has led me to realize that motherhood itself involves very little positive reinforcement for the mother. All the little sacrifices, triumphs, times you bite your tongue and *don't* say what you are really thinking, all the times you grit your teeth and smile patiently and ask *one more time* for sweetie-to-please-do-whatever, or even more importantly to *not* do something... All of these go essentially unnoticed.
The chid doesn't notice, naturally, because they are children. I don't want or expect them to notice. At the end of the day the co-parent doesn't notice, except the bits that didn't get done, and there are no other adults around during the day *to* notice. And the same thing goes on day after day, week after week, until Mother's Day. Then there is a sudden shower of flowers/chocolates/I don't know how you do it comments, and the next day it starts all over again.
I think this is why motherhood feels very lonely and isolating. All these experiences are being lived, lessons being learned, and there isn't anyone on the spot to share it with. Motherhood is a very challenging and dynamic time, but there isn't anyone to see or appreciate your personal growth. Even when mothers talk to each other about their experiences to the extent that drives non-parents up the wall, there are often significant parts which are not shared.
It has been a big change for me, going from working in a close team environment to being at home alone. Working in a busy Emergency Department there was always someone around to say "Guess what I just saw!" or to bounce ideas off, or to say "I'm not sure that went very well, how could I have handled that better?" In a house, or a park, or a shopping centre this just doesn't happen. I think this is one of the reasons mothers often say that motherhood has taught them to appreciate their own mothers.
More on why mothers don't fully disclose to one another to follow...
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tiredness and Acopia
Funny how being tired can affect everything else in my life. The little events, comments and accidents that I would usually be able to cope with, ignore or fix up, suddenly seem overwhelming. My ability to make decisions is reduced and my usual function (which I flatter myself is average most of the time) is well below par. I mean, there is no other way to explain the paralysis I experience when having to decide whether to use a comma or not. Suddenly the ability to find the spell-checker goes out the window, and the number of letters in the word is just, well, embarrassing.
So, in my considered medical opinion "acopia" (the condition of lacking coping) is significantly more likely in the absence of sufficient sleep. Then again, I think any mother of any baby is on to that diagnosis pretty quickly without the need for seven years at university. In the interests of full disclosure of my new insights into motherhood, I will also reveal that I have learned exactly why parents let their toddlers eat or not eat whatever they like, spend all day in front of the TV and have no discipline whatsoever...
So, in my considered medical opinion "acopia" (the condition of lacking coping) is significantly more likely in the absence of sufficient sleep. Then again, I think any mother of any baby is on to that diagnosis pretty quickly without the need for seven years at university. In the interests of full disclosure of my new insights into motherhood, I will also reveal that I have learned exactly why parents let their toddlers eat or not eat whatever they like, spend all day in front of the TV and have no discipline whatsoever...
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lent and fasting
My Lent fast is not going so well. This year I decided to go sugar-free for Lent, and break my usual (bad) habit of indulging my sweet tooth. I've discovered that I really am sugar addicted. People talk about being a chocoholic like it is something funny, but I'm beginning to think that this really is the female equivalent of alcoholism. Alcoholics drink to feel better, to avoid pain or escape problems and to get an artificial "kick" which life isn't providing. Sugar/chocolate does all that for me.
The worst part is that I *chose* this Lent discipline because I wanted to break the habit of being dependent on sugar and get back to being dependent on God. The fact that I now am not able to keep this discipline says what exactly? That I really am addicted? Yes, probably. That I am too lacking in willpower to see through a discipline for even 40 bloody days? Yes, that too. That I am so short-sighted that I would rather have the instant gratification of something that is bad for me than invest in the relationship which is supposed to sustain my life? Sadly, yes.
I find myself making excuses to myself: I'm tired, I have a new baby, the toddler isn't sleeping, I really *need* this, it is a birthday cake so it doesn't count, if D were here to help it would be better, etc. But none of that is the point. I chose this Lent discipline in order to fast, and part of fasting is missing out, suffering and identifying with the suffering of Jesus. I should *need* that as well. I should *need* God - and isn't a very pleasant reflection that I would rather have chocolate. That sugar is my major emotional crutch at the moment, and I need it so much that I become irritable and anxious at the knowledge that I can't have it. If I were seeing a patient with these symptoms, I would definitely diagnose a chemical dependence/withdrawal state. I really feel like I belong in a group when the introductions start with "I'm here because I know that I have a problem..."
