I moved away from Kansas thinking it was what I needed to complete myself. And maybe it was, honestly. I'm not sure I would have ever been satisfied if I hadn't moved away. But what people don't tell you (or what you aren't willing to hear when you are determined to leave) is that the absence of your family, of your friends, leaves a new hole in your heart. I left trying to quench whatever thirst I seemed to have and I found out only later that leaving left me thirsty for what I left behind.
I have new people I love now--my husband and his family and new friends--but the ache for the ones I am so very far away from never goes away. Some days, I think it's gone. I'll wake up and think, today I don't feel so very lost being away from them. Today, I don't feel a soreness in my chest when I think about how I haven't been there for the births of the last four nieces and nephews. Today, I don't feel panicked about how I'm going to have a baby so far away from all of them. And then it hits me. It's always in an innocent way. Some coworker mentions that their weekend plans involve going over to their mom and dad's house to do something completely mundane like help them with yardwork. And something about this comment--this perfectly innocent and boring comment, rips me in half because I never do anything mundane with my family. I don't have the luxury of the mundane. And yes, it is a luxury.
My husband and I went home for 5 days this summer. I wanted to stay longer (or forever) but because of work committments neither of us could be out of the office for long. My trips home used to revitalize me. I would go home for a week or two and it would calm the homesickness for a long time. I also used to go home more frequently--four times a year sometimes--which helped. I rarely went more than four or five months without seeing my family. But this year I got pregnant and it seems all extra funds have gone to preparing for baby and this huge life change. This particular five day trip, did nothing more than break my heart. My mom and sisters and nieces had a baby shower for me since they had come to a realization much sooner than I had--that this trip was probably the only time they would see me while I was pregnant. And something about that just left a sickness inside of me that I haven't seemed to be able to get past since the visit. I cried the entire plane ride home. Now, three months later, I randomly cry when the thought hits me again and the frequency of the thought seems to increase as often as the circumfrence of my waist increases these days.
The realization that I will not be home for Christmas hit me about a month ago. I mean, I knew when my doctor told me our due date was December 21 that travel was pretty much out of the question for the holidays. I knew. But somehow the reality of this did not set in until recently. I've never missed a Christmas at home. Never not participated in the annual Christmas Eve dance party my family has or missed Christmas Eve mass with them or missed my dad reading the Christmas story. I've never even missed putting snacks out for Santa Claus on my parents' coffee table. I've never missed last minute shopping trips to Manhattan with my brother and sisters or skipped a Christmas morning with my nieces and nephew--eyes sparkling, cheeks pink with excitement--shrieking with delight at the gifts Santa brought them.
And of course I realize that this Christmas will be special for my new little family in ways I can't even fathom yet. It's very possible that we'll have our own little baby by this Christmas and I know how that will fill my heart with a joy and happiness that I won't be able to comprehend until I hold him or her for the first time. When I think about the abundance of love and blessings in my life, I am overwhelmed. Because the ache that I have inside of me is not from being left wanting for love. The ache I have inside of me is from having so much and wanting to be close to all of it, all the time.
It was so easy to leave Kansas four and a half years ago. It really was. I packed my life in two suitcases, bought a one-way ticket and hopped on a plane. But going back is much harder I think. Going back always is. There are things to think about now--spouses, new family. jobs, benefits, bills. It isn't just me anymore and my decisions can no longer be selfish. I can no longer pack my life into two suitcases and buy a one way ticket and that is a blessing for many reasons. But 'here' has never felt like home to me. I've always felt like a visitor, just waiting for the next place. I've stayed longer than I expected. What I find myself saying over and over again when I am hit particularly hard with a bout of missing my family is, I want to go home. Let me go home. Please. And I don't think that feeling will ever go away.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Dear Bun,
Ever since I found out I was pregnant with you, I’ve wanted to take a picture of a bun actually baking in an oven. So, when I talk to you in my head, I usually call you “Bun.” I also call you “it” a lot, but not because I don’t love you—-mostly because I don’t know what you are (boy or girl) and we aren’t going to find out until you make your appearance 2.5 months from now.
