A Time of Renewal

A weekend from now Easter will be celebrated around the world and although we may not all “celebrate” I always think there’s time to renew, refresh and be grateful for what we have.  I must however point something out that as a person with chronic “invisible” illness and a mother, I’ve been struck by the difficulty in actually telling the Easter story and admire those who have told it so well. I do not mean to be blasphemous but cousin, if I tried to explain that a dude escaped but nothing was moved and his clothes were still there back in the day with Bipolar, gesticulating wildly, pausing to try to remember my train of thought, and possibly crying a little, I can imagine the looks I would receive as I walked to the cast out / leprosy section of society.

Similarly, I have had a multitude of children under five (who my husband and I created) look up at me inquiringly, asking for clarification on different parts of the story.  What does the Easter Bunny have to do with it? Was the Easter Bunny the pet back then? Mother mumble.  Second question:  they first hurt him a lot and then loved him and wanted to be his friend? Shocked little faces. And before my philosopher but practical eldest son could unpack ANYTHING further, I looked SO excited and said guys, let’s go make play dough!  But we were still talking about… NO. Did Mom say that you can sprinkle as much flour as you want?  And we all excitedly went to the colourful muck that was MUCH better than the mess of a conversation I didn’t want to have.

My Philosopher Son is coming on Saturday for a bit of a break. To reconnect and to finally have his 21st Birthday.  My heart in preparation is so anxious, so excited, so happy and so sad.  What do you tell the most precious cargo you’ve ever had that you are so so so sorry about the times you hurt them when you didn’t mean to.   That you are equally sorry about the times I couldn’t get up, although a quiet voice inside me screamed that I should.  That he and his siblings are the most beautiful, amazing souls despite and in spite of the contributions that I had and had not made.  That I wished him the kind of happiness that would be felt and remembered in each of his cells and signed in his soul. That he deserved the kind of peace I had never truly known.  Because he had always given pieces of that to me.

In anticipation of his arrival and Pet Bunny weekend next weekend, I am doing what my grandmother did, sneak off to the room to have a little cry.  To be flooded with the memories of his life, his support, his little frown, his enquiringness.  The fact that he watches National Geographic Deep Sea stuff because it cheers me up.  That he has annoying habits like tickling me (but we signed a contract against this now) and holding me.  In anticipation of all of this, I am grateful for the opportunity of renewal, to try things again, and perhaps google answers to those pesky questions before they’re asked by anyone again.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Don’t get MAD, Get Even

Yesterday I wrote a touching, heart felt, warm in your body and toes piece about my son and his friends   About exchanging pleasantries, chewing the proverbial fat, Mom and Adult Kid.  About learning lessons, about helping people cry, about being different.  And I feel no different today, except when previously loved Adult son enlightened me to a fact or two.  He and his siblings know that it perplexes me greatly, when I can’t find stuff, when I’m irritated, or when they repeatedly (not a few, I mean TOO MUCH repeat) call me for stuff they can actually, and completely do on their own.  Another “fav” is when I ask them to find or fetch me something, they stand and glance the cupboard up and down, and declare, rather defeatedly, that they can’t find what Mom so desperately requires.  I never inflict violence, but I do at points like these, understand WHY some animals eat their young.  If you get to that point, it’s BETTER for the child that way.

And so adult son went on to tell me that on occasion he does this on purpose.  He messes with me.  Messes with my madness.  For example, I could be looking for my cigarettes, he will hide them, say they were right there and look at me like I was loosing it.  And I would a lot believe that I was.  Then he would put it back and I would be relieved and all would be well.  Unbeknownst to me, he orchestrated this, and laughs internally the most, at my much mad response.  Now I believe that this is never done with malice so I laughed too, well a little.  I’m far too Bipolar to not fight back.  And the streams of ideas… the opportunities, oh, the ways I am planning to get him back repeatedly are coming and I am smiling more and more.   Ha, you could even say I have a spring in my step.

In some ways this bond of trickery and tomfoolery starts when your child is born.  When they see you acting like a complete and utter idiot – well you kind of set the stage to be made fun of.  If I think of the things that I’ve done to get a poorly baby or toddler to eat, to swallow medicine, and once, which I wouldn’t like to repeat, removing a jellybean with a tweezer (child safe) from a very little nose (who asked if she could eat it afterwards)… The truth is, yes, you train your child to get you to behave like an idiot for their benefit and they laugh the most.  That belly laugh with baby bubbles, that every Mother’s ear longs to hear, eye to see, and heart to photograph / preserve.  No I am not comparing having mental illness to being an idiot.  But neither is my Son.  To him, to them, I am just open wide here comes the aeroplane / train / ship Mom.   To him I was the mother who played the bums orchestra (not weird).  They would lie on the bed, and chuckle with glee (all four of them) when I pressed their bum key (with supporting vocals) almost as if they didn’t expect me to.

