Leading Mama

I'm Jealous!

In honor of Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday, I'll share a dirty little (or not-so-little) secret. Lately, I've been seeing green. Not good-for-the-planet green, either.

For two weeks I've been reading pre-BlogHer bluster and post-BlogHer highlights. And I'm jealous that I missed it.

I wanted to go. I really, really, really wanted to go. (Picture me stomping one foot, hands on hips like a bratty four-year-old now.) I wanted to dress up and have drinks with women who love to write, and who can turn everyday doldrums and drama into A+ entertainment.

I don't so much care about swag bags, or meetings with company reps.

I don't so much care that I missed San Diego, which is a lovely place with stand-out Mexican food.

I don't worry I can't catch up with the latest blogging gadgets and gizmos. My friends online will keep me up-to-date on all that. (Thanks to Nicole at Moments that Define Life; Liz and Kristen at Eli Rose Social Media Marketing;  Jessica at My Time As Mom; Christina Katz, the Writer's Workout Coach, and Courtney at The Mommy Matters) 

Why so green, then, you ask???

I envy the time to think about work without interruption. It's a 7-hour flight from here to San Diego. 7 hours is more work time than I had all week.

I envy the opportunity to meet in person the people who make blogging fun and rewarding. (Like our hostess for today's linkup, Shell at Things I Can't Say; Nichole at In these Small Moments and the hostess of tomorrow's festivities, the cool cat behind Mama Kat's Losin' It)

Exclusive private parties? Who cares.

I'd like to hear all these ladies' real voices, see their quirky and not-so-quirky mannerisms, listen to them laugh. Those are the currency of friendship in-real-life, and I'm feeling a little bit bankrupt right now.

Oh, and I'd like to ogle (maybe even covet) their shoes. I simply love shoes.

Alas, the timing didn't work. At all. This wasn't my year for BlogHer for lots of reasons. And jealousy isn't all bad. Envious emotions are signals that smart people can leverage to learn more about what they value and to make better (more satisfying) decisions. (Read more about that on my other blog, The Psychologist Next Door)

Next year, I'll be at BlogHer in NYC. I'll wear something green so you'll recognize me.

 

Image credit: GREEN SHOES by Antonsokolov

 

Hello, ego. Goodbye, stereotype.

Today I'm taking a minute to Pour my Heart Out about a lesson I learned last week at the grocery store. I'll warn you up front, it wasn't pretty.

 

I was just back from a two-week vacation. By 8 a.m., I'd colored my hair, taken a shower, and done my makeup. The baby was happy (so far) and Little Man was dropped off at preschool.   A grocery run seemed do-able.

 

I swept through the commissary, hoping to get all the items on my list before Little Mama had a meltdown.

 

I expected her to get tired. She hadn't slept much the day before because we were traveling. She didn't nap on the plane or in the line for immigration and customs. She didn't nap on the car ride home. As my mom would say, she was pooped. At least for the moment, she was happy to be steering the kid-friendly cart, one hand on each little steering wheel. We flew through produce, meats and dairy. 

 

And then, she was pooped. Yes, the other kind. Stinky, goopy, no-diaper-in-the-world-could-contain-this-mess pooped.  Right there in the frozen food section.

 

So I shopped faster. I jettisoned items from the list that could wait until later. I flew toward the check out, eager to escape with my poopy baby and a shred of mommy dignity in tact.

 

As I approached the check out, the pimply faced teenage checker asked me loudly, "Will you be paying with WIC today?"

 

And the world stopped spinning.

 

I thought, "Do I look like I'll be paying with WIC today?"

 

I'm sure I looked like a bridesmaid who just discovered her dress was tucked into her panty hose as she walked down the aisle. I was caught completely off guard. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

 

And then my brain caught up with my ego and I thought, "There is no 'look' that describes recipients of WIC." Poverty isn't so obvious.

 

I asked the checker why he thought I might pay with WIC. He responded, "Sometimes moms with babies who come in early in the morning pay with WIC." 

 

Hmm. I nodded. "I see," I said. And then I paid cash for my groceries.

 

As I left the store and pulled Little Mama out of the shopping cart, poop oozed up her back and slathered my forearm. I was mortified.

