Bonnie and Clyde

Growing up, my mother use to scold me and my older sister for fighting.  She would say, "You two need to love each other!  I always wanted a sister, and if I had one we'd be best friends."  There was one thing Janell and I did agreed on.  We were pretty sure that was utter nonsense.  If she had a sister, they, too, would fight.  A lot.  Being friends with siblings was just not possible.  Then, years later, my little sister unexpectedly weaseled her way into my affections, and I suppose she proved my mother right.  Tessa and I are Bonnie and Clyde.  She's my other partner in crime.  She's my best friend.

This summer I had my second child and three weeks later moved to Salt Lake City.  These events brought about some lifestyle changes.  There are no more daily trips across a park to see my sister.  She doesn't pop over to play with Andrea and watch our favorite shows together.  We can't walk to the grocery store and drown sorrows over a 30 cent soda on hot afternoons while talking about celebrities and my bodily functions.  Because I have children and am a full-time milk-making machine, Tessa and I don't get much alone time even when I do venture down into her valley.  I miss her a lot.  This last week, through a series of text messages, I began to see how hard this move and my child bearing has been on her.  Though her difficult and messy teenage years her best friend hasn't been able to spend countless hours at the mall with her.  She hasn't been able to join her for concerts and fan girl Zain Tomlinson Styles.  She's not available for frequent weekend sleepovers and late night nail painting.  She's at home scraping boogers off the walls and wiping poopy bottoms.

Watching me mother has even inspired Tessa to wait a LONG time to have very few children.  I guess I don't always make motherhood look very glamorous.  But there is something I want her to know.  Even though I don't enjoy cleaning up throw up or scraping feces out of panties, frequent night wakings make me feel like I'm losing my mind, and I've yet to find anything that compares to the emotional strain my children put me under, this is the best job in the world.

Where else could I receive daily eskimo kisses, hear Andrea's little voice calling my name, view Sam's cheesy grins, and consume such fine dining (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches)?  Where else could I feel the satisfaction of cleaning and dressing my little brood?  And when everyone is clean and calm, there is the joy of reciting from memory an entire collection of children's books over the noise of toddler giggles and baby coos that can't be found in an office somewhere.

Then there is after bedtime when the house is dark and quiet.  It might seem strange that one of the things that I love about motherhood is shutting my children away in dark rooms and sitting by myself with a tall drink of apple juice.  However, there is an indescribable feeling of accomplishment at the end of a long day that comes from keeping two people alive.  Especially when those two people have done everything in their power to provoke homicide.

This little family of mine is hard work, but I know what I'm doing is valuable beyond measure.  I wouldn't give up time with my sister for anything less important.  I hope some day she'll understand.

And something tells me thirty-something miles may make our escapades less frequent, but I don't think it can kill our craziness.

(I hope Andrea will be a good babysitter to repay Tessa for the countless hours she's performed that service for me.  And that way Tessa and I may actually be able to do some child-free activities in the distant future.)

Storage solutions (part 1)

I've mentioned before that our new house lacks a linen closet.  One of the first things I did when we moved here was find a place for all of the miscellaneous things once stored in the rather massive closet in our former apartment.  I purchased an over-the-door shoe bag organizer from Wal-Mart for about ten dollars.  I hung it on the back of the utility closet under the stairs.  I was super impressed by how many things I fit in this thing.

Across the hall from this door is a little powder room.  I managed to put extra hand towels for that bathroom in the organizer.  I also got quite a few cleaning products in those slots.  Notice I put them up high and out of the reach of my two year old.  Since taking this picture I've added Fabreeze and Magic Erasers to the list of things that can fit in these pouches.

 This door opens like so, revealing my secret storage.  And when I shut the door. . .

 It disappears and is conveniently out of sight.

Because there are chemicals hanging on the back of this door, as well as the furnace and water heater in this closet, I've taken the added precaution of putting a lock on the knobs just in case that two year old gets curious.

The neighbors

I'm loving our new house. Being able to put my children asleep upstairs and have the whole main floor for my personal whisper-free use is heavenly.  I've cleaned the kitchen, listened to music while singing along rather loudly, and watched my share of Netflix (not turned down to volume levels only discernible by dogs, mind you).  And once we kick that son of ours out of our room, I'll being able to sleep a little more soundly as the groans and moans of my decrepit mattress will stop waking up this paranoid mama.  But there is one thing that I actually hate about my townhouse, and surprisingly, it's not the lack of linen closet (although I'm still getting use to that).

I'm struggling with my neighbors.

