Momancholy #2: The Two Kid Transition
It’s not depression; it’s momancholy. And I was dumb to think it would be done when I hit the toddler years with my girl.
Late March and into early April, we spent 10 days in the UK. At the beginning of the trip, I was 28 weeks pregnant. When we returned, I was 30 weeks pregnant. I was unwell.
And my darling, 30 pound angel toddler baby, is anxiously attached. Her constant refrain/demand is, “Mommy, hold you?!?!” On the trip, when she wasn’t attached to me, she very loudly yelled, “MOMMY!!!” At the top of her toddler lungs. On the airplane. At dinner. On our taxi drives sitting inches apart. At the Tower of London. Around all the quiet and polite British children.
Again. I was 7 (basically 8) months pregnant. My back was broken. My left arm had never been so strong and I had never been more desperate for a prenatal massage. And there is nothing inside of me that wanted to put her down. Nothing.
It seems I am also, anxiously attached.
You might ask, “Christine, why don’t you just put her down and let her figure it out?” Totally fair question, and my response is, “I’m too sad.”
I’m too sad because I know that very soon I will have another baby to hold. And even though I could probably lift a car with my Popeye arm, holding Camille and her baby brother still won’t be equal. I’m sad that our precious time as “just us girls,” is changing. I’m sad I’ll be divided. I’m sad that there will be things I miss with her because I might be with baby brother. I’m sad that (at this point) I only have 6 weeks left. I feel the ticking of the clock deep inside me . Or maybe that’s just baby brother kicking my ribs.
Because I work with women who are in a life transition — first kid, first marriage, first breakup, first move — a lot of what I tell them is: “Our stuff tends to surface during our life transitions.”
The truth is, while I’m grieving a transition (and yes, it’s a good transition), underneath I’m actually grieving my own limitations. And that, my friends, is old stuff. That’s pre-Camille stuff. That’s little Christine trying to manage too much, be too much, have too much in order to have control, and to feel perfectly safe and wanted in her environment.
And really, that’s what my momancholy in this season is about. It’s about recognizing that I don’t have control.
As I step into this transition of becoming a mom of two, I’m grieving very real limitations. I’m grieving that I can’t be in two places at once. I’m grieving the uncertainty around bedtimes, pumping, school pickup, and the sleep deprivation. I’m grieving that I can’t perfectly protect Camille’s world from feeling the sting of a changed environment that she had no hand in choosing for herself. Even if it’s such a good and wonderful gift. That she might hate for a while.
It has nothing to do with Camille. It has nothing to do with baby brother. It’s got everything to do with me.
And as I tell my clients this, it’s ok to grieve. It’s ok to grieve the loss of the former, even if the former and the later are good. We grieve because it’s healthy. We grieve because out of grief, acceptance takes root. Acceptance is peace. It’s a step forward in our own emotional health, as we learn to make sense of the past and take what we need.
Grief is a gift. Born from facing the pain of the loss.
My momancholy won’t probably ever go away, and nor do I need it to.
What it can do is help me be a better mom, wife, therapist, friend, and overall human. I want my momancholy to remind me that this life is a gift, even when it’s sad. And to remember that grieve and joy don’t cancel each other out, but rather give us a deeper, richer, and more meaningful experience.
My limitations may upset me when I’m not aware of them, but momancholy reminds me that it’s ok to have them. And to recognize that they are there for a reason.