 

And I felt a wave of compassion for moms who depend on assistance to feed their families.

 

I don't know who they are. Appearances are deceiving.

 

What I do know is those moms are gutting it out day-by-day doing the best they can for their kids. They're wiping noses and changing diapers and trying to get through the grocery store before the baby has a meltdown, just like I am. And the last thing they need is to be called out for paying with WIC. 

 

I regret that I didn't stop and share my thoughts with the checker. I'm sure he hadn't considered how his customer would feel when he asks way too loudly whether she'll be paying with WIC today.

 

Empathy isn't automatic. Apparently mine needed a tune-up. 

My Military Child and his Dad

My son is a mama’s boy. I am a boy's mama.

 

Our attachment was not instantaneous. There was no magic. Our attachment grew in the small, shared moments of life.

 

It took root when I held my tiny, hungry baby and I fed him. It grew as I soothed his anxious cries, singing whatever song I could pull from my weary brain. It bloomed when we snuggled in for naps together, breathing in and out simultaneously. Our lives are so richly intertwined that it is hard to tell where I stop and he begins.

 

My son is a military child. I am military mama.

 

No matter what comes, Little Man knows he can count on me. I am his constant.

 

My husband is a military dad. He loves our children completely. But he doesn’t have the luxury of constancy. He misses out on everyday opportunities for fatherhood. It’s been that way since the beginning.

 

Four months from my due date, Leading Man was selected for command of a Provincial Reconstruction Team in Afghanistan.  In an instant, our “military family planning” went out the window.

 

He would miss the first 15 months of our son’s life. He’d miss his birth. He’d miss his first smile, first steps, first word. He’d miss his first Christmas and his first birthday.

 

“If it had to happen, it is best that it happened now,” he rationalized. “He’s too young to know I am not there. He won’t remember it.”

 

In some ways, Leading Man was right. Intellectually, Little Man doesn’t remember that his Dad missed those things.  But emotionally, he knows.

 

He knows his dad is gone way more than he is home. His dad has been traveling for work or deployed more than half of Little Man’s four-years-long life.

 

He knows he wants his mom to buckle his seatbelt, to hold his hand, to sit next to him in restaurants. He knows he wants his mom to read him stories, to wipe his tears and his bottom, to make his dinner. He knows his mom will make everything all right. He knows he can count on me.

 

A while back, I asked Leading Man what he wants our kids to remember about him when they are adults. He said “I want them to remember that I served in the war….I was awarded three Bronze Stars….I helped the people of Afghanistan reclaim and rebuild their country.”

 

His answer seemed so sterile, so historical, and so sad. His answer seems so different from my own.

 

I want my kids to remember that I loved them. I want them to remember how I kissed their hurts, how I read their favorite stories, how I played catch in the living room. I want them to remember that I carried them when they were tired, that I called them “Booty” and “Punk.” I want them to remember ice skating and train trips and Christmas cookies.

 

It took me a while to make sense of my husband’s response and to accept its wisdom.

 

Leading Man knows he missed out on important, irreplaceable moments in our kids' lives. He misses them every day. Even when he’s not deployed, his responsibilities keep him away from home in mind if not in body.

 

Those missed moments are painful for Leading Man and for the kids. “Daddy has to work” is a lackluster reason for missing the spring preschool concert. “Daddy has to work” doesn’t make Little Man feel better when the phone rings during dinner. “Daddy has to work” cannot begin to express the importance of Daddy’s job. Sure, Little Man understands about “bad guys” and “good guys,” but he can’t grasp how bad the bad guys are. And he doesn’t yet know how good his Daddy is.  

 

My husband hopes his children – when they are all grown up – will understand why he wasn’t there. He hopes they will be proud of him. I hope so, too.

 

My son is a military child.

 

He runs outside every afternoon when retreat sounds on base. He puts his hand on his heart and stands still until the National Anthem ends. He is proud to be an American.

 

Then he waits in the yard. Sometimes he waits for hours. He waits for his Dad to come home, playing and puttering until he sees his Dad’s car round the bend. Then he runs all-out toward the end of the driveway and holds his arms up high so his Dad can pull him into the car through the open window. They maneuver into the garage together, four hands on the wheel. 

