The beast

There's a beast in my house.  She is angry, mean, unsympathetic, and I think she smells a little bit like tacos, and we all know that's a smell that is only appetizing on food.  She follows me around everywhere I go, perched on my shoulder like a bird.  Only, she not a delicate dove.  This beast is more like an ostrich, invading every inch of my personal space with gangly legs wrapped around my chest, squeezing away my breath.  Her enormous body weighs down my slumping shoulders, and there is not a moment of the day when I'm not acutely aware of the heaviness. My beast of burden. She's only visible to my eyes and a load only I can bear.

Some days this corpulent monster overpowers me, and I open my mouth to scream for help.  However, when my lips part, feathers fill the cavity and I begin to suffocate a little.  I fight for air and a savior to destroy this leech, but I just know somehow that if I was really able to express the thoughts. . . the feelings this beast drills into my mind, I would be misunderstood and judged.  After all, no one can see her but me.  This is a demon I must face alone.

So, trapped in a cage of solitude, I wrestle the beast.  Some days I fight with passion and perseverance in the name of family and motherhood.  But mostly I feel devoid of passion and tired of battle.  This creature has been ignored, conversed with, pushed, screamed at, and probably fallen asleep on because exhaustion dictates my life.  I've even coddled it, afraid of who I might be without the ghastly harpy.  You see, it's been so long since I've seen just myself in the mirror that I've all but forgotten what I look like.  And who I am.  None of these tactics, however, have made the beast any smaller.  She's actually growing.

She's a jealous thing, to add to her list of deplorable qualities, and it affects my relationships.  I struggle to feel joy or compassion and often feel so hallow I can't connect with people like I once did effortlessly.  When my husband comes home from work and all I want is to smother him in love and good food, the beast tightens her grip and almost forces the curtness that comes spewing from my mouth.  Annie and Sam also fall victim to my uncontrollable moods.  Whether it is staring at them blankly or locking myself in my room so I can scream in a pillow while that horrid monster pecks at my skull, they watch with horrified and confused glances.  And for my sweet Sam, this is the only mother he's ever known.  That thought is painful to the point of nauseam. No matter how hard I try to smile at his bright eyes and pretend that I'm enjoying the task of care-giving, deep inside that tiny body is the baby sensor which warns him of my disconnect.  However, in fleeting moments he stares past me, and I think he may actually be able to see this invisible beast.  After all, she was born on the same day as he.

And her name is Postpartum Depression.

Cake hate

My mission was a lemon dessert for the Hatchett Family Easter Dinner.  My dessert of choice was cake.  I envisioned the round contour of the top and the sleek, straight sides plunging toward a etched glass pedestal.  The cake would be moist and light, scented with lemon zest and love.  The filling would be strawberry, tangy and sweet, complimenting the delicate ribbons of lemon cream cheese frosting piped so beautifully around the borders of the cake.  Pastel spotted eggs would line the border to complete the work of art.

At least, that's what I wanted to make.  Instead, I made this:

All was going well until I began to stack the cake and it crumbled in my hands.  I tried to piece it back together and thought my repair attempt was successful, but when I began to dirty ice the sides of the cake the segments of the middle layer began to separate.  It was like watching a plate tectonics horror film.  The more I frosted, the more cake chucks drifted apart while gooey strawberry lava oozed out from the depths of the confection.  In my anger, I picked it up and screamed, "I'm so mad I'm going the throw this on the floor!"  And I was, had Paul not rushed to my side and snatched the cake from my trembling hands.

Cake in the garbage

I think next time I'll stick to cupcakes. . .

Me covered in frosting

Questions

My little Andrea has always been a talkative girl.  She babbled constantly as a baby, prattled non-stop as a toddler, and now that she's preschool age she's a bundle of chatty energy.  She's never been able to do anything without narrating her actions.  If I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner, this is what I listen to:

"Mommy!  I have to go potty!  Wow, I had to go really bad.  I can wipe all by myself.  Flush, and wash, and be on your way.  Oh!  Soap.  Soapy bubbles.  Turn off the water.  Wasting water is a bad choice.  Dry dry hands.  No, Sammy!  You can't come in here.  Mom!  Sam is trying to crawl in the bathroom.  It's okay I can get him out.  Come here, Sam.  Do you want to play with me?  You can play with my doll if you want.  Just don't slobber on my bear.  Mom!  Sam is standing.  MOM! Sam is sitting now.  Now he's crawling.  Mom!  I'm going to watch a show.  A-N-N-I-E.  That spells Annie.  That's my name, Sam.  Your name is Samuel Paul Rowberry.  Bear's name is Bear Evert Rowberry.  Mom!  I'm going to watch Seasame Street.  Mom!  Look, it's Elmo.  Mommy!  He's coloring.  He's singing a song, Mom.  MOMMY!  He has a fish!  I like that fish.  What's that fish's name?  MOM!  WHAT'S THAT FISHES NAME?"

If ever quiet, which is rare, I definitely know she's getting into trouble.