I can’t believe I’m 2/3 through this pregnancy. Seems like it was five seconds ago that I peed on a stick and found out (on tax day, mind you). I always expected it to happen the way it does in movies/t.v. I’d pee on a stick and then wait for 2 minutes to find out. I was preparing myself for those long, torturous minutes. But alas, I peed and about 10 seconds later, I had my answer. So I did it again to make sure, and again, had my answer. I remember standing behind the door for a few minutes, not sure if I knew how to tell Zach. I practiced in my head, “I’m pregnant,” but the words were so foreign, so strange, I didn’t know how to say it. So instead, I just walked out and started laughing—I think I said something like, “well, your sperm definitely works!” because your mom is classy like that.
I wonder often if I will be a good mother to you. I will try, bun, that’s a promise. But I wonder if I will be nurturing enough for you, strong enough for you, giving enough for you. I can be emotionally withholding at times and I worry about that as a mother. I wonder if having you will instantly make me grow up and I’ll stop watching Gossip Girl and TMZ and Keeping up with the Kardashians—-if I’ll stop leaving dishes in the sink or delaying scrubbing the bathtub until it becomes a health hazard. I wonder if I will be a person you admire (at least someday) or if I’ll be the one you blame the majority of your problems on.
I’m not even sure being pregnant with you has become a reality to me yet. I am nearing the finish line and it’s still difficult for me to say out loud, “I’m pregnant.” I guess that’s probably because I assume most people think I am still a teenager. I’ve watched my sisters get pregnant and have children but they were always older. They were the “big girls” and I was always a “little girl”. So accepting the reality that I am now an adult is difficult even though I’ve been doing adult-like things for about 5 years now. I still sometimes feel like when I put my work clothes on in the morning, I’m playing dress up.
I guess the scary thing about becoming a mother is that we don’t know what kind of mother we’ll be until it’s too late to really do anything about it. I think back to my babysitting experiences, for example. I hated babysitting and I was terrible at it. Really, really terrible. I’m sure I was never the babysitter kids requested and I was usually trying to make up excuses of why I wasn’t available to babysit. Everyone says it’s different with your own kids (and when you’re an adult)—I have my fingers crossed on that one and you should too.
I can tell you that I know I love you already. I also know you are going to annoy me sometimes once you’re here, but I promise I will love you all the time. I promise I will do my best to keep you safe. I won’t promise to keep you clothed all the time because I think it’s good for babies to run around in just diapers—-enjoy that freedom while you can—-but I will promise never to post naked pictures of you on facebook. I promise I will try to raise you in a way that will make you a normal, well-adjusted, functioning adult. You’ll thank me for that one someday if I can achieve it. If I push you, it’s because I was raised by my parents—-two people who so clearly saw the merit of criticizing their children and then hugging them tightly after.
I’ll try to make some days extra special for you. Your birthday, obviously. I believe in breakfast in bed, streamers, balloons, special dinner. Not many presents, but definitely plenty of ceremony. Christmas too. Duh. There will be so much Christmas you can barely stand it. hot chocolate each morning starting 12 days before Christmas. stockings. trips to see the terrifying Santa in the mall. baking. crafts. pajamas all day every day during Christmas break. And of course I’ll force you into Halloween costumes I think would be hilarious on a child (old man/woman baby, sumo wrestler, hot dog, etc.) I will don my annual witch costume which will grow increasingly more disturbing as your resistance to fear increases.
But more than the special days and all the fun those will be, I promise I’ll be there for you on all the normal days. Because even though the special days are important, the regular days are the most important. I think I understand that now and I hope it’s a realization I can have every day with you. So, I promise to push you too hard sometimes and make you do things you don’t want to do. I promise to irritate you. I promise to be honest with you, even if sometimes you don’t like what I say. I promise there will be terrible days—days that you and I just don’t agree on anything—days when we can hardly stand to speak to each other. I promise we will get through those days.
Most of all, I promise to love you with all my heart now and always.
