Incompatible

I am incompatible with my life right now. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but I’m pretty sure it was sometime between “Push!” and “It’s a boy!” It’s not like I’m coming down on myself. My personality type is actually quite successful in many arenas and has gotten me to where I am today. I am who I am, and like with most things, the first step is to admit it. I am a perfectionist. I am a control freak. I am comfortable in the familiar and panicked in uncharted territory. I like the expected and am rattled by surprise. I like things to happen when I have scheduled them to happen. I like things to happen how I have envisioned them to happen. Having children was like pressing a “self-destruct” button in my brain. 

My son was born 6 weeks early. I had my last day of work on Friday to allow for at least 2 weeks to prepare for our new child’s arrival in case he came a month early (the earliest possible time he could come in my mind). Saturday I allowed myself to rest before I would begin tackling the house and my long list of things that needed to happen. Sunday I went into labor and that was the beginning of the launch sequence. I have been free falling ever since trying desperately to find some kind of order in this chaos. I grasp at the air violently at times and other times I cross my arms and try to look like everything is just fine (while my cheeks flap in the air rushing past me at mind-blowing speed). 

I distinctly remember one of the first times I caught a glimpse of how parenting was not going to go the way I had anticipated. I walked into the living room one day to see my toddler up on the coffee table. My instinct was to scream in terror—what if he fell off and hit his head?! I took a deep breath, tried to remain calm and told him, “no, no sweetheart, we don’t climb on the coffee table.” He looked up at me and then got off the table. Phew, disaster averted. I was then shocked to find him up on the coffee table again the very next day. I thought we had dealt with this issue. Hadn’t I told him just yesterday that we don’t climb on the coffee table? Had he not heard me? Maybe he didn’t understand what I meant. It took several more months (and many more opportunities to tell my son to get off the coffee table) before I came to understand the true nature of teaching a child anything.