Spring Sprang Sprung

Since Bub started preschool in the fall, someone in our house is sick every other week. So it seems. First, patient zero goes down, usually Bub. Then, G goes down. Then, Steve succumbs. It’s only a matter of time before my body caves.

However, the last week of April, I was the only one in the family that got sick. And, whatever I got was a doozy. This virus felt like covid. I was feverish (102), congested, had intense brain fog, and lost my sense of taste and smell. My teeth even hurt. Except, it wasn’t covid (confirmed by a negative covid test) and it lasted for much longer than my covid experience a few years ago.

I was down for the count. Ten days of being out-of-commission. It was the longest I recall ever being sick and the sickest I’ve ever felt. Poor Steve had to take care of the kids as I lay motionless on the living room floor, trying to help but being absolutely no use to anyone.

I knew this was par for the course for introducing my first kid to school and school germs. But damn, no one prepared me for how hard it would be to take care of kids and simultaneously recover from an illness. And work. During a week that was already challenging with no nanny and no family support.

Somehow, I got through it with my marriage still intact, my kids alive, and still employed.

As soon as I started feeling more like myself, I was eager to get out of the house. I made plans for us to visit Little Ducky Flower Farm in Barrington, IL. A delightful organic farm where we could pick our own flowers and see some sheep. The weather was beautifully warm and it was wonderful to feel the sun on my skin. We capped our afternoon with dinner at Farmhouse on North, where Bub ate his weight in mac n’ cheese.

This outing was my reminder that life gets better.

I’m alive!

Finding the best blooms

Sitting in grass for the first time

He had to bring Iggy

Giving his sister a tiny tulip he picked for her

Fresh cut flowers bring me such joy

Togetherness

Long before I had kids, I pictured myself traveling with them and taking them out to eat all the time. I pictured us in a cafe for breakfast. One kid in a high chair, sitting quietly, while another kid sat in the booth also sitting quietly. We’d converse at a normal volume, eat our eggs and croissants like civilized people, laugh occasionally, and leave without a mess.

Now, I laugh at how unrealistic my vision was.

These days, taking the baby anywhere is a chore. Eating at restaurants results in food all over the booth and floor. Both kids are restless and eager to run around. They’re usually yelling. When the food arrives, Steve scarfs down his meal while I hold G and then we switch. We leave feeling fed but not relaxed in any way.

And yet, going out just the four of us has become one of my favorite things to do. Yes, it’s more work to get us all out of the house. Yes, I still struggle with some anxiety leaving the house. But, I tell myself the pros outweigh the cons. The more we practice getting out, the easier I find it. And, I am loving our adventures together. Whether it’s our regular routine of the library, the bookstore, and Trader Joe’s or exploring something new, I look forward to experiencing life. Together.

Photos by Mo ♥️

4 for 4

Bub is now a four-year old. I want to say he’s officially no longer a toddler, but I think that ship sailed when he started school this past fall and became a preschooler. When I think of four years, I think of how I measured my coming-of-age years. The difference between a freshman and a senior is vast. The variance between baby Bub and kid Bub is baffling.

Having a kid has changed my perspective of time. How much G is transforming in her first year is overwhelming. How much Bub has grown in the past year is mind-boggling. I don’t understand how, with kids, time moves slow and fast at the same time.

Bub has 365 days of being four. It feels like a long time when I put it in those terms. But, I know it’ll fly by. Four years ago, he was born. In another four years, he’ll be in second grade. Two years after that, he’ll be 10. And then he’s only a few years away from being a teenager. Most people would say, “Duh Linda, that’s how time works.” To which I’d say, “I don’t like it!”

The week before Bub’s birthday, I found myself hugging him more, staring at him longer. The weekend before, he got up from bed in the mornings without crying, helped make tea and coffee, and entertained G while I cooked. He waited quietly outside G’s room while I nursed her and patiently played with his toys by himself when he’d see me talking to Steve. Knowing that he’s turning four has lit a fire within him to be more independent. He insists on doing things on his own. I know he’s capable. It’s me who needs to get out of the way.

From year three to year four, Bub:

• Learned to put on his shirt and pants

• Learned to put on his socks, shoes, and coat when he leaves the house

• Has grown four inches

• No longer takes regular naps

• Can read and write his own name

• Can do simple math

• Can think creatively and strategically

• Became a big brother

He loves dance parties and chocolate and telling jokes. Gosh, he is just such a joy to be around. He’s fun and hilarious and thoughtful. He’s the best parts of us.