Love, Mama
I can’t believe I’m 2/3 through this pregnancy. Seems like it was five seconds ago that I peed on a stick and found out (on tax day, mind you). I always expected it to happen the way it does in movies/t.v. I’d pee on a stick and then wait for 2 minutes to find out. I was preparing myself for those long, torturous minutes. But alas, I peed and about 10 seconds later, I had my answer. So I did it again to make sure, and again, had my answer. I remember standing behind the door for a few minutes, not sure if I knew how to tell Zach. I practiced in my head, “I’m pregnant,” but the words were so foreign, so strange, I didn’t know how to say it. So instead, I just walked out and started laughing—I think I said something like, “well, your sperm definitely works!” because your mom is classy like that.
I wonder often if I will be a good mother to you. I will try, bun, that’s a promise. But I wonder if I will be nurturing enough for you, strong enough for you, giving enough for you. I can be emotionally withholding at times and I worry about that as a mother. I wonder if having you will instantly make me grow up and I’ll stop watching Gossip Girl and TMZ and Keeping up with the Kardashians—-if I’ll stop leaving dishes in the sink or delaying scrubbing the bathtub until it becomes a health hazard. I wonder if I will be a person you admire (at least someday) or if I’ll be the one you blame the majority of your problems on.
I’m not even sure being pregnant with you has become a reality to me yet. I am nearing the finish line and it’s still difficult for me to say out loud, “I’m pregnant.” I guess that’s probably because I assume most people think I am still a teenager. I’ve watched my sisters get pregnant and have children but they were always older. They were the “big girls” and I was always a “little girl”. So accepting the reality that I am now an adult is difficult even though I’ve been doing adult-like things for about 5 years now. I still sometimes feel like when I put my work clothes on in the morning, I’m playing dress up.
I guess the scary thing about becoming a mother is that we don’t know what kind of mother we’ll be until it’s too late to really do anything about it. I think back to my babysitting experiences, for example. I hated babysitting and I was terrible at it. Really, really terrible. I’m sure I was never the babysitter kids requested and I was usually trying to make up excuses of why I wasn’t available to babysit. Everyone says it’s different with your own kids (and when you’re an adult)—I have my fingers crossed on that one and you should too.
I can tell you that I know I love you already. I also know you are going to annoy me sometimes once you’re here, but I promise I will love you all the time. I promise I will do my best to keep you safe. I won’t promise to keep you clothed all the time because I think it’s good for babies to run around in just diapers—-enjoy that freedom while you can—-but I will promise never to post naked pictures of you on facebook. I promise I will try to raise you in a way that will make you a normal, well-adjusted, functioning adult. You’ll thank me for that one someday if I can achieve it. If I push you, it’s because I was raised by my parents—-two people who so clearly saw the merit of criticizing their children and then hugging them tightly after.
I’ll try to make some days extra special for you. Your birthday, obviously. I believe in breakfast in bed, streamers, balloons, special dinner. Not many presents, but definitely plenty of ceremony. Christmas too. Duh. There will be so much Christmas you can barely stand it. hot chocolate each morning starting 12 days before Christmas. stockings. trips to see the terrifying Santa in the mall. baking. crafts. pajamas all day every day during Christmas break. And of course I’ll force you into Halloween costumes I think would be hilarious on a child (old man/woman baby, sumo wrestler, hot dog, etc.) I will don my annual witch costume which will grow increasingly more disturbing as your resistance to fear increases.
But more than the special days and all the fun those will be, I promise I’ll be there for you on all the normal days. Because even though the special days are important, the regular days are the most important. I think I understand that now and I hope it’s a realization I can have every day with you. So, I promise to push you too hard sometimes and make you do things you don’t want to do. I promise to irritate you. I promise to be honest with you, even if sometimes you don’t like what I say. I promise there will be terrible days—days that you and I just don’t agree on anything—days when we can hardly stand to speak to each other. I promise we will get through those days.
Most of all, I promise to love you with all my heart now and always.
Love, Mama
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