Daniela Schwartz

I remember leaving the hospital with my first-born, Owen. I felt like I should tell the nurses I had no idea what I was doing. I could not believe they were trusting me with this tiny piece of creation, totally dependent on me for his survival. Oh I had read books. Babywise was covered from front to back and I was already trying to schedule my newborn’s eating and sleeping habits. He had been free of my womb for 72 hours, it felt even longer since I had slept. As I held my newborn the before while he slept (already breaking on of the first rules of the books), his soft breath on my skin, I worried, how could I get this right?

I was determined to be the perfect mother, according to what the world told me perfect was. My scheduling lasted about 7 days, and then colic hit our house in full force. Owen slept for about 90 minutes at a time around the clock; this went on for weeks. When he was awake, he spent a good amount of time screaming, unless he was being bounced. I wanted to be a perfect mother, but none of the books told me I would spend countless hours sitting on my exercise ball till my back felt like it might break, bouncing that wee stressed out babe in my arms. This felt like my first failure, in my exhaustion I could not see clearly. I blamed myself for those tears. Surely if I was doing everything right, he would not be so sad?

I spent a good portion of Owens early years worrying about him. I measured his development as a comparison of how I was doing as a parent (perfectionist). I compared him to the other kids. My best friends daughter was 5 weeks older than Owen, she was extremely bright. At five months old she could sort shapes and push them through the correct holes. She even knew where her ears were. So I went out and bought a shape sorter. After an hour of trying to convince Owen that they were not chew toys, and had a purpose, he just stared at me and stuck the square back in his mouth, drool running down his chin. Clearly, I was doing something wrong. Maybe if I spent more time with flash cards, read him more books. He would get it, I would be a better mother.

Fast forward to the first day of kindergarten, I am panicking because I suddenly realize they are going to allow Owen to play on his own in the playground. Who was going to follow him around to make sure he did not fall to his death? I could not fathom it. Every park trip I would run under the playground equipment like a lunatic prepared to catch him if the equipment suddenly gave way. Some of the other kids that day were clinging to their parents crying because they did not want them to leave. My Owen looked at me and said:

“Mom, you can go now.”

“Really Owen, we are allowed to stay longer, (weakly) can I stay?”

“No, I’m good, you can go. Bye! I love you!”

I walked away from his classroom willing the ugly cry away to stay in my throat, trying to let go.

I had spent so much time trying to stuff Owen into a box he was not shaped for. I tried to make him a square when he was clearly meant to be star. Left on his own, he began to shine. I had been so determined to do everything perfect according to what the books told me perfect was. Meeting expectation had not been enough, I wanted him to exceeds expectations on the milestone chart. I had that book beside my bed till Owen outgrew the chapters. The pressure I put on that poor child, thank goodness for new days full of grace.

After six years of infertility we welcomed our second son, Oliver. Somewhere between Owen and Oliver, I grew up a little. I matured a little. I found peace a little. Maybe my infertility helped me understand we cannot control everything. I put away the books (I am not calling all books bad, but the way I used them to measure my success and worth as a parent was not healthy), I stepped back, and realized that my kids were individuals. Owen was a difficult baby (I partly blame my high-strung parenting for that, okay, more than partly) Oliver was a dream baby. Owen was an AMAZING two-year old, Oliver is a CHALLENGING two-year old.

Recently at Oliver’s preschool open house, I handed Oliver him a square, he looked at if and stuffed it in the right hole. Owen was five months old when I had him try it, Oliver is 28 months. Realistic expectations.

God made my kids exactly the way he wanted them. Maybe Ollie is really a little wild because God was worried I was starting to acting old. Nothing like running full sprint down the road to catch your escaped toddler to give your heart a jump-start. I have put away the measuring sticks. I’ve stopped caring if Oliver wants to wear his Mickey Mouse p.j’s on outings. I look proudly at Owen’s reports card filled with A’s and B’s (I would be proud with C’s, but I just want to point out the ability to fit a square into the right hole at five months old does not measure intelligence). I chuckle at comments on his report card like “if Owen stopped socializing and talking so much, he would get his work done and not have so much homework.” He is just like his mother.

This Mother’s Day when my boys come piling into my room too early, with school made gifts and warm hugs, this is my moment.

