Gwynn Raimondi, MA

Breathing, Noticing, Praying

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I come up for air and I start to notice.

I notice that her eyes don’t light up like they used to.

I notice that she’ll start to ask me to play with her and then interupts herself and says “never mind.”

I notice that her laugh sounds forced.

I notice a sadness emitting from her, when there once was such joy.

I take a deep breathe and I start to notice.

I notice my tone isn’t as gentle as I’d like it to be.

I notice more agitated sighs escaping my lips.

I notice how lost I feel in this parenting journey.

I slowly exhale and I start to notice.

I notice her. I notice me. I notice the disconnection.

And in this disconnection there is a deeper connection. I remember how it was when I became a big sister. I remember how I felt so lost and abandoned. I remember how the baby made everyone laugh and smile and all I could seem to do was annoy everyone.

I remember how much I needed my mom. I remember how very little I still was. Even though I was “older.”

And so I breathe. In and out. And I remember I can change this story.

She comes to me, scared, worried I will be mad or irritated. And she timidly asks if I could do bedtime, even though it’s not my night. And this time, I got it right and I say “Of course.”  And we brush our teeth and I read her stories and sing her songs and hold her close.

She starts to ask me to play, but interrupts herself, again. And this time, I get it right and say “Let’s go play in your room.” And we play dolls, and laugh and start to connect.

I pray more of these moments happen. I pray for more patience and clarity and understanding. I pray for her eyes to light up again. I pray for her laughter to rise up from her belly and not be forced from her throat. I pray for me to become the mama I want to be.

I breathe in and out. I allow myself to soften. Knowing in this softness is wisdom, strength. I soften for her, remembering what it is like to be that little girl. Knowing the criticism does more harm than good. Knowing these stories that live in me about what proper girls do and don’t are only that: stories, not truths. And slowly, painstakingly slowly, I release them and let her be.

And in letting her be, I am allowing myself to be. In allowing her imperfection, I allow mine. As I wrap her in my arms, I wrap myself. And slowly, painstakingly slowly, we heal.

And I know in those moments, we’ll be okay. Both of us, each of us, will be okay.

 

Frontlines and Trenches

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A social worker once said to me that parents are in the trenches until their youngest child has turned seven. We are mostly at the beck and call and whim of these young people, who need us to help them develop emotionally, psychologically, physically. It’s thankless work (mostly) and we get precious little time to ourselves for our own endeavors and loves. We have to fight tooth and nail it seems to get five minutes of downtime to allow our brains to have some quiet and we get little support from the outside world. Yes, being a parent is endlessly rewarding, but let’s be honest, it’s hard fucking work.

I saw the truth in these words, how we parents are in the trenches for the first seven years of our children’s lives, with my own daughter. In the last year as she approached and became seven her independence expanded exponentially, to the point of me finding myself on several occasions staring blankly at a wall having no idea what to do with myself: she was contently playing on her own and didn’t need or want me to join her. In the last year I’ve had the space to reconnect to my love of writing and to develop my business in a way I didn’t know would ever be possible being a homeschooling mom. I have to say it’s been bittersweet, watching her grow and not need me or want me as much as, or in the same ways, she once did.

I’ve had time to find me again, and dear gosh, it has been amazing.

And while those first seven years I would agree we as parents are definitely in the trenches, I have to say that for the first month of their lives we are on the effing war-torn front lines.

I hadn’t remembered how hard that first month with our daughter was. It was over seven years ago, and after that first month passed she became the propaganda baby we all remember and talk about: totally zen and calm, easy to soothe, a great sleeper, etc. What followed her first month of life erased the horror of those first four weeks. Four weeks where I was sure we should just give her up for adoption because we were the most unfit parents on the planet and where I questioned myself every moment and constantly had a critical voice telling me how I was screwing her up.

The last month with our son, his first four weeks of life, have brought back some of those traumatic memories. We have relived the sleep deprivation and I had several moments of deeply regretting having a second child. I’ve been in tears and felt like a total failure as a mother, not only to our little guy but also to our daughter who has been truly a young saint in the making as we adjust to life as a family of four. I have snapped and yelled and cried and screamed more than I care to admit and I have felt such deep guilt for all the change in our family. The critical voices came back, along with the intense anxiety and depression and I felt myself slipping into the downward spiral I lived through with our girl.

We seem to be at a turning point now. In part because our little guy’s brain is forming the pathways it needs; he’s becoming more interactive and awake during the day, allowing us more sleep at night. And we’re all figuring out his cues and cries and are able to get his needs met a little faster. He’s becoming the zen propaganda baby his sister was and let me tell you, this is a great relief for everyone in this house.

