This is a
SERIOUS MIA situation the Hattrick has been experiencing. The neglect-o-blog is at an all-time, never-seen-before level and it appeared for months that it would always stay in that status.
Then Miss Taitum entered this world eight days ago and there was no way I could hold in the awe I felt or the immediate love I had or the I'm-so-proud-of-my-little-sis feelings. I just had to share all of those emotions and first pictures to the blogging world.
That got me thinking, though, REALLY thinking, about what's going on. (Well that and the nagging persistence of a few in my life...) Writing has always been something I gravitate towards and now I have stopped. The drought has been raging for longer than I ever thought was possible.
The first obvious reason for me - and probably anyone else who's trying to juggle/balance their life - is time. This is the first year of teaching out of eleven that I feel like a little kid in the back of the family station wagon.
"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" Or perhaps it's more like Anthony ---
"Are we closer to (usually insert Grammie's house or home) than we were before?" (By before he really means in the last 15 seconds because this is a constant while traveling.)
"Are we there now? How about now? Are we closer n-o-w?" All of this builds up to the BIG WHINE ----
"We're NEVER going to get to (once again insert Grammie's house or home)....I don't like long car rides...." Thankfully we have an iPad and never ending possibilities in the apps store. This has saved our sanity more than once.
Back to the issue of time....
This is exactly how I am feeling with this current school year. It has nothing to do with the students (okay, maybe just a few) and the parents have been really great this year for the most part (emails received and sent are thankfully at a three-year low). It's just everything else. The school year started off very strange and that theme has continued throughout the last five months. Without going into any details (I wouldn't want to be douced? Or is it dooced? I'm certain it isn't douched, right?) it's just been a trying, tiring year with lots of extra expectations and the perception (MY perception) of little support or acknowledgement.
Enough said.
Like any working parent I'm trying to find ways to better balance work life with family life, with time with friends, with phone calls to extended family, with the errands that need to be done, with household chores, with squeezing in the needed sanity breaks.... Basically, when it comes to TIME after the day is through (to read, to write out my typical cards to others, to bake different breads/cookies/whatever, to blog or just do something for myself) I am POOPED.
So P-O-O-P-E-D out. (
"Hey Mom! I know how to spell poop! P --- O --- O --- P, POOP!" How is it that this memory has Manda standing up between the front seats of the car spelling poop to my parents right past the Oteneagen Road? This blast-from-the-past memory is seriously lacking a booster seat!)
The other reason for this serious MIA, neglect-o-blog situation, beyond the time issue, is, quite honestly, (Why is this so darn hard just to say? Why do I feel like such a complete
failure saying it yet again and again and again? How is this helping anyone to read these constant entries on the blog?) the roller coaster our life is on. It feels like every post I write, every conversation I have, every day of my life is filled with the same story. This story -
our life - feels like we've somehow been trapped on repeat and cannot get out or stop it. The same things just keep happening and happening and happening.... I feel like I am physically on a roller coaster that I cannot get off.
Hard, fast, uncontrollable sobs.
Glasses off. Head hung low.
There. I just said it. I hit the nail on the head.
I wish so badly that I could FIX this situation, somehow DO MORE and FINALLY make it better, not just for myself or for Mark and I, but rather for our beautiful son.
He is hurting. Continues to hurt. His hurt is stuck on repeat.
The highs and lows continue to exist even though the dips aren't as extreme and the duration isn't as long as the past. He is working through all of the pain of his past and all the acronyms that exist behind his name. This work, though, continues to be hard for all of us. The pain of the past continues to cause a tangible, heart aching pain for the three of us who exist in the present.
I stopped sharing all of this, though, "to the masses".
I don't want others to pity us or our lives. There is nothing to feel sorry about. We are a family that God has brought together. On the other hand, I don't want to push others away because I write in the extremes that we feel - the highs and the lows as well as the constant repeat over and over again.
"The definition of insanity is doing
the same thing over and over and over
expecting a different result."
Hopefully none of us are insane.... We may be on repeat,
but hopefully it's because we're working towards a goal
that's always been the same since the very beginning.
As always, though, for my life, sharing trumps trying to remain silent. Even if I continue to be on a roller coaster of emotions and "tough" stuff.
I've only gotten as far as I have because of the support from others and I know I will always need that support as I continue through life. So thank you to the ones who have either silently or quite vocally continue to support and love us.
It feels like my reasoning for neglect-o-blog should be done. This would be a good spot to wrap everything up and hit publish. Therefore I go upstairs to have breakfast with the boys. While eating and clipping coupons a thought begins, continues to linger and flat out won't go away.
It's something I know I need to say.
The hard, honest, raw part.
I always have this nagging worry that if people really knew the truth they would walk away or think of me differently. The highs are day brighteners that are easy to share; however, the lows are much more murky and dark.
It's those lows and my worry that's been holding me back. How does one speak honestly about the struggles? What they look like, how it feels and how crushing it is no matter how many times it happens. How does one continue to speak freely about your personal missteps as a mother and the mistakes you've made? Especially when you see so many others who you love and adore embrace motherhood in such a beautiful (and enviable at times) way.
Over these past few months there have been many bloggable, "high" moments.