The pedicure from my husband really says “your feet look nasty, that polish has been on there for four months, this is an intervention“.

The “I love you mama” scribbled in a card speaks a thousand words. It says:

Thank you for the:

900 butt wipes
1095 meals (500 were edible, 100 were great)
The ten times you cleaned up barf
The sleepless nights when we were sick and you held us all night
The hospital visits for mystery viruses, concussions and stitches (did I mention I have boys)
One million loads of laundry (not an exaggeration)
The 364 times you picked my clothes up off the floor (there was that one miraculous day)
For putting band-aids on fake ouchees
For allowing me to burp at the table when we don’t have company, and forgiving me when burp when we do have company
For the best “Friday night Movie Nights” ever!
And for always knowing when I needed that hug.

This is the moment to celebrate how awesome I am, despite not being perfect.

Thread together in the hands of my Creator; my kids are a mysterious wonderland to me, filled with treasures waiting to be discovered. I want them to know they will always be enough for me. Just the way they are and I am enough for them, just the way I am.

Spring 2012

“Ryan, if you don’t stop working out, your back will not get better.”

Winter 2012

Ryan went on a fun ambulance ride when his back went into full spasm and he could not lift himself off the floor.

After that, things flew by. MRI’S, doctor visit, and surgery booked. I was relieved that we would still be able to take our trip to Mexico, recovery was good for getting a disc fixed.

4 days ago

“Looks like we can’t go to Mexico, I need to have two discs operated on and the recovery will be double.”  At this point I was terrified. I had to be home with the toddler, Ryan was alone at the surgery center, and the next four hours felt like eternity while the I waited for the doctor to call and tell me Ryan was alive and was not paralyzed. None of those things had been mentioned as possible outcomes, but I had let my imagination run wild.

Once I heard from the surgeon that Ryan was good, my fear gave way to relief, which was quickly replaced by anger. I was mad at my poor husband for being so stubborn in the past months, and not seeking help. I think this is a man thing, but honestly, I felt like I had been through an epic saga regarding his back.

I wish I could tell you I had the grace not to throw in my husband face a solid “I told you so”. His stubbornness had brought his this on, but over the last days, my worry and stress I had felt, I wanted to make it very clear, that I need him, and he was not allowed to put me through something like this again. It felt as if our family had been barely functioning and during those hours of surgery, I was very much aware that Ryan is my glue (so romantic, I know).

So we came home to recover. The first night went pretty good. I put the kids to bed at 6:30, I gave Ryan two Gravol with his meds, and did not hear from anyone will the morning (I keep offering Ryan Gravol, but he’s insisted he doesn’t need it anymore,  he can be so selfish).

Day Two of Recovery.

I managed to clean the house, I let Owen pack his own lunch and overlooked the fun dip and sweet tarts. I was feeling pretty smug. Oliver is entering two-doom, so we have had some lovely tantrums to deal with, but all in all, I had it covered.

I remembered I needed to bake cookies for the Christmas hampers at our church, what did I say? Six dozen? My beautiful friend had delivered a lovely pasta sauce to me, so all I had to do was cook noodles, so I felt certain I could get a head start on the cookie dough while I was preparing dinner.

I start the butter whipping in the Kitchenaid, which immediately gets the attention of Oliver, the two-year old, who drags a chair from the dining room to “help”. I filled the pot with water and dumped in the noodles, oops, the water should be boiling first, I strain the noodles and refill the pot. Should be okay. I started to clench my jaw.

Oliver started helping me measure the dry ingredients. I was running low on flour, but thankfully had enough for 6 cups with some to spare, but it takes forever to do, because for the life of me, I could not find my one cup measure so I had to use my 1/2 cup. Ollie insisted on dumping each cup while counting. One, Twooo, Fweeee. We got all the dry ingredients measured, I dump the noodles in the now boiling water, and added the sugar to the butter in the mixer, which now kind of looks like whipped cream. There are also little bits of butter everywhere. I rubbed my frown line, I am trying to stop the giant wrinkle that is relentlessly forming between my eyebrows.

