To Do, To Done, Tah-dah!

by Kym on February 7, 2012

I’ve blogged before about how I detest and abhor To Do lists. Generally, I find them to be self-sabotaging, because I can’t contemplate my mental to do list (which persists in existing no matter what I do, the nerve) without the urge to curl up in the fetal position and give up on life. So I keep a done list instead. Much less pressure. Much more self-esteem bolstering.

But sometimes the done list isn’t quite enough and the need for a to do list creeps up on me. Times like when I’m going to be having major surgery and a newborn baby in only fifteen days. Yeah. That kind of amps up the pressure a wee bit. I have to consider things like the feeding and clothing of my family during my recovery period, having things organized for the people who will be coming to help out (because I’m awesomely lucky like that, you know), and remembering that two weeks from now using any of the stairs in our three-story house will be a big no-no.

There are things that NEED to be done. There are things I really WANT to have done. And at times like this, as my inner-procrastinator takes over, my done list fails me. While it’s great to have a long list of accomplishments at the end of the day, and to bask in the glow of self-respect that comes with, the warm fuzzy feelings can be seriously messed with by nagging worries and thoughts of I-Really-Should-Have-Such-and-Such done by now.

The solution? A to do list. An honest to goodness to do list for me to cross things off of. Because my brain feels heavy right now, and when I’m holding my new little [gender unspecified] I want my mind to feel light . . . focused on him/her exclusively.

I have this crazy desire to make my house **PERFECT** before the big day. My mum is coming to help out. Friends are going to be coming in to help with laundry and cooking and cleaning. And I am proactively ashamed of what they’re going to learn about my poor housekeeping skills while here. But I need to let all that go and focus on what actually matters. I need to add things to my To Do list like Spend Oodles of Time with My Three Girls, Play Piano, and Read Stories.

In doing what needs doing, and what I want done, I need to be sure not to forget the things (people) that matter most.

Do you To Do or To Done?

Day Five: Baby Steps

by Kym on February 1, 2012

Sometimes, I am an idiot.

Please don’t scold me for being hard on myself, I mean, I did say “sometimes.” Self-deprecation wise, that’s a big step for me, you know.

Yesterday, I felt motivated. I was all blissed out on having actually left my house two days in a row, and I felt like I could DO things. I felt empowered. So I got all the dishes done, and the sink and counters scrubbed. I wiped down the table and swept the ENTIRE main floor. I pulled out the mop and tackled the worst sticky spots. I put away every single toy on the main floor and tidied every single room. I gathered all the dirty laundry, carried it down to the basement, and started putting laundry through. I folded three loads and carried them to the rooms they needed to be put away in.

By the time bedtime rolled around the main floor of my house looked fanTAStic, and I was at least halfway to caught up on the laundry to boot.

I confess, I started strutting a little. As much as an eight-months-pregnant woman can anyway. I gave myself a few verbal pats on the back where Neil could hear me (and join in, like the smart boy he is), and I climbed into bed to do some much deserved vegging out with one of my favourite books (The Way of Kings – Brandon Sanderson) and one of my favourite guys (the aforementioned Neil).

That’s about when the contractions started. Not serious ones, of course. Not the, oh-heck-we-better-rush-to-the-hospital-kind. But definitely the, um-maybe-we-should-pack-the-hospital-bag-in-case-these-get-any-worse kind. They were right on the cusp between uncomfortable and painful, they didn’t get any worse than that, but it was a MISERABLE evening.

And I could only keep saying, I did this to myself. One, because it’s true, and two, I knew that it was better if I said it than if Neil did. I had overdone it and was paying the price.

So today, I’m looking at the projects I’d like to get done before the baby arrives (21 days and counting!), and I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to do it all at once the way I tend to do. I can do a little here, rest a little there, and pace myself throughout the day. And that’s a hard thing for me to do, because I tend to have two modes 1. ALL 2. NOTHING. It’s something I need to learn in life. How to slip into that grey area between the two and find a way to live there. To not be either doing so little that I hate myself or doing so much that I hurt myself.

I’m thinking of going back to my once-upon-a-time-ago pattern of reading a chapter for every chore accomplished. Baby steps. Balance.

Now excuse me, I really should pack that hospital bag. Just in case I continue being an idiot (it’s all too possible, I’m afraid) . . .

Day Four: Out and About

by Kym on January 31, 2012

I have a self-diagnosed case of agoraphobia. Apparently it’s not weird enough to actually HAVE a mental health condition, I have to go and compound it by deciding, all on my own, that I do. Thing is, I went in for therapy/diagnosis. Once. And the only place to do that in our wee town is at the local hospital. While I was there a very wild-eyed and wild-haired lady burst into the room, her bathrobe askew in rather horrifying ways, and demanded cigarettes from the nice lady who was in the process of assessing me.

It was then that I decided I would deal with my issues on my own, thank you very much. That probably wasn’t a good call on my part, but I’m silly like that sometimes.

