Confession: I'm a complainer

I have a confession to make:

I complain about my child.

There. I said it. It's out. I'll just wait here while you reread that, shake your head and call me a bad parent.

Done? OK, good.

When I decided to go back to school, I had to make a lot of tough decisions. I had to leave the comfort zone that I was pretty happy in, give up the home that I loved so much and hardest of all I had to swallow my pride and ask for some help by leaving F with my parents. If you can imagine tearing your heart out and leaving it behind over and over again over the course of six months, you know what I'm talking about.

When I finally - and I mean finally - got to bring him to Halifax to start daycare and live with me, it was a challenge. I had a routine, a schedule, a little life that involved a lot of missing him but not a lot of including him. I had to rethink my approach to my days, my weeks - to every minute of down time. I had to toddler-proof my life, and I was so happy to do it but so exasperated when it didn't go smoothly.

A certain celebrity was quoted as saying that he didn't understand why parents referred to things they've done as "sacrifices" because in his mind there's nothing more important than your child, and that's true... but you do still sacrifice other things to be a better parent. It doesn't mean that those other things were more important or less important than the role as parent, just that they had to be put on the backburner or forgotten altogether.

I had to sacrifice the better part of F's 3-year-old life in order to do what it would take to be a better parent, but then in the same breath I lamented how tired I was, how poorly he was behaving and how tiresome he could be sometimes... but I wouldn't change a second of it.
I wouldn't trade a single meltdown, time-out, temper tantrum, spilled drink or fingerprint on my newly cleaned windows because I know how many people would do anything to have that.

So tonight, as I wandered down the hall in the dark I found myself thanking the universe that I hadn't tripped over anything but longing to step on the dinky cars I normally curse, or to feel a few cracker crumbs under my bare feet because it would mean that F was sleeping soundly a room away.

And I hope that next week after washing the living room window 32 times, pleading with him to put his pants back on, tripping over stuffed animals and finding boogers in my hair that I remember just how empty this apartment feels without him.

Decided

I am indecisive.

All of the proof to support that statement can be found at 7:00am in my closet, as I stand in my underwear ripping clothes off hangers and walking back and forth between my wardrobe and the mirror. Occassionally, I pick out my clothes the night before - laid out neatly on a chair. Even more rare than that kind of organization is that I feel like wearing that particular outfit come morning. Some mornings are a two or three outfits kind of event, while others are a closet-destroying fiasco. I'm just not very good at making decisions - whether pairing pants and shoes or narrowing down a meal for myself.

I guess that's why I'm so surprised at how easily I came to decide that I would come back to school. I knew it would be a hard year. I knew I would be tired, that I'd be sick of the travel and I knew - without a doubt - that I'd miss F more than I could comprehend.

So far, I'm three for three: I am exhausted, I hate traveling back to Cape Breton and the thought of waking up without F brings a tear to my eye. Being away from him has resulted in a dull pain in my chest that just never goes away. I both look forward to and dread weekends, knowing I'll enjoy my time with him but that leaving (or watching him leave) will break my Mommy heart again.

There have been many moments when I've found myself wondering what the Hell I'd been thinking when I signed up for this year, but as time goes on I'm finding myself feeling more and more at peace with my decision. Even though I'm missing moments I'll never get back, I know I'm setting up the stage for many great memories in our future.

I guess some decisions are easier to make than others.

Found

Lately, I’ve been thinking about making a cape for myself.

It would have one of those cheesy MOM in a heart tattoo images and the word Super Ashley written in fancy, schmany cursive. I would wear it with my brown,  4 ½” heeled Steve Madden ankle boots and a mini dress. Or maybe with my brand new, size 0 jeans and a backless top. Either way, I’d feel hawt.

When I found out I was pregnant, I foresaw running shoes and high-waisted tapered jeans. It was pretty bleak, in my opinion. It was exasperated by the extra thirty pounds that settled between my upper thighs and collar bone, squishy arms and roll-y tummy post-baby. I’d given up the idea of being more than wife and Mom, and while it was a hard pill for me to swallow, I did it and I made the most of it. I had a beautiful son, a wonderful family and my husband was going to provide for us. From an outsider’s perspective, I was living in my perfect little world.

Imagine my shock when my world shattered.