As I turned around to start adding the baking soda to the flour, I see Ollie take my glass of water and he poured it in the flour. I looked at him, he was covered head to toe in white flour and I had feeling I looked no better. There was flour all over the floor and counter. I rushed the bowl to the sink and tried my best to pour off the water, to salvage the flour. I scooped out the gooey stuff and managed to save two cups.

We started again, measuring carefully, I am really down to the bottom of the bag, but thankful I manage to get six more cups. Then I remembered the noodles. Shoot!

I poured them into the strainer and they come out in one stuck together lump. Lovely. I put the sauce on the oven, at least that will taste good.

Ollie and I finished our cookie dough. I picked out the least lumpy of noodles and covered them with sauce. I called my family for dinner, but even the best sauce could not hide my failure in the kitchen.  No one eats it. Fine, they can have cookies.

I looked at my kitchen. Surely the end of time had struck, all I had to do was make noodles. There was flour everywhere. I eyed the strainer full of the offending clumpy starchy mess. A symbol of my failure.  I took it to the sink and stuffed it down the garburator, turned on the water and fired it up. I started trying to clean up the rest of the mess, and noticed the sink sounds funny, so I just leave everything running, but then it started to sound really odd so I checked it out. Water had backed up. Great. I got the plunger to start to work on it, but all I was doing was shooting noodles and water out the other side of the sink. So I tried to hold the plug with one hand and plunge the other side, totally did not work.

The kids start melting down so I had to leave everything and take them into the bath. Once they are settled I ran to the garage grab the Draino and dumped the whole gallon into the sink. Then I heard the kids screaming at each other. I ran upstairs and eye Ryan laying in bed watching T.V., blissfully ignorant thanks to Demerol. I shot the evil eye at him and hauled the kids out of the bath.

Once the toddler was in bed I decided to try to take the pipes apart, but it was to friggin hard. Apparently “righty tighty, lefty loosey” doesn’t apply to plumbing. I got it just loose enough to cause a significant leak and some more noodle spewing.  All I could smell is Draino, and what was that bell going off? Oh right!  I’m….baking……cookies.

I want to throw myself off my deck (my deck is a disappointing one foot off the ground, I’d probably just do a face plant in dog poop).

I tried turning on the garburator again,  which caused more noodles spewing out the other side of the sink. I plunged, and another eruption of noodles. I grab the Draino bottle and read it, surely something should be happening by now.

“Warning: Do not use a plunger or garburator with this product, may result in blindness.”

Oops.

I throw my cookie dough in the fridge (which over the next 24 hours would completely dry out and I would end up buying cookies from Costco, surrender). I sat down and tried to cry, feeling miserably sorry for myself. Nothing.

I flip open my laptop and google “plumber, langley”. I book intervention for the next day. It cost $423.

I eat a cookie. I should be packing for Mexico.  This wasn’t very funny.

I sit in his nursery, my sleeping toddler on my lap. My feet are resting on the ottoman, we have been here for an hour. Every time I try to lay him down, he wakes up and protests, maybe he knows on some toddler level, I need this. Although he is sweating I feel cold, my feet are freezing, so I pick a blanket up off the floor with my toes and swirl it around my feet.

I lay my head back on the chair and wish for the thousandth time I had bought a rocking chair instead of this charcoal grey arm chair that matched his nursery perfectly, but still, this chair has taken on a memory of exactly how I like to sit. The cushion sinks in just the right spot as I rest with my child in my arms. I have perfected a knee sway that has imitated the sensation of rocking for Oliver many times, and even though he is now sleeping, I sway, soothed by the rhythmic movement. I drink in the calmness of this moment. I feel for the first time in days, a whisper of peace.

 I have been battling with depression this year. It’s been a bumpy road. Some days I wake up and life is an amazing technicolor dream coat, other days I only see grey, and sometimes, like today, I drown in inky blackness. Today is the first time I heard the whisper, what if it wins? What would that look like? I shudder.

But this is my story, my journey and I am writing it. If life has taught me anything, it is that our lowest parts can bring out the best in us. It is where we can meet God, stripped of pride and “I can do it myself”.  It’s where God is able to help us off our face to our feet. It is the place where my ego finally allows Him to work in me.

I look down at Oliver’s sleeping face, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the room. So at peace in his mother’s arms. It’s the way I imagine God holding me today. Every time he tries to put me down, I scrunch my face and kick my feet in protest. Not yet God. I won’t be ready for you to put my down, not until the end of time and then, I’d still like to sit in your lap.