My older sister once asked me if the constant chatter bothered me, and I honestly answered that it doesn't.  I enjoy her little voice and am entertained by some of the wild things that come out of that mouth.  However, she has recently entered into a new phase.  I call it "the WHY phase."  It's pretty  self-explanatory.

She can no longer watch a movie and narrate.  Now I must watch Frozen with her while being bombarded by questions like I'm a murder suspect.

"Mom, why did their boat disappear?  Why are they in a picture?  Where is her sister?  Why is her hair like that?  Why is she cold?  Why is she singing?  Why is she talking to those duckies?  Why are they opening the gates?  What's a con-er-ation?  Why is she jumping on those couches?  Why is she wearing gloves?  I LOVE THIS MOVIE!  Why are they fighting?  Why is there a snowman?  Why are they running?  Why is it snowing?  Why is she so cold?  Why did she freeze her heart?  Why is she scared?  Why does she need a kiss?  Why is he putting out the fire?  Why is Olaf lighting the fire? Why does he have a sword?  Why is she so sad?  Why does she think her sister is dead?  Why did she punch him off the boat?"

I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

Someone tell me this phase will be over soon.  I'm running out of patience and answers.

Crash

I remember the sneeze and then looking up at a red light.  My right foot jumped to the breaks as my arms gripped the steering wheel and braced for impact.  The thud of my blue car hitting a suburban unforgettably rang through my ears.  I don't recall the air bags deploying because my face was numb from their explosive power, but the smell, burnt and putrid, enveloped my senses.  I could feel wet beneath my nose and I reached up to touch what I expected to be blood and was surprised by what I found.  Snot.  From that distracting sneeze. I could hear my sons cries and my daughter began babbling in shock.  I whipped around to make sure she had kept her seat belt on. She had, thank heavens!  I began panting and panicking, shaking like a chihuahua.  If it weren't for that horrid smell, I might have not believed it was real.  I crashed.  I crashed the car with my babies in the back seat.

I remember crying.  I couldn't stop.  Through violent heaves and desperate sobs I kept repeating, "My babies!  My babies!"  Even though both we safe, unharmed, and quiet once I pulled them out of the car.  I was overwhelmed by guilt and shame, and the tears reflected the inner turmoil causing a great deal of nausea.  The other driver tried to comfort me and told me he wasn't mad or hurt.  But I was hurt and mad.  Hurt with dislocated ribs, bruises, and a busted lip, and mad at myself because, although I didn't crash on purpose, I was to blame.

The following days were difficult.  When my eyes would close the first thing I would see was the side of that tan suburban.  Then there was that thud.  I couldn't stop hearing that thud.  Andrea kept talking about it.  Hourly, I'd hear her telling bear about the sneeze, the crash, and my red teeth.  It pained me to hear, but I let her talk and process and cope.  Through all of her retellings I began to see immense bravery that surrounded my daughter like a protective armor.  She must have got that from her father.

I was not brave.  The thought of driving again sent me into a shaken and panicked state.  Even riding as a passenger was traumatic.  Every bump and flashing light turned me into a white-knuckled cling-on, gripping at the dash like it was my lifeline.  Sometimes I would cry, and Paul would softly reassure me.

Two days after the crash I knelt beside my daughter's bed and asked her to pray.  Unprompted, she began.  She thanked Heavenly Father for the things she loved: Grandma Gragraw, the supermarket, bear, vitamins.  Then she petitioned Him for help; not for herself, but for me.  She asked Him to help me remember Jesus and be calm.  As tears rolled down my cheeks she ended her pray with one final request: Help me take care of my mommy.  My daughter was not only brave, but wonderfully loving.  In that moment I knew I would be okay because I had faith in my Heavenly Father, and I had faith in Annie's faith.

When they are sleeping

Things I like to do when the children are sleeping:

-Use the bathroom ALONE.  No audience telling me how many squares I'm allowed to use or asking me questions I'd rather not answer.  ("Mommy?! Why are you bleeding?")

-Watch movies and shows that would otherwise scar my daughter. (Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Pirates of the Carribean, etc.) She's easily scared.

-Eat things I don't want to share.  I share food all day long.  If we have sandwiches for lunch, Andrea will eat hers an then come sit uncomfortably close to me and give my sandwich THE STAREDOWN.  Or if I peel an orange guess who eats most of it?  Not me.  If I get out an orange for me and an orange for her she will still beg for mine while her orange sits untouched on her plate. Look, kid.  You eat your food and I'll eat mine, kapeesh?

-Sew.  If I do this while the kids are asleep I avoid needles in the carpet because Andrea can't stand to leave them in the pin cushion.

-Shower, if I have the energy. Who knew showers could be so draining. He he he. See what I did there? Draining?  . . . . Moving on.

-Fold laundry.  Have you ever folded laundry with a little "helper" unfolding it faster than you can fold?  It's not fun.  I don't particularly enjoy folding laundry the first time, but the third time I have to fold the same shirt in one sitting it starts to mess with my head.  I can feel Psycho Mom emerging and hear illogical things spew from my mouth like "If you unfold that one more time I'm going to throw these clothes in the garbage!"  Don't ask me what I think will be accomplished by this idol threat, but to Phsycho Mom it makes perfect sense.

