I became a mother long before I ever got pregnant with my first son. In a complete role reversal, I became the mom to my own mother. It all started when, on a bright sunny fall afternoon, two weeks before my wedding day, my cell phone started ringing. It was a jarring sound, loud still in my memory. I was attempting to parallel park on Lincoln Avenue in Chicago when the call came. It was my dad. He said my mom had just had a stroke, and they didn't know if she was going to make it. A stroke? My beautiful, healthy, vibrant, fifty-year old mother. What? I just talked to her hours before about Thanksgiving plans and wedding favors. As I tried to get out of the car, my knees buckled, my world went briefly dark. And when I came to, everything was different.
It wasn't a stroke. It was worse: a seizure, induced by a brain tumor (Anaplastic Astrocytoma, grade 3, for those of you in the know). Prognosis: bad. It would be trite to say this event changed my life. But I grew up over night. We went forward with the wedding (Thank God!), and immediately after the honeymoon, I quit my job so I could help take care of my mom. Doing so was the hardest - and best - thing I've ever done. Shawn and I somehow survived the worst eighteen months in newlywed history (I know I owe that almost entirely to him). A couple of months after my mom died, I gave birth to my oldest son. We were blessed with this blonde-haired, blue-eyed miracle, but we were also burdened with the too-fresh knowledge that life is frail. It was terrifying to think we were the sole caretakers of this fragile little newborn. I could hardly bear to sleep (even when it was an option) for fear he’d need me, and I wouldn't know it. We quickly learned that parenthood is indescribably wonderful - and mind-numbingly terrifying. Not too many months after his arrival, we learned we were expecting baby number two: another blondie, this time a girl. A perfect, feisty, strong-willed girl. Certainly, in the wake of what we'd been through, having two children in less than two years was a bit much. But in hindsight, having our daughter right then saved us all. She was a necessary distraction, saving her parents from mental breakdown and her brother from a future as the Boy in the Bubble. Just about a year after our little girl was born, just when we were starting to hit our stride, we realized we were pregnant once again. Yikes! How could we handle another little one when our oldest was just three? Remarkably, things do work out for the best. Our third child - this time a brown-eyed, brown-haired girl - was (and still is) the most easy-going, sweet-tempered, dimple-cheeked cherub you've ever seen. She's perfect, and her hugs and sweet words (“Yub you, Mama”) have helped me keep it together on countless occasions.
So, this summer, when something happened, something changed in me, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I guess there’s only so much one person can deal with and try to act normal. So, I kind of lost it. I tried to convince myself that God doesn't give you more than you can handle - and I felt so incredibly blessed by my life and my children and countless other things - that I usually believed my own optimistic self-talk. Still, when I was being really honest, I felt (more times than not) that I was hanging by a thread. In August, I experienced what I like to call my Mommy Mid-Life Crisis. As opposed to the Summer of Becky - as my friends dubbed my last reckless months of partying, of acting like an immature twenty-something, before trying to get pregnant - this last summer could have been called the Summer of Rebecca. It was a fully adult, mom version of that summer years ago, this time desperately seeking superficial fulfillment while trying to rediscover myself. I felt I was drowning in a sea of titles - mom, wife, friend, sister, daughter, daughter-in-law, Catholic - and not quite living up to any of them, not to the degree I'd hoped. Barely keeping my head above water, I knew I needed to do something. I had to dip a sieve into that murky water and try to strain out the most important title swimming around in there: me. I was wondering: Do I even want to be a stay-at-home mom? Am I living a lie? Does anyone in my new town even really know me? Do I know me? Who the heck am I anyway? What do I have to offer? It seems self-indulgent, ludicrous even, to try to "find yourself" when you're a mother of young children; but it didn't feel like a choice. After six years of mothering, starting with mothering my own mother while she was ill, going from pregnant to nursing mother to pregnant again (even, for a short time, pregnant and breastfeeding at the same time), I finally got to a point where I was not physically sustaining another human being. I was still a mom, of course, but not so literally attached to my little ones. I was just me. And one day I looked in the mirror and I didn't recognize myself: Who is this person? How did she get here? She looks so old! Married for almost seven years, three children, a five-year old! How did this happen? How did I get here? What the heck am I doing in St. Paul, Minnesota? It was like I awoke from a coma and was trying to get my bearings - for weeks I literally felt I was outside my own body, detached from my own life. It was like I was there in body, but not in spirit. I was only going through the motions. I was so lost, confused, even angry that I started wondering if I was literally going crazy.
So, what did I do? I ran. A lot. And thought. A lot. Then, I decided to write about it. But writing a journal just didn't cut it; I needed to write a blog. Nothing like putting it all out there, right? Being a word nerd, I knew I needed an alliterative or interesting title for my little endeavor. So, I came up with Rebecca Off Her Rocker. It refers to the fact that I went a bit nuts this summer, had a little breakdown, and this is what came out of it. Also, being a sucker for plays on words (maybe because I was raised on country music?), I like the thought of being off my rocker, literally: the kids are still young, none of them is yet in full-day school, but I'm done with the nursing, the night-time feedings, infant carriers, highchairs and baby food. Now that the postpartum, baby-brain fog has lifted and I'm back in my life, I’m ready to be here all the way, not just fulfilling my duties as a wife and mother, but really living and taking risks and putting myself out there - as scary as that sometimes feels. This blog is a way to chronicle my life, to keep a record. And it’s also an attempt to flex my rusty writing muscles; I’m hoping to steel my nerves enough to sign up for a writing class this winter and really determine whether or not my passion could ever turn into a viable career. Lastly, it’s a way of holding myself accountable. If I get lost again, at least I'll know where to find me.