It is a major accomplishment for me to leave my house without being compelled by obligation. Even then, I often find excuses to flake out, miss appointments, and curl up in the safety of my own home where I can predict and control what happens (to a certain extent – I do have 3.8 children, you know).

I’m lucky though. The place we live is pretty ideal for an agoraphobe like me. I can sometimes calm an encroaching anxiety attack by focusing on the sights. Like the GINORMOUS pair of skis our town has on display . . .

And our town is small. Quaint. Charming in good weather. We’re surrounded by an abundance of natural beauty in the form of trees, lakes, and mountains. There’s no crazy traffic to navigate, and it’s near impossible to get lost once you’ve got a feel for the place. And whenever and wherever I go in town, I see someone I know. It’s pretty much inevitable, and I’ve come to love the lack of anonymity here. I’m not invisible and lost in the shuffle. I’m Dr. Neil’s wife. I’m Emma and Becca’s mom.

I’m someone here.

I’m someone when I’m at home too. A very important someone. But I’m a someone who hides from her town, her friends, and the life she could have here. It would take a LONG series of blog posts to explain why, and those who know me well probably have a small idea anyway, but suffice it to say that this is an orange crayon that is perpetually in need of picking up.

Yesterday, I drove to town and bought groceries. It felt good. So good that I actually kept my appointment this morning and went to town again. Soon perhaps, I’ll go to town for no reason other than the fact that I want to. Maybe I’ll wander around the cute gift shop on Birch Avenue and pick out something special for the new baby. Or maybe I’ll brave the library with Claira in tow and let her run around on the huge alphabet map while I drink in that awesome bookish smell that all libraries have in common.

To many, this might not seem like something worthy of report. Umm, yeah Kim, you left your house and you’re patting yourself on the back for it? But for me, leaving my safe place inspires a specific form of terror. My chest tightens and my heart pounds and I try to find ANY reason I possibly can to just stay home where things are safer and calmer. Overcoming that IS worthy of celebration, even if all I did was fill my car with groceries and rush back home again.

Progress isn’t always about how far you make it. Sometimes it’s about how hard you had to work to get how far you’ve come.

Day Three: Love First.

by Kym on January 30, 2012

My kids should not be orange crayons. They matter more than that. I need them to KNOW they matter more than that. To know that not yelling at them matters more to me than the mess they made. To know that loving them trumps anything and everything and always will.

I lost my temper with Emma a couple weeks ago and I saw her flinch as if I’d hit her, and I realized that in a way, I had. I’d hit her with my words. I’d hit her with my tone of voice. And above all I’d hit home that when she made bad choices Mommy became angry and all love fled out of Mommy’s face, voice, and body language.

So I burst into tears, because that’s what psychotic pregnant women do when they clue in to the fact that they’re being crazy. And hesitantly, Emma approached me and patted me comfortingly on the shoulder. And I ended up crying into HER shoulder, as if she were the mother and I were the child. And we hugged and we cuddled and we talked. We agreed that we both have tempers, and that maybe this is something we can work on together. I told her the best cure I’d found for a bad temper is kindness, and thinking of others more than we think of ourselves. I promised her to try to do that. She promised to do the same.

And we have been.

I still get frustrated, and she does too. And sometimes the not-so-nice voice creeps back in and we have to stop ourselves, say no, this isn’t who we want to be to each other. And yesterday during church she laid her head on my lap and I stroked her hair. And she put her hand on my tummy and felt the baby kick for the first time. And we were content, and peaceful, and happy.

And I pulled Becca in with my other arm and she snuggled in against my chest, and I thought to myself that I don’t care if my floor is littered with orange crayons. I don’t care if it’s sticky. I don’t care if the dishes aren’t done and if the playroom looks like a toy tornado struck it while I wasn’t looking. Okay, so maybe I do care a little, but not in comparison to the sweetness of holding my girls in my arms and loving them better than I have been.

I realized this morning that my anger was a gift. That in the moments when I conquer it and refuse to let it rule my thoughts, words, and actions, that I experience a sweetness I never could have without it. I’m grateful for my weaknesses. I’m grateful for an understanding of my Heavenly Father and of my Saviour, Jesus Christ, and for knowing why it has to be so hard sometimes.

I hope I teach my children that. That the hard things can be gifts if we accept them as such.

Rebecca Lynn, Six-Years-Old

Most of all, I hope I teach them about all the things they matter more than. This weekend was Becca’s sixth birthday and oh, how I wanted to pour my energy into cleaning my house! The handprints on the windows, the sticky spots on the floor . . . but I didn’t, because Becca mattered more and I CLUNG to that, reminding myself over and over again as I prepared. As I frosted rainbow cupcakes with multi-coloured frosting. As I blew up fifty balloons, hung streamers, and prepared goodie bags. I did all the things that I knew would light Becca up from the inside out with that huge grin she gets when life is being delightful, and I let everything else go. And it was a hard, hard thing, until suddenly it wasn’t anymore. Because I got to see how loved she felt, and suddenly it was easy. Loving loveable people usually is, isn’t it?