Is it Enough? Part deux.

So the answer to the big question I have been asking myself, and have publicly discussed here as I work through it.

Is it enough?

If you read my previous post about this, you know what that question means.  A deep question that is hard to discuss, for the fear of coming across as selfish, or worse yet, as a bad mother.  But in spite of the risk, I ask it anyway.  Is it enough?  Is it OK to accept saying goodbye to my former self, and dedicating all of who I am to being “mom”.  Is it the “right thing to do” to put myself on the back burner for an indefinite amount of time, for the sake of my child (and soon to be children).  Is that necessary for me to really be a good mom?  Can I accept that as my life?

My answer.  No.  

You may read this, especially if you are a fellow mom, and be shocked that I could even consider this question.  How dare I think of me, especially during these early years when children are so impressionable and dependent on the time and love of their parents.  You may think I am a terrible, selfish person for even having this conversation outside of my own head.  You may think this is a no-brainier.  You made the choice to have children and OF COURSE they come first.  OF COURSE you should dedicate 100% of yourself to raising them and their needs.  OF COURSE this is what you should do.  Well, I used to agree with you.  But I don’t anymore.  Does this make me a bad mother?  I have struggled with this question, but now realize the answer is 100%, absolutely not.

I have learned a lot over the past 3 years, and I continue to learn and make mistakes and change direction.  I think this will continue to be a life long process.  One important thing I learned recently, that I wish I had learned sooner, is the importance of “self”.  Yes, it is absolutely a beautiful thing to be a mother.  A great gift that I cherish very much, and try very hard not to take for granted even on the most difficult of days.  Being a mom gives my life great meaning.  It is a beautiful thing to be so selfless and give up so much for our children’s happiness.  But it is also a beautiful thing to remember who you are and truly foster the spirit of that person.  It isn’t easy.  It is a balancing act that I have yet to master, but I am working on it.

There will always be sacrifices and choices made as a mom, that I obviously wouldn’t make as a single person.  I am a mom, a title and role I love love love!  And I want to be a great mom.  My dedication to that and love for my babies hasn’t changed.  In fact it is because of how deeply I love, and how much I want for my children, that I realize the importance of also investing in me and fostering growth within myself.  I am still learning a very important distinction between giving of myself to others versus giving up myself for others.  I have learned that there is nothing negative about wanting to be more.  Being a mom is a huge part of who I am, but it is not all of who I am and I shouldn’t feel guilty for that.

I’m sure that like myself, you have read or heard all about how we as parents are the most important role models to our children.  They look up to what we do more so than what we say.  And the same sex parent is often the most influential.  At 25 weeks pregnant, with a baby girl on the way, I take this very seriously.  I have already seen that my 2 year old son recognizes who we are by what we do.  He catches on to things, and comments on things that I had no idea he could understand.  He has already started modeling his own behaviors after us, and very much after his dad.  He definitely thinks he is a personal trainer, and surely by 6 or 7 years old he will be putting me through workouts.  And it’s not just my husbands “job” that he sees (And I call it a job in quotes because it is much more than that to him).  My son clearly recognizes strength, confidence and passion in his dad and that already reflects back in his own developing personality.  It’s not just about what my husband does for a living, it’s about the traits he displays while doing it.  And no matter who and no matter what Deacus grows up to be, it is those important pieces that I hope he respects and holds on to.

I want him, and my daughter to see those things in me too.  How would I ever teach them to be a great, if I don’t become that person myself?  How do I say to them that I want them to be great, but it’s OK, mommy is fine right here just being mediocre.  And don’t we all want our children to be great?  And by “great” I mean happy, successful, confident, loving, courageous, passionate, strong and all the rest of the amazing describing words that we all wish for our children.  I want him to witness those things in me.  I want him to see me as a loving, dedicated mother, but also a woman who knows who she is.  A woman who is confident, with a strong sense of self.  A woman who is passionate and happy with who she is.  A woman who is constantly changing, making herself better as she goes.  A woman who doesn’t give up.

