•1:02 PM
I was ironing clothes the other day and my mind began to wonder. It - my brain, that is - had a long time to ponder the questions of the universe because the pile of ironing had accumulated to an embarrassing mountain in the laundry room. I loathe ironing Jonesy's dress shirts clothes and usually keep up with it so that I do not end up with a large pile, like the one that has been staring at me for a week now. But, I'm trying to read one hundred books in one year ... so something has got to suffer. Anyhow, while I was ironing, I was wondering ... how does one become a momoholic? Because, not every mom becomes one. Maybe there is a gene? Maybe ... it's a virus?
What is it about the momoholic that sets her apart from the well-balanced Mom?
I think if we look closely at this momoholic, we'll find a Type-A personality mixed with a little (okay, a lot) of perfectionism and some tendencies that point in the direction of anxiety-ridden behaviour. Is that a word ... perfectionism? Anyway, you get the idea ... I like things done in certain way, things that only I can do properly. And I worry a lot. When Caiden was eleven months old, we went to Florida for one week. Now, most parents would enjoy the break from routine, experiencing new things with their little boy. Not this momoholic. The first thing I did was go to the local grocery store and buy all the ingredients I needed to make Caiden's food. Then back to the condo, and an afternoon in the kitchen supplied me with the majority of his food for the week. Because Caiden never ate food from a jar. Ever. None of my babies did. The people at the baby food factory could never make food good enough for a momoholic's child ... of that, I am certain. The thing is that I enjoyed doing it. I never complained about having to do it. Not ever. I loved doing it because it was important to me, I guess. But how did I get like this? Crazy ... like I was? Because making your own baby food while on vacation in Florida is crazy. And I'm thinking that if I had little baby now, and we went to Florida ... I might do the same thing. So, I'm still a little crazy ... still recovering. One day at a time ... isn't that the addict's mantra?
What is it about the momoholic that sets her apart from the well-balanced Mom?
I think if we look closely at this momoholic, we'll find a Type-A personality mixed with a little (okay, a lot) of perfectionism and some tendencies that point in the direction of anxiety-ridden behaviour. Is that a word ... perfectionism? Anyway, you get the idea ... I like things done in certain way, things that only I can do properly. And I worry a lot. When Caiden was eleven months old, we went to Florida for one week. Now, most parents would enjoy the break from routine, experiencing new things with their little boy. Not this momoholic. The first thing I did was go to the local grocery store and buy all the ingredients I needed to make Caiden's food. Then back to the condo, and an afternoon in the kitchen supplied me with the majority of his food for the week. Because Caiden never ate food from a jar. Ever. None of my babies did. The people at the baby food factory could never make food good enough for a momoholic's child ... of that, I am certain. The thing is that I enjoyed doing it. I never complained about having to do it. Not ever. I loved doing it because it was important to me, I guess. But how did I get like this? Crazy ... like I was? Because making your own baby food while on vacation in Florida is crazy. And I'm thinking that if I had little baby now, and we went to Florida ... I might do the same thing. So, I'm still a little crazy ... still recovering. One day at a time ... isn't that the addict's mantra?
I have always been a control freak and a perfectionist. Always. Even as a tween, I can remember having things just so in my bedroom. Consider my desk ... pencils (in a pencil holder, of course) at the top right-hand corner, calculator positioned next to it, fresh stack of paper on the left, small organizer tray with an eraser, paperclips, etc. in the centre. My brother would come in and move everything, just to watch my reaction ... because he always got a reaction.
When I had my first "big-girl" job, I was obsessed with getting it right. I am not comfortable not knowing the answers ... which by default makes me a know-it-all, I guess. I was working a contract with the County of Kent, in the Social Services Department, completing applications for General Welfare Assistance(GWA), as it was known then. All of the other Caseworkers would go home at four-thirty but I would stay until eight o'clock in the evening, leaving only because the janitors would ask me to. I guess they wanted to go home or something. I completed GWA applications and calculated budgets in my sleep for weeks until I felt like I had a handle on things. I created my own system for the application process, organizing all the paperwork I would need before I even left the office, a certain way of collecting the information required for the file.
When I bought a sewing machine, I could hardly wait to get home from work and get down to business on whatever project I had dreamed up. Quilt, crafty project, curtains, whatever. And I would stay home for a weekend, just sewing, because I wanted to. It did not matter that the party of the year was taking place; I wanted to finish my project. I didn't feel like I was missing out on anything.
