Back to School Stress

This week, parents throughout the country ushered their children back to school. Many parents were giddy while they packed lunches, bagged back to school supplies, and packed lunches. After a year, and a summer, filled with too much together time, these parents were relieved to watch their children step out of their houses and into school buildings. They are celebrating the friendships nurtured within the walls of school buildings, the student-teacher relationships being formed, and the academic progress their children will make. These parents happily kiss their children goodbye each morning, and cheerfully greet them at the end of the day. The schoolyear is, for them, a reprieve from the grind of parenting, and a time for their children to grow and learn. For me, the schoolyear ushers in a grueling schedule, afterschool meltdowns, and a year filled with sickness and stress.

I am not, and never have been a morning person. There is nothing pleasurable about rising before the sun. Getting up early is, however, a necessity during the schoolyear. Most evenings, I sleep, at most, in 3-hour increments due to Lily’s diabetes. Once awake, it can take me anywhere from 15 minutes to 2 hours to go back to sleep. Even with an early bedtime, an early morning does not allow me enough time to get the necessary sleep to feel refreshed and revived. Getting up at 6:30 am, 5 days a week, for 9.5 months, is exhausting not only for me, but also for my children, resulting in meltdowns and sickness. 

Meltdowns are a regular part of the schoolyear for my children. Not only are they exhausted from rising early each day, but also from “keeping it together” throughout the day. The addition of homework does not help their stress level, or mine. Completing homework is difficult on a good day, impossible on a bad day. Tears have been shed, math sheets have been torn in rage, and reading logs have been turned in partially completed just to save what little sanity the schoolyear leaves us.

Many parents are unbothered by their children getting sick. Fevers, vomit, and snot are just consequences of having children. Sickness stresses me the fuck out, and schools are cesspools. We have had years where my children have been sick more than they have been healthy. I have visited the doctor every week or two for months on end, and I am not a parent who takes my children to the doctor for every cough or sneeze. My stress is compounded by having a child with diabetes. Even the simplest cold can mess with her sugar and cause more severe problems. Living in the time of COVID is only exacerbating my anxiety.

For the past two years I have homeschooled both my children. We have had the ability to wake up late, form a work schedule that works for us that does not include homework, and avoid much of the sickness acquired at school. Though we made an effort to socialize our children by involving them in extracurricular activities, my youngest wanted to attend school this year to have more social interaction on a daily basis. I was not giddy packing her lunch and checking her backpack this week. I was, however, exhausted and anxious throughout the week. She was excited and cheerful. I can only hope that we have a year filled with health, happiness, and academic and personal growth. One that I can call successful, rather than stressful.

  

Finding My Footing: Eleven Years in Baltimore, MD.

 In 1998, I was living in Portland, Oregon with relatively few friends, 13 hours from my brother, and 3000 miles from my parents. I was going to school full-time, working part-time, living in an apartment with a roommate I hardly knew, and holding out hope that my ex-boyfriend would come back to me and willingly continue our relationship. I spent many a night on the phone with my parents crying due to a broken heart, which was made worse by a lack of support and an ex who continually fanned the fires with sporadic phone calls and requests to meet up periodically. 

Therefore, I was excited when my parents declared their intention of driving across country to visit me that summer. However, that joy turned to panic and a bit of chaos after a particularly heated conversation with my ex, resulting in my impatience with heartache and loneliness. Three days before arriving in Portland, I informed my parents that I was done with it all for the time being, including Portland. In the course of a week we packed my apartment and headed east on an adventurous cross-country journey. 

When I left Portland, I had every intention of returning. Baltimore was meant to be a temporary solution to my problems. If someone had told me that I would meet my husband and live there for 11 years, I would have scoffed in disbelief.

Baltimore is both an interesting and colorful place. The city is divided into neighborhoods, each with their own personality. In Baltimore stereotypes come alive before your eyes. Though a big city, it feels much more like a small town. You can’t go to the grocery store without seeing someone you know, and everyone is either related by birth or marriage. Baltimore is an incredibly Catholic city with an extensive private school system. When people ask where you went to school, they are referring to your high school, not your college. Every summer the city empties and the population flocks to Ocean City on the Eastern Shore, together. People born in Baltimore rarely leave, and if they do, they often return to the city to live. People either don’t change or embrace change very slowly in Baltimore. Baltimore is steeped in tradition. Because my California upbringing was so different, it is not surprising that in the eleven years that I lived there, I never really found my footing.

