Long Day's Journey into Night

So I'm not a big sharer. I mean, emotionally. I can share my toys, no problem; sometimes even to my detriment. Like this one time in college when I loaned my VHS copy of The Titanic to a friend, and I never got it back because he (yes, he) apparently liked to share, too. You can imagine how sad I still am about this.

Anyhow. While I have no problems with sharing my toys or my opinions (which other people may not always be so excited about), I do struggle with sharing myself. I've been burned a lot in the past (who hasn't?), and I am typically reluctant to unload my baggage onto others, even when they beg. So this blog thing is a stretch for me. An attempt to lighten that baggage load and maybe, just maybe, grow. So in the spirit of vulnerability and accountability, I share.

I've wanted to be a teacher since I was five. I know--most kids wanted to be a fireman or a ballerina. I wanted to stay in school forever. Nerd. But it's who I've always been. And sometimes that's been a struggle. Thanks to a dad who never accepted me no matter how hard I tried and a host of peers that did not necessarily crave the company of a scrawny girl in glasses who liked to read and play school for fun, I struggled with that part of my identity for a long time. It wasn't until later in college that I really embraced the nerd that I was. And even since then it's been a long, hard journey into discovering who I really am, who I want to be, and really accepting myself in all of my glory. And it's really only been in the last couple of years that I've gotten there, or at least nearly. To a place where, nasty faults and all, I really know and like me.

And then I got pregnant. Nine months later, I became a mother. And since then, the rest of my self, all of those parts that I had discovered and learned to love as me, seemed to disappear. My whole life is this little, wonderful guy. Please don't get me wrong--Ben is my world. But in the midst of it, I feel like I lost my self. The first month, even beyond, I was, to be honest, miserable. I cried all the time. I doubted everything I did. And by the time five or six weeks had passed and the hardest part was coming to a close, I realized that I didn't even recognize myself. I feel wretched and selfish every time I think to myself, "Can I just give him back for a day so I can lay on the couch all day, watch TV, and read?"

The constant stream of society's conflicting messages doesn't help. If you let him cry himself to sleep, he will grow up insecure and think you don't love him. If you keep holding him and rocking him to sleep he will depend on you forever. If you don't breastfeed, you don't love him. If you breastfeed at your own expense and make yourself crazy in the process, you won't be any good to him. If you stay at home, you're a blot on women's rights. If you go to work, you're a terrible mother. Clearly I'm exaggerating. The heart of the matter, however, is there. No matter what I do I'm failing somehow.

It's taken me 28 years to develop a modicum of self confidence. And now, in the time it took to deliver my baby, I feel like I'm back at the beginning.

I had a conversation with this woman that I know that made me both sad and terrified. She is a mother, and a very good one. I asked her what she liked to do for fun. She said to be with her kids. I asked her what she liked to do with her free time when she is not with her kids (which, since they have all left home, is a lot of time). She had no answer for me. In the course of a fairly long conversation, I discovered that she couldn't think of any favorite books, pasttimes, or hobbies that didn't involve her kids. All of her dreams and desires rested on her kids. I asked her what she did before she had kids. She listed all kinds of things. When I asked why she didn't do them anymore, she said that once you have kids you can't do the things you love anymore. You only do the things your kids love.

I have to know that I'm still me. That, while I'm having a little identity crisis now, I will someday be a better version of myself, with the core pieces of my old self intact. I have to know that God did not create me to be a smart, clever, passionate person who loves reading and art and theatre only to give it all up at 29. I love my son more than I ever thought possible until the moment they placed him on my stomach at 12:16 am. But I need to know that Ben's mom is more than a mom. She's a whole, complete person with interests and desires. I know that with motherhood comes sacrifices, and I'm in. But does my personality have to go down on that altar? If so, then it goes. But if not, when do I get it back? How do I once again find that person I finally came to love?




This long, self-indulgent rant is brought to you by my dusty Barnes and Noble and library membership cards.