Before we moved to this valley I was excited to meet new people, make new friends, and study the city folks.  Alas, the people here are less than friendly.  Aside from the first week of church where no one would move over for the new family standing awkwardly in the back (aka us), I've found almost all of the people I've encountered living in my complex to be, well, rude.  After living here for a few days, we were approached by the lawn guy and asked to not walk on our grass for three weeks as the sod is new and still taking root.  Since that day, we have noticed streams of people marching though our little plot of earth, taking their garbage to the dumpster (which is in front of our house, not behind).  People walk by so often, Paul and I have started seeing people who aren't even there.  One evening two women stood outside our back window and carried on a full conversation.  How rude!  You would never see this in a traditional backyard!  They call that trespassing.  It's illegal.  I suppose because I don't have a fence my lawn is game for the convenience of my neighbors' garbage runs.  Good to know.

The second horribly rude thing that we've been victim to is pinched parking places.  We have one officially reserved parking place.  It is clearly labeled with our house number.  I have come home multiple times to find someone parked directly in front of our sign.  Obviously the person who parked there is not blind, otherwise they have no business driving.  My husband doesn't seem to care.  We can still park relatively close to our house in an unmarked spot, but this is not about parking to me.  It's about respect, and so far, our neighbors and their guests have demonstrated a complete lack of it.

Paul has given me permission to place some diplomatically-worded notes on windshields if this persists.  I've already conjured some ideas that convey several different approaches.

Kind approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Please refrain from parking in spots assigned to specific tenants.  Thank you.

To the driver of this vehicle: Next time you visit, kindly direct your vehicle to visitor parking.  Thank you.

Mean approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Park here again and I'll call the cops!

To the driver of this vehicle: I hate you!  Park here again and DIE!!

 Passive agressive approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Thank you so much for assisting me in my goal of daily exercise by allowing me to carry my screaming toddler, my newborn in a car seat, diaper bag, purse, and a weeks worth of groceries exactly one invigorating block as you are in my assigned parking spot just steps away from my front door.  My biceps and quads thank you.

Sassy approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Since it is apparent by the sign in front of your car that you have moved into my home, I'll like to extend a hand of welcome.  Also, I'd like to confirm that your rent will be $400 a month (utilities included).  If you'd like to decrease this amount you may share a room with one of my children and assist them in their nighttime wakings.  This will reduce your rent to $200 a month.  Another way to  reduce your rent would be to STOP PARKING IN MY FREAKING PARKING SPOT!!!  Let me know which option appeals to you most and I'll try to be as accommodating as possible.  Thank you!

Hopefully things get better soon.

Some SLC firsts

Night number one in the new house: I sat on my bed in my second story bedroom high above the quaint street below. My back nestled into the green pillows, and Sam nursed eagerly. Sun light streamed through the panes of the windows and warmed the skin on my arms. It felt like magic, soft and tingly. Such romantic scenes weren't possible in our gloomy basement apartment. My shoulders slumped in exhaustion and my feet ached from the manual labor of moving, but my spirit soared from joy and negated any physical discomfort. Between the solar energy dancing about my room and the soft infant in my arms, my eyes closed automatically as if savoring a gentle kiss. I opened them again and tried to memorize the unfamiliar silhouette of the Salt Lake valley mountains. Grey clouds rolled down from the north and drizzled light rain on the pavement. I stared down the street at the gabled roofs of my neighbors and felt transported to the stereotyped streets of suburbia England. Whistling the theme song from Harry Potter may have crossed my mind, but instead I serenaded Sam with a vintage tune from a soda commercial.

First shopping trip: After a few days of living in the new house I found myself without the internet I'd been promised. New to the area and with no smart device that could direct me around town, I was housebound until my husband came home with his phone. The refrigerator was empty and echoed when I opened it for a drink of water. The closest grocery store was a Reams a few blocks down the street. Although I'd never been to a Reams I was eager to check out my local options for supermarket excursions. With my Rowbabies safe in the arms of my husband, I ventured out alone so the motherhood fog about my head could clear. My blue car pulled into the Reams parking lot, and I surveyed the building. It was short, small, and old compared to the Orem stores to which I was accustomed. But it had produce and milk so I stepped into the shady lot, locked the car, and hurried inside as a light sprinkling of rain fell from the deep gray clouds. Once inside, the smell of decay weaved its way into my nostrils, and a bearded stranger eyed me grumpily. I was oddly comfortable as the outdated décor and elderly employees reminded me of the small towns of the Midwest. This was a jewel inside the big city, and as I picked out berries for Andrea's breakfast I felt my mouth pull up into a smile.

First breakdown: Thursday morning began with a slightly feverish toddler who refused to eat breakfast. A hour later she began to complain of some nausea. I sat beside her, with a nursing newborn in one hand and a barf bowl in the other, praying her stomach would hold until I could put Sam down on the floor. When he finished eating I laid him on his play mat and tried to address Andrea's needs. I fought the urge to call my mom. I stopped my fingers from texting my sister. What could they do forty miles away? No, I was alone-- alone in my pseudo-British community just down the street from a small town store. All the charm in the world could not erase the homesickness that was attacking my lungs and constricting my airways. While Andrea and I sat on the couch snuggling away “the pukies” I choked back tears and asked my little child if she would say a prayer with me. We knelt on the floor and through an episode of ugly blubbering I begged Heavenly Father to help my child feel better or give me the strength and ability to properly care for both of needy children. We said amen and the blue eyes of my sweet toddler penetrated my soul as she studied my face. She smiled a crooked grin and hesitantly asked, “You happy now, Mommy?” And leaning on her perfect faith I was.

