Depression

My little girl and I haven’t been vibing as of late. A lot of fussing and yelling has taken the place of usually polite and loving conversation. She has always alleged that I love her brother more, but I can assure y’all I don’t, but I make I still make a concerted effort to schedule mom and daughter time, pick up little things for her, etc.

Just a few weeks ago, my husband and I opened a checking account for both kids to get them to do their chores and keep us from spending millions of dollars in Robux. So now they have a list of chores. They do them begrudgingly, although I’ve found myself correcting Isla and fussing more about her not doing chores. And she called me on it. It’s not that I want to do Eli’s chores for him, I don’t, but as a first grader, I don’t think he’s capable of doing the same chores. Reasonable, right? But then I started mulling that I’m always harder on Isla. Not on purpose; I thought it was because she was older, I expect more, but now I’m thinking it’s because she’s a girl, and mothers are naturally harder on girls. Some mothers. I didn’t actually experience this with my own mother, but there were things she let my brother get away with that I couldn’t and vice versa. Seemed fair. But my mother was never, ever harder on me. If anything, it was the opposite. But my mother is perfection, and it’s difficult to duplicate. I have limitations.

So I decided to Google it because I was lacking personal experience. And yes, there were lots of articles on mothers being harder of their daughters. And even a study!

One article stated, ““Parents treating their children differently is common in families, especially those with children from both genders. For example, mothers tend to have higher expectations from and be more critical of their daughters over their sons, according to a Netmums survey.

It went on to say that often mothers formed a stronger bond with their sons, and mothers were more likely to describe their girls as serious whereas they’d describe boys as “cheeky” and “loving.” The report warned that girls grow up with more self-critical issues, and suffer as a result.

Reading that was like a blow to the stomach. I in no way want her to suffer from me being too critical. I don’t want her to suffer from anything I do! That has been established in several of my columns. But just the other day, I asked her to help me with something when the “men of the house” quickly disappeared. She balked, and in frustration, I said that women just do more. They’re stronger, and they’re expected to do more at times and that it just wasn’t fair. I didn’t think too much about my comment until I saw the Barbie movie with my daughter and husband. I started crying the minute I heard this line: “We mothers stand still so our daughters can look back to see how far they have come.”

Many have different interpretations of that, but I understand it that moms work so hard and are always moving forward, but eventually, moms have to let go of their daughter’s (or son’s) hand and let them live. Let them grow, and grow, and grow and grow. I also thought about how difficult it was for a woman to live in this patriarchal society.

I don’t think I treat her the way I do because I like my son more. Or that I don’t love her — that’s ridiculous. But maybe I’m trying to shape her, no doubt like my mom helped shape me, into a stronger person. A stronger woman. I want her to look at me and see a strong woman who battled severe depression and anxiety and an eating disorder, etc. I want her to have grit, to learn how to never give up. I want her to travel, to love herself, to be independent (as I am dependent on my husband).

I want her to be better than me.

But while I have good intentions, I should approach our feuds differently. She’s a wild, fierce being, and I know that sucks now because I’m raising her, but she has strength that I never did. She needs to learn how to be a good human, sure. But I could teach her how to be a good person and empowered woman in other ways. Looking back, that’s how I learned. Not with constant complaining and yelling. I need to provide a space for her to figure out who she is and wants to be.

Sounds like I could learn to be a stronger woman myself. And it’s lucky that she’s here to teach and shape me, too.

Last week I ordered jump ropes so my daughter and I could have fun exercising. I didn’t want to use the word “exercise,” we were just going to have fun.

The day they got here I realized a few of things: I needed a heavy-duty sports bra, my pelvic floor isn’t as strong as it used to be and finally, I’m old.

I made necessary adjustments, and we did had fun, but it wasn’t as easy as I had pictured it. I thought we would play for at least an hour, but just doing eight to 10 jumps at a time was winding us. We decided we would take a break and start again the next day.

I put on my good tennis shoes the next day and was ready. I worked up to 11 jumps in a row (I kept messing up) and was determined to beat it when I heard a big “POP,” and I folded over in pain. It was my back. Pain started in the middle of my back and spasms shot up the left side. I asked my daughter to get me an ice pack, and I immediately went to lie down.

The kids were being picked up by my mother-in-law later, so I was able to rest for the remainder the day. I could get up and walk a bit, but it was still hurting badly a few hours when my husband came home. When I told him what happened, he did not seem thrilled. I think I ruined his weekend plans, but he didn’t say anything to me.

It kind of reminded me of when I would have migraines all the time, like 16 per month. I was always disappointing someone, whether it was a coworker, boss, friend, boyfriend, etc. And when it wasn’t a migraine, it was depression. It has made me hypersensitive to others’ reactions when I’m sick or unavailable. Maybe David didn’t even have a reaction, I could’ve been extra sensitive.

But it reminded me that it’s okay for me to rest. No matter what — if I hurt my back, if I were feeling depressed, had a migraine, stubbed my toe, sneezed too hard, whatever. I don’t have to work for my rest, and I’ve never had to. Have people made comments about how much I rest or get sick or injured? Yes, but they are not dealing with what I’m dealing with. Nobody knows what it’s like to be me, but me. And it’s okay for me to rest.

And it’s okay for you to rest, too.

None of us has to earn it.

This past weekend my husband’s family had its reunion, which is held every five years. I don’t remember the last one, but I was there in 2012, and it was overwhelming to say the least. At that time I was newly engaged. There were more than 100 people there, and back then I had horrible social anxiety. So when David announced that this year’s reunion was in Corpus AND that we were hosting the Easter egg hunt/brunch on the last day, my stomach started to churn. Not that I don’t like his family — they have been so nice and kind to me, and always welcoming. But, I thought to my self, I’ve had more than 30 ECTs since then, I wasn’t sure if I could keep names or faces straight, and it’s so embarrassing when I get it wrong.

Turns out that didn’t matter because there were about 130 or 140 of us, and there were tons of people who didn’t know each other. Plus, we had name tags! And as far as my social anxiety, it’s not nearly as bad lately. I can speak in full sentences and answer questions without sweat running down my face and other places I won’t mention.

I had a blast.

But the most poignant moment for me was when I was sitting on a boat with one of my husband’s cousin (who reads my blogs and columns – yay!) and his wife, and he commented that the reunions are great for the adults, but the best memories of his childhood were from the reunion. That it didn’t matter what they did – although going to the ranch was a big memory for most of the cousins – they just liked being with each other.

My heart swelled and I couldn’t help but look around for my kids who had been running around the outside of the boat (we were inside where it wasn’t raining). I caught a flash of Eli trailing one of the bigger kids. I know he was having a good time because on the bus ride to the ranch he was sitting next to another boy and said, “It feels like we’re friends. What’s your name again?”

How amazing this family is to celebrate every five years. To have the fourth generation there as well as the seventh. To listen to stories from the fourth generation, and see the wedding dress of Sarah Weil, who married Charles Weil in 1874, at the CC Museum of Science and History!

Now that’s cool.

I’ve always been proud to tell others that my husband is a fifth-generation Corpus Christi-an and that my kids are sixth. And now that I know more about the family, I see their roots are steeped in Corpus Christi (and surrounding area) history. Not a lot of people can say that.

Except their cousins.

I hope the reunions continue; I know it’s a lot of work, but what a special thing to share with your kids, parents, etc.

I’m so grateful I got to be there last weekend.

I’m even more grateful I married into this beautiful, devoted family.

See you in five years.