Within months of moving to Baltimore, I met my husband. Raised in the Baltimore area, a product of the private school system, my husband was, in many respects, a typical Baltimorean. He was raised in a conservative Catholic family, was working at his high school, and had no desire to leave the Baltimore area. Though I was in college building my own group of friends, fitting into his world was, at times, like trying to fit into a foreign country. Not only was I not from Baltimore, but I was a liberal, Protestant Californian with the continuing desire to move back to the West coast. 

Upon graduating from college, I had every intention of moving back to Portland. However, my husband and I were in a seriously committed relationship and I had to make a choice between the West or him. I chose him.

After several interviews, I received a job teaching at a girls’ Catholic school in Baltimore City. It was here that the difference in values between my liberal Protestant upbringing and Baltimore Catholicism became glaringly clear. I was not part of the Baltimore community, but an outsider who was asking for change where change was unwanted. I barely made through the year. 

When I took a job at one of the few secular private schools that focused on experiential learning, I thought I had found my people. However, I soon learned that I was not a liberal as I thought. The interim principal and I interpreted and approached experiential learning, as well as education, differently. I believed you studied a subject first and then experienced it later to further enhance knowledge. She was of the opinion that sitting in a field of flowers was all the experience one needed to learn all there was to know about flowers. I believed in raised hands and listening ears. When she taught, her classroom was a free-for-all. She wanted me to eat, sleep, and breathe the job, like she had done for many years. Once again, I found myself asking for change where change was unwanted. I knew I was finished when, at the end of the year, she expressed her desire for me return, if I could explain to her, in writing, how I was going to better fit into the school community the next year. 

Professionally, Baltimore was a bust. I had a hard time finding teaching jobs because I was a newcomer to Baltimore. I had not been raised there. I had not attended the private schools in the area, and I was related only to my parents, who were also newcomers to the area. I had neither the right connections, nor the right relatives. I wasn’t Catholic and could not embrace Catholic doctrine. I asked for change, where change was unwanted.

Though my eleven years in Baltimore were not without challenges, they also were not entirely wasted. I fell in love with and married my husband. I met several of my best, lifelong friends. My first daughter was conceived through IVF and born in Baltimore. I encountered colorful individuals. I experienced and learned from my mishaps and mistakes. As a result of my time in Baltimore, I changed, I grew, and I learned to let go of expectations.

The Woman By The Well: Learning To Love And Be Loved

          I grew up in a fairly religious household. We attended church each Sunday, went on mission trips and church retreats, participated in youth group, and read the bible before bed each evening. Growing up, my favorite New Testament story was “The Woman by the Well”. In this story, Jesus is resting by the well of Jacob when a Samaritan woman approaches. Jesus asks this woman to retrieve him a drink of water. Surprised that both a man and a Jew is speaking to her, she questions Jesus’s motives. Jesus replies by saying, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again. But whoever, drinks the water I give him will never be thirsty again.” He then requests that she retrieve her husband. The woman answers honestly by saying that she has no husband. Jesus exclaims, “You are right in saying you have no husband. The fact is you have had five and the man you are living with now is not your husband.” Jesus then reveals himself as the messiah the woman knows is coming. At this point Jesus’s disciples return and the woman returns to the village, declaring the presence of the messiah, Jesus. 

            I would make my mother read this story to me over and over again. Not only did it capture my attention, but also my heart. At the time it fascinated me, though I was always unsure as to why. It wasn’t until last night, while lying awake at 1am, that it struck me. “The Woman by the Well” may seem to be just a story about accepting God as Lord and savior, but at its core is actually a love story. Not a love story in the traditional romantic sense, but a love story, regardless. Jesus takes it upon himself to not only acknowledge a Samaritan and a woman, but also engages her in meaningful conversation. He accepts the truth of her situation without judgement or disdain. In doing so, Jesus is saying, “Love and you shall be loved!” 