Thoughts

I wish I had the words to articulate my current feelings about life.  I sometimes try to explain them to various people but as the words exit my mouth I'm already thinking, "No, that's not quite right."  The mounting frustration over the inability to express has caused me to stutter more than I'd like to admit.  I have very few moments of quite reflection and, depending on the intensity of my hormones and the amount of sleep I've had, the mood of the moment varies greatly.

Right after bringing Sam home from the hospital I sat on my bed nursing the newborn.  I stared down at his beautifully fuzzy noggin and sweet, pink cheeks and was sideswiped by a desire to never nurse again.  Apathy filled my chest and I didn't care about the benefits of breast milk or oxytocin or the calories burned.  I just didn't want to be sharing my body with anyone anymore.  Call it claustrophobia or postpartum depression, but whatever it was, it felt like I'd been shocked by a taser.  Stunned and confused, I pulled the thought down for analysis and worried it around until I felt confident enough to discard it.  I kept nursing.  I'm still nursing.

On the second of July Paul was late coming home from work.  I knew that the holiday would mean extra load of auditing duties for him that week, but I found myself annoyed that I had to be home alone with the kids for so many hours.  Unable to get my two week old to nap I spent the afternoon carrying around a crying infant while the two year old begged me for food, affection, and a little peace and quiet.  When Paul walked through the door and spent a whole minute opening the mail before relieving me of the hysterical baby, steam whistled from my ears and the pressure of holding back a snippy comment caused my temples to ache.  Meanwhile, I took that snippy comment and, like a scientist, tested it for rationality and reason.  When the results came back negative for both, I took a deep breath and blew the remaining steam out of my mouth as I forced the ugly thought into my mental trashcan.

Most days I feel this disconnection from my thoughts.  It's as if they are being placed there by some hormone fairy with a twisted sense of humor.  Yet, the amount of effort required to combat these cognitions is almost more than my sleepless self can handle.

Tomorrow is moving day and between packing, crying/attention-starved toddler, hungry and wailing baby, and all of the coordination required to insure appliances, a truck, and helping hands, I think I might have a meltdown.  Wish me luck!

Baby

Samuel Paul Rowberry

Born June 19, 2013

7 lbs 10 oz

20 inches long

Delivery was short and recovery has been easy.

I'll write more later.  I'm currently taking it easy, for once.

Four

There is nothing like writing to soothe my soul.  Unless I'm suffering from lack of inspiration.  Then there is nothing more frustrating than trying to concoct coherence from my thoughts.  This is how I feel at this moment.  Incoherent.  Frustrated.

And impatient.

You see, I made a mistake.

I made this mistake once before back here.

I swore then I'd never do it again because I'm too self-aware to be put back in that situation by my own consent.  Then I found myself at my midwife's office, undressed from the waist down, waiting for a lady with a kind face to examine parts of me that no person should ever have to examine.  "My goodness!" She exclaimed as I laid back on the table.  "You are already dilated FOUR centimeters!"  My heart floated out of my chest.  Four centimeters?  That's nearly halfway, I thought.  With my first pregnancy I was already admitted to the hospital before I reached a four.  As my hopeful heart drifted back down into my self so did a sweet hope that by the end of the week I'd be holding my baby boy.

That night I had a panic attack.  I had not packed the hospital bag.  I still hadn't sewn crib sheets.  I had no mattress for the crib.  The house was a mess.  I wasn't ready.  I tried to sleep away the worry but was awoke several times to the fear of my water breaking in bed.  Feeling too fragile to move, I laid in bed until the pain of my position prompted a very slow shift to my opposite side.  Paul shifted as well, placing his pillow over my face and readjusting his head above mine.  I gently pushed him away and gasped for air as my head emerged from beneath his pillow. I hate night time.

The next morning and every subsequent morning after I crawled out of bed, aches and pains wracking my body, and made a rush to the bathroom as usual.  As I washed my hands I looked at the mirror and see visible relief and disappointment in the creases of my forehead.  I had made it through another rough night, but I was still pregnant.

Today I let them check me again.  Still four centimeters.  Four stupid centimeters.  Four centimeters of false hope and agitation.  I may have finally learned my lesson.  I'm never letting them check me again.  Emotionally, I can't handle it.  I let you know next week if I hold on to my resolve.  Unless, of course, I actually deliver this baby before then.  Fingers crossed!