Entries Tagged 'worst.mummy.in.history.' ↓

I have this sense, a voice, even, that tells me that if I can just do this one thing that will mean that the next and the next will come easier. And all of the 127 other things that follow.

Truth be told, I’m trying to do two things right now: be a better mother and be a more profitable writer.

Wanting to be a better mom to Isobel should be a constant goal. But it hasn’t been. Much like any other aspect of my life, I’ve waxed and waned between fantasy motherhood and harsh reality. The yelling has returned periodically in response to her apparent ability to completely not hear what I’m saying, even when she’s looking directly at me. The challenging bedtimes. And, I admit it, the outside stresses and the internal concerns over her health, and the overall hassle of trying to keep her on this elimination diet for two weeks solid when other forces conspire to taint it…

I’ve slacked off. Put on Dora (and allowed it to repeat. At least once) more times than even I should be willing to share. I’ve shrank away, literally and figuratively from the whining whilst being climbed upon. I’ve snapped, “leave them alone!” when Isobel’s just trying to love on me by groping my boobs.

I don’t think she’s quite understood why I’ve been prone to speaking under my breath, “please, just stop touching me for five minutes,” but I know this – I don’t like to be touched and before a few months ago, she didn’t really care for cuddling. Now, suddenly, it’s like Mommy has no bubble. And, part of her new-found interest in touching me involves tickling and patting and stroking my face – if there’s one. thing. I. cannot. handle. it’s things being in or on my face.

{insert joke here}

So, I’ve sucked the big one, mommy-styles.

{insert another joke here}

The writing. Oh, geez the writing.

It’s been an amazing feeling to me when I’ve applied for a writing job and gotten it. Like, ‘wow. I don’t suck, maybe (or they have low standards, but it’s cool)’. It’s been even more rad when I’ve gotten an email response that was kind of a little…gushing – I totally took that for what it was: really low standards. But I was still humbled and awed and buoyed by it. Then, someone emailed me, asking me to work with them on a project. Then someone else. Then there’s that other one. Oh, and that deal, too.

The next thing I know, I’m tits-deep in projects related to writing and blogging and articles and the marketing thereof. Some if it pays (and kind of well, which is damn lovely), and some of is basically whoring myself out – so that when people are recruiting maybe my name or gravatar will stand out in their mind.

With the introduction of a few of these projects, it’s come to be known that I have a real name, and I’m a real person – not just the blogger known as Zoeyjane – with a kid with a real name – not just the tiny terror/nymph known as Isobel. Some of you know the real deal and some are still in the shadows of pseudonymity.

This will end soon.

It’s a lot of work, being three people (Mom, Me and Zoeyjane), and I’ll be completely upfront here, doods, I need help. I was a workaholic for a reason before – because it was that, or nothing. I have no concept of life/work balance. Especially when you add Isobel into the mix, I. Am. Really. Fucking. Sucking.

{there’s room for another joke here. Also, spam.}

The thing is: she’s in daycare two mornings a week, which gives me 2.5 hours to work each time. She’s with her dad for up to 10 hours, split between two days, every weekend. So, 9 hours, total, there. She goes to sleep around 8:30 and is generally kind of down for the count. That’s my non-Isobel hours that I could devote to work.

But there’s other stuff, too, right? Like cooking, cleaning, bathing, relaxing, oh and sleeping, myself. By the time her bedtime rolls around, I’m pretty drained for thoughts – able to lurk and be mindless on the Internet, but that’s a bit of a stretch, too, lately.

So work, then? Kind of hard to focus on.

I need help. I want you to give me your best suggestions for kicking my own ass into gear. How do I be a stay-at-home mom, who writes enough to pay the bills, without costing Isobel and myself a lifetime of therapy?

Because, if I can just get this one thing dealt with…

Seems that for most of life, I’ve either sat down, doing not much, or I’ve power stalked my way through walls.

The word walls could be representative of so many things: employers, men, waistline maintenance, house cleaning, errands, 2am mania-driven hair cuts.

When I’m walking, my stride is long and quick, thighs untouching and feet barely needing to graze ground. I’ve got a place to go and I’m on my way, and there’s no reason to smell flowers along the way since the goal end point has nothing to do with gardening.

Then there’s Isobel. Her recent renewed refusal to travel within the safe (more convenient) lap of the stroller means that should I tote her along, I must prepare myself for potential embolism as she stops to pick up sticks, poke at the mud with them, veer in the direction of the school yard and pet every dog along the way – even if it means chasing said canine with outstretched palm (because she’s learned that she must let the dog sniff her, but not that if he doesn’t want to sniff her, chasing won’t help).

Isobel – and this is one of the few ways we’re completely different and completely the same – is completely distractable and unable to keep on task. I only have so much focus and attention towards a task, because I am completely distractable and unable to keep on task. So I have learned to power through to see it to conclusion and she, to stop what she’s doing and forget about it, in search of a new pastime.

But I can’t power through while a two and a half year old lags behind. I can’t leave her be, to examine sticks and bugs and leaves, so that our money goes in the bank for our daycare cheque to go through so she can play with friends while I can sit at home or in a coffee shop, pretending to be a professional writer (this is not a commentary on any one of you that I consider a writer, it’s simply that I have a hard time conceding the thought of myself as a professional one, with my current monthly income of less than $700).

There’s laundry and dishes to be done, groceries to buy and cook, baths to take and the necessary slathering of baby lotion afterwards. And she wants to stop and look for rocks in planter boxes and sniff all of the 16 canisters of carnations at the corner store. I’m always panicking, barely accomplishing the bare minimum and she wants to touch leaves?

Obviously, there’s a lesson here. That I’m not living life to the fullest, embracing the wind or breathing in the fresh-cut grass. I get it. But how am I supposed to do that, when my blood pressure is rising? How do I relax enough into the moment, to not get swept away by it and ultimately become a failure as an adult?

I don’t think it makes me a bad mom, necessarily, but I’m aware of plenty of my peers who have no issue with walking for the sake of walking. I don’t have the chip in my brain – or if I do, it’s not yet been initialized.

So how on earth do I reboot?