9/30/2014

Dear Lilibug -

It's been a while since I've written you one of these.  Over 2 years. That's really disappointing because you have changed and accomplished so very much in that amount of time.  The difference between your 6-year-old self and the almost 9-year-old before me today, is astounding. You are still beautiful, talented, and smart. I've been reading things about how you're not supposed to tell your children about their innate abilities. Apparently, you are supposed to emphasize the work it takes to achieve something. Blah, blah, blah, whatever. You are all of those things I said.  And I will try to always tell you.  A girl can never be told enough about the good in her.  The world is too busy telling her otherwise.  

In the last 2 years you have accomplished so much! You haven't physically grown much (sorry about that - that's your father's side of the family), but your spirit has taken leaps and bounds.  I can't really call you a "little girl" anymore.  You are now in 4 disciplines at your dance studio: ballet, tap, jazz, & lyrical.  You entered the GATE program in the 2nd grade, and despite some reservations on my part, have flourished and excelled. You've asked (and I've explained) about the birds and the bees. You made the choice on your own to be baptized. You are now a 3rd grader, which is crazy to me.  I still remember the adorable, button-nosed, purple-eyed, curly-haired, colicky screaming baby from years ago like it was only yesterday.

You are the quintessential big sister.  You take very seriously the inborn responsibility of bossing... I mean, taking care of... your sisters.  It is difficult for you to decipher between when I need your aide, and when you are taking it upon yourself to be in charge.  I understand this is difficult for any person.  "Do this but don't do this."  I get it.  I do.  And I try to explain to you the difference whenever I can without making you feel bad about it.  It's hard because when you do it right, you are such an amazing helper.  You were my saving grace the 1st month of your new little brother's life as you amused Daphne and stifled arguments between her & Cecily.  You kept Daphne from running into parking lots and eating things off the floor and ripping apart books while I stumbled around in an exhausted, depression-induced haze.  The new school year interrupted this.  I miss you.  I need you.  And that is too much to place on the shoulders of such a young person.  But you bear it with as much grace as you can.

Speaking of Mommy's depression - I have tried to explain to you a few times, very straightforward, exactly what that means.  You furrow your eyebrows and listen and try to comprehend.  I don't expect you to be able to, but the effort alone means more to me than you'll ever know.  If I haven't yet, or forget to do so in the future, I thank you.  Thank you for your childish innocence and lack of judgment.  Thank you for saying "Bless Mommy & her depression" every time you pray.  Thank you for not calling me a hypocrite when I lose my temper and then quickly discipline you for losing yours.  Thank you.

I sense in you an ever-growing anxiety.  I'm not sure if it's just part of your genetic makeup, if it's part of being the oldest child with a predisposition for perfectionism, or if it's my influence, especially as of late.  It makes me nervous.  Not because it makes you a bad person, but because I don't want pain for my children - and I know about the hurt of anxiety.  You are hard on yourself when you make mistakes.  You want perfect scores and nothing less in school.  Fortunately for you, those are generally not hard to come by.  You get frustrated when new steps are a challenge for you in dance class.  A lot of the girls your age are practically living at the studio these days with twice as many classes.  I want you to be able to be a child; able to play; able to attend Church functions; able to read and relax.  But this has caused you to notice they seem to be passing you up in skill.  You will likely not grow up to be a professional dancer someday.  And if it's meant to be otherwise, then it'll work out.  I try to tell you to just enjoy it.  The obedient child in you says, "Ok."  But the perfectionist in you looks conflicted.  I imagine this turmoil will only grow as you do.

Speaking of growing, you are 8-going-on-16.  You have recently developed a HUGE attitude. Unfortunately for you, you didn't realize that your mother is the master of attitude. Just ask your grandparents.  I will ask you a simple, innocent question, and I will immediately garner from you a snippy-infused reply.  There is no warning.  One minute you are willingly and cheerfully helping me out with Daphne, and the next you are blowing me away with a sassiness bigger than one would imagine your petite body could muster.  It was so much easier when you were a toddler just saying, "No!"  Now it's, "Fiiiiiiiiiiiine" with a dramatic, drawn out sigh and a stomp and a spin on your heel, whipping your hair and walking away, shoulders slumped, grunting at the ground.   I don't like her very much.  You?  I love.  Her?  I could do without.  Also? Nothing is funnier to you right now than words about bodily functions and the accompanying sounds that go with them.  I've never been the perfect example of a classy lady, so it's hard for me not to feel like my stifling you is a double standard.  

