Tremendous Love

Bath time.

For me, not for A.

Now that I am a parent, I think I am starting to finally understand the truest meaning of “luxury.”

Example: pre-baby, I could care less about taking a bath. I don’t say that to mean that I enjoy being stinky and unclean because I definitely do NOT. However. Taking a bath was not a particularly favorite past time of mine. I preferred the shower: get in, get out, all done. No complication, minimal wait time…showers were perfect.

BUT.

Then I had A. And I became a stay-at-home-mom. And all of my day -save naptime!- revolved around his needs, wants, etc. Now, I am addicted to taking baths. Addicted, I tell you!!! There is NOTHING more invigorating to me than drawing a super hot bath, dropping a bath bomb from Lush into the tub, and reading whatever book tickles my fancy for an hour.

Without a baby.

By God, I love that hour.

Did I mention we don’t have a bathtub in our house???

A is teething. Already. It blows my mind, honestly. I hate to sound cliche but it seems like just yesterday that he was born, so small and fragile and delicate.

Because of occurrences like this, I become easily amazed at how quickly growing up happens. Before A was born (and before I was even married, for that matter), I was obviously aware that growing up was just something that “happened.” As an 18-year-old college freshman/barista, I honestly never took the time to sit back and wonder how my life happened to be happening.

I let myself grow up in one big blur and am only now retrospectively appreciating what growing up entails.

One of the side effects of parenthood is living in an extreme wash of sentiment and nostalgia. Not in the sense that you ever regret having your child, or wish you could again do all of the stupid things you did when you were younger…the sentiment and nostalgia just rear their ugly heads and push out memories & experiences that you had totally forgotten were beautiful & special & miraculous in their own ways.

I feel like I’m rambling. I say all of this because I am purely overwhelmed with being overwhelmed. Not only is my soul aching to remember every detail of the significant moments of my “growing up,” but I am aching to remember absolutely everything I can about my son’s “growing up.”

"…let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry…have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well-dressed. Let me be sincere - be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost."

When J & I first married, I became obsessed with the idea of making “traditions.” I have no idea if deliberately making up traditions makes them valid but nonetheless, that’s what I felt and did.

Traditions I Can Immediately Call To Mind:

On December 27th, my family always travels to San Francisco for the day, just to spend time together and also to spend any Christmas money we might have acquired. I definitely have made sure we always do this.

From the first night of December until Christmas Day, J & I watch a holiday movie every night regardless of what else we have planned. I definitely have made sure we always do this.

Every Sunday morning before church, we always always always get coffee together, either from Starbucks or Empresso. I definitely have made sure we always do this.

And so on.

Nothing serious, nothing life-changing…but then we had a baby.

And oh. My. GOD.

I became a crazed woman. Not only did I want to make new traditions involving A while also incorporating him into our already-existent ones, but I also wanted to document everything.

Everything.

I take pictures like it’s going out of style. I have four different journals that do various jobs of recording each and every day’s occurrences, big & small. I browse Pinterest to find ideas of new traditions I can implement in our family.

I’m a woman possessed.

For awhile, I was honestly pretty self-conscious about it. I felt like I was obsessing over things that, in the long run, aren’t important. After all, we’re not expected as a society to take pleasure in the day-to-day routine of our lives, traditions included. Every day is just…a day.

But in the last few weeks, I have become more and more comfortable with the idea of celebrating each day like it’s a holiday, and then documenting what made that day special. I want to remember every last thing that happens while A is still so young and sweet. I want to make memories with him that he can recall when he gets older, and then look forward to participating in when the time is appropriate.

I want to make a tradition of reading a story to him every night before bed, and taking pictures of it while it’s happening.

I want to make it a tradition to walk down Meadow Lane to look at the lights during the holiday season, and videotape us doing it.

I want to make it a tradition to not just celebrate his birthday but his birth week, and then write about every one in my journal.

Time and space are so extra special now that A’s around.

I don’t want to miss a single moment.

I have a babysitter for A who is available -and willing to- watch him the whole day. I have a list of tasks that need to be accomplished on my to do list. I have no schoolwork to do, job to go to, or other such distractions/obligations. I have a giant cup of iced coffee next to me and a fully charged laptop.

However.

I cannot, for the life of me, find the motivation to get any of it done.

I used to be extremely driven. Like, we are talking overboard. I did more than I absolutely needed to do. I finished things quickly and efficiently. I overachieved, for sure.

But then I got married. I got so comfortable in my marriage that I let a lot of things go including, but not limited to, my weight, my temper, and my motivation.

But then I had a baby. And my lack of motivation got even worse, if that’s possible! Don’t get me wrong: when it comes to getting things done in relation to little A, I am on top of it. Seriously ON TOP OF IT. Too much, in fact. He will never, ever feel the direct brunt of my lack of motivation.

However.

I feel like I have fallen off the wagon in so many ways, and I am just clueless about how to get back on. I fear that the longer I go without just forcing myself to follow through immediately with the little things in my life that just need to get done, the farther from the wagon I will end up being.

I suppose I just need to buck up and do it. Whatever “it” is, I suppose…

This motherhood thing is hard. Well…I should rephrase. Challenging. Is that better?

Don’t get me wrong. I adore this new job I have found myself cautiously dipping my toes into; it is simultaneously the most rewarding and most infuriating thing I have ever done -or will ever do- in my life.

Be forewarned, though: if you have the same kind of type A, control-freak tendencies that I lean towards, it will be a task in itself to find that proverbial balance.

Balance. What a beautiful, terrifying word.

Really, though. It is such an intense challenge to strike that balance of motherhood and “everything else.” My personality is such that I want to go full throttle into one or the other…sometimes it’s Super Mom, other times it’s “Leave me alone. I want to just read my book!”…Lady.

My son is only fourteen weeks old, though. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. 

Should I???

I suppose that I am just learning, slowly but surely every single day, what works for my small but beloved family unit. And what doesn’t.

So, as I sit here, typing this first entry while also shaking a lime green terry cloth monster rattle in my screaming son’s face, I take a deep breath and realize that I am doing what I can, with what I have, where I am.

That is enough. Balance will come, just as maturity, experience, and reason come.

Let’s hope it’s soon, though.