Yes, it’s true that I will never exactly be my former pre-baby self.  But I don’t want to be.  Yes, it is hard to juggle life as a mom and not lose myself in the process.  My physical self will never be the same.  I will carry the scars and stretch marks (proudly) forever.  I will forever carry the joys and burdens that come with becoming a mom.  And these are the things that make up who I am, and make me a stronger, better person.  These are the parts of myself that I am most proud of.  The parts of myself that give me the greatest motivation to become something more than I am today.  I’ve realized that I matter.  I’ve realize that the better I feel about myself, the more I dedicate to my own happiness, the better I am able to be a great mom and wife.  The more I am able to give selflessly and without resentment, to those I love.  I deserve to be at my best for ME.  And my family deserves to have me at my best too.

So who am I?  Where do I go from here?  How do I rediscover my identity, juggle it all and find my true happiness?

Well, this seems like a good place to start.  Hi, I’m Shannon.  Nice to meet you.

 

Can’t we all just get along!?

I don’t often write about social, political or other issues.  That’s not what I’m here for.  I’m not here to fight a cause or push my world beliefs on others.  But I have been exposed to this topic of conversation through a few different avenues in my life lately and I thought I would address my thoughts on it.

Gym bullies.  Ok, so maybe “bully” is an over-used term.  But I’ll explain the people I’m talking about.  I’m talking about the ones who smirk and stare and laugh with their friends when a less than fit gym-goer is making their best attempt at running or they happen to be bending over.  I’m talking about the ones who feel the need to publicly or privately criticize others who are simply in their presence and trying to better themselves.  I’m talking about the extreme ones taking pictures of people at the gym in less than flattering positions (and even posting them!).  We’ve all seen these people at the gym, and to me it’s really sad.

Before I go on with my mild rant, I also want to say this disclaimer.  I believe there is a difference between the person I just described vs. a high performing achiever who’s physical perfection intimidates us solely because of our own insecurities and perception.  It’s easy sometimes to put our insecurities on the fit girl who runs on the treadmill for an hour with ease and the buff guy who has big muscles.  But every fit person at a gym isn’t there to launch a personal attack on those of us who may struggle in this area.

So let me be very clear.  Not all fitness buffs are jerks.  I am married to one, and he is the exact opposite of the person I just described.  He has a body 10 years in the making that was built from the ground up by shear determination, dedication and passion.  He is the guy that you might even judge when you walk by because he is focused and at the gym for a very clear purpose which goes much deeper than the physical that you see.  But he is also the guy who has met, coached, befriended and mentored many people who have had the guts to walk up to him at the gym, simply because they want to be something more than they are.  He isn’t the guy who laughs or smirks at others who dare step into those doors.  He isn’t the guy who turns someone away because he is too good to waste his time talking to those who may not excel in their fitness like he does.  He is humble and genuinely caring and I am proud that he is the type of man who willingly shares his talents with others.

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I think some people mistake intimidation for strength, when to me it really shows a great amount of weakness.  If you are truly proud of who you are, and are successful and happy, why wouldn’t you want to share that?  Why wouldn’t you want others to feel as great as you do?  Seriously people, can’t we all just get along?

I have been on both sides of this scenario, so I get it.  I was the girl who weighed more than an averaged sized man.  The girl who gained 93lbs during my first pregnancy and had to work my butt off (quite literally) to loose the weight.  For anyone who tells you baby weight just “falls off” after – they’re lying!  Unfortunately that is not every mothers reality!  I was the girl so embarrassed to even go sign up for a membership, because my body was in SUCH bad shape.  But I shouldn’t have felt that way.  What better place for me to be than right there!  There is nowhere else I should’ve felt more comfortable and more proud.  Proud for getting off the couch and taking those steps to not accept what my physical self had become.  And so I squeezed into my extra large track pants and borrowed my husbands t-shirts.  I couldn’t have felt worse about myself.  But I was determined to make a change – and so I did!  The process was not easy, and battling my insecurities publicly as my body learned to move again was mentally and physically challenging.