I worked my ass off, quite literally, and shed over forty pounds of emotional and physical weight. I bought high heels, dyed my hair, put on some mascara and hit the town. I decided to go back to school. After spending three years focusing on being a parent, almost five years spent focusing on my relationship it was time for me to have my time and so far it’s been the time of my life.

It hasn’t been easy, but then no one ever said it would be. They just promised it would be worth it, and even in the moments when I felt that I couldn’t take another step, pressing on led me to beautiful places. I’ve found love. I love myself. I’ve never felt that way before. How could I have ever expected to have a successful relationship when I didn’t even love myself?

I’ve found friendship. I’ve found my passion, my creativity and strengths I didn’t know I had.

It’s amazing what you find when you take the time to look.

Forgot

2013 will be my year.

This, my friends, was the decision I came to while wearing my FANTASTIC onesie pyjamas with F on New Years Eve. We went to bed at 10:30pm, snuggled like two little bugs in a rug, and I promised myself that I would make the best of this year for both of us. Did I mentioned we went to bed at 10:30? Yeah. We're wild like that.

Yep. We're that cool.

Last year, for the first time in my life, I really looked inside of myself and I asked how I was feeling. I couldn't answer that question. It was too hard. I didn't want to admit that I was honestly living my life that way - a ghost of who I really could be, muted and pale. I'm not muted and pale. I'm obnoxiously bright, and possibly even neon. Fluorescent neon. I'm going to do that this year. I'm going to be aware of how I feel. I'm going to let the real me shine through.

When I woke up on January 1, I had only five days to get ready to start my "new life". The life where I'm not just Ashley, the Mom. The one where I'm Ashley, the Mom, Student, Public Relations Professional, Writer and Friend. That Ashley. The one that was hiding in there all along. I went to class (sometimes...), went to work every day, came home and did it all again the next day. I packed lunches before bed, cleaned the house and walked the dog. I puttered along - set in my ways of not coming up for air. I made a serious effort to get to know someone, and a great new friendship has emerged.

And it was all fine and dandy until I slowed myself down last night.

I didn't really have a resolution for this year, but if I accidentally made one and didn't proclaim it... well, I broke it already.

I forgot to check in on my own feelings, and January isn't even over yet. I forgot to ask myself if I needed a break or if I was tired. I've been as hard on myself as ever before, and (as per usual) it caught up with me at lightning-speed. It resulted in me sitting in my car in the parking lot sobbing. Otherwise known as the Ashley Meltdown. Oops.

February 2, 2013 will mark the one year date for my separation. We can file for divorce after that. It's a little scary to me, and a little liberating at the same time. I need to put it all behind me, once and for all and I need to be okay with not necessarily feeling like I'm okay every minute of the day.

FaceTimed

My three year old has his very own iPod Touch.

Yep. F's actually shockingly tech savvy, bless his little heart. It was a two-pronged decision, buying the iPod. He calls it his phone and it's a lot like Mommy's, only without the option to call random people and waste my daytime minutes or run up my long distance. The children's apps make everything from grocery shopping to waiting at the doctor's office a little smoother, but I consider my phone an extension of myself and sharing just couldn't be done any longer.

I also imagined hour-long FaceTime conversations with F, like the ones he used to share with J a year ago. I can see him carrying my phone around the house, showing his Dad his toys, the dog, and blabbing away in his own little language. It was going to be great, and the money well spent.

That was a bust.

For the fifth time tonight, F had more interest in using the potty (another battle of ours) than he did in speaking to me.

"I don't want to talk to Mommy," he started, turning his back to the iPod as my Mom held it for him. "I don't want to. Go away, Mommy. I don't want to talk to you!"

Enter broken heartedness here.

Screenshot from a successful call last week.

Both of my parents rushed to create excuses and try to gloss it over. He'd been away from his toys all day, he was hungry. Maybe it was time for a bath and bed but none of it helped my hurting heart. Is he mad at me for being away? Is that even a reasonable thought? Probably not.

I thought about going home this weekend and while I'd really like to, 12 hours of driving for a day and a half with F is a lot. Saying goodbye for another week is just too much. Maybe I'll catch him at a better time tomorrow when I call his "phone".

Cycles

The last time I was home for a weekend, F was onto me within minutes of getting out of bed on Sunday. He sat on the bed while I packed a handful of things in my suitcase and puttered around grabbing this and that. By the time we sat down for breakfast the meltdown was inevitable.

