Those of you who know her know that I am incredibly blessed with a mom who rocks. She really does. She was preggers at 18, had me at 19, and the rest is history. Because of her experiences—she pours herself into encouraging me and my sisters. She has always told me I have the ability to work hard enough to do whatever I wanted. She never put a stipulation on what occupation I chose—she wanted me happy more than she wanted for me to make millions or even a large number of thousands to buy her a ski boat. Although, I’m pretty sure she’d still like a ski boat. And if I can’t do that, she’d probably settle for a tennis court. She loves tennis almost as much as she loves Dad—what was I talking about?
I have ADD.
My mom also encouraged me to not have children young (I had already done what she’d said not to and gotten married at 19). Let me define “encouraged.” She threatened me. As in, “If you don’t finish college first and have a baby instead, I’ll kill you.” You don’t wanna make my mamma mad. Trust me. You see, my mamma knew something. She knew I was going to have a hard time. Because she had a hard time. She knew I’d look at that little boy straight in the eyes every time he woke me crying for a feeding, and she knew I’d fall in love to an extent I never fathomed. She knew I’d then be confused when at 11:30 in the morning, I’d want to run out the door and feel accomplished at a job or make some money and I’d feel sad so I’d want my first beer of the day. She knew that then I’d feel guilty for feeling like that and I’d beat myself up. She knew that then I’d look at that little boy again and cry because then I’d be happy again, and I’d never want to leave his side, and I’d want to kiss his little face, his soft hands, his perfect little feet—I’m gushing. And then I’d clean the house and get mad because Jed wasn’t helping me clean the stupid house and instead he was working and he got the fun job and got to keep his sexy body and run all the time while I got stretch marks and an extra 20 pounds I had to starve myself to lose. I didn’t really starve myself. But to me, eating healthy and dieting feels like starving. I like dessert. And bread. And wine. And dessert. And pizza. And dessert.
You with me still?
I am not trying to communicate that I was miserable. I am also not trying to communicate that I am not grateful for my son. Lastly, I am not blogging as an outlet for me to whine. Well, maybe sometimes, But that’s beside the point.
I am communicating that I was hormonal, happy, tearful, joyful, resentful, laughing, bitter, and content all rolled up in one ball. “Not possible,” you may say! Let’s have lunch.
So back to my rockin’ mom. All this time, she was saying that maybe I needed to consider that I might be struggling with some anxiety and some post-partum depression. Psh! Not me! I don’t do that. There is nothing wrong with me.
You see, my entire family knows that my life mantra is, “I do it myself!” You are stuck on the incomplete grammar part. Stop it. I was two when I adopted it as my own. My parents would attempt to sing along with a song I was singing, and I would explain to them my personal belief by desperately screaming, “I do it myself!” At the ripe old age of 26, I was still crying out, “I do it myself!” when my mom would suggest that I might need some help.
But I did eventually give in. When Braden was six months old, I had reached some sort of desperation. So I invited a friend over who was wise and who could speak into the subject. She’s a counselor, and she spent 5 minutes listening to me before she said. “You need some medicine, girl!”
And now--I'm going to get the entire pile of our belongings from behind our front door because I think Jed might want to walk in it to come home at some point. Poor thang. And sorry for the abrupt ending. I'll write more later.