Personal Archives - TheSanityPlan

When a Big Change Fills Your Heart with Dread

January 12, 2017 By Sara M. 9 Comments

My husband wants to move. Well, actually we both *want* to move but the whole prospect is a bit terrifying for me.

There are so many good reasons for us to move. We are literally looking at only moving one town over to a neighborhood with a superior school district. We would be able to save money by taking our teen out of private school, and the youngest kids will be on a public-school tract for their full K-12 educations. We’ll be able to find a property that better suits our needs: a house with a layout that has more dedicated functional space. Right now, we have two useless rooms with no doors and a basement below grade that no one likes to go in unless we are watching a movie.

So, there are many good reasons for us to make this change. Yet, I am dreading the idea of actually picking up and doing it.

My husband is so excited. He is usually the first to jump on board with any changes. He loves to get up and go, without a second look back (and I’m not just referring to moving). But now, I’ve gotten to the point that every time he even brings up this subject, my heart sinks. It reached a peak over the weekend when he picked out several properties online and asked me twice to come and take a look at them. Each time I came up with excuses for why I didn’t have time to look at the houses. Because I feel like I just can’t go there right now.

I feel so overwhelmed by the thought of moving. The incredibly long process of house hunting is quite painful for someone like me who hates making decisions. Then, there is the grueling process of obtaining a mortgage, with endless documents to obtain and financial decisions to make. Everything about moving is decision overload.

But the worst part by far, is the idea of packing, moving, unpacking, and setting up a brand-new home. I am completely stalled with fear when I think of all of the work it will take to move everything we own. There are things I haven’t even unpacked from when we moved here, and we’ve lived here for 5 years last month. It has literally taken me years, partially delayed by having two babies, to decorate and personalize this home.

Why do I feel this way about moving? I’ve moved my whole life. House after house, different school systems, different states, different countries even. I am so tired of moving and changing everything and starting new. Despite all of the good reasons we have to move, I am really struggling to get over this serious pit in my stomach at the thought of all the change.

I have become deeply sentimental about this home that we’ve created. We brought both of our children home from the hospital to this house. Especially around the holidays, I am overwhelmed with joy remembering the traditions we have worked so hard to create here. If we moved within a year, I am not sure that either of our young ones will remember this house beyond what they see in pictures.

I feel guilty for being so negative. I am scared that my unwillingness to jump on board with the idea is putting a damper on my husband’s excitement. I feel as though I should be grateful to be able to afford to move to a different home that will better suit our family. Yet, here I sit, wanting to dig my feet into the ground. Staking my place here, refusing to budge unless forcibly removed. I am mixed with fear of the work and the loss of the beautiful memories we’ve made.

I will miss the friendships we’ve made in this neighborhood, and I am nervous about making new ones. I think this is partially from knowing the truth that lots of friends fall away when you move. There are good intentions to stay in touch, but in this modern world if it is not incredibly convenient, it just doesn’t seem to happen.

This is what I am going to have to work through. I need to sit down and explain these feelings to my husband, and we can decide together how to handle each one. I know he will understand, and that my feelings shouldn’t keep us from actually making this step. But I need to honor them, find perspective on each of my struggles, and create a plan to make this move as successful as possible.

5 Things I Did Not Know About My Firstborn

December 26, 2016 By Sara M. 17 Comments

First time parenting is rough. It’s one of those things in life that even preparation leaves you unprepared. I studied early child development during my Psychology degree. I read tons of books while pregnant. I drew on my experiences from taking care of my younger siblings as a teen. I talked to everyone I knew about parenting strategies.

Despite all of this, what I learned about my daughter, my firstborn, was mostly in retrospect after my second arrived.

How “Little” She Really Was

This may sound intuitive to some people, but I continually expected my daughter to be so much more capable than she actually was. I pushed her very hard to be able to sit quietly, entertain herself, play well with other children, and get quickly over disappointments and tantrums.

But now, watching my 22-month-old son, I am struck by how little she really was at this age. Now I “get it” and I am gentler with him (and her) because of it. I better understand how much time it takes to learn to communicate or develop emotional control.

I think part of what made it so hard for us to see was that she was so advanced. She ate with utensils at 10 months old. She spoke in full sentences at 18 months. She could entertain herself for an hour or sometimes more. She appeared so much more mature than she actually was.

How Much She Was Capable of Doing for Herself

I had super high expectations for her on some things, but I also had very low expectations in other ways.

It wasn’t until I enrolled my son in day care at 1 year that I realized how much babies could do for themselves. Their goals for that age were self-feeding and self-care. They were consciously teaching this age group things I was still doing for my daughter at 3.