And what I’ve really learnt is to make sure that you keep the fun and foolish alive, that you can laugh at yourself, laugh with and at your children, laugh at life.  Because it is a lot difficult.  So why be serious all the time?  Laugh at yourself when you knock stuff over (I always knock stuff over).  Find time to be free.  To make new jokes, to find a new version of the bum orchestra. Make finding happiness as important as hiding someone’s cigarettes away, even if only momentarily.  Be part of those who support them as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Labour of Love

20 years ago today, I became a mother.  No, I didn’t conceive my eldest son today.  But he was born.  And in my opinion, you only really become a mother when there is a living, breathing person outside of you.   When you are pregnant, it’s almost as if you have a convenient baby carrier / incubator also known as your womb, and it is recommended that you remember to eat regularly, try and rest, and avoid anything intoxicating.    Coupled with this, regular visits to health care practitioners is advised, where they niggle and scratch about your tummy and your nether regions.  Pretty.  But also easy in comparison to what comes ahead.

On the 14th of March 1998, I was with my sister and we were relaxing.  I had an insatiable craving for a loaded cheese pizza, and my sister and mom arranged it, while I lay breathing and wondering about the person that seemed to be growing heavier, and more I’m going to arrive with each day.  Afterwards, I was convinced that I had cramps from the pizza, as I had wolfed too much down too quickly.  Turns out that it was the early stages of labour.  Excitedly, my sister sang to the baby to encourage his arrival – I DID stare at her with glaring eyes which could have shot daggers as the contractions increased with intensity and pain.       It seemed like forever before we headed to the hospital only to learn that I was not very dilated, but not dealing with the pain well.

I was administered an epidural, and the medical staff suggested I try and sleep.  They dimmed the light, and I pondered the irony of having a needle up my spine, being suggested that I “sleep” with a baby heading out at some point during the night.  And then panic struck:  if I was anaesthetised how would I know when the baby would come out?  And an ever bigger panic:  how on earth would I – read sixteen year old with little to no life experience – be able to be a mother?  I had not yet figured out that “taking care of yourself thing” yet for myself, how could I pro-offer it to someone else?  I felt like I was offering my baby a demo model off the car showroom floor – it’s been around the block a couple of times, but hasn’t really taken the long road, so there may be a couple of kinks that still needed to be worked out.    Gawk.

Instead of doing what I would do now *freak out much more*, I calmed myself and proceeded to talk to the baby through our shared umbilical cord – which I imagined to be the headphone cable directly to his heart and ears.    I noted that he had chosen a mother with little experience but ready to learn, that I would try and silence the thousands of emotions that cursed through my body and being each day in an effort to place his first, and to understand him better.    I also asked that he give me a sign that he was ready to arrive, and that we could then commence his / my / our journey together.  And I began to feel proud, happy, excited that somehow I had amazingly (with a teensy bit of help) had turned a me – into a very important we.

In the first few years of his life, my heart leapt everytime he would boisterously take on a new task – walking, talking, eating (usually spraying everything on him and me) etc – and he always seemed to take the road less travelled.  I loved that about him, but it also  scared me as it was far too reminiscent of what I thought were my less than recommended footsteps.    Any real mother always wants to stop her child from falling, from being unhappy, from not having what they want or need.  I know I do, have, and did.    His first steps became jumps and leaps – often into the deep end – of the stroke of life he chose to undertake.  And most times he swam, and he swam extremely well, but there were times  when he could not – pulled down by things beyond his control.  Like his first bruises on his knees, that then later migrated into his first broken heart.  I always wanted to pull him up, feel for him, and protect him from what I had known had been too cruel a world.

Instead, I became increasingly awash with my own dilemma’s, which eventually led me to being diagnosed, and hospitalised too many times per year thereafter.   He ended up looking after me, more than I looked after him.  Yes, I was well sometimes, but there were times when I was not, and he compensated more for the me then I did the he in we.    When I pointed this out to him, he said:  Mummy, I would not have chosen anyone else.  He pointed out that there were good things I did, that my children love / loved me, what I would do for their birthday’s and how I would make Christmas special each year, to the best of my ability.

Today the he in my we is 20 years old, and I imagine he has set his sights on a different female – with different responsibilities – in his we going forward.  It does not mean that he loves me less, it just means that he is free to be him.  So the biggest gift I would like to give him today is the freedom from having to look after me.  The freedom to be, grow and excel at growing the awesome young person he is and will become.  I will be happy, I will be sad, I will be a mish mash of both, but I will be ok.  And that lesson I learned from him and his life – is that you can’t be part of a we, if you don’t seriously take care of, root for and appreciate the me.  Happy birthday. I love you my boy.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4M’s Bipolar Mom.