The worst part is that I *chose* this Lent discipline because I wanted to break the habit of being dependent on sugar and get back to being dependent on God. The fact that I now am not able to keep this discipline says what exactly? That I really am addicted? Yes, probably. That I am too lacking in willpower to see through a discipline for even 40 bloody days? Yes, that too. That I am so short-sighted that I would rather have the instant gratification of something that is bad for me than invest in the relationship which is supposed to sustain my life? Sadly, yes.
I find myself making excuses to myself: I'm tired, I have a new baby, the toddler isn't sleeping, I really *need* this, it is a birthday cake so it doesn't count, if D were here to help it would be better, etc. But none of that is the point. I chose this Lent discipline in order to fast, and part of fasting is missing out, suffering and identifying with the suffering of Jesus. I should *need* that as well. I should *need* God - and isn't a very pleasant reflection that I would rather have chocolate. That sugar is my major emotional crutch at the moment, and I need it so much that I become irritable and anxious at the knowledge that I can't have it. If I were seeing a patient with these symptoms, I would definitely diagnose a chemical dependence/withdrawal state. I really feel like I belong in a group when the introductions start with "I'm here because I know that I have a problem..."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Jealous
Ok, I admit it. This is somewhat insane, but I am jealous of the attention my husband is paying to the situation of the my friend's husband. I told you, it is insane!
Let me explain: my friend is the breadwinner for her family, and her husband (K) is the full-time stay-at-home father and primary carer for their son. When we went to their place for dinner, of course I chatted with my friend and the two fathers exchanged views on life, the universe and everything.
Ever since that night, D has gone on and on about how hard it must be for K, how he has given up his career and made such a sacrifice, how isolating it must be alone in the house all day with only a child to talk to, how relentless and grinding the demands of housework, how unappreciated all the work seems to be, how understandable it would be if K were to become depressed.
And I want to slap him and say: sound familiar? Or is it only admirable when a *man* does it? When a woman does it, this is just normal "wife work"??
Let me explain: my friend is the breadwinner for her family, and her husband (K) is the full-time stay-at-home father and primary carer for their son. When we went to their place for dinner, of course I chatted with my friend and the two fathers exchanged views on life, the universe and everything.
Ever since that night, D has gone on and on about how hard it must be for K, how he has given up his career and made such a sacrifice, how isolating it must be alone in the house all day with only a child to talk to, how relentless and grinding the demands of housework, how unappreciated all the work seems to be, how understandable it would be if K were to become depressed.
And I want to slap him and say: sound familiar? Or is it only admirable when a *man* does it? When a woman does it, this is just normal "wife work"??
Just tired tonight...
It is that irony which all parents are probably familiar with: what have I accomplished today? Well, I put out a load of laundry. That's about it, really. I read three toddler books in excruciating detail. I made an omlette which Evie refused to eat. I made lasagna which Evie refused to eat. I got tired of cooking and reheated some fish from the other day, and Evie refused to eat that as well. So I gave her bread and water and put her to bed. For an hour and a half.
My other major achievement for the day was to miss the appointment to see a house that I was really hoping would be the right one for us. Evie was having such a good time at the park I didn't want to leave until the very last moment. Then, at the said very last moment, she fell off a head-height platform and cried for the fifteen minutes that I had allocated to drive to the house. She wasn't hurt, just scared, and I suppose I could have put her in the car and gone anyway - but that's the stuff of motherhood. After the grapes and the cuddles and the comforting I got to the house and it was closed.
Then when I got home I found a letter from the bank saying that my credit card payment was late. A check of my email showed that a reference I promised to write for an ex-resident of mine is now overdue.
Just one thing after another. Well, at least I got a load of laundry done. That's one thing better than yesterday...
My other major achievement for the day was to miss the appointment to see a house that I was really hoping would be the right one for us. Evie was having such a good time at the park I didn't want to leave until the very last moment. Then, at the said very last moment, she fell off a head-height platform and cried for the fifteen minutes that I had allocated to drive to the house. She wasn't hurt, just scared, and I suppose I could have put her in the car and gone anyway - but that's the stuff of motherhood. After the grapes and the cuddles and the comforting I got to the house and it was closed.
Then when I got home I found a letter from the bank saying that my credit card payment was late. A check of my email showed that a reference I promised to write for an ex-resident of mine is now overdue.
Just one thing after another. Well, at least I got a load of laundry done. That's one thing better than yesterday...
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