I had just done so many things for her, instead of taking the time to empower her to do them for herself. I picked out her clothes, dressed her, washed her hands for her, even fed her if it was too messy.

So now, with two little ones, it is a lot easier to encourage him to try more things for himself. And I get a lot more resistance from her because I have helped her for so long. She sees my reluctance to help her with those things as me pushing her away.

How Much She Was Not “Boyish”

At the risk of sparking the gender debate, please remember this is just an account of our experience.

My husband and I watched her approach to life and would often comment that she was more like a boy than a girl. She was aggressive and rough, preferring blocks and cars to dolls and stuffed animals. She wanted to run around, jump around, and be thrown up in the air.

At 1, we noticed she was incredibly mechanically minded, driven to figure out how things worked. She was fascinated by buckles and latches, manipulating any she could get her hands on.

When our boy arrived, it become obvious how wrong we were. The elements of her that had seemed to be “boy-like,” now proved characteristics of her unique personality as opposed to being gender related.

Our son does not ever stop moving. She can sit still for long periods of time exploring a book or a puzzle. Our son is rough and tumble in a different way, often getting hurt without even noticing. Our son climbs everything, whereas it never occurred to our daughter to try some of the things he’s climbed until she saw him do it.

How Kids Are So Different

So often we watch our son do something that instantly reminds us when our daughter did the exact same thing. Their mannerisms are so similar it is eerily reminiscent of déjà vu. And yet, what I’ve really learned is that they can also be so different, despite being so alike.

Our little man is sweet and sensitive, craving physical closeness. She’s much more independent, preferring physical contact on her own terms. She plays imaginatively, while he is very physical: throwing balls, pushing cars, running, and jumping. She loves to communicate; he is not determined to do so. He tends to get frustrated and gives up easily, she will persevere until she solves it.

How Siblings Aren’t Necessarily Good for Each Other

This one was a huge hurt for me. I knew from my husband’s experience that sibling relationships aren’t always easy. However, nothing could have prepared me for what happened.

She was two when he was born. Our son was a difficult baby, who commanded an extraordinary amount of time and attention. She had been very attached to me up until that time, barely allowing anyone else to do anything for her, even my husband.

His arrival broke our bond in a very intense way. Despite our goal of encouraging additional connections in her life, I wish it had not happened in such a drastic manner. Looking back, I don’t think there was much more that we could have done to ease her transition, short of postponing having another baby.

It took her more than a year to even out, get more settled into her new role. We are heartened by the beginning of a relationship between them now that he is almost 2.

*****

These are not things you can learn from a book or a more experienced parent. You have to live them and breathe them, and let the experiences change you. I have regrets, but I can’t change the past. I can learn from these insights, applying them to each new stage as we all grow together.

A Young Mom Loses Her Battle With Cancer

December 22, 2016 By Sara M. Leave a Comment

My good friend’s sister died this week. She lost her battle with tongue cancer, claiming her life less than a year from her initial diagnosis.

She was only 42 years old.

It’s been haunting us ever since we heard the news. Not one day goes by that it doesn’t come up. We give voice to her memory and mourn for her husband and her children. There is something that feels so wrong about burying a young woman, a young mom.

My husband and I went to the wake on Tuesday to show our support for the family.

Her husband didn’t look any different than the last time I saw him, but his whole world had changed. He had watched his beloved wife struggle with the cancer. He was by her side when she had most of her tongue removed and could barely talk or eat. She suffered through radiation, only to have 3 cancer-free weeks before the tumors began to grow again. And it came back more aggressively than before. Her death marked a final relief from the daily suffering that her life had become.

Her husband is left behind to try to explain to their two boys, 3 and 5, that their mommy is never coming home. He held his head up, showing the unbelievable strength that he will need in years to come, as he explained to us the conversation he’d had with them. He had done some research, and ultimately decided that he had to tell them the blunt truth. That their mom was dead and gone forever. He worried that saying she “passed away” or “had moved on” would only serve to confuse them. He told us that the 5-year-old seemed to comprehend, but the 3-year-old didn’t yet. I doubt either of them will truly understand their loss until much later. My heart aches at the thought of them growing up without their mother.

Her father was the most coherent as I have seen him in years, despite his Alzheimer’s. It’s as if the shock and pain of having to bury his daughter jaunted him back to the current moment with sharp clarity. He stood stoically as a video montage of photos of his daughter played, silent tears streaming down his face. The only sign of his disease that day was his misbuttoned shirt and his backwards shoes that had been overlooked by everyone in their grief.