And while his growing and changing and developing is a part of it all, I believe a major part of the turning point is I recognized I needed help and with the support of my husband and some close friends, I got it.

You see I experienced postpartum depression with my daughter. For over two and a half years. At first I didn’t recognize the symptoms and signs, but eventually I did and then became too proud and stubborn to do anything about it. I also was suffering from hypothyroidism and my adrenal system had all but stopped working, which I found out when I finally did go to my doctor. But it was over two and half years of suffering: mine and my family’s, before I started seeking help and then it was at least another six months before we were able to really start seeing any changes as my body and mind started to heal.

At the beginning of our little guy’s third week of life I knew that I was back on that path of suffering. I had promised my husband before we even got married that I would seek help immediately if the postpartum depression symptoms came back and so after a couple days of feeling the depression and anxiety seep into my core, I told him I needed to get help. He supported me in calling my midwife and last week I started medication and supplementation to alleviate the symptoms.

I’m not 100% yet but I’m sure a hell of a lot better than I was a week ago.

I’m sharing this for a few reasons. The greatest being the shame that surrounds postpartum depression. I had so much shame with my daughter and a desperate need to prove that I could do it all and handle everything. I’ve stated before how this lead to me having a near psychotic break. My husband almost lost his wife, my daughter almost lost her mother. It was the darkest time of my life and while living it I would never admit to anyone what was happening inside my head and body, now I feel the need to share the story.

One of the greatest lessons my daughter has taught me is the importance of self-care, self-love; the necessity to take the time for my own replenishment and renewal. Or more to the point, that my survival depends on the ability to care for myself, to seek help when I need it and to release any misplaced shame around our need for help. That I don’t need to be “super mom” or to “do it all” and that I need to care for myself and allow others to help me with that care. That taking five, ten, twenty minutes to myself is not selfish, it is necessary for me to live.

Babyboy  is giving me the opportunity to practice this lesson. It has been a hard month, not only because of sleep deprivation and learning the nuances of a new little person and stepping into caring for him regardless of what I think I need to be doing in the moment; but also because I am stepping into the practice of lessons learned and allowing the space for me to need, ask for, and receive help and remembering that even little bubbles of five to fifteen minutes for me can offer a world of renewal. Taking five minutes to make a phone call for a doctor appointment or to stare out the window daydreaming; or ten minutes to make a yummy refreshing summer drink;  or twenty minutes to make a replenishing and nourishing easy meal.

This in-my-face reminder of the need for self-care inspired me to remind everyone of the importance of a self-love practice:  the little things we can do to refresh, renew, and replenish, everyday. Self-care is recognizing the importance of giving time to ourselves and knowing that by taking this time we are able to become and be the people we want to be and allowing our own inner glow to burst through.

Lessons in the Almost

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I have said many times and I am sure will say many more, that my daughter is one of my greatest teachers. My son is proving to be one of them too.

From my daughter I have learned perserverance, rule-breaking (again), unconditional love, that the “authorities” don’t always know what they are talking about, and that deeply feeling one’s emotions–all of them–is the way to find true connection: to one’s self, to those we love, to the world. She has also taught me about creativity and individuality and what it really means to be a rebel.  And her greatest lesson to me: You can never be fully prepared for what life has to offer.

She’s patiently taught me these lessons since she was in utero–when we were told at seven weeks pregnant she probably wouldn’t make it; when my water broke at 34 weeks and we hadn’t yet put together her changing table or even packed our hospital bags. She has been at least five steps ahead of me for the last seven plus years and by knowing her and mothering her I believe I have become a better person, coming closer and closer to the person I am meant to be, called to be.

I expected a similar pregnancy with our son: one filled with scares and unknowns. We (myself, husband and medical team) expected him to arrive early, like his big sister. I spent the first half of my pregnancy holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the bad news and obstacles, and yet they didn’t come.

My son is teaching me patience and to truly embrace each new day as it comes without expecting the worst, allowing space for the best. He has taught me to love my body again, its working parts and non-working parts. And his greatest lesson so far: settling into the becoming, the inbetween, the almost.

I’ve been pregnant more than three weeks longer with him than I have ever been before. I’m learning the nuances of aches and pains and contractions. I’m learning to embrace the uncomfortable: not only literally being uncomfortable because I have a 20 pound bowling ball of fluids and new organs and baby where my stomach and intestines once sat or because my hips and pelvis are spreading in ways I can’t believe are actually natural. No, the real discomfort is in the not knowing, the inability to plan, the wanting him here already and having to release any sense of control I may think I have to make that happen now.