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It took me a full year to get my body back.  Once I got into the groove of mommy hood and really committed myself to my fitness, I did a 10 week program that my husband designed for me, and lost the final 45-ish extra lbs I was still carrying.  Yes – that is more weight that most women gain during pregnancy in TOTAL.  I was officially down to a weight I hadn’t seen since college, and was about 10lbs lighter than before I got pregnant.  I felt fit, I felt proud, I felt healthy.  I was happy.  A few months later I suddenly found myself on the other side.  A woman who had seen me drop off my son at Kids Club everyday for an hour for nearly 3 months, and sweat through my t-shirts every time, asked ME how I did it.  ME.  The overweight, out of shape, post-baby body ME who was nervous and insecure walking through those gym doors a few short months back.

We aren’t all in the same place.  Some of us are fighting a life-long battle with weight and nutrition.  Some of us are trying to lose the baby-weight.  Some have experienced a tragedy and are trying to get their lives back, including their physical selves.  Some are at their peaks, with 6% bodyfat, who can run a 45 minute 10k and squat 300lbs.  Whoever we are, wherever we are in our journey’s, be proud of yourself.  Maybe that’s a lot to ask, but really, who are any of us to judge another.  Especially in a place designed for people of all shapes and sizes to go and find their greatness!

So, if you are someone who isn’t where you want to be and wants to make a change, someone who’s jeans are too tight, or forget jeans all together!  Maybe you’ve been limited to yoga pants for months, or years even.  This post is for you!  Negative people will be everywhere you go, and they aren’t worth spending a second of your energy on (Easier said than done, I know!).  Be proud of where you are and that you’ve decided to be brave and admit you aren’t happy with yourself, and get that butt off the couch and to a gym.  Don’t let anyone or anything get in the way of you reaching your goals and being at your best.  Trust me, I know this isn’t easy, and it is definitely a constant battle.  As a 23 week pregnant woman who is ballooning again quite rapidly, I will soon be there right beside you, starting all over again after baby #2!  Let’s try to enjoy the ride.

My deepest, darkest secrets revealed – my most candid post to date

I’ll get right down to it.  My childhood wasn’t pretty.  Whatever the opposite of the “Leave it to Beaver” family is, that was my family.  I was the youngest child in a family of 3.  My mother, my brother(who was 9 years older) and I.  My earliest memories involve doors being kicked off their hinges, police being called and ear piercing screams that many have only heard in the movies.  I lived a life of instability and constant fear of what the next day might bring.

I’ll start with my dad, since his story is short.  He left when I was 2.  Having a 2 year old of my own now, it makes it even harder to reconcile how a father could possible leave their child willingly.  I’ll never understand how he could live with himself, knowing I was out there, and knowing at least to some degree, the impact his absence would have on me (no matter how hard I fight it) for the rest of my life.  I don’t know if I will ever find an answer to the questions I have for him (and for many years I convinced myself that I didn’t care).  I don’t remember him.  I don’t really know why he left.  I just remember all the vial things my mother said about him over and over throughout the rest of my childhood.

As for my mom, she was a teenager when she had my brother.  A challenge I cannot even fathom.  I was almost twice her age when I had my first child and cannot imagine what she must have gone through having a baby as a teenager and raising him (and later me) as a single mom.  She didn’t handle it well.  You may think that is cold to say about my own mother, but it is the truth.  Her relationship with my brothers dad ended.  I cannot say exactly how or when.  Somewhere along the way she met my father, and I came around 9 years after my half-brother.  I have very few positive memories of my childhood.  I only know what my dad looks like from the odd picture I managed to find later on in my life.  I was never told wonderful stories of the way my parents fell in love, or  how they desperately wanted me and I lovingly came to be.  I don’t remember my Birthdays or going to the zoo with my dad or snuggling up together doing what parents and children do.  In fact the thought of snuggling or kissing a parent repulsed me until my own son was born.  I didn’t understand what it meant to have a healthy parent-child relationship, or what it felt like to have a hug that was meant out of love and not solely as an apology.  I don’t remember ever being told how special and smart and incredible I was, or being encouraged to dream big and never give up on anything (all things my son is told almost daily).  I was raised very much the opposite way.  I learned very quickly that if something was too hard, quit.  If someone upset you, yell and scream and fight.  I learned that love is unstable, erratic and unpredictable.  I learned that people are out to get each other and push each other down.  I learned that the world is a scary place and no one can be trusted.