The day of his birthday, I found myself stressing over making a beautiful cake (that split and fell apart), getting a photo of us in our party hats (that we forgot to put on), taking a video of us singing ‘happy birthday’ to him (that we never captured). While I ran around the kitchen frantically, I had to remind myself that it’s not about me. Bub could care less about any of these things. Am I being present with him? Am I letting him eat the cake? That’s all he cares about.

One of the most significant observations I made this past year is that he is no longer a passive stakeholder in this family. He is a voting member of the board, who needs to be heard and whose opinions can sway the decisions we make.

You want milkshakes and chocolate cake on your birthday? You got it, Bub.

Newfound Self

There was life before kids and there was life after kids.

I never anticipated that my life after kids would require intense reprogramming, rewiring, and reparenting of myself. I emerged out of my post-pandemic, postpartum daze eager to do the inner work to become the best parent I could. A mix of different therapies, conversations with friends, and self-help books have gotten me to the more enlightened place I am today - someone who isn’t going to have a crushing panic attack when she leaves the house with her kids.

Looking back at the dark place I was in when I first became a mom, I told Steve that I probably should have been institutionalized. He didn’t disagree.

I’m doing the readings. I’m doing the homework. I’m doing everything I possibly can to be the parent I want to be, the person I want to be. I can finally feel myself going through the transformation. A second coming of myself, if you will.

It took having a kid to make me realize just how severe my insecurities and anxieties were. It took having a second kid to make me finally let go and move on to becoming the person I’m meant to be.

The three biggest revelations I’ve had so far are:

1. Being a perfectionist isn’t a bad thing. In fact, perfectionism is a superpower if I stay connected with myself and remember that “ideals are not meant to be achieved, only meant to inspire” (from a life-changing book: The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control).

2. Emotions aren’t good or bad. They are simply learnings. Learning about what I like and don’t like, what I want more of in my life, what my boundaries are. What I used to consider a “negative” emotion is really my mind and body trying to tell me something.

3. Every part of me belongs. The good, the bad, the ugly, the awkward. The parts of me still yet unhealed. The parts of me that are. Accepting all of me and believing that my worth isn’t conditional - it’s a profoundly liberating feeling.

Even though I see these revelations and I believe in them, I’m not yet at the point where I’m internalizing them. But, I’ll get there. Baby steps.

Maybe when my baby takes her first steps, these newfound beliefs will be a little more rooted in my subconscious. Maybe when she learns to run, I’ll no longer be riddled with fear. I’ll be able to run outside with her. Present. Carefree. Joyful.

Never Enough

As my maternity leave comes to an end (my very last maternity leave ever for the rest of my life because G is definitely my last baby), I am feeling 1,000% sentimental. I know spending time on something other than my children (like my career) is a good thing for me, but I’m really really going to miss this dedicated bonding time with them.

I know I’m coming from a place of privilege. In the US, most mothers are forced back to work within two weeks of giving birth. TWO WEEKS! I was still bleeding, cramping, and barely functioning two weeks after I delivered.

Last year, a friend of mine told me that she couldn’t get enough of her second child. I thought it was because her second child puts herself to sleep and is generally more laid back than her first. Now that I have a second child, I understand what she means.

I can’t get enough of G either.

It feels impossible for me to spend as much time with her as I want to. It’s simple math.

Bub got 100% of my time, being my firstborn. G gets 50% of my time, being my secondborn. 50% on a good day.

Bub is usually the loudest voice in the room and most of the time, we’re paying attention to him. It’s difficult to focus on G when Bub is yelling for me or yelling in G’s face or being loud because, well, he’s a three-year-old.

Now that I’m going back to work, I’m worried that my time with G will be even shorter. How am I possibly going to work full-time AND give each child the attention they deserve AND find time for my marriage, my friends, and myself? Oh yeah, and my dog! When do I get to sit and cuddle with Buddha on the couch while watching Bob’s Burgers and mindlessly stuffing my face with chips?

It feels impossible for me to cram everything into one 24-hour period. Because it IS impossible.

There aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything I want to do. Something will almost always have to give. Someone recommended to me once that I find my “one thing” every day that I do for myself. For me, that "one thing” changes depending on how I’m feeling that day. I know it should be working out. I should work out every day. It’s just hard to commit when I have two very small children. Any routine for myself feels like too much of a commitment these days.

Will I ever feel like I have enough time again? What is “enough” anyway? Is an hour of quality time with each kid “enough”? Is it less about the amount of time and more about how present I am with that time? Does it have to be equal between the two kids? On some days, does “enough” look like taking Bub to the library and giving G a bath?

I don’t know that it will ever be enough. I will always want more hours in the day and more time with my kids.