When I was struggling to get pregnant, I educated myself on reproduction and the female hormonal cycle until I was a self-proclaimed expert. The infertility specialist that I doctored with exercised a great deal of patience with me, and once he confided that our monthly meetings were like discussing a case with a colleague instead of a patient. I was determined to figure out what the problem was and there was no way someone was going to tell me I could not do something. Not even Mother Nature.
And when I finally got that baby I wanted so much, he was born premature and spent the first six weeks of his life in the NICU, attached to machines and monitors. I arrived at the hospital by eight-thirty in the morning and was pushed out of the Unit by the staff around eleven at night. I spent my time educating myself about prematurity, the hurdles and milestones my baby would overcome until I was throwing around terminology with such ease that some of the staff asked if I was medically trained. Every time I had a question (and I had many), I would consult a book from the stack I kept at our station. The Nurses called it my library and they consulted it a time or two themselves. It was ridiculous, to be honest. But it helped me feel like I was doing something; because when you have a preemie, there is really very little you can do for your baby. And, it helped me feel like I was in control of a situation that I could not control.
But, why could I not just accept what the specialists told me? Why couldn't I just accept that Caiden would come home on iron and sodium supplements? I had to know the acceptable levels, and why his were low and what would happen if they got any lower. Why did I always have to have an opinion? On a couple of occasions, when our Nurse was otherwise occupied, I would give report to the Doctor on rounds. They trusted me because they understood nobody knew more about my baby than me. The Doctor could gauge what kind of day Caiden was having by whether his mother had tears or no tears. The Neonatologist that we dealt with was the first one to bring my momoholism to my attention. Caiden was five years old and in the latter part of Junior Kindergarten, and while at our annual follow-up meeting, I made mention of the fact that he was having a very difficult time separating from me and going to school happily.
"When you are ready to let him go, he will be able to let you go," the Doctor told me. I stared at him in disbelief, not understanding what he was saying. I understand now. I don't know if I can do it, but I understand.
Although funny and embarrassing at times, these glimpses into my life provide some important insight into the momoholic. I work at something until I get it right and become comfortable with it. I don't just "do" things, though; I become lost in them. And that, I think, is the problem. In those weeks that Caiden was in the NICU, I had no knowledge of what was happening in the "real" world. I did not need to be in the Unit all the hours I was, and the Nurses would encourage me to meet a friend for lunch or got to the mall, just to walk around. But, I couldn't. I would have a panic attack at the thought. Truly.
And then I brought him home from the hospital. Think about when you first brought your little bundle home from the hospital. Everything was new and you were finding your way - perfecting things, testing your skills, trying not to make a mistake. Everything is a challenge, sort of in the same way that starting any new job is. Except you do not get a ten-minute coffee break, there is no training manual and there is absolutely no chance of getting sent home early because it is a slow day. I would wait all day to have a shower, until Jonesy arrived home from work. Because then I was assured that someone was nearby should little Caiden move or cry or stretch or yawn - 'cause you never know what can happen in the ten minutes it takes to have a shower!
And then just about the time you get comfortable, the next baby comes along. In fact, that is probably why the next baby came along at my house. I felt comfortable and less challenged; I was ready for the next assignment. I love infants and ache for them ... I am fighting the ache now. And then it starts over ... finding your way, that is. Because now you have the needs of two, and then three, to satisfy, and a new set of circumstances to organize.
The important thing to remember is that I truly loved doing all the things I did for my children. And, I still do ... most of the time. Sometimes, I think women stay home with their children because they feel like they should. Maybe because of pressure from a parent, or friends. And so, the things they do for their children are done with a heavy heart at times. Because they wish they were somewhere else. I never felt like that. But, I do now sometimes.
So, perhaps I am on the road to recovery. I'm ready for a new challenge. Now, if I could just figure out what that new challenge might be ...
2 comments:
A wonderful read and great intospection, Jill. I still can't help thinking that your goal of "100 books" is more stress than you need, but then, good for you for trying. Dad and I can't wait for your next blog entry.
Jill, I think everyone has a touch of "momoholic-ism" ( is that the right word?) in them. As long as you're on the road to recovery which is inevitable anyway as your kids get older. Although, I still wake up every morning no matter what and make my kids sandwiches for lunch, get their bus money ready, drive them to the corner to catch the bus (terrible!) Jake will be 15 (YIKES) this saturday and I still worry like crazy about everything! When I'm on afts for a stretch of 4 days or so, the kids miss me (I asked) even though Dad is here for them , it's not quite the same. There's no substitute for MOM.