My mother was physically and emotionally abusive.  She hit with whatever she could reach.  Kitchen utensils, belts, hands.  She reacted to life’s challenges in anger.  She didn’t know the difference between teaching a child with discipline vs. letting out her frustrations.  She was quick to react and never thought first before she spoke.  She was not equipped to handle her own emotions, not to mention those of two children, and add to that the financial burdens that she was primarily responsible for.  She screamed often, and told me many times who I was to her.  She called me evil and used words and said things I cannot even put down on paper.  Things I could not imagine saying ever, not to mention to a child.  I grew up believing her.  She was after all, my mother.

Her relationship with my brother was even more volatile.  I never fought back physically, he did.  Their verbal disagreements would often turn into physical ones.  I remember clumps of hair being pulled out, doors being kicked down, holes punched in walls, people laying on the floor.  It was not uncommon for there to be doors missing from places we lived in.  I remember being 10 years old and running to the neighbors screaming for help because I thought for sure they were going to kill each other.  I phoned the police for help many times.

We moved often.  The bills would pile up so my mom would decide it was time to ship out.  I sat down and counted once, and I lived in over 20 places before the age of 16.  I switched schools constantly.  Making friends and fitting in is hard enough for a young girl.  Now add to that my insecurities about my home life, my obvious financial situation and never knowing when I would be leaving again.  Kids will be kids, and some were very cruel.  But, they were young too, and definitely didn’t know what I was really going through at home or how their teasing cut me so deeply.  They just knew that I was the new girl, who had no dad.   The girl who couldn’t afford pizza lunch, who brought expired yogurt to eat (because it’s what we could afford), whose secondhand shoes were old and dirty.

There were good times too.  Though I often have a very hard time finding those memories through the fog of misery that I do so clearly recall.  Christmas was the one time of year that no matter what, everyone got along.  I have very happy memories of Christmas Eve around the fake fireplace my mom had made out of brown paper bags.  We put it up every year, wherever we lived.  Or the candlelight service we’d go to at church.  And of course Christmas morning where we would wake up to Pillsbury turnovers and stay in our pj’s all day.  There was a peace and happiness I felt at Christmas…at least our version of it.  I looked forward to it every year.

By 16 I had moved out on my own and never looked back.  I have spent my whole adult life working to reverse the damage done.  You may be surprised to know that I don’t have hatred for my mother for all she did(or didn’t do).  As an adult now and a mother myself, I can understand the challenges of motherhood that push you to your limits.  And I can see clearly that my mom did the best that she could with what she had.  She did try.  Sadly, her best was far from what I needed as an impressionable, vulnerable little girl who just so badly wanted to feel love and security.

My childhood shaped who I am and I cannot take it back.  Do I wish as an adult that I didn’t have to explain to people, who stare perplexed at me, why I don’t have a relationship with my parents.  Yes.  Do I wish my childhood prepared me for life’s challenges and helped me find confidence as a little girl, rather than building on my insecurities?  Yes.  Do I wish I had a mother I could call for help when my baby was crying, to have her come over and tell me it’s all going to be alright?  Yes.  But that is not my life.

Everyone has a story and THIS is mine.  I didn’t choose it, and I don’t wish it on anyone.  And I am also very aware that many people grow up in much worse situations, with worse outcomes than I had.  And so I can say that I am grateful for how my life turned out.  To those people who have come from similar situations or are in them right now, I wish for them hope and strength.  I know it is not easy.  But there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

I have a wonderful life now, and am completely blessed to have great friends and a loving family who stand beside me through my successes and struggles.  And don’t for a second look at me any differently because of where I came from.  And my son…my son who I would never EVER lay a hand on or call a bad name.  I don’t know if it just wasn’t in my DNA or if it was because of my desire to break the cycle, but those feelings of anger have not carried on through me.  My sweet little boy is the light of my life.  I am so grateful for him.  Though I will never feel it as the child, I feel now as a parent what this love should feel like.