My friend, her brother, was in obvious pain but holding it together for his family. He had been in the hospital the night before, with blood pressure off the charts. They only let him leave because of his sister’s funeral, but they would have preferred to keep him for further testing. I watched him accept condolences and comfort his own teenage children.

The funeral home was filled with people when we left. People were saying their goodbyes to his sister or clustered around portraits scattered around the room. The pictures told the story of a joyful life that ended way too soon.

I am so sad for those two little boys who have to grow up without their mama. It truly hits home for me because my babies are so close in age at just 2 and 4. What would it be like for them if I were just gone one day? I can’t even imagine the hole in a young child’s heart that is caused when their mother dies. How many questions will they have one day about who she was and what she was like?

I wondered what our life would be like if I lost my husband. Would I be strong enough to carry on? Could I raise our family on my own? “Of course, you would,” my husband assured me, “You’d have to.” I know I would, but it would be devastating.

My heart hurts for this family. And it puts our small problems and minor complaints into their proper place, reminding us to be grateful for all that we have. We have a wonderful and healthy family, and we get to be whole for Christmas and this holiday season. And with good fortune, our children will grow up knowing support and love from both their mother and father.

How Will You Remember Their Childhood?

November 1, 2016 By Sara M. 27 Comments

“I just don’t want to look back on this time as the Dark Ages,” I tell my good friend’s wife. A large group of my college classmates and our kids were visiting a traveling farm last fall.

She sighed, “You probably will.”

This was the hardest thing for me to hear. My son was 8 months old at the time, and my daughter was 2 ¾. I was flying solo for that trip because my husband was away for business. I was a mess. Overwhelmed and exhausted, barely speaking coherent sentences. Trying to manage a willful toddler and a cranky baby.

Out with my classmates, I could barely even remember us all doing our MBAs. Only 6 years had passed but it felt like an eternity. Motherhood had changed everything.

As my son now approaches 2, and my daughter 4, things are so much better. She has improved both socially and emotionally, and she is much more willing to follow instructions and get along. My son is finally crying less, and trying to communicate his needs with words. We’ve settled into a workable routine.

But those words are still echoing through my mind. In 5 years or 10 years, am I still going to be plagued by the difficulty of these early years with my son? Am I going to feel like it was the worst time of my life? Am I going to carry the weight of this deep guilt for falling apart at such a precious time?

I think I easily could. But I don’t want to. I don’t want the film of negativity to color what I remember about my babies’ youngest years. Yes, I will probably always know that it was hard for both my husband and I, an early babyhood gauntlet.

But there has been so much more that I have to work to bring to mind.

I am reminded when I go through pictures of all the fun times we’ve had together. Going to the zoo and feeding the giraffes. Going to the beach and building sand castles. My husband and I taking them to swim classes together.

Or painting with water colors outside when it was warm.

Or running around in the rain and jumping in puddles.

Or the times I bundled them up to go play outside in the snow, and they had so much fun that they barely felt the cold.

What about reading to them every single night? And how I slowed down to read at their pace, patiently answered questions, and engaged in endless side stories.

What about all of the conversations we’ve had? About silly things and serious things and everything in between. And poop, lots of poop.

What about the times I chased them around the kitchen island until we were all dizzy and they were squealing with delight? I can still hear their infectious laughter.

What about the late night and early morning snuggles? When I found their perfect tickle spots or blew raspberries on their sweet, soft bellies.

And the nursing? I am fond of the time I spent nursing my babies. Dutifully waking through the night to feed them, or before the dawn when they began to sleep longer.

So no, I will not call it the Dark Ages. That is not the right way to remember this season. I will not add stack upon stack of guilt to weigh down the beauty of my babies’ childhood. Yes, it was hard. Yes, I have cried out of frustration and exhaustion.

But I’ve been a mom, a good mom. With a big heart, and lots of love. For every correction, there has been double the amount of warmth and praise. For every difficult time, there were double the experiences of exploration and wonder.

I will remind myself of the goodness, the sweetness, and the simplest joys. The times where my true self shone through. I will let the sleepless nights and the tantrums slip away. I will engrave the good memories onto my heart to remember for always.

How will you look back on this period of motherhood? What will you choose?

How My Experience Writing for The Mighty Is Helping Me Heal

October 26, 2016 By Sara M. Leave a Comment

This week, I opened the window to my heart. I shared a deeply personal essay about how I feel when I dissociate. I sent my words out into the world, not knowing how they would be received.

I had no idea where I was headed when I began writing this summer. I’ve always known there is a writer in me, I’ve always just been too practical to let her out. One foot in front of the other, marching down that practical life path. “You’ll never make any money writing,” echo my father’s words.

