Swallowing my Pride

This blog set out to be a way for our family and friends to keep "in the loop" about what is going on in our lives while we're down in Paraguay. And while it has done that (at least I'm assuming it has, don't burst my bubble if it hasn't) it has also been rather therapeutic at times for me.  I've been able to write about the experiences we've had, process them a bit more than I otherwise would have, and draw "bigger" conclusions about relationships, God, life, etc.

Blogging has been my psychiatrist (okay, that might be taking things a bit too far, but I hope you get what I'm trying to say).

The last month of posts - Boston's birth, the hospital comparison, Bailey's potty training adventures in three parts, the installation of the grass - have all been reflection-less on my part.  And quite intentionally.  I didn't want to reflect. I didn't want to think about how I was feeling, let alone admit to how I was feeling, let alone admit publicly to how I was feeling.

But it's time . . . so here goes.

We hired Patricia back.

Some of you might recall that Patricia came during last semester to watch Bailey while I was teaching part time.  At that point in Bailey's life, she was getting up at 7, then napping again at 9:30ish (until I got home from school).  Patricia did most of the routine household chores before Bailey got up and during her nap.  There was a part of me that felt kind of awkward about it all - having someone else clean my house, wash the dishes, and do the laundry - but what else was she to do for the three hours of her work day that Bailey was sleeping? And those are the things that I potentially could have done during Bailey's morning nap, a nap that I was "missing out on" because of being at work.  I justified the heck out of the situation and got to a guilt-free point.  Besides, who doesn't like to come home to a clean house, without having to do the cleaning yourself?

When we left Paraguay in December, we had to let Patricia know that we weren't going to need her services for the foreseeable future.  My parents were coming (and did come) for the first month when Boston was born, and Brandon's mom is coming at the end of May.  At the time there was even rumor that my sister might come (okay, it might have been more wishful thinking than anything) between the two parental visits, leaving me with a whopping four weeks or so with both girls by myself.

But during the last week or so that my parents were here, I had a rough go at it (ask Brandon, he'll tell you).  I was a wreck thinking about how in the world I was going to manage the house by myself.  I would be sitting nursing Boston, with my mom making dinner and Papa or Brandon helping Bailey go potty and I'd burst into tears.  What was I going to do in a week when I was the only one there? Boston would go hungry, Bailey would wet herself, and dinner would be burnt, all with me curled up in a ball in the living room, praying for it all to go away.  At least that's the way I imagined it playing out in my head.

Chock it up to postpartum depression (or regular depression for that matter).  I was terrified about being alone with the girls.  I couldn't fathom how generations of mom's before me did it (and continue to do it, and with more than just two kids).  Then I'd have a moment of rational thinking (just a fleeting moment, mind you), and I'd be okay.  "You've got this" I'd say to myself.  "People do it all the time and you're no less of a person than any of them.  You can do it."

And like the little engine that could, I'd recite: "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . ."

Then it would all blow up in my face and I'd cry myself to sleep. Again.

The weekend before my parents left (and Brandon went back to school after being on Easter break), Brandon made a decision for us: we're hiring Patricia back.  His solution to my irrational fear was to bring back the help.  And while part of me jumped for joy ("she can do the chores! yippie!") his words cut deep to my heart.  I felt like he had no faith in me, that even he didn't trust the girls to my care.  That's not the truth - I know that in the rational part of my brain - but I couldn't help but feel betrayed.

That first Monday with her there was harder than I imagined being alone would have been.  And not for her lack of assistance.  It was because of my internal monologue telling myself that I failed.  I failed as a mom - I had to hire someone to care for my own two kids, one of whom sleeps 90% of the time.  I failed as a homekeeper - someone else is being paid to do my laundry and wash my dishes.  I failed as a wife - she's taking care of "everything" and I'm still in my PJ's, glasses, sans makeup when Brandon gets home.

After that first day, I told Brandon that I needed to try doing "it" by myself, if only to prove to myself that I could.  So when a downpour started in the wee hours of the morning Tuesday, I typed out a text to Patricia, telling her not to worry about coming in with the bad weather (bus travel does get tricky in the rain).

I did it.

Then came another tricky part: I could do it alone (duh!), but I felt like we had already made a commitment to Patricia for the six weeks between my parent's and Brandon's mom's visit.  So we talked it over and shortened the time that she's with us. What started out as Monday through Friday, 9-4 is now Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 9-1:30 (when Bailey goes down for her nap).  I still have to be a stay-at-home-mom by myself at least two days a week.  And I still do some of the household chores.

It's still hard to admit to; that we have a "chica" when I'm there at home all day anyway, but it is what it is.  And I'm still processing it.  And I'm sure I will be for a while. But this was a start.