So what was the purpose writing this?  My whole purpose of writing in the first place is to provide myself with clarity and share my experiences with others who may be able to relate.  (This is the best and cheapest form of therapy that I know!) 🙂  Acknowledging my past is a big step toward realizing who I am and getting closer to who I want to be.  To no longer being ashamed of the things I am not in control of.  To develop a clear picture of my strengths and weaknesses and become the type of role model I want to be for my children.  With every challenge I face, I still fight the little voice in my head that tells me “You can’t”.  The voice that says I will always be that poor, pathetic, insecure, unloved girl who won’t make anything of her life.  So as my journey as a woman, a wife and a mom continues, this is my challenge.  To put one foot in front of the other, and not just exist, but to be great!  To let go of my past, and no longer use it as an excuse in my future.  To be proud of who I am now and how far I have come, and work hard to become more.  And most importantly, to never let that negative voice in my head stop me from reaching my goals ever again.

Find Your Greatness

I came across this Nike ad that I found inspiring, and thought I’d share.  This boy in the video is only 12 years old.  Sometimes things in life seem impossible, whether it be physical or emotional challenges.  We all have them.  But we all have to start somewhere.  One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

Have a great day everyone!!

 

 

Who am I?

Through a series of events that have occurred in my life over the past months, I’ve been given the opportunity to address this question in myself.  Yes, I choose to use the word “opportunity” rather than the much more negative describing word that I felt more appropriate in weeks past.  I find it difficult to honestly answer this question.  If you have ever really sat down and considered who you truly are, you will understand just how challenging and terrifying it can be to discover the answer.  And if you are someone fortunate enough to be able to find this answer within yourself, the scariest question of all comes next: Do you like who you are?

Many of my posts are related to my role as a mom and all the good (and not so good) things that come with that.  But this post is a bit different.  This post is about me.  About discovering something in myself at a deeper level, and really addressing what it means to me.  Maybe this sounds like a whole lot of hoopla, but I have come to realize it is an important question to know the answer to.  For myself, first and foremost.  And also for my children, who will look at my life and learn from what I do and what I’ve done and who I truly am.  Often my posts have some sort of conclusion, some sort of ending that ties my thoughts together.  Usually with a positive spin since I feel that’s an important way to think and end a day, even the most challenging of days.  Today is different.  I don’t have all the answers, I don’t know how this story is going to end.  I’m not exactly sure how I really feel about me, but I know I want to find out.

Most of my life over the past 3 years has been dedicated to being a mom.  First preparing to become pregnant, eliminating the foods from the “unacceptable while pregnant” list, changing habits, no drinking etc. etc..  Next comes the 9 months of devoting mind and body to my growing baby and embracing (or some days just surviving) all the physical challenges that come with pregnancy.  Then the following 2 years I spent most of my waking hours with my little guy tending to his every need, all the while learning how to be a mom and the gravity of what that really means.  I sacrificed much of myself (willingly) along the way.  Giving up hobbies, friendships, sleep, time (of course!) and completely changing my priorities and focus.  That is what we’re supposed to do as mothers, isn’t it?  Isn’t that what we as parents expect to do for our children?  Isn’t that what makes me a good mom, and shows my love and commitment to this little person who’s life and happiness is very much dependent on these early years that we share?!  Not to mention the personal gratification that comes from being a mom (which I truly do love being), and the joy and fulfillment that is greater than anything I’ve ever experienced in life.

But is it enough? 

Those words pain me a bit to say.  I feel like it’s risky to put them on paper, and that maybe thinking and especially saying them, make me selfish person.  And dare I say, a bad mom.

As I was writing this, I asked a few of my good girlfriends a simple question about their hobbies and what they do for fun.  The answer was interesting and a bit sad to me.  These are driven women who I respect very much, who have much success in their lives.  Happy , loving women with great careers, wonderful families and everything anyone could want.  Right?  But yet, answering the question of what they like to do for fun (not child related!) was difficult, and perhaps eye opening for us all.  Are we all missing something that could make us even happier.  Have we sacrificed too much of ourselves and who we are?  Or is that just part of the deal, and the inevitable in the lives we live.  I don’t judge the lives and decisions and degrees of happiness of others.  Maybe being right where we are is exactly where we should be.  Maybe it is enough.  Or maybe it isn’t.  This is what I am hoping to find out.