 

As they interact, their attachment grows. They talk over dinner about daycare drama and last night’s episode of Wipe Out. Then they adjourn to the dining room to race slot cars until I say it is bath time. Little Man bumps Dad's car off the track with amazing skill. He declares himself the winner. His Dad is the happiest loser I’ve seen.

 

In those small moments, my son and his dad are not subject to military priorities or the deployment schedule. My son feels his Dad’s love as surely as he feels my own. He is a military child.   

 

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If you're visiting from Pour Your Heart Out at Things I Can't Say, thanks for reading. I wrote this post in honor of Month of the Military Child. Your can learn more about how you can support military families at BlueStarFamilies.org. This post originally appeared as a guest post on Wife of a Sailor. Thanks to Wifey for letting me re-post it here on my own site as well.  

 

Infertile Secrets

Confession: In matters of love and life, I am a keeper of secrets.

 

Why? Because sharing my life means opening myself to criticism. And it means losing control. Driven to avoid anxiety, I cling to insider knowledge like a drowning person hugs a life preserver. Maybe you do the same thing.

 

In my journey through infertility, I was forced to let go my usual secret-keeping ways and reach out for help. I simply had no other choice.

 

Here’s how it happened.

 

In 2008, Leading Man and I started trying to conceive baby #2 in the usual happy, easy, fun way. But no luck. And continued efforts didn’t feel happy, easy or fun anymore.

 

We went through the evaluation process for admission to Walter Reed Army Medical Center’s infertility treatment program, and were accepted into the program in January 2009. Despite lots of doctor’s visits and tests, we didn’t share this with anyone. Living far from our families and friends, it was easier to keep secret than to share. And infertility – no matter what your diagnosis – feels intensely personal.

 

Despite the doctor’s recommendations that we should do IVF right away, we opted to try IUI first, hoping the less-invasive, less-expensive procedure would work for us. We planned to do three cycles, but after two unsuccessful cycles decided to stop wasting time and emotional energy. Both were in short supply.

 

We did our first (secret) cycle of IVF in May of 2009.

 

Those of you who have done IVF know how time consuming and emotionally exhausting the process can be. For those of you who don’t:  Imagine 20 doctor’s visits in 35 days, all scheduled for 0500 at a clinic 45 minutes from your home. Raging hormones and constant feedback about follicle development and estrogen levels make you feel like a stranger in your own skin. The mixing of drugs and self-administered injections is otherworldly. I felt like a mad scientist doing research on myself. This is the stuff of Hollywood sci-fi thrillers and Scooby Doo. I had sharps containers in every bathroom, vials of drugs lined up like soldiers in my refrigerator. And no one knew.

 

The cycle didn’t go well. My body did not respond to the stimulation like the doctors expected. Egg retrieval resulted in only 5 mature eggs. Only 2 eggs fertilized. At every turn, there was more disappointing news.

 

On the day I went in for embryo transfer, the doctor informed us that only one embryo was of sufficient quality. We transferred it knowing the odds of conception were depressingly low.

 

Clinging to the tiny secret life inside me, I went home to rest. Leading Man went back to work at the Pentagon.

He called home that afternoon with the only news that could rip these secrets from my grip. He’d received short-notice orders of another one-year deployment to Afghanistan. He’d depart in two weeks.

 

I’ll never know if that cycle would have worked out if the enormity of his news hadn’t pulled me under the waves. I felt like a drowning woman, clinging to secrets, hoping to stay afloat. I was tossed by waves of hormones, sadness and despair.

 

Before we knew whether cycle one was successful, Leading Man prepared for the cycles I might do alone. Powers of Attorney were written. Vials of tiny swimmers were stored. Next time – if there was a next time – I’d jump into these waters alone.

 

In July of 2009, I started IVF again. Alone, but not alone.

 

You see, I simply could not do this process (0500 doctor’s appointments, restrictions on lifting, self-administered injections) without any help. I had a 2 year old to take care of, and he wasn’t allowed at the clinic. I had a more-than-full-time job with enormous responsibilities. I had no back up at work. My husband was deployed.