-Make phone calls.  I swear my children have a sixth sense that tells them my phone has turned on, and then all heck breaks loose.  Seriously, do ya'll have to start crying the moment I try to talk to the Netflix tech support people?!  Breathe, Kayla.  Breathe.

-Scoop other peoples dog poop out of my yard.  I wish I didn't have to do this, but I do and having to constantly remind the three year old to watch her step while I hold a bag of poop with the hand wrapped around the 8 month old doesn't exactly sound like a trip to IKEA, if ya catch what I'm throwing down.

Aside from a myriad of other chores that can be accomplished, the thing I desire more than anything in the world is to sleep when my children are sleeping.  Oh sleep.  Oh blessed, beloved sleep.  How I miss thee.

Rejuvenated

With my seven month old perched precariously on my hip, I did my morning rounds.  After a diaper change, it's a walk though the living room to pick up the dirty diaper and relocate the diaper bag.  On my way to the kitchen garbage I step on a small, plastic bear and mutter a made-up curse word.  I shift the baby and bend down to pick up the pokey offender while instructing my three year old to keep little bears out of the carpet.  I turn back toward the kitchen once more only to be distracted by a news story about a murder-suicide.  Sad.  The baby starts to paw and the poopy diaper which acts as a reminder of my mission.  I bounce him through the house until the cool tile floor greets and refreshes my step.  The diaper is discarded and my one free hand makes quick work of gathering breakfast dishes and piling them into the sink.  The three year old reminds me to give her vitamins and, after a one-handed struggle with a child-proof cap, the crunching of chalky tablets indicates the three year old is temporarily appeased.

I take to the stairs because above me laundry awaits.  It's Tuesday, which typically means I wash towels, but I sit the baby on the floor, handing him miscellaneous trinkets from near by, and start stripping the sheets off my bed.  After falling victim to a leaky diaper, the sheets cannot wait till my customary sheet-washing Thursday.  The seven month old sits sturdily and gums on a little penguin bucket until it is apparent by his cries he is bored and wishes to return to his regular perch on my hip.  I pick him up, gather my comforter in my free arm, and stuff it into the washing machine just outside my room.  Worried that it won't fit I contemplate a laundry mat, but the wiggly baby trying to flip himself upside down motivates me to give the blanket an extra shove.  I hear singing below.  Itsy Bitsy Spider.  Classic.  I hum along while I pin the fabric softener between my body the wall so I can remove the lid.  The tiny boy under my arm lurches for the bottle and scolds me for keeping it out of reach.  I laugh at his fit because his tiny puckered lip reminds me so much of his older sister.  We return downstairs and I spend a moment surveying the house, planing my next move in the game that is morning.

As I look out over my world I contemplate my life and feel blessed.  Not because it's perfect or glamorous or even particularly fun, but because it's beautiful, and because it's mine to captain.

Breathe

A new year usually brings new resolutions and new hope.  Hope for more money, less pounds, and increased personal growth.  Last year New Years was exciting.  Paul and I knew that the next few months would bring a new baby and a new house, so we welcomed 2013 with open arms.  Two nights ago Paul and I rang in the new year by toasting at midnight.  "To a year of no pregnancies," I said.

"And no new babies," he said.

"And no moves," I said.

"And no job changes," he said.

Our glasses clinked and we agreed that this year our resolution was to settle in and breathe.  In the four and a half years we've been married we've lived in three different places, worked in five different jobs, attended four different schools, received two degrees, had three pregnancies, and are raising two babies.  More than anything, we would like some time to rest.

How often does that actually happen though?

After downing our glasses of cheep sparkling grape juice, I began to feel sad.  No, not sad.  Dread.  I felt dread blow in like a bad storm and settle right over me, pelting my head with heavy drops of mockery and drudge.  You see, this new year as we celebrated the lack of events, I realized we were celebrating a year of monotony.  I thought back to Saturday when my baby scared me to death by violently throwing up for a few hours.  I recalled the excessive tears my daughter produces during a tantrum.  I thought of the poop-- soooo much poop-- that I smell and clean up everyday.  I felt a pit in my stomach when I remembered how alone I feel up here in Salt Lake City, and how I count down the minutes until Paul comes home so I can talk his ear off recounting the story I told Andrea before her nap and how many times Sam drooled on my toe (five, in case your wondering).  I thought about how hard I am on myself and how I hate being criticized but can't stop picking at my own faults.  Suddenly, 365 days of that sounded rather bleak, and I wanted nothing more than to stuff my head in the couch like an ostrich.

My sweet husband, who is also a superhero, could tell I was not feeling well.  He hugged me tight and asked me what was the matter.  "I'm just having a hard day," I whispered.

"I noticed," he replied.  He kept his arms around me and gently rubbed my back as I absorbed his scent.  Breathe, I thought.  This is a year to breathe.