“Tell me a time when you feel you failed as a parent.”

I shift awkwardly on my therapist’s couch, resisting the urge to grab the cuddly throw, neatly folded over the arm of the couch and curl up into a fetal position wailing “It all started when I was two….”. It’s late, I don’t usually come at this time. The day has left me tired and I feel fragile. I don’t want to go there.

I reply: “Once when Owen was really frustrating me, I asked him “What is wrong with you?” It is something that was said to me as a child.” My voice shakes “My husband later, gently reminded me that is not a question we want to leave our Owen to answer for himself.”

I feel tears threatening, I leave unsaid, that these very words, were spoken to me, that long ago, planted seed deep in my soul. A seed that birthed an emptiness, doubt and shame in me. I squeeze my emotions into check. I am not going there, I have watched people leave this office in tears, I am not going to be one of them. I am only here to get some help dealing with my post partum depression.

My therapist is a sharp one though, he gently tells me that my perfectionism is key factor to my depression. That I need to realize mistakes are okay. I looked at him like he was an alien with horns.

I left his office, chewing on this thought. Truthfully, it was a few days prior God awakened me to this word. Perfectionism. It is chiming true in my spirit. I begin to allow my self to think about the standards I have placed in my life.

I see Her now. It is an image I have created of a woman who is perfect. She is who I have measured everything against, having seldom reached the bar she set. She sits in her house, with perfectly manicured lawn and nails. She is thin and beautiful. Her house is pictured in magazines, it is perfect, every niche organized. She is the mother others admire and aspire to be. She always cooks the best meals, and her marriage is a fairytale. Everything she sets her hand to is gold. It’s perfect.

She entered my life like a cancer. Her tentacles weaving their way through every fiber of my being, strangling out joy, making my marriage hell at times, she squeezed the passion from my life, and I have hated myself for the failures she produced.

I am not sure when I gave this women the reigns, when she became the one I measure my worth against. I suspect it crept in somewhere amongst the emptiness that cruel words left in my childhood. I am aware of her now and I see the ridiculous attempts I have made to live up to her expectations.

I could not put on clothes without immediately assessing every flaw in my physic. She stood right beside me in the mirror, all thin and perfect, taunting me with her perfect curves, her belly, free of mommy pooch, despite the children.

When I yelled at my kids, she stood there shaking her head at my lost of control.

As I run around my house preparing for last minute company, stuffing clothes into drawers, and praying the boys have not left pee on the toilet seat, she shook her head and tutted her tongue. Her house is perfect, always ready for company, with a coffee cake baking in the oven, not store bought. She even managed to teach the toddler and nine year old to clean up after themselves.

Perfectionism is a disease. There is never enough when you live with her standards. Nothing you do is good enough, you are never enough. The only cure is put your eyes back to the One who is truly perfect. The One who came to fill in our imperfections. God never expected me to be perfect, he expected to me to be, well me.

I am awakened. I know she is there, and I have thought of ways of killing her, a pitch fork in the eye would be fitting. I created an alter for her in my mind that replaced God or maybe a part of me believed God put her there to make me a better person. It was a lie, and I was deceived. The truth set me free.

I am beautifully broken by this revelation and awakened to what my life should be like. Not measured by perfection, but instead knowing that I am enough, just I am. Trusting that God will bring out the best in me.

The unfolded laundry and run in with my stubborn nine year old does not make me bad, it makes me human.

Perfect is putting aside the laundry when your one year old crawls onto your lap with a book.

Perfect is the moment after the battle with your nine year old, when you sit and ask each other for forgiveness. When you tell him how much you love him, and all the good things you see in him. When you tell him there is nothing wrong with him, and how sorry you are.

Perfect is sitting down to dinner that you completely over cooked. Pork chops that taste like dust, but your family eats on, sharing the meal and laughter. Even though hubby is on his third glass of water and the boy keeps asking for more sauce.

I thank God that I can lay my burdens down to Him. He is not going to come fold my laundry, but He will deliver the divine peace I need in those moments. The whisper of “You are enough and I adore you”.

Photo Credit: jronaldlee @ flickr.com