So I continue to ask myself the question, who am I?  Not Shannon the mom, or Shannon the wife, just Shannon.  WHO AM I REALLY?  I don’t have an answer yet.  And as I honestly discover the answers, will I be happy with what I find?

Where has the time gone?

Somewhere between my life feeling out of control, being completely overwhelmed and on the brink of a nervous breakdown and today, my baby grew up. In the blink of an eye, he is almost 2.  How did this happen?   I watched him run down the hall today yelling “jogging” and laughing hysterically.  He doesn’t walk anywhere.  He jogs.  He’s a very chatty boy, and likes narrating everything he does.  He makes me laugh.

I  was remembering when not so long ago he took his first shaky steps and barely uttered the words momma and dadda.  And now my pudgy faced baby boy is all of a sudden a thriving toddler, with a growing vocabulary and a personality that makes me laugh and cry almost on a daily basis.  As he napped today I made the mistake of looking at his birthday photos from almost exactly a year ago.  How did this happen?  Wasn’t I JUST complaining about how hard being a mom to a newborn is and that I’d never have my freedom back or be anything other than a “mom” again.  I’d never find time for myself or have an identity.  How would I ever find joy in diapers and spit up and sleepless nights and ohhh the hours and hours of baby talk with no end in sight.  But then when I wasn’t looking, it all went away.  The sleepless nights ended.  The completely dependent breast fed baby became a self sufficient eater who uses a fork and spoon all on his own and asks for milk and water when he’s thirsty.  The crib with the polka dot sheet turned into a double bed with a Spiderman comforter.  The apprehensive child who clung to mommy on his first day of daycare (while we both cried) became a confident, playful boy with friends and people he loved other than me.  I never thought the day would come that I’d miss those early days. I thought I might not make it if I had to survive on 2 hours sleep ever again.  I secretly (with much guilt) resented this adorable little blob whose every need was to be met by me, 24-7.  Some days I just wanted MY life back.  I wanted to be alone.  I didn’t want to listen to that monitor night after night wondering if he was breathing.  I wanted to wake up when I wasn’t tired anymore, and preferably later than 6am on a weekend.  I wanted to leave the house on a whim without 3 large duffle bags of diapers and bottles and more.

I’ve been told motherhood is a thankless job.  And to a certain extent I agree.  No child I know says thanks for changing my diaper 6 times today and making me dinner, even though I threw most of it on the floor and told you “I no like it”.  But I’ve found, especially recently, that the thanks come in ways that go far beyond words.  I’ll Never forget these moments.  The morning I crawled into Deacus’ bed for a quick snuggle and fell asleep myself, only to be woken up by a kiss on the lips and a sweet voice saying “time to wake up”.  Or the first time he replied “love u” unprompted after I tucked him into bed.  Or the many times he said “mommy bugging Deacus” when I’d snuggle too much or purposely poke at him just to hear that sentence (that I pretend hurts my feelings but is really hilarious.)  Or time the he begged “mommy pick Deacus up”, and looked up at me lovingly.  Like I was the most important thing in the world to him.  The only one he wanted to hold him and be with him at that moment.  Such a pure, beautiful love and a bond so strong, that could never be broken.  That is better than any “thank you” that could possibly be said.

I have never known a relationship with an expiry date, like that of a parent and child.  It is inevitable that our relationship as I know it now, will end.  It wont be over, but forever changed.  My baby will no longer want me to crawl into his bed with him.  I will no longer be the one whose hugs and kisses he desires.  He wont always be sleeping under my roof, only a few feet away from me, snug in his bed.  I will no longer hear those tiny feet running down the hall while he laughs that pure, innocent laugh that only a child could.  I miss my baby, being a baby.  But I am also so grateful for the privileged of seeing him grow him and for all the times we have already shared.  The memories made, the bond formed between mother and son.  The milestones that bring me to my feet to clap and cheer, the proud moments that bring me to tears.  Seeing him learn and explore and become a little man with an incredible personality all of his own.  I can only hope the next 2 years slow down a little, and that I can find a way to live more in the moment and truly appreciate our time together.  Even when that moment involves a poop explosion or tempter tantrum that feels like it will never end.

But it will end.  And I will miss it when it is gone.