            As a child, it was easy to love, easier to accept love in return. However, as an adult it is often difficult to love others, and even harder to accept that I am loved despite my flaws. I was never a child free of fear. However, I did fear less. I remember how light and unburdened by responsibilities I once was. I remember my first love and the ease with which I was able to love and accept love in return. I remember the pure simplistic joy that love produced. Alas, time, age, and circumstances have resulted in a harder, more fearful, and burdened me. As a result, relationships, and the love that exists within those relationships, have become much more complex. Life has given me a version of myself that is both familiar and foreign, making accepting love challenging at the best of times and unthinkable at the worst of times. 

            I imagine that the Samaritan woman felt the same. Her life was, I am certain, not as she imagined. Five failed marriages must have taken a toll on her self-esteem. Life must have disappointed her. She may have even been disappointed in herself. Jesus offered her the uncomplicated, innocent, faith-filled love that one experiences as a child. He asked her to cast off her burdens to once again discover her lighter, less fearful, and hardened version of herself. Despite her circumstances, Jesus was declaring that she was worthy not only of loving, but of being loved.

            Each day I struggle to accept this version of myself; one so completely different, not only from the wide-eyed child I used to be, but also from the adult I dreamed I would become. I don’t always feel worthy of love. Accepting and loving others for their flaws can also prove difficult at times. They say with age comes wisdom. Each day is a quest to learn, to grow, and to love and be loved. 

What I Need.

          I don’t get the opportunity to write much these days. My alone time is limited to regular 30-minute walks while Lily is at swimming, and the periodic “long” walks Jody and I take when we can steal and hour or so. It seems that even when the girls are busy on their IPads there is always something to do…cook dinner, clean up after the school day, throw in a load or two of laundry or change Lily’s pod or CGM sensor. I am so occupied taking care of the girls and the house that Jody and I barely have time to catch up and catch our breath. I barely have time to think.

            Ideas don’t seem to flow like they used to. Instead, I seem to have perpetual writer’s block. When ideas do come, it is usually at 3 in the morning when I am too tired to write them down, much less formulate whole pieces of writing around them. I try and motivate myself by looking up writing prompts, but most leave me uninspired. Writing about my favorite way to spend a lazy day seems obvious (Hallmark’s Countdown to Christmas top my list of things to do) and hardly worth a discussion.

            What I need are topics that inspire and challenge me. Topics that make me examine past and present events. Topics that lend themselves to vivid details. I need to feel as if I am invested in my writing; that I care about the topics, events, and people that pop up. I want to feel something when I write, preferably passion. I also want my audience to feel something when they read my writing whether it be joy or anger, laughter or sadness. I need my writing to make me feel like I have accomplished something.

            I have spent most of the last 12 years raising my children. As rewarding and challenging as it has been, I rarely see glimpses of my former self, that individual who was driven, adventurous, and thirsty for knowledge. Depression and anxiety, since the birth of my first child have taken a toll on my spirit, motivation, and clarity. I struggle less since going on medication, but most days I feel like a shell of my former self. Writing is, in many respects, a way to connect to that driven, adventurous, and thirsty individual I used to be. There are many things wrong with this picture, but the struggle is my reality. 

The solution, or more accurately, the challenge lies in my ability to find time for myself, to find ways to nurture my intellect and spirit, and to nurture my writing and myself in the same way I nurture my children.

Marriage is...

Back in October, while living in a small two-bedroom apartment, I laid next to my husband listening to him snore and feeling him twitch. I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “This is marriage?”

Marriage is the ability to despise and adore your spouse simultaneously.

Marriage is knowing when to fight and when to walk away.

Marriage is shedding tears and sharing laughter.

It is comfort.

It is exasperated sigh.

Marriage is tolerating both your spouse’s disgusting and annoying habits.

Marriage is running out of things to say.

It is a comfortable silence.

Marriage is enjoying each other’s company.

Marriage is for better or worse.

Marriage is, at times, a slow burning fire, at other times an icy cold blast.

Marriage is exhausting work.

It is late night trips to the store in order to appease your spouse’s cravings.

