Oh, my dear dearies, met and unmet.
Yesterday was one of those appallingly, shockingly, disastrously awful days that starts off bad and ends with your eyelids turning into swollen purple slits.
“Your eyelids look white on top,” observed Hattie, as I gasped and wondered if I might puke on my children’s heads from crying so hard. I think she meant, “Your eyebrows look white compared to your eyelids,” but I cannot be sure. All I know is that she was looking at me with a most incredulous expression, one I wish I had captured on film, as soon she will be an easily unimpressed six-year-old, like her older sister.
All I am sure of is that it was one miserable day, and I did not realize I was susceptible to Actual Pacing and Hand-Wringing until I found myself doing just that, like a sad, deranged Victorian ghost.
Pacing and Hand-Wringing, and Clinging to the Washer, an appliance I find I count on for moral support when times get rough. I clung to it in my birthday suit when I was in labor with Hattie, and it didn’t let me down—not then, nor this time. It is always cool and smooth on my cheek (any cheek I wish to press against it) and it never judges. Plus it makes wonderful sloshing sounds louder than my sloshy waterpark howling.
Some days, like yesterday, I am fairly certain all I will be left with in time is my children, two dogs, and the washer.
Today my eyelids are still purple. Well, lilac. Lavender. I went with it and tried to pass off the shade as a glorious eyeshadow application.
I said to the girls yesterday, mid-howl, “I MUST BE REALLY SCARING YOU GUYS, I AM SORREEEEEEE.” Blub glub, etc.
Hattie began laughing, amazed, saying in a most impressed tone of voice, “I never HEARD a mommy cry like THAT.”
David kindly said, “Oh, yeah. Grownups definitely cry, sure. Sometimes we all just need to give our feelings a place to go.”
H. began laughing harder. “It’s just that I NEVER heard a mommy LIKE THAT. Not like THAT.”
Meanwhile, Sophie brought me her duck Webkinz and tucked it under my chin.
“I don’t mah-mah-mah-mean to sc-sc-scare you guys, I’m so sorreeeeeee,” I attempted again.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” said Sophie calmly. “You’re not scaring us.”
“You can s-s-say I am if I am,” I tried. “I’m just h-h-having an awful-l-l day.”
“You’re not scaring us,” Hattie reassured. “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay. Do you need to lie down and have a snuggle?”
“R-r-really? Be-be-because I’m sort of sc-scaring myself.” Hiccup.
So they snuggled me, my lovely warm girls. Sophie tucked me into bed (after some “grownup medicine” that would have taken down a rhino) and tucked the duck back under my chin, and Sophie, the duck and I fell asleep at 8pm.
There is little that makes sense these days. Being tucked in by your six-year-old is one of these things. I don’t intend to make it a habit, but it was nice.
We talked about why I was crying so hard, before we drifted off to sleep. Sophie wisely said, “Maybe this is an oper-tuna-tee.”
Again, it does not make sense, not exactly, when your six-year-old sees an “oper-tuna-tee” in your misery. But it’s a beautiful thing to observe, her observation.
I am of the camp that feels like hiding my tears is of no help to them or to me. For me, as a child, the scariest times were when I was sensing Bad Murky Stuff that no one, no one, was talking about. So I cry. I tell them I know it will all be okay, that I will find a way to make it okay, but that sometimes grownups get scared too and freak the heck out.
They nodded with great compassion. This makes sense to kids, I think. I think they find it oddly reassuring to occasionally be the ones tucking stuffed animals under chins and kissing boo-boos. I’m not talking constant caregiving and giving up their childhood to attend to their Sad, Deranged Victorian Ghost of a Mother. Just the occasional chance to be let in, to be trusted with the hard stuff, to be told that the sadness their little radar is picking up is accurate, and that their compassion is appreciated, and that they don’t have to make anything better. That their hugs and kisses are just what’s needed. There is beauty in learning your hugs and kisses can make a difference, for parents and kids.
Sophie and I talked about our top three fears as we went to sleep. Two of mine were teenage boys and swans. I didn’t tell her about the IV phobia, because she has yet to encounter that contraption, and I don’t want to mess up the kid for life on that count. I can’t tell you what her fears were (“off the record, Mommy”), but what she said reminded me again of that amazing Kid Paradox: the fact that they can all be so perfectly alike, and yet so perfectly unique and incredible. Parents always think their kid is tops. And every parent is exactly right.
The sense of no sense.
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“Just the occasional chance to be let in, to be trusted with the hard stuff, to be told that the sadness their little radar is picking up is accurate, and that their compassion is appreciated, and that they don’t have to make anything better. That their hugs and kisses are just what’s needed. There is beauty in learning your hugs and kisses can make a difference, for parents and kids.”
This was an amazing lesson for me as a mom to read today. As a child, and today, I always think I have to try and make it better. I want my son to know that his hugs and kisses make a difference and that they are just what’s needed. I had a day a few months back where I couln’t stop crying and told Robby (who was only 2) that sometimes Mamas just cry and everyone gets sad sometimes.
Thanks for sharing this and I am so in love with your writing!