He’s forcing me to rest in this place of almost: Almost a mama of newborn; almost the mama of two; almost the mama of a son; almost a family of four; almost stepping into this next iteration of my, our, life. I don’t know when BabyBoy is going to decide to enter the world and so all plans we make now are consciously tentative, made with the caveat of “unless he decides to make his appearance before then.”

The reality is all our plans are tentative, whether we acknowledge that consciously or not. A million different things can happen to change our course, from the big and dramatic changes like the birth of a child or the death of a loved one, to the more minor, everyday things like coming down with a cold, or a car breaking down. Life happens, and we can plan all we like, and yet the reality is we don’t have control.

So we are all living in this space of almost in many ways, in this space of constantly becoming. We make our plans and have our dreams and go through our lives. And how we deal with the changes in course, I believe, speaks volumes of who we are, who we were and who we will become. Do we resist and fight and demand the illusion of control, or do we step into the moments, embracing the pains and pleasures as they come to us?

I say we all do a bit of both resisting and embracing. I know I do.

When I sense the resistance however, when I become aware that I am fighting something I have no power or control to change, I breathe. I step into my body-centered mindfulness practice. I become curious about why I am so resistant, what is the fear behind the fight, behind the temper-tantrum. (And it’s always a fear that lingers there, trying to keep me safe, trying to keep me from shining.) What am I ready to release, what is the lesson that is sitting here for me to see, to breathe into?

She was becoming herselfOver the last week or so I have had more than a few temper tantrums. I have told BabyBoy he won’t get any birthday parties if he doesn’t make his appearance soon. I have been snappy and mean to my daughter. I have been angry that we aren’t moved into the next step of our lives. We have been ready for weeks now, with hospital bags packed and in the trunk of the car; infant supplies all procured; feelings of readiness and anticipation over-analyzing every twinge from my uterus, every mood shift, every food craving. I have researched every possible way to naturally induce labor and tried many of them.

I have tried to push us forward, when the lesson is to sit back and release and allow life to unfold as it is meant to. To open space for the becoming, to be in the being now: this almost, this “in-between.” I fall back on my breathing and body-focused mindfulness practice and explore my fears and hesitation and embrace this little boy and his lessons for me, allowing more space for the unknown and the almost. And knowing I cannot plan for tomorrow, I allow myself to live in today.

 

Savoring SensualityTo celebrate BabyBoy’s eventual entrance into the world, I have revamped my self-study program Savoring Sensuality and am offering it at a 30%+ discount. For more information and to register, click here. 

Resetting

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During the month of December, I felt off, not quite myself. While I remained present and enjoyed the season with my husband and our girl as a general statement, looking back I recognize the moments and days of disconnection and my own distraction. I can see how the end of the semester took more of my time and focus than I liked. I can see how the holidays, while beautiful and full of moments of our small family connecting, also brought their own stresses and pressure and distractions.

As the  holidays passed and December rolled into January the “offness” made itself even more known. For a few days I felt disconnected, discombobulated. I felt the stress of the long “to do” list for my business that I hope to complete before classes start back up at the end of the month. I felt overwhelm at the number of New Years cards I wanted to get out this week. I felt sadness from not getting more down time to myself; more time to connect with my little family; more time to connect with friends. Angsty is probably the best word to describe how I felt, however I was struggling to figure out what was at the core of the angst; what was beyond this bubbling tantrum of “I don’t wanna!!!”.

This morning, after my daughter woke me up, in those first moments of the day this angst and I-don’t-wanna were in the forefront. All I wanted to do was go back to bed, get some more sleep. All I wanted was to isolate in the dark and cry. All I wanted was to connect deeply with myself and figure out what in the hell was going on.

My husband got up and came down to the kitchen just a few moments after our daughter and I did. He too was exhausted and clearly needed some more sleep and some time to himself. I recommended he go back to bed and I would hang out with our girl for a while before starting my work day (one of the bonuses of running my own business from home: I can come in late whenever I want). He declined and recommended that I go back to bed before starting my work day.

I took him up on his offer.

I went back upstairs and curled under the covers. While I was exhausted, I couldn’t settle back into sleep. So I laid there for a while, allowing my thoughts to wander and came to realize that all this angst I was feeling was self-created. I created my deadlines for work. I created the deadline to get our New Years cards out the door. I created the deadlines to get the house cleaned and organized. I created the go-go-go schedule that kept us out of the house and didn’t allow space for relaxing and connecting.

I smiled at these realizations. Ah, I feel overwhelmed because of me. I feel angsty because I was trying to force myself back into a pace I walked away from four years ago when I left my previous career. I was feeling disconnected because I was disconnecting from those I love and value most. I glanced at the “to do” list I wanted to accomplish this weekend and decided at least half of what wasn’t done yet could be put off to next week. I breathed a sigh of relief, settled into my morning meditation, breathing in the word peace, and breathing out the word release.