It is for rich or for poor, but mostly poor.

Marriage is a marathon not a sprint.

Marriage is vulnerability.

Marriage is knowing you’re not alone. It is companionship.

It is believing in yourself and in your spouse.

Marriage is family.

Marriage is trust.

It is loyalty.

Marriage requires strength and perseverance.

This is what marriage means to me What does it mean to you?

I Inadvertently Took a Hiatus from Writing

             I haven’t looked at my blog in a long while. I didn’t realize just how long of a while it had been until I popped onto my page this morning only to discover that my last real blog posting was from January of LAST YEAR? This hiatus from writing is a stark reminder, not only, of how time flies, but also of how little I have taken care of myself intellectually and emotionally over the past year. 

            Time seems to have gotten away from me. It isn’t that I haven’t thought of writing over the past year. It just seems that every time I sat down to do so, this, that, or the other came up and took priority. I spent the summer traveling, visiting with family, and catching up on some long overdue reading. I spent the fall shuttling girls to and from school; and I have spent the majority of the winter either taking care of a sick child or being sick myself. While the days may seem to drag, the year has obviously flown by. 

            Writing is, and always has been, an intellectual and emotional outlet, just as exercise has always been a physical outlet. Since beginning work in December, I have had little time to write, exercise, or do anything else for that matter. I spend my mornings rushing the girls out the door, my days working, my afternoons helping the girls with homework and my evenings cooking dinner and prepping for the next day. My weekends are spent cleaning the house and tackling the mountainous piles of laundry that have built up over the week. Every night, I fall into bed exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically. 

            If anything, this hiatus form writing has reminded me, not just, of how much I need it, but also of how much I love it. Reading the blog postings of others often makes me envious of their career choice. Yet, when it comes to writing, I often struggle. I struggle to pick topics, to find focus, to formulate coherent thoughts and words. However, relieving myself of persistent thoughts and emotions through writing, ultimately, makes the struggle worth it. It brings with it a sense of peace and well-being that has, I have come to realize, during this hiatus, been absent.

I'm Weary, Oh, So Weary

            Lately, I have been waking up at 5-5:30 in the morning, unable to go back to sleep but unable to get out of bed at 6:15 when my alarm rings. I lay there, tossing and turning, my mind racing, my body full of anxiety. I dread the morning routine. The stress of getting the girls dressed, fed, and out the door. And despite needing the time alone, I dread the long day without company. My human interaction limited to the school nurse and administrative assistant when I go to pick the girls up at the end of the day. I’m weary, oh, so weary.

            I’m tired of this place, with its sprawl and lack of community. I’m tired of seeing my parents once or twice a year, our interactions being limited to daily phone calls. I’m tired of the lack of local friends and a solid support system. I’m tired of constantly putting out fires and keeping my patience. I’m tired of the constant worry. I’m tired of the grind, the monotony, and the treadmill. I’m simply tired.

            I took a break this weekend. I sat on the couch watching Hallmark movies for most of the day on Sunday. I let my husband handle feeding the children, entertaining the children, and cleaning the disaster area that was my house. By the end of the day I felt refreshed, revived, and able to face Monday. I went into Monday feeling positive, energized, and productive. I had a good long conversation with my mom, I folded laundry, I sorted donations, I picked the girls up from school, engaged them in educational activities, watched as they played outside, made dinner, bathed Lily, prepared lunches, read stories, and fell into bed at 9 in the evening, feeling good about my day.

            This morning, however, after lying in bed for an hour, unable to doze off and unable to get up, I feel sluggish, sad, and anxious. Whether it is because my morning routine is being thrown off because my mom is unavailable to talk, or because I have no desire to take my morning walk in the cold, I am unsure, but I am feeling weary, oh, so weary.

            In his book The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck, Mark Manson argues that motivation comes from doing. Therefore, each day do something and the motivation to do more will follow. Yesterday, I took this advice and did something to begin my day, laundry, and low and behold the rest my day felt less like a chore and more like a choice. Today, I write this blog post in the hopes that the sluggishness, sadness, and anxiety will melt away as I continue on my day, choosing to do something rather than wallow in weariness.