It gets better...But it's still freaking hard.

This last weekend I led a workshop where I showed a clip of Sara Gilbert talking about coming out. She highlighted the fact that being gay does get better, but she talked about how it still scares her to come out or talk about her life with new people or groups. We processed as a group that it was an important message because, as is the case with many issues (e.g., being ill, grieving a loss) even though it does really get better and you want to stay positive, you still need permission to be sad sometimes. To grieve and to process that sometimes your current situation is still hard.

As I was up for the second time (at midnight) last night rocking a teething, growth-spurting Wilson back to sleep, the parallels of this conversation to parenting hit me. It does get better. Wilson is usually only getting up once during the night; his tantrums are almost completely gone; he is talking and signing and communicating well; and his amount of independent play has certainly increased. But, as yesterday proved to me: parenting a toddler is still really freaking hard.

I was up with Wilson the night before for a few hours, finally calling in Mike (the closer) to get him back to sleep when I realized he just wasn't going down. We gave him some ibuprofen on the sneaking suspicion that he was teething again. He hasn't mastered the sign or word for "hurt" yet, so it is still a guessing game. He went back to sleep (I was up from 12 to 2:30 a.m.) and I finally got back to sleep around 3 a.m.; just to get woken by the dogs at 4:30 a.m. who frantically alerted me to the dangerous cat in the yard. Being out of energy and patience, I shushed them, quickly ran and lowered the shades, gave them my best I-am-so-in-charge-of-you-bitches posture and stance and verbally threatened their lives if they woke up the baby. That seemed to work and then I finally got back to sleep only to be woken again when Wilson got up for good at 5:15 a.m. I slowly picked myself up off the couch, stared at the baby monitor in disbelief and watched him blithely taking his teething protectors off the crib edges and toss them around the room. I thought, well maybe he'll still go back to sleep. That's when he began jumping on the crib like a trampoline and I spoke a hushed swear word under my breath. I slowly trudged up the stairs, bottle in hand and fed, hugged and entertained him until 6 a.m., when I passed him off to Mike like a hot potato and passed out in bed for 4 more hours. 

Unfortunately, Wilson was equally cranky when I awoke, having given Mike a run for his money all morning: clingy, whiny and needy. Mike's hair was sticking up and he had the recognizable, exhausted "help me for the love of God, look on his face". Wilson turned his full attention to me when he saw me, targeting me for his neediness until his nap at 11:30 a.m. He went down quickly, but woke up an hour later. My blessed partner-in-misery (Mike) let me stay laid down as I realized I was getting a migraine in addition to the awesome events in our wonderful morning. He gave Wilson some meds and rocked him back to sleep so that he slept for two more hours. 

Upon awakening, I decided to check his teeth for progress. On his first side, his molar was red, swollen and clearly about to push through. As I shifted my gel-coated finger to the other side, it was clamped down on by a new molar that apparently had come through during the night. And when I say clamped, I mean it should have been accompanied by Jaws theme music. Mike frantically got some ointment for my finger and after my shriek of pain, Wilson started crying, clearly not intentionally trying to hurt me. Still, I feel as if "NO BITE" should be our new family theme song (perhaps to the tune of Jaws).

He played a little, led us around by pulling on our hands/clothes/faces, chased the dogs, then wanted to go upstairs to take a bath. I told him it wasn't time yet and he laid his head down on my lap in frustration. He rolled over, pawing his mouth, which should have served as a warning sign, but in my migraine stupor, it didn't look very threatening. Then he buried his head into my thigh and bit me, hard enough to break the skin. I yelled our "NO BITE" motto as Mike came racing around the corner, ointment in hand, with that familiar helpless concerned look on his face. Wilson dissolved into tears again, running to Mike and then back to me with his non-verbal apologies and seeming desire to make sure that I still loved him. After a few minutes, it was time for his bath, so we plodded up the stairs. We got to the top and he ran around checking all of the gates for flaws and then finally proceeding into the bathroom where he began rabidly pulling out the toilet paper and assorted goodies from the drawers.

And that's when it all hit me. I sat down on the top stair and just began crying hysterically. Apparently it was silent enough not to draw Wilson's attention from his current bathroom-focused tornado, but I just hit a mental wall.