Afterward, the smell of bacon motivated me downstairs for breakfast.

We sat at the breakfast table, the three of us. I smiled at our daughter’s now toothless grin and wondered how my itty bitty baby had gotten so big so fast. I talked with my husband and we connected while our daughter played with Barbies and Legos. I made myself some tea and then went upstairs to get ready for my day.

Once I was dressed, I went into the office where my husband was and gave him a hug and kiss. I then went into our girl’s room where she was playing and laughed with her, taking silly pictures of the two of us together. I told her it was time for me to leave and she asked that I stay, so I did for a few more moments, connecting with her and laughing. I went and gave my husband one more kiss and then when I was finally headed downstairs to work after gathering all my things, I saw the two of them cuddling and resting and connecting.

Ah, yes. This is our life: These quiet simple moments of holding each other; of laughing and being silly; of talking and hearing and being heard. This is our life because we chose it to be that way. We, my husband and I, chose for me to give up a career that was slowly killing me and us. I chose to go back to school to start a new career that would allow for more family time, more connection, more empathy and understanding. We choose to walk away from society’s expectations, shoulds and have-tos to create the space for calm, peace and living our lives connected to each other and ourselves.

I’m grateful for my husband. I’m grateful he offered me time this morning to restart. I’m deeply grateful I acknowledged this gift and accepted it; giving myself some much needed time to reset and look into what I needed and wanted.

I invite you to slow down this week. To sit or lay in quiet and allow your mind to wander; to give space to see where your life may not be working as you hoped and to understand why and how you could change that. Slow down, allow yourself to be.

Savoring the In-Between

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There is a place, the in-between, that can be passed by so quickly. It is the space of anticipation – right before the Next Thing becomes reality. It is the space of fear and not knowing – waiting for test results or a decision that is out of our hands to be made. This in-between place is often not comfortable, in fact I would say it is almost always filled with discomfort and we humans like to avoid discomfort in the present moment at much as possible.

I’ve been learning to live and be present in this in-between place. I have many things that are in the future: my husband coming back from a family visit, my birthday, the release of my new course, Halloween festivities, starting my clinical training, graduation, starting a private brick-and-mortar practice and so on. Many things that are far off, some that are just a few days away, and yet I have little to no control to making them happen sooner and so I sit in this waiting, in this in-between the last thing and this next thing, in this anticipation, and in some cases in this fear.

I get frustrated that I can’t make time move more quickly so I can get to that next thing. This frustration, this desire to leap ahead, blocks my ability to savor these now moments, the moments that are happening within and outside of the anticipation. I miss the quiet moments that pop up when I am too focused on the Next Thing and not paying attention to the now. I miss the joy of noticing what just made my girl giggle or feel proud. I miss connecting to the feelings behind the words my husband is sharing with me. I miss savoring the quiet before the chaos, the replenishing time to simply be and not worry.

So these past few weeks have been filled with excited anticipation while I try to not be totally focused on the coming events of this week, month, season and year. I’ve been putting away the laptop and phone more and snuggling with my girl as much as possible and listening to the feelings behind the words of my husband. I’ve been working on quieting the monkey chatter in my brain about All The Things That Must Be Done and letting there be moments of simply being in the now.

It is a balancing act: trying to find the right amount of space to focus on my future projects and staying in the here and now and not worrying about them. It’s a practice in balance for certain and I would argue that most of us are very unbalanced with our focus on the future, our worry about the yet to be, the long To Do list of things that may or may not be very important and yet are excellent distractions from the now. We, as a society, are obsessed with being and looking busy; it is a status symbol. I was caught up in this for years with my career and early motherhood and ultimately it cost me my health not to mention the time lost to connect with the people I loved in those now-gone present moments.

It is a process and a practice and I’m not sure I will ever get it 100% right. Yet, I practice to obtain this balance by continuing to practice being more and more present, bringing the now back into my life and not focus so incredibly much on the future. I continue to practice to recognize those moments of joy as they happen and to feel deep in  my bones the pleasure and bliss of those moments, in those moments.

My mindfulness practice has been the center of helping me to be in the moment, to finding this bliss and pleasure of the now. Mindfulness has helped me to release worry about the future and stay present and focused as I need to be in the particular moment. Mindfulness has allowed me to tune into the anxiety or fear I may be experiencing and to get to it’s root and start to heal some deep-rooted pains. Practicing mindfulness has given me a way to appreciate and fully enjoy my life, as it is, right now.

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