I had a howling, hand-wringing day myself, about 7 years ago. It was a different sort of loss, and I remember being grateful that Pepper was still an infant, so as not to witness my agony.
Now that my kids are older, though, I realize there is nothing to hide when you are in that kind of pain. You hope your kids won’t feel such moments of sadness, but when they do? You’ll have taught them that it doesn’t last forever, and that is something they can only learn by being privy to your emotional life.
Letting you girls see you cry? They are better off for it. Kids can feel that there is something wrong, and if you try to hide it, I think it just causes them to be confused and wonder if they are the ones who have caused the tension. I think it’s important for kids to know that their parents are real people, with real emotions and feelings and (gasp) tears.
Hang in there Jenn. I wish I had words of comfort.
I think you are exactly right. I’m sorry about all the anguish right now.
I just wish I could make it better. xo
Very wise, indeed. You are right in every way. And I too remember the scariest moments of childhood as those when I KNEW something big and bad was happening but it was being hidden from me (and the event I’m thinking of happened when I was barely four).
Your girls will be better people for being allowed to help you when you need them to.
Bravo.
During the worst stages of my depression I cried behind doors and in the bathroom. Then I went out into the house and “hid” my unhappiness by screaming at the kids.
Better to do what you do, I think.
Godspeed.
-SH
My mother was of the hugely shrieking-crying sort, and I think it helped me immensely. I’m most disturbed when I think my kids are hanging onto the idea that I can make everything OK, or that everything will always be OK. It isn’t- people are suffering all over the world, and we all suffer to some extent at some time. It’s not that I want scarred and emotionally battered kids; I want emotionally aware and accepting kids who can both “feel it” and the roll with it. It’s what you do after the pain that informs your life. It’s a tough combo, and I’m not sure I or my mother ever got/get it right, but you can’t teach it by hiding it, that’s for sure.
I also know that the most scared I’ve ever been is the one time my mother gave me bad news in a quiet voice. She told me everything would be OK, and we both knew it was a lie. Scariest., most scarring conversation of my life.
Oh, sweet potato.
My own divorce was so excruciating, and it did not involve any children. My heart just hurts for you.
I think you are doing exactly the right thing, to let them in, let them comfort you in their sweet ways, and let them know you’re all sad and you’re all in it together.
March 20, 2009 will NOT feel like this. And a person can do almost anything for a year.
Tater and Tot said it so well. Own your feelings and reactions to them for what they are and let your kids know why Mommy is sad.
Oh Jenn. If you doubt everything else during this time, please know this is true: You are a wonderful mother.
I think they find it oddly reassuring to occasionally be the ones tucking stuffed animals under chins and kissing boo-boos. I’m not talking constant caregiving and giving up their childhood to attend to their Sad, Deranged Victorian Ghost of a Mother. Just the occasional chance to be let in, to be trusted with the hard stuff, to be told that the sadness their little radar is picking up is accurate, and that their compassion is appreciated, and that they don’t have to make anything better. That their hugs and kisses are just what’s needed. There is beauty in learning your hugs and kisses can make a difference, for parents and kids.
Yes yes and more yes. I had this exact conversation the other day and I am so glad I’m not alone in my views on this.
breathe. just breathe. and though the future is uncertain, it is your future.
Speaking of teenage boys, yesterday I was standing in the check out line at the grocery store and I noticed that I was surrounded. SURROUNDED. by teenage boys. Teenage boy cashiers and baggers as far as the eye could see. And they all had the same vacant, almost scared look on their faces and not a one was talking. I thought geez I’m just some old lady to them. They can’t even bring themselves to look at me. And then I thought of you. And your humorously told encounters with teenage boys and I chuckled to myself and decided that it was okay. They could ignore me all they wanted. I was armed with humor and that’s all I needed. And then something flipped. A switch. The cashier boy looked up and smiled at me and began talking about the toaster strudels I was buying and how much he loved them and could eat a whole box in one sitting. We chatted. And then the bag boy joined in. Well he looked up and smiled anyway, and it was nice. We connected, in a small way, over toaster strudels.
I know this has very little to do with your life right now. But you have affected me. In a good way. I thought you should know.
Be however it is you need to be. You are loved.
Just remember: This, too, shall pass.
Things will get better. Nothing can substitute for the passing of time though and (critical) sleep our body and minds need. Take care of yourself. Or, let others take care of you when that’s necessary! Your girls learned how to mother you (when you needed it last night), no doubt, from your good mothering of them… Lucky you have each other. I think your bond will be closer for going through this tough time together in a real way.
You know what? I wish to dear lord my parents had let me see their emotions. I grew up afraid of emotions because no one in my family was allowed to have any, except for my dad who could get angry.
You’re modeling healthy emotional expression to your girls, even though it may feel like you’re losing your mind. It doesn’t sound like you’re scaring them. It sounds like they are learning compassion and empathy. They’re amazing, beautiful little girls.
This, too, shall pass.
I’m sorry that you’re going through such a bad time, but it’s good that you’re dealing with your sadness and letting the girls be there for you. You’re a great mommy, and Sophie and Hattie Belle are both such nice, sweet, great little girls. I know you’ll all be stronger for having gone through such a rough patch.