As I discussed school, new friends and all manner of randomness with my parents, F sat at the breakfast table making noises and generally being rude. I politely asked him to please eat his breakfast, and a slur of mean words came out of his mouth. He received his first, second and final warning before I turned his chair around and told him he could sit in the corner until he was ready to be have.

MELTDOWN

"No, Mommy, NO! NO! NO! NO! I don't want to sit in the corner!" he wailed, as he threw his head back and tears ran down his little cheeks. I could feel my heart breaking, and I was torn between the importance of teaching him to be polite and the need to hold him in my arms and make the most of the three hours we had to spend together before I left. I crouched next to his chair, wiped his tears and held his hands. "This isn't how I want us to spend our morning," I started, only to be cut off by the most loaded sentence that kid has ever spoken.

"I don't want you to leave me again, Mommy."

Heart. Broken.

I try not to get upset in front of F, whether it's anger or tears threatening to spill over my fascade of cool and collected. This time, though, I just couldn't. Sobbing, I tried to explain that I didn't want to leave him. Is it going to be this bad every time? Will it be a cycle of happy, sad, happy, sad for the next year?

This week, I'm spending a whole week with him: I came home on Monday, and he is coming back to Halifax with me on Wednesday - with Grammie in tow! We'll hang out at "Mommy's Halifax House" until Saturday (when I'll finally have real furniture for my dining room!), and then it will be another "see you later", another river of tears and a few hours of feeling sorry for myself.

I know I've made the right decision. I've never felt more home in all my life than I do when I sit amongst my classmates. For the first time since J and I began dating, I feel empowered and strong. And - Mommy guilt aside - I'm really loving having time to myself. I love going out for a walk whenever I want to, going to bed when I want, laying in the bathtub for hours and watching movies on the couch, but I miss F a lot.

Even the bad words, temper tantrums and occasional burst of rudeness.

Big Girl Bed

In under three hours, I'll be saying those little big words that break my heart and kissing F goodbye. Just the though of saying those words so soon after arriving home makes my heart ache and my nose tingle in the way only noses can tingle before you cry. I'll see him again in a few days - a week at most - but I'll miss him dearly until I see that big smile and bounds of energy running towards me for a hug.

I can still remember the first time I held F - he was twelve minutes old before he was laid in my arms. I held him for less than ten minutes before he was whisked away to the nursery for his first bath, J and both of our mothers in tow. It had been a long day, spent walking around the hospital and anxiously waiting to become parents and grandparents. My own wellbeing was in question, and so I spent over an hour hooked up to monitors waiting [im]patiently for my blood pressure to return to normal. I wasn't even allowed to stand up, much less walk to my room so I sat anxiously in the wheelchair as a nurse pushed me through the hallways to the Mother-Baby unit.

I can still see him wrapped in soft, white flannel looking absolutely perfect and knowing he was mine. I sat on my hospital bed, still hooked up to this monitor and that monitor, watching everyone else hold my baby. We took photos, I ate my first meal of the day, and we laughed and cried together while my heart burst with love and pride. Within a day or two of my return home, after J had gone back to work in the city, I gave up on F's bassinet: he hated it. We set up his crib, and he hated that too. Finally, after making several trips between my bed and his crib and bassinet, I stripped my bed of pillows and blankets and I laid him next to me. He was asleep within minutes, and our co-sleeping arrangement was born.

I was on the receiving end of a lot of flak over my decision to co-sleep. I had never realized the way my sleeping habits affected those of others (nor did I or do I care). F rarely has nightmares, and has never been afraid of the dark. When he turned two and we had our own home, I bought him a toddler bed and hoped he would sleep in his own room. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. While I enjoyed having the bed to myself, I always missed him and from time to time I slept in the toddler bed with him. Sharing my bed with him this weekend, after a week of sleeping my my new queen-sized bed alone, was wonderful. My own "big girl" bed will be extra lonely tonight.

The moment of "good-bye" is anxiety-ridden and downright frightening. My heart will break into a million pieces when I put my car in drive and knowing that doesn't make it any easier. But, it's not just leaving that scares me. It's coming home, too. Two weeks ago, F saw his father for the first time in months and referred to him first as "man" and then as "guy". He eventually settled on calling him Smokey, the nickname all of J's friends and family members refer to him by. My son didn't even know his father. What if I come home one day and he doesn't know me? I don't think I could possibly cope.