And yet, here I am, no longer bound by practicality, finally allowing my words to venture out. And I can’t stop. There isn’t enough time in the day to write all the things I need to share.

My body is a house for pain. It is the physical boundary of all my sadness and hurtful memories. They are lined up at the door now, anticipating their freedom.

My therapist asked me during our last session what I do to help myself feel better. How do I resolve each experience after I’ve talked about it? I didn’t really have a good answer. Most of the time, I just try to live a good life. I share or write about it and move on. When I get home, my children or my husband need me and I get pulled away from those thoughts. Back into this world, leaving that one open and raw.

But is that true healing? Have I found a proper home for that pain? Can I put it away on a shelf for now, maybe forever?

Now I think I know part of the answer. Part of my healing has come from complete strangers. It has come from you.

Because I shared with you a piece of my heart. And you didn’t shy away. It wasn’t too much to hear.

You didn’t tell me I was weird.

You didn’t tell me to get over it.

You didn’t tell me I’m broken beyond repair.

Instead, what you said was, “Me too” and “I feel that way.” And now I know that I am not alone. I never have been.

And my words were shared more times than my humble heart could imagine. You shared them because they are your words now. You shared them because you were finally able to make someone else understand how you really feel. You shared them because they might describe and help someone that you know.

Thank you. This “Mighty” community is filled with so much love and compassion that I am overwhelmed. The editors and the readers are an amazing group of people, handling each unique condition and experience with the honor it deserves.

Here is a safe place where I can heal.

Efficiency, My Captor

October 26, 2016 By Sara M. 4 Comments

My days are ruled by a terrible master. Slave driving and tireless, it never ends and never lessens.

I am not sure where it comes from. Is it left over from being a career woman? Did 15 years in the corporate work force influence me to reevaluate my entire life through the schema of productivity? When did it become so pervasive that it spilled over into my home life?

I see it in our society. I see is all around me. Every other article headline tells how we can be more efficient. How we can push harder. How we can get more done.

This drive conflicts with the biggest thing I’m doing right now.

Raising my kids.

Child rearing and efficiency are like oil and water. They don’t mix, and even if you can get them somewhat combined (shake, shake, shake!), it’s only a matter of time before they are polarized again.

The drive for efficiency leaves me with this aching feeling of never getting enough done. That I should always be multitasking. That any time spent waiting in line or even sitting with my children should also be combined with checking emails and mental preparation of what needs to be done next.

I make endless lists in multiple notebooks, on my phone, or in my mind. I feel compartmentalized to the point of having a fragmented mind at any given time during the day. I struggle to give my 100% attention to any single thing in a single moment.

I am constantly striving to be better at managing it all. But I am never really enjoying anything.

I am barely here.

How can I organize my life so that I can always have the laundry in at just the right time for me to do a certain task before moving it to the dryer? And then another task to fill the space until the drying is done? But I can’t forget it is in there… Can’t forget anything.

How can I fit in playing with and educating the children, while managing the household, planning meals, and cooking? Or working? Will I ever be able to manage going back to a full time career?

The children ask if can I play with them, and more and more I respond with “I have to do this. I have to do that.” So rarely anymore do I feel free enough to prompt play, or join in with them while they play on their own. How must they feel watching their mom consumed by a whirlwind of never-ending tasks?

Why are they not more important to me?

Why can’t I just sit and enjoy? Be present. Ignore the feelings that I should be getting something done. This is doing something. This is doing exactly what I’ve always wanted to do. Have children. Love them. Play with them. Teach them and share their joys.

I love my children. Why is that not enough to calm the itch of productivity? To ease the drive for efficiency. To erase the beckoning of my to do list.

Why do I long for them to sleep so that I can get to work? Are they really so hard to handle? Are they the placeholder in my mind between real times of work and productivity?

Why am I so unsettled by the aimless meandering that is their childhood rhythm?

Time does not hold a child captive. I can remember my four-year-old referring to every meal as dinner. I always corrected her, but it never mattered to her. Dinner was just when she ate.

No amount of urgency moves a child. Because seeing that toy you want to play with is way more fascinating than getting dressed. And you really have no concept that someone may be upset with you for being late – because you don’t even really understand what time is.

But mom does. That clock is ticking. The sound of every second can be deafening under the burden of feeling like nothing gets done. The burden that could potentially be eased if only I could be more efficient during those precious moments of free time and good energy. If I just pushed harder.

And now I must stop. I’m glad that you understand. I thought I was the only one.

I can breathe now.

I think I’ll go see what the kids are up to.

The hell with efficiency.