On a much lighter note, it amused me that you withheld your fear of IVs from Sophie so that you wouldn’t impact any future experience she would have with them, but exposing her to your teenage boy phobia was AOK. (I kid, I kid…)
Hang in there, and cry as loudly and as often as you need to.
“Off the record!!!” I love it.
My mother called me, howling and hand wringing, just the other day. She’s about to turn 60, I’m about to turn 30. And it’s one of the first times in our lives that she let her pain show like that, revealed herself to me in that way and let me act as a friend and confidante. I’m 29, not 6, but still, it’s the same. And different. And the same.
Jenn: Thank you, as always, for your lovely and heartfelt posts. For sharing with us these difficult moments, as if we are your best friends. I know all of us who read regularly just want to throw our arms around you and give you an enormous hug, or sit quietly by your bed and hand you kleenex whenever you need it.
If love can come through a computer, please feel the love we all want to share with you right now.
I don’t think there is any shame in letting your children see you experiencing the good emnotions and the painful ones.
I wish you lighter days ahead.
I remember my mom telling me that sometimes grownups get depressed. At the time, it made no sense, but now, as a grown up, I feel better knowing that my mom has been where I am. I think you should be really proud of yourself and your family for talking about your horrible day like you all did.
What Dawn said. Oh, I feel so sorry. I wish the best for you all. xoFifi
Your girls are so lucky. Really. This glimpse of how your family handles such a hard horrible time is inspiring. I know you’ll get to a lighter place. Thinking of you with love and hope.
A week or so ago, I had a very weepy night and was snuggling in bed with my 6 year old son. He wasn’t initially aware that I was crying until I kissed him on the cheek and he shrieked, “DID YOU JUST LICK ME? I’M ALL WET!” I assured him that I didn’t lick him…that his cheek was wet from tears. He wrapped his arms around me and told me and said, “Oh mama, I don’t want you to suffer…” I assured him that my current state of sadness would pass.
I think it is important that children see the we too have emotions…sometimes we deal with them easily and sometimes we struggle. This is life. It’s not a pretty part of life but it is real.
I think letting one’s children see you cry is a profoundly moving experience for them. It lets them “in” as you say. I vividly recall the first and only time I ever saw my Dad cry. He owned a car repair shop and his best & most loyal employee was killed on a road call. I will never forget that moment , I was 11 years old. I held his hand and kissed his forehead.
I am so sorry for what you are going through.
i want to ditto dawn, whose comment gave me head to toe goosebumps and made tears spring to my eyes.
jenn, i’m sorry you’re having such a hard time and i hope the murk begins to clear just a little bit so you can see that the path ahead will take you to a stronger phase in your life. because it will, you know. it really will.
xomox
You know there is so much power in these words, and in the hearts of our children. Cherish all that they said and did.
I have never hid my mental health issues from the kids and it has been a blessing for us.
This is a great post and I agree that sometimes it’s good for kids to have the sense and the opportunity to be of help to others. They have a lot to give and I do think it helps them to feel like they can have a positive impact.
xo
yea, honey…me too….all of it, just ME FRICKEN TOO
“I am fairly certain all I will be left with in time is my children, two dogs, and the washer.”
You know? That just could be enough. Especially the girls and the dogs. But, the washer sounds nice too.
Hugs to you. And, yes, yes, yes, to just about everything else you wrote. Totally right on.
I wonder about this issue myself. I’m all about hiding my feelings but it comes out anyway, in little ways. I think that is the problem. However, I think it is better for her at this stage. She’s too little. When she gets older, maybe she’ll be ready like your girls are.
For now, I make a joke about bad emotions I show so that she will see that emotions are not scary things. Gosh, that could screw her up too though? Who knows?
You are human and real and wonderful. Your girls will benefit so much from that. I hope you will feel happier soon.
Those girls of yours are so good. Snuggling and falling asleep together at 8 sounds like the only way to end a day like that. Snuggle all you can.
I had a major meltdown the night of the 22nd. In front of my kids. And my face was contorted with pain, and tears, and oodles of snot.
I’m still trying to recover from the emotional hangover. It’s not pretty.
Chin up darling. We’ll make it. One way or another.
your girls are truly wonderful.
i saw them in the park today and when hannah introduced herself to my son i said, ” hey,i think i know your mommy.”
“jenny!!!” she squealed. then she turned to her dad and yelled, “hey dad! do you know this lady? she says she knows our mommy.”
they are even lovelier in person than in photos and such personalities!
you certainly are a lucky mommy.
i think it’s okay to lean on your kids for support sometimes, no matter how young they are. it’s a big part of what being a family is all about.
my son knows when i’m down and even his little toddler self feels the desire to snuggle me and make me feel better. it’s one of the best parts of love.
I dropped by your blog, by a friend who listed you in her top five favorite. This and Oedipus Rex bring back so many memories of my life a little over a year ago. It sounds like you are already finding your strength, fine but you will get through this. Luckily for me we found our way out together, but I remember the days like this so vividly. While I didn’t try to involve my kids in grown up business, they were a source of comfort and I think explaining the them in age appropriate ways is far healthier than letting them wonder. I wish you the best.