 

Keeping this secret was absolutely impossible. I needed an army of babysitters willing to work at 0430 in the morning. I needed overnight care for my son when I went for retrieval and transfer. I needed a chaperone willing to go to surgery with me. I cried at the thought of giving all the painful progesterone in oil injections in the same hip, but couldn’t imagine how I’d give them on the left side.

 

Plus, if it worked, I would have to explain how I got knocked up while my husband was 8,000 miles away! May as well get ahead of the curve, right?

 

So I asked for help.

 

I called friends and asked if they’d babysit. I asked a former nurse at work if she’d give my left-side injections. I asked a coworker to chaperone me for the retrieval and transfer appointments. Although we’d known each other only 7 months, I gave her a medical Power of Attorney. I had no choice but to entrust my secrets to others.

 

That cycle went much more smoothly than the first. I had more mature eggs, the fertilization rate was better, and there were three grade 1 embryos to transfer.

 

One of them grew. And grew. And grew.

She is now a happy, healthy 17-pound 11-month old punk. She has seven crooked teeth. She eats cheerios with gusto. She climbs the stairs like she’s been shot from a cannon. It’s no secret that she’s the apple of our eyes.

 What I learned when I let go my infertile secrets was nothing short of life-changing.

 

I didn’t drown. Instead I was buoyed by sources of support I couldn’t fathom. The waves that threatened to pull me under calmed down. I floated above them, able to see them with greater detachment and wisdom. Safe at last.

 

This post inspired by brave travelers on the journey through the land of IF who are participating in IComLeavWe at Stirrup Queens. May your journey be better for sharing it. Post submitted to Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus and Parenting by Dummies and Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday at Things I Can't Say.

 

Because I Can

Sometimes a word, phrase or idea gets planted in my brain and takes root. It grows, tendrils reaching into other parts of my consciousness, roots thrusting down into my unconscious and permeating ideas yet to surface.

 

Right now, the phrase "Because I Can," has a hold of my mind like kudzu takes over Southern highway roadsides. I can't let it go. It begs me to notice, to think about it, to chop through and see what's underneath.

 

The phrase burrowed into my brain several weeks ago. Leading Man was watching a television program about posh parties for kids. He joked with me about the cost of Little Man's upcoming party, and said the mom on screen had spent $15,000 on her child's birthday party. When the interviewer asked her "Why?" she responded:

 

BECAUSE I CAN.

 

(Please excuse me while I get my soapbox. I'll need it right about now.)

 

Ahem.

 

BECAUSE I CAN?!

 

What an arrogant, obnoxious thing to say. "Because I Can" says "I have more money than sense."  It says "Because I am not responsible to others." It says "I care more about making my kids feel good than teaching them financial responsibility, value and compassion."

 

It says "I dare you to judge me."

 

In my upper-middle-class mentality, I cannot fathom spending this kind of cash on a party. Any party. No matter how much I have -- and we're comfortable, I admit that -- I don't want my kids to think this kind of spending is wise. Money can do immense good. It can also do harm.

 

"Because I Can" is a safer, softer way of saying "Because you can't."

 

It is a claim to power.  Power over other people. Power wielded with no regard for the consequences. Power that divides.

 

In my world, "Because I Can" doesn't excuse wreckless behavior.

 

Applied with compassion, Because I Can is not "power over," it is "power to." The power to improve people's lives. The power to heal wounded hearts. The power to lift sagging spririts. The power to change what ails us locally, nationally, and globally.

 

Use your power to send donations to tsunami relief agencies. Why? Because you can.

 

Send words of comfort to the parents of a rural Pennsylvania farm family who lost 7 of their 8 children to a house fire last week while they, the parents, worked through the night in the dairy barn. Why? Because you can.

 

Find a military family near you and pay a lawn service to mow their grass all summer so that military mom doesn't have to do her it all herself. She'll never ask for it. But you'll make a difference. 

 

Volunteer your time. It is just as powerful as money, maybe moreso. 

 

Do these things BECAUSE YOU CAN.

 

Bottom line: "Because I Can" is no excuse. "Because I Can" is a privilege. Honor it.

 

This post prepared for Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday at Things I Can't Say. Thanks to reality TV for the inspiration. I am stepping down from the soapbox now.