I'm 13 weeks pregnant and some days I can't keep down water. My house is a disaster and I desperately want to clean and organize it, but have no energy or time to do so. I teach four graduate level courses with over 100 students in them cumulatively, making grading a weekly nightmare and something that I'm perpetually trying to get done. I have 3 active research projects and have not been able to give them much attention this semester. I have over 15 committee assignments at work and over 5 of them are chair or leadership roles. I just did 3 training presentations in a 3-week period. I supervise a fellowship student and mentor countless others. I am finishing up my counseling hours for licensure as a Professional Counselor. I am parenting a difficult-tempered toddler, who despite his sweetness and affection, is harder than any other tasks in my life combined. He drinks his formula voraciously, but is the pickiest eater on the planet. Every meal is a crap-shoot, with me employing dancing, singing and other distraction techniques just to get some food in his face. Half of it always goes to the dogs regardless of my dancing and singing skills. He has disturbed sleep, having a very difficult time falling and staying asleep, moving frequently in bed and clearly having a hard time managing teething and growth spurt pain. He has hella-limited skills with managing his emotions and frustration. He is very smart, which is positive; except that he has managed to outwit most of the child safety locks in the house, figuring them out quickly then causing mass destruction to whatever he can open. My mind shifts from my current anxieties to how-in-the-heck I will survive without family support in town, with dwindling finances and with TWO KIDS.

Will Wilson be better by next June? Will I get my sabbatical proposal approved so that I have off for 7 months after the baby is born? Will Mike and I manage to stay close and not kill each other with the birth of a new baby? Will Wilson try to eat/smother/return the baby? Will my house ever be organized again? Will I ever find work-life balance? Will this baby have a better temperament (please for the love-of-everything-holy)? Will I make it through this parenting gig sane?

At 11 p.m. when I had to get up with Wilson again, plodding up the stairs carrying camilia (a holistic teething pain-reliever) and a full bottle, I picked him up into my arms and then snuggled in the rocking chair. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and made a kissing noise, leaning up to kiss my face, then stroke it with his hand, softly saying "mom-mom". He put the bottle back in his mouth and then softly rubbed my already-protruding belly before easily falling back to sleep. Although he got up two more times, Mike got up with him once, his Abuela (his wonderful babysitter Susi) told me she should come to watch him all day today, my best friend Jess and I are going to lunch, and my colleague and close friend Cheri texted me first thing in the morning telling me she is coming from Tuesday to Thursday to help with Wilson and give me a break. The social and tangible support gave me the hope I was so desperately needing.

Because that is the thing that when you are struggling as a parent, you need more than anything. Words of encouragement and support. Help with your child. A hug. Time away. A little kiss and touch from your child reminding you why you do this gig in the first place. I wonder how many moms and dads out there suffer silently. Grin inauthentically when people ask them how they are doing. Telling others that they adore everything about parenting, that their little one is the apple of their eye and their purpose for living. I know that many parents, especially moms, do not want to ask or accept help because it means we can't do it on our own. But that's the thing. NO ONE EVER DID THIS MUCH BALANCING IN PARENTING ON THEIR OWN EVER. 

When you were a stay-at-home-mom in previous generations, it was much more common that you lived close to your family, you had constant support, a close community, continual hands to take the baby, words of encouragement and some much-needed-breaks. Your role was that of mother, partner and family member. With the much-needed advent of feminism, we, as women, are able to break out of that mold. But, many of us still choose to be mothers. And with that choice comes the traditional expectations of being an energetic, involved, caring and competent mother and most often, primary caregiver. We feel the cultural expectations that we can still take care of our houses, children and partners with ease. Yet, we also have careers, reasons for existing that do not involve breastfeeding and wiping butts all day. But with both roles, we now have a new challenge. Go to work and work on par with males, who don't have swollen breasts and morning sickness; and who, although these expectations are shifting, do not have such internal anxieties and pressures surrounding being SuperMom. SuperMom: she goes to work, exceeding everyone's expectations and getting that well-deserved raise, only to come home, clean the house, cook dinner and help with homework. She's everything to everyone. Except, unfortunately, just like Superman (although it would be really cool if he was real!), she is a myth. Instead, we feel like we are failing at every role, keep apologizing to everyone and sit on our stairs crying hysterically after a particularly bad day. But we still don't feel like we can let people see this side of us; No, we still have to be SuperMom and be everything to everyone. I talk about this all the time with so many mothers I know - it is almost a universal feeling for both working and stay-at-home moms; we are overwhelmed, disillusioned and feel like we are always disappointing someone.

This doesn't mean that parenting is this hard for everyone. Some babies really are easy, many parents have ongoing family support that they need to make their adjustment easier, and others have fewer roles that help them to not be spread too thin. Still others were not naïve enough to think it was a good idea to get pregnant right away after having a difficult-tempered child who just turned a year old... But no matter the level of difficulty you are experiencing, sometimes you just have to pause, say "this parenting stuff is hard", give yourself permission to be sad (or to cry hysterically), recognize your limits, let go of the parenting myths and get some much-needed and much-deserved help.