On Halloween Anth was more excited to come home to see the "candy people" than to actually go trick or treating. We spent the night sitting on a blanket on our front porch handing out our treats. It's sounds mundane, but it was magical! We were laughing and talking and greeting others (the "candy people") and making them laugh until hours had past and our candy had run out. Anthony was full of smiles, dancing in the driveway and we had such a wonderful time just the two of us together. We finally made our way inside when Anth laughed so hard that he peed in his costume. I reluctantly shut the front door and turned off the lights because I didn't want that moment of giving to others and loving each other ever to end.
On a Wednesday this fall I picked up Anth from daycare. Renae just finished saying how great his day was when he completely fell apart, fell to the floor and starting kicking, crying, screaming. All of this was directed at me and I immediately had to go into therapy mom mode to try and guide him out of his rage. Finally we made it out of the house and into the van. I started to leave, but then decided to shift back to park. I turned and simply said, "Are you okay, Bubsa Boo?" That's when the rage immediately turned into honest tears of sadness and he responded with a no. I quickly went to his side to give him a huge hug and lots of kisses. For the first time EVER he was able to tell me what was wrong and why he was in a rage. A student at school had made fun of him and that made him sad. He didn't tell a teacher, but rather waited so he could tell me. He just wanted his mom. Then he sobbed as I held him.
In November Anth got sick and we spent our whole Thanksgiving break away from family and the delicious celebrations. Even though Mr. Puke and his buddy Mr. Squirts weren't giving up their hold something let loose in Anth. For the first time ever he called me not mom or momma, but rather
mommy. That single word was magical and will
never be taken for granted. Every time it comes out of his mouth it makes me smile and fills me with happiness.
A few weeks ago while driving home from weekly therapy he said something out of the blue that will always stick with me. "Mommy? We don't just love. We love to the moon and back, to infinity and beyond, right?" Absolutely, Bubsa Boo. That's exactly how we love.
Those stories are easy to share. Those are the stories I WANT to share.
It's the murky, dark lows that are so much more difficult.
How would others react if they knew a hole had been punched in a wall at our house?
Or a door was dented while another door was falling off it's hinges.
Or words have not been spoken, but screamed and yelled.
Or if holds too often need to be done to try to contain the blows.
Just this past week after therapy Anthony blew. I pulled over the van during his screaming/kicking fit and just sat there waiting for him to calm down. He, however, was in "chicken brain" and couldn't
calm down.
So there we were.
Six thirty at night.
Sitting in the dark on 371.
Waiting.
I went into therapy mom mode and did well. Or at least for a bit. While he screamed I worked on helping him to calm down.
Deep breaths. You're okay. You're safe. You're loved. You're wanted. Deep breaths. All the while I'm trying to do the same for myself.
Deep breaths. You're okay. You're safe. You're loved. You're wanted. Deep breaths. I feel rattled and shaken and I just want so badly for this stage of recovery (hopefully that's what it is...) to be over. I want the pain to be eradicated so we can LIVE and be FREE from all this hurt. I just want my wonderful Bubsa Boo with us ALL THE TIME.
Then Anthony started talking about mommies.
I hate you. I hate mommies. I hate all mommies. I wish you would just go away. I never want to see you again. Can't you just leave and never come back? I just want to live with daddy. Daddy doesn't hurt me. You always hurt me. You always make everything worse. You never help me. You never do anything, but hurt me. I hate you. I tried, but I could not stop the tears or my own pain from surfacing. I couldn't block it out. Not after the week(s) we were already having. The mantra ---
Deep breaths. You're okay. You're safe. You're loved. You're wanted. Deep breaths --- left me.
"Fine.
Tonight you get your wish.
I love you Anthony.
I'm sorry I couldn't make everything better."
I opened the door. Slammed it as hard as I could, burst into tears and started walking away from the van. I had removed myself from situations before, but this time it was different.
I started walking.
I wanted to keep walking.
The darkness and fresh air and calmness of the cold night felt so good.
Who does that?! I cannot imagine any mom that I know as a friend or family member or co-worker ever, EVER doing something like that to their child.
I didn't keep walking. Instead I stopped, turned around and looked at how far I had gone. It was then that I called out to God and said quite simply, but desperately --- help.
Doesn't this sound like a great fictional story? In this movie that would be the climatic moment followed by the resolution in which the conflict is resolved and then the conclusion where all the loose ends are neatly tied up. How lovely. What a tear jerker. There's one problem, though. My life is not fictional and never seems to follow the basic plot line.
I got back to the van. Apologized. The rage grew even stronger, but then eventually it dwindled. I finally drove the hour home quietly listening to "I'm hungry....I don't like you...." back and forth as if it were stuck on repeat.
It's in those moments of missteps and mistakes that I wonder about myself. I wonder how much I am hurting him rather than helping. I wonder how much pain can be endured. I wonder if I will eventually lose complete sight of who Tonja really is inside and turn into a stranger who does strange things. I wonder if I (we) are actually the right people for this job. Is it even remotely possible that Mark and I will be able to hold Anthony's hand through this journey of hurt, pain, a constant hell and finally get to the other side still embracing each other?
That's my hope everyday.
My constant prayer.
We just need to keep weathering the storm and one day, hand in hand, we'll see the most beautiful sunshine and rainbow.
One day the darkness will be defeated.
Right?
I pray that the storm will rage as strong and however long it needs to right now so that Anthony can be completely healed and freed.
Please pray for our endurance through this journey.
