I think in all the years I've had this blog I haven't written much about myself. I did write about my struggle with infertility and my journey through pregnancy. Then the last three and a half years, my children have been the subject matter on this writing space, and I like it that way.
But in the past couple years I've had a couple close friends blog about their struggles with anxiety and or depression. When I read what they wrote I felt like their words rang so true to me. I want to write about it but this could easily end up a novel. Well, I'll go for it anyway, a so hear shorter version. I seriously don't even know where to begin though.
Ok, I'll start with the night I called 911. Brian had been gone longer than normal that week; he was on jury duty. When he would come home, he'd help put the kids to bed, and then he'd get on his own computer and do work. It was obviously a very long, difficult week for him. But it was for me, too. It felt pretty isolating to spend a long week only really communicating with toddlers. I couldn't talk to Brian over text during the day like I usually can, and he didn't have time to talk to me in the evening. I'd already been starting to feel the weight of the 50-60 hours a week I spent solo with our almost 2 and 3 year old so far this summer. Terrible two's and tyrannical threes are not terms I love but maybe it helps to give understanding to those unfamiliar with the age group. And also, those ages make for a rough combination. And then that week happened.
It wore my out pretty badly.
Well the last day of the trial Brian would get home much later than the kids bedtime. I headed up to my bathroom to grab some trash to take out to the garage. I had sat the kids at the kitchen table, each with a stack of Ritz crackers. As I come back downstairs a couple minutes later, Hartley is throwing up crackers. It looks like she's foaming at the mouth. She's coughing and coughing. Then she begins to scream bloody murder. That's a relief because I know she's breathing but she's wailing. Grabbing her throat, grabbing her stomach. Shouting, "yucky cracker!" to me. She won't stop screaming and crying. I'm already fried, I have no husband to be my rock in this situation. I'm asking her questions to try to assess the situation, and she can't respond with words, only shrieking. I frantically call my mom and she doesn't answer. I text Brian that I have an emergency, and he calls my dad, who calls me. My dad will come over but says I should call 911 if I'm really worried. I decide I won't but then I see amidst the shrieking and gagging that blood is starting to come up with Hartley's saliva, and I call 911. The dispatcher can hear Hartley completely distraught in the background, and she tells us she's sending out paramedics right away.
Long story slightly less long, the paramedics deemed Hartley okay. But I stood in my foyer with them unable to hold back the tears as they rolled down my cheeks. It came up that I had an almost 2 year old in addition to Hartley. I had stowed him in his crib while the paramedics were there to keep the scene slightly calmer. Both of the paramedics, who were parents themselves, looked at me with utter empathy. "Wow, two and three, huh? That's - that's a lot. Go you, Mom."
But that was the moment it really came to a head. This summer I've had a mouse infestation in my car, that left me housebound with the kids a few times. Brian has been doing lots of schmoozing for work in the evenings, making for very long days at home with no extra hands to help. Patrick is learning how to assert himself just as Hartley is beginning to experiment with pushing his buttons. And I have felt exhausted every single day. Pretty much every day I rev myself up with coffee, in the evenings I take the edge off with wine, and at night, I go for a sleeping pill to stop my racing, overtired mind. And while I have felt burnt out and like a failure, I push those feelings down as far as they can go because right now, my family needs me, and I don't have time to take better care of myself.
I want Brian to get to do whatever he needs to do for work to further his career and achieve all the goals he has for himself. I want my kids to be happy and entertained and feel loved and secure. And even though there are things I've wanted for myself, I don't really think to much about it because I'm pretty busy thinking about my family and what I can or should do for them. Brian never fails to tell me that he appreciates all I do, and that I am the person who keeps everything running (somewhat) smoothly for our family.
But around the time of the mouse nest in the van, work entertaining, jury duty, and calling 911 for the infamous yucky cracker, I realized I was starting to fray. You see, I've started to fray before but managed to bandaid fix it with an evening bath, Chinese take out or a run to Target by myself. But this time, I was fraying, and I realized I couldn't use a band aid. No coffee, wine or sleep aid was going to fix my problem. In fact, in some divine clarity, I realized these things were probably making all of my exhaustion worst, and probably taking a horrible toll on my already beyond neglected body.
I thought about something that would help me, it has to be feasible. Brian has to go to work. He has to go to these Top Golf events and baseball games (it's a pretty rough gig, guys!) I have to take care of my two young kids, who I'm trying to discipline but they will struggle with inside voices, tantrums, hitting and making the craziest, stickiest messes. This is my chapter - that I will mention, I don't hate but it takes a lot of patience and energy, both of which are depleted lately.
So I got online, did some research, and emailed a gym about membership costs. A gym with fantastic childcare. That was what I wanted. For three and a half years, my children have been like my extremities. I have rarely done anything without them, and I have never ever left them with a babysitter. I have left them with relatives but outside family or preschool for Hartley this past year, they have never been left. I'm pretty sure that's not healthy. Both of my kids are "mama kids". This summer, since Hartley's been out of school, she has become my shadow. She follows me when I change my clothes, use the bathroom and shower. While it is sweet, I can't convey quite what it feels like to never be alone.
When I emailed for the price quote and went to pitch the idea to Brian, I felt embarrassed. I felt really embarrassed to tell my own husband (who I can tell anything to) that I was having trouble. Physically, mentally and emotionally I was having trouble functioning, and I felt this overwhelming urge to save myself. Like I had been treading water, and I was tired of treading and wanted to take back some control. Some tiny semblance of self.
And Brian didn't even think for a second. He told me it was a fantastic idea. He told me how much it would be good for all of us.
I walked in for a consult. I dropped the kids off, and I ran out of the kids club like an ex con breaking out of prison. Sorry, it's horrible but I wanted to rip it off like a band aid. I sat in a consultation office there across from a beautiful, svelte girl who had just graduated college. She sized me up, my squishy body in my pathetic makeshift gym clothes. She asked me how much weight I wanted to lose and how quickly. I muddled through my response trying to explain I just wanted to feel healthy again. I'm pretty sure that didn't make any sense to her. So I told her 20 pounds by Christmas and handed over my credit card.
So I don't know exactly the point of writing this. I don't know if a gym can fix me. But I'll say my first full week of membership, I went four times. I felt the best I have since maybe even before Hartley was born. I had two days that I didn't even have a cup of coffee! I drank four glasses of wine that week (two for The Bachelorette and two for Friday at home movie date night). I took ZERO sleep aids. And two nights I fell asleep at 9pm!
I don't know if other moms feel guilty because they hit a wall and feel like they need to do something for themselves. After three and a half years, I hit my wall. I felt guilt. I felt embarrassment. I felt weak. And in that office, across from that Miss America, I felt like a pathetic, walking cliche. But getting past those feelings, and starting to feel good, I'm feeling less shame. And who knows, maybe I'll lose 20 pounds by Christmas ;)