When Dissociation Steals Your Joy

October 16, 2016 By Sara M. Leave a Comment

Most of the time, it happens before I even notice. And sometimes I can tell I’ve been in that state for a long time before I realize it’s happening. Days, weeks, sometimes more than a month.

You wouldn’t know by looking at me. I walk and talk and function. I get things done. I work and hang out. I play with my children. I even laugh. I don’t look any different than anyone else.

But a shell has formed between me and you. Between me and the world.

I am closed in. And safe. But it’s lonely, and disconnected. The thing about this shell is that it grows. It gets thicker and thicker. And inside, my thoughts get bigger, louder, and make less sense. My fears grow. I worry more. I feel panicked. Indecisive.

I begin to see the physical shell. It looks like a hazy blur. Like the permanent haze on a clear plastic glass that has been washed too many times.

It stands between us.

I can no longer feel the ground. I am standing in a hallway, but I can’t really feel myself there. Everything I touch feels foreign to me.

I feel scared now. That I’ve gone too far. Will I be able to claw my way back?

I reach out. I touch everything.

I feel a table’s surface. It is solid.

I feel the wall. I focus on its smoothness, the texture of the paint. The imperfections that catch my fingertips.

I imagine the ground beneath my feet. I reach out and sense it. It doesn’t move.

When you talk to me, I must really listen. Ignore my racing mind. I drag my body back from that other space. That other place. In my shell.

I don’t want to be there anymore. I want to be here. Here with you.

I am ready to feel again.

I know why it happens. It’s been here since I was a child. It served a purpose back then. Probably the only reason I made it through.

It’s an old habit that dies hard, though. It comes back unwarranted. Disconnecting me from joyful times. Happy times. Times I want to remember. Times I want to be here.

The Insanity of Modern Motherhood

October 11, 2016 By Sara M. 12 Comments

Recently, I have this crazy urge to run away. Get out of my house, get out of my skin. I think I’ve been teetering on the brink of insanity for some time now and it’s all come to a head. I’m so overwhelmed. I’m so stressed. I get brief glimpses of energy and optimism that I am going to be able to find some solutions and get our family life in order. Then I collapse from the sheer exhaustion of trying to keep up with the day to day chaos. Of trying to keep it all together.

I feel as though my whole body is going to come apart, that my skin will no longer contain the explosion from within.

I fantasize about when life was simpler. I could hide away in a room somewhere, giving my heart and soul a break from it all. I could be rid of all responsibilities, worries, and stress from this modern, crazy life. I could be protected long enough to let all of my nerves return to a normal calm level.

I could breathe.

Being a parent to young children seems to have brought out the worst in me. I am exhausted from the lack of sleep and the constant need for me to be on duty. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I wasn’t built for this. That maybe I am just not equipped for so many people needing so much from me. All the time.

I can’t stand the juggling. My schedule feels like a patchwork quilt. I get help for a few hours during the day from a babysitter, and I can call on my mother in law occasionally. It never seems like enough. And if either aren’t available, I’m stuck juggling the kids while trying to work, clean, and manage the household. I am the central point for scheduling and meals and social plans much like other mothers. Plus, our lives have just become so complicated, unnecessarily so. Everything is put together so precariously and constrained that when one piece goes awry, then the whole system fails.

All day long I switch my hats. With my husband also working from home, I wear my wife hat a bit more than some. I wear my mom hat most of all, switching to worker and writer when I get a free moment. Not sure exactly what my own hat looks like. (But I bet it’d be long enough to envelope my whole body while I hide out for a few hours.)

Some days are great. When I’m well rested and the transitions go as planned, I have amazing days. I flow in and out of each responsibility with a sharp mind. Easily able to manage the transition between my roles, and successfully utilizing each segment of time allocated to my compartmentalized tasks.

Other days are hard. When I’m tired. Beat down. My mind driven into fragments by the sheer chaos of our lives. Too much to keep track of. Paperwork and piles of laundry. These are the days when everything seems broken. When I seem broken.

I am not sure of the solution. Today, in a not so strong state, sanity feels a bit unattainable. I do know that I can rely on my network to help. My babysitter and husband for breaks from the kids. My therapist to help me regulate my overwhelming thoughts and feelings. The OT for the kids. My mom who listens.

Time will be a blessing. At least that is what I am told. As hard as the kids are right now, even I can see that every day is an improvement over the last. They are learning to identify and communicate their special needs to us. And we are learning to how to parent them, and how to help them work through it when they get stuck.

Tomorrow will be better; I’ll get a good night sleep.

Wake up with clarity; get more done.

That, in and of itself, sets the tone for a better day.

It renews my strength, my commitment to stay here and stay intact.

I can build on each success and find the foothold for the next step.