Edit: I’m getting a lot of traffic on this post from searches for “sleeping baby syndrome,” and you should know that this has nothing at all to do with SIDS, or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. When I wrote it I did not know that “sleeping baby syndrome” was another name for SIDS. This post is about a mom being depressed when her baby is asleep. Sorry for the confusion.
So here’s the thing. Grady is wonderful, and I used to love how she would usually sleep soundly at night. But now it’s driving me … somewhere. Somewhere frantic and unpleasant. Because during the daytime, I’m so busy mothering that I don’t have the convenience of insanity. But when the baby’s asleep and it’s too dark to clean I can only do a few things:
- Peruse the internet until I come upon collections of pictures that make me want to jump in the shower and cry
- Eat so many delicious Otter Pops that I wake up with a stomachache
- Eat these Otter Pops while in the shower and think about my old life
- Knit Christmas presents until I get too obsessed with how I feel about the recipient that I either want to dance to this song or jump in the shower and cry
- Stalk myself on the internet, read posts like this and this, and think about how much I miss writing and feeling good about being honest
- Stare at beautiful sleeping Grady until I feel proud and guilty like the heroic criminals in movies and plays
I think I’m doing a really good job taking care of Grady. I’m trying to keep this ridiculousness as far from her as possible. She’s a happy healthy baby. I’m working hard to not alienate her family so that she can grow up surrounded by love. So I think I’m doing well at being a mom, just not so well at being me.
And that’s counter-intuitive. Because I want to be a good example for her, and to do that I need to be strong and self-actualized and not lose my mind when the sun goes down. People say I still have time to become that person, but I don’t really get that. My adolescent impatience has evolved into an everything-that-happens-will-happen-today philosophy. It’s more likely that what you are today is what you always will be, and outlying behavior or coincidences become as much a part of who you are as intentional behavior. And they’re far more indicative of character than goals. I’m making no sense. Basically, I’m not into the whole idea of “trying.” When someone says, “I’m trying,” it means that thus far they have failed. And yes, the last paragraph was all about how I’m “trying.” Still working on getting my vocabulary to be congruent with my philosophy.
This is not making sense at all. I’m often accused of judging my friends too harshly, but I’m much worse on myself. Circular, confusing, despotic self-evaluation like what I just wrote goes through my head every day. Particularly after the sun sets.
Man, I love Ray Charles.
I wonder if Grady will read this eventually. Hello my love. Your mom is a basket case. Go do your homework.
I’m wasting my time knitting a Christmas present that I know I’ll never have the guts to give. Wasting this great yarn, so that I can put the finished piece in a drawer and feel sad and lonely* every time I look at it. And I’m aware that this is really really stupid. Unfortunately that doesn’t make me want to stop making it. Like sadness is an indulgence.
Explanation of that: The last few months I’ve been wondering if it is better to feel sad or angry. Feeling sad means I’m making myself a victim, which is bad. Feeling angry makes me bitter, and creates negativity that can affect Grady. As for rectifying the main problem I’m talking about? I gave it my best shot. Gave my best and it wasn’t good enough. Sadness and anger are the healthiest choices I see at the moment. Anyway, I’ve decided it’s best to act angry, but be sad. Mainly because it’s easier to be funny when angry (example), and if I’m funny I look (and am) more adjusted.
I wish it wasn’t winter. I get the feeling that if I could just take Grady up into the mountains with me I’d feel a lot better. Or if we could go to the college, or a store, or anywhere where nobody knows anything about me. I love being around people who don’t know anything about me.
Because I feel dumb posting something without pictures. She’s wonderful. And for the many who will skim over this post and only look at pictures, it’ll look happy and cuddly. So what is your reward for actually reading my posts? SADNESS. You’re welcome.
I think I’m going to change my social networking privacy settings. I can’t think of a reason to be so guarded. It actually kind of fills me with sadness. So yes, I’m going to be less guarded. And now I am.
Also, WHAT. I’m not okay with this.
This is too long and self-indulgent already, but I’m going to keep going. I feel pretty most days. And feeling pretty makes me feel really angry, for reasons that I’m no good at explaining. It’s another indulgence – some days I try to make myself look good (and my legs are consistently shaved for no reason at all), and I’ll look in the mirror too much and then just get angry and sad.
I should get back to writing like this more often. I’ve been slaughtering my journal. It needs a rest from all of the insanity. Also, I was going to do an outfit post today but I completely forgot.
As a reward for making it this far in this rambling, check this out. Yum.
Another indulgence: I write scripts for situations that will probably never happen. But if person A says line B, I’ll know exactly how to respond. And really it’s all just fantasizing, because person A will never say line B.
The end. Jeez. Off to the shower now with a large serving of Otter Pops.
* I hate this about myself. This stubborn loneliness – its just mean! I’m mean to be lonely when I have so many wonderful friends and family members. By being lonely, I feel like I’m making them feel not good enough. And that’s not what I want at all. I mean, it is kind of true, but that’s only indicative of my own stupidity. My friends and family are extraordinary, and more than enough to make a sane person feel loved and wonderful. But I’m still stubbornly lonely, pining for the grass on the other side of the fence. So I’m sorry, my lovelies.