On tiredness, motherhood, and hindsight

Here's the thing. I love my son more than my life, more than all the descriptive words in the dictionary can explain, more than anything.

But every once in awhile, I am so tired from being a mom. (Notice I don't say of being a mom. There's a difference.) It's not the bone-weary exhaustion of living inside a minivan, carting kids to and fro, and eating on the run. Oh, I know that exists. I know the moms of multiple children, or moms of babies who wake up all night, fight a weariness I do not. I don't diminish that one bit.

What I'm talking about is a mental and emotional tired that peeks its head out when I least expect it, when days have been rolling smoothly and I've almost forgotten we are a Special Needs Family. (Dear God, I hate that description so much. You know I am ashamed to say it, God, but I do.)

Last week I took a registration form across the street from our preschool to a neighbor church's preschool. They have a 5-year-old class, called a "transitional kindergarten," for those young 5-year-olds who barely make the cut-off, who aren't ready for full-day public kindergarten. I took the registration form just in case, with a prayer for God to give us an unmistakable sign (I know! I shouldn't ask for a sign!) because we don't have a clue what to do. With many voices and a team of experts guiding us, we still don't know what's best for Henry. So much can change in the next 8 months. Will he be potty-trained? Will he be ready for kindergarten socially? Does he need the extra year?

That afternoon I was dragging, and I said to my friend Melissa, "I know it's wimpy and whiny, but I'm just so tired of making decisions." I'm tired of wondering every day if I'm screwing up my kid and then feeling guilty for being tired or sad, because I know every parent makes decisions and every parent sometimes feels tired. But Melissa said something I appreciated and needed to hear in that moment: "It's not whiny and wimpy. Parenting is hard enough, and when you add in special needs, I can't imagine."

She reminded me of words Jenn wrote just recently: "There is a trap in comparing our suffering to others that many of us have fallen into from time to time, and that is in thinking my issue is not worth talking about, because it’s not as 'bad' as what someone else is dealing with. Comparison can paralyze you and keep you quiet when you need to speak up, when you need prayers and help carrying a burden."

I don't want to be put on a pedestal or patted on the back for being an autism mom, but I can't deny the fact that it brings a unique set of challenges. Being the mom to twins or triplets does too. So does being a cancer mom, ADD mom, HLHS mom, ODD mom, OCD mom, epilepsy mom. We've all, even the "normal" moms, got a bag of issues and sometime we just need to say, "You know what? My brain is so tired, I can barely lift my eyelids."

Since I quit my writing blog, I don't let out my feelings very often. If I'm being honest, I view my admission to Melissa as a moment of weakness. You're not supposed to do that, Meredith. You're supposed to have it together and you're never supposed to complain. This is what I tell myself; this is what I believe most of the time.

But, oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. I learned the hard way. Deceiving others into believing I was fine led to deceiving myself, and that may be the most tragic choice of all. I shoved pain further and further down until I was dead-eyed and weak-kneed, stumbling through each day, keeping people at arm's length and emotions even further, convincing myself that feeling nothing, not even love, was better than feeling pain. Who was I kidding? This numbness was pain.

I was stunningly, poignantly reminded of my time in numbness when Keith, Henry, and I saw Frozen together a couple weeks ago. Elsa's well-meaning parents encourage her to hide her powers to make snow and ice, placing gloves on her hands and saying, "Conceal it. Don't feel it." But attempting to hide her powers eventually causes their eruption, harming everyone around her. Only when she allows herself to feel love can she learn to control the ice.

(Um, kinda like Meredith's fall and winter of 2012-13.)

Through forgiveness, therapy, and healing, I've come a long way since those icy days. Yet, at times I still feel tempted. The desire to rid myself of pain is so seductive. But then I remember.

I remember moments I'd rather forget. Parenting mistakes. Wife mistakes. Dastardly memories I am thankful God has forgiven and pray Henry won't remember. Like Elsa, the pain erupted with frightening, frigid consequences. So, when I'm tempted to conceal and not feel, I remind myself of that miserable Christmas, those sleepless nights and horrid days, the fear in my husband's voice. I remind myself that pretending to be fine is not ok.

This is why I have to write today - to remember. To say I'm tired. To process what's within. Only through words can I heal, refresh, and restore, no matter how much I deny it. It is the way God gave me and I must honor that, privately or publicly, or else I'll pay. And I don't want to pay.

The funny thing is, most of the time (90%? Maybe even 99%?) I really am fine. But when I deny my not-fine during the one percent, the one percent grows. Exponentially. And that's when the ice explodes, which I hope to never see again. So, yes, sometimes I'm tired. Sometimes my brain hurts from the wondering and questions, and sometimes I need to be frank about that and tell someone, anyone. That person doesn't need to fix it; they just need to listen to my words and know that is enough. Words are my restoration, and sometimes I think they are everyone's, if we'll only be wise or courageous or humble enough to admit it.