But my job is to make you better than me.

All criticism aside, however, you really are a special girl.  You've won art competitions and you've mastered math skills.  You love to write and you love to explore.  You still love fairies and the concept of flight.  You are infatuated with animals of all kinds and are relentlessly asking for a pet you can cuddle.  Right now, your goal is to be a veterinarian, a mommy, a restaurant owner, a marine biologist, and a performer.  I truly believe you CAN be all of those things.  Not because I'm your mommy, but because you're you.  You love the Gospel and plan to serve a mission someday.  You talk about marriage in the temple as if it's a no-brainer as your only option.  You remind me to pray every time I seem bothered about anything. Every. Time. Your love for your siblings is massive, and when your sisters aren't annoying you, you are so good with them.  You are enamored with JD and are constantly wanting to hold him.  You have offered, multiple times, to have him sleep in your bed with you all night so I can get some sleep.  You have no idea how badly I wish that would actually work...

..

I love you, Lilibug.  And even though I never vocally call you that anymore, you will always be her to me.  I remember feeling annoyed when my mom would make any reference to my having been her little girl.  I was so anxious to be a grown up.  You've expressed the same.  But I'm telling you to slow down...

... for both our sakes.

One Month In

I've been to therapy twice.

Has it helped? It definitely has a cleansing quality to it; being able to cry it all out to someone who, you HOPE, has been around people a lot crazier than you are. Right after each session, I feel better.  But then, when it's back to the grind...

I've been taking medication for a week and a 1/2.

Has it helped?  I don't know.  It's difficult to put a measure on it when you're still pretty sleep-deprived and you still feel like there are at least 1/2 a dozen times a day that you're going to lose it.  The permanent weight on my chest is gone.  That cloud that hovers over my chest like I'm Eeyore seems to have somewhat dissipated. Instead of a deluge, it's more like scattered thunderstorms.

Daphne has recently become more difficult. Initially, I found myself really impressed with her adjustment to the new addition. I guess, after a month, the newness has worn off and she realizes Mommy really is less accessible. She had her 1st official timeout this morning. She dropped the iPad on JD's head. It was an accident. But she refused to apologize.  So, off she went. It's a painful ritual for a mother - a child's 1st timeout - it's like they've officially been inducted into that sucky elite club of innocence lost.

CC is, well... CC. She complains about school being too long. She complains about what I put in her lunch. She complains about having to wear tights to dance class. But she's also happy at the flip of a switch.  I don't know if she's aware that our home feels different right now.  That's a blessing for her. Her cluelessness can irritate me, but maybe it's a survival instinct.

Malia is getting anxious. I can see it in her face. I hear it in her voice when she talks to her sisters. Being my helper is wearing on her. But I think that watching me suffer, as hard as I try to contain it in their presence, is really hurting her.  I don't know what to do about it. I've explained it to her - depression. I've explained that it's only seasonal in my case. But I didn't really understand it myself, even as an adult, until I had it.

I still don't understand it, to be honest.

I've always been pretty self-aware. In layman's terms, that basically means that I know when I'm being a jerk. I can control it... when I want to. But right now, it's like there's 2 of me. There's Tiffany: in control, functioning, capable, somewhat intelligent, who loves her children and has worked hard on making sure she is compassionate with them. And then there's this other chic hanging around: she's just louder than Tiffany. MUCH louder. She has a quick temper and little patience. And she's mean. It's almost like Jekyll & Hyde... No. The Hulk. Definitely the Hulk. And I hate her. And she DEFINITELY hates me.  Also, she likes to make Tiffany cry a minimum of 3-4 times a day.  For no reason.

Maybe she thinks it's funny.

I'm trying to take it a day at a time. But feeling like you're wearing the skin of someone else gets really tedious. My conversations with God are brief in the gratitude department. The ones where I'm mad? Yeah... those are dissertations.  He & I have been here twice before. Three times if you count the angry prayers from when Malia was a baby. But that was colic. Not depression.

And poor Dave. As much as I want to write about how hard depression can be on a marriage, I respect the sanctity of our relationship too much to put that here. But let me just be clear: if anyone tries to tell you that depression doesn't negatively impact a marriage, they're lying.  You can take it and grow from it, sure. But it is a very HOT refiner's fire.

I have a lot of thoughts in my head these days.  But JD just filled his pants big time and it's spilling out of his diaper. I can see the bright orange stain forming on the back of his onesie.

Like I said. Back to the grind...