What if the hurtful words slung at me earlier this year are right: what if I'm a bad mom for going back to school? As much as I've missed F, I've also enjoyed time on my own. I've enjoyed meeting new people and - dare I say it - going out and having fun. For the first time in 4 years, I have been able to explore myself and grow as a person. In spite of missing F every minute of every day, I'm enjoying myself: I love my class, my apartment and my new friends. Even though I miss him, I'm the happiest I have been in years, and as much as I decided to go back to school for me, I'm back in school for him.

When all is said and done, I hope F realizes that I had to go to make his life better and I hope that one day, he will be half as proud of me as I am of him.

Beneath the Big Top

My life is a Circus.

The only things missing are the elephant, abundance of candy and of course, a tent. I haven’t quite decided if I’m the clown or a part of the freak-show. Probably the freak-show, ‘cause clowns are just creepy even if the name Bozo does apply to me from time to time.

I’d like to think myself to be fairly imaginative and I’ve been known to fabricate a story to pacify the parents and, OK, sometimes the public, but there is no way that I could possibly make up the shit-storm that has been my life for the past month (or year, if we’re being real here). This is the stuff of bad soap operas and made-for-TV film – bad plot, great shoes. I’m sitting on the cold, hardwood floor of my new apartment typing this because I have no furniture – a tidbit you would know if you follow me on Twitter (@finnsnbranches). If you don’t, shame on you. But, I digress… No furniture.

Sadly, it doesn’t end there: I am also without all 32 pieces of my Corelle Hearthstone dishes, 12 wine glasses, 16 drinking glasses, 16 piece Corningware set, towels, toiletries, personal items, antique dishes, Paderno pot sets, dressers, tables, dining room set and a whole slew of other things I’m too angry and too tired to type. Remember when I said I had a bad feeling about coming back to school? It turns out the bad feeling had nothing to do with school – it was just that [enter descriptive profanity here] apartment building. *Sigh*

My LIFE was in that unit. Without the contents of the apartment – the contents I went to get on Monday evening only to find them missing – I can’t even make myself a cup of tea, because I don’t actually have a cup to drink from. I couldn’t make my son the egg he wanted for breakfast because I don’t have a frying pan. (Interjection: my bony ass hurts from sitting on the hardwood floor.) Needless to say, the beginning of my first week in regular classes was not off to a good start. I spent Monday night with the police officer, and most of Tuesday yawning, trying to joke about it, meeting my instructor and classmates and then on the phone with everyone from the head of the rental company to lawyers, the police and residential tenancies reps.

 Ya just can’t make this stuff up, kids.

If you’ve never experienced a “robbery”, you’re very lucky and I pray you never do. It’s the stuff that we read about in the news, but doesn’t actually happen to people like us, right? WRONG. It does happen, and it leaves you with an empty feeling, and it’s not just your belongings that you are robbed of in that moment. No, it’s more than that. You are robbed of your sense of security and your ability to trust. That and your sanity (which can be restored through the consumption of a good wine and lots of dry humour). It’s hard to believe that these things can really happen – and while the rental company has tried to twist it into a “miscommunication”, the fact is that my apartment was entered into and the contents removed with no legal basis, no permission and without any logical reason. Oh, did I mention that they were kind enough to lock the door this time? You might remember my concern at having found the door left unlocked two weeks ago. Ironic, no? They were also kind enough to turn every bloody light on and then leave them on. Thanks for wasting power and driving up my energy bill, assholes. (End rant)

While it’s been an awful experience, filled with sadness and a lot of anger, I know I’m going to come through stronger on the other end. It’s pretty incredible, and no amount of compensation is going to replace my trust, sense of security or the personal items and antique bowls that belonged to my Great Aunt. Those things are gone forever. It’s like being cheated on, only with less sex and absolutely no furniture. For the first time in my life, I was a complete bitch to the customer service reps and while I feel bad for taking my anger out on the people who weren’t responsible, I’m not a bit sorry for standing up for myself. At the end of the day, I’m pretty sorry that I didn’t follow my gut and remove my things sooner.

But I’m totally not sorry about laying eyes on that officer. Eye candy almost makes it easier to take.