Just wanted to repost this article on my blog because I could have written it... especially as I quickly approach delivering my 5th and get the "how do you do it?" comments pretty regularly. I remember!! And relate.
To the Mother With Only One Child
by Simcha Fisher
Dear Mother of Only One Child,
Don’t say it. Before the words can even pass your lips, let me beg you: don’t say, “Wow, you have nine kids? I thought it was hard with just my one!”
My dear, it is hard. You’re not being a wuss or a whiner when you feel like your life is hard. I know, because I remember having “only one child.” You may not even believe how many times I stop and reflect on how much easier my life is, now that I have nine children.
All right, so there is a lot more laundry. Keeping up with each child’s needs, and making sure they all get enough attention, is a constant worry. And a stomach bug is pretty much the end of the world, when nine digestive tracts are afflicted.
But I remember having only one child, and it was hard—so very hard. Some of the difficulties were just practical: I didn’t know what I was doing, had to learn everything. People pushed me around because I was young and inexperienced. But even worse were the emotional struggles of learning to be a mother.
When I had only one child, I truly suffered during those long, long, long days in our little apartment, no one but the two of us, baby and me, dealing with each other all day long. I invented errands and dawdled and took the long way home, but still had hours and hours to fill before I would hear my husband’s key in the door.
I cared so much what other people thought about her—they had to notice how beautiful she was, they had to be impressed at my natural mothering skills. I obsessed over childhood development charts, tense with fear that my mothering was lacking—that I hadn’t stimulated her enough, or maybe had just passed on the wrong kind of genes. I cringe when I remember how I pushed her—a little baby!—to achieve milestones she wasn’t ready for.
I lived in terror for her physical safety (I once brought her to Urgent Care, where the doctor somewhat irritably diagnosed a case of moderate sniffles) fearing every imaginable disease and injury. In my sleep-deprived state, I would have sudden insane hallucinations that her head had fallen off, her knees had suddenly broken themselves in the night, and so on.
My husband didn’t know how to help me. I didn’t know how to ask for help. My husband had become a father, and I adored him for it. My husband got to leave the house every day, and sleep every night. He got to go to the bathroom alone. I hated him for it.
When I had only one child, I told myself over and over that motherhood was fulfilling and sanctifying and was filling my heart to the brim with peace and satisfaction. And so I felt horribly guilty for being so bored, so resentful, so exhausted. This is a joyful time, dammit! I should enjoy being suddenly transformed into the Doyenne of Anything that Smells Bad.
I loved my baby, I loved pushing her on the swing, watching squirrels at the park together, introducing her to apple sauce, and watching her lips move in joyful dreams of milk. But it was hard, hard, hard. All this work: is this who I am now? I remember!
So now? Yes, the practical parts are a thousand times easier: I’m a virtuoso. I worry, but then I move along. Nobody pushes me around, and I have helpers galore. Someone fetches clean diapers and gets rid of the dirty ones. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night for the ten thousandth time, I sigh and roll my eyes, maybe even cry a little bit for sheer tiredness—but I know it will pass, it will pass.
It’s becoming easier, and it will be easier still. They are passing me by.
I’m broken in. There’s no collision of worlds. We’re so darn busy that it’s a sheer delight to take some time to wash some small child’s small limbs in a quiet bath, or to read The Story of Ferdinand one more time. Taking care of them is easy. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, but when I stop and take a breath, I see that it’s almost like a charade of work. All these things, the dishes, the diapers, the spills—they must be taken care of, but they don’t matter. They aren’t who I am.
To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.
Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.
When I had only one child, she was so heavy. Now I can see that children are as light as air. They float past you, nudging against you like balloons as they ascend.
Dear mother, don’t worry about enjoying your life. Your life is hard; your life will be hard. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong—it means you’re doing it right.
NOVEMBER 2011:
Colby's Spelling Bee, Soccer, soccer, and more soccer...
DECEMBER 2011: 
MARCH 2011:
Family Festival with Ryan & Lisa's family, Soccer Begins, Kids Celebrating Colby's Winning T-Shirt Design, & Colorado Trip for Uncle Chuck's Memorial
APRIL 2011:
Hiking with Austin Wright Cousins, Hotel Swimming with Nelson Cousins, My Sister Sara's Rehearsal Dinner & Wedding
FEBRUARY 2011:
Ward Campout, Taylor's Happy 7th Birthday, First Pinewood Derby, and a Hair Cut for Mom:
Wow! I am feeling the L-O-V-E.
My baby sister got married this weekend! I loved the weekend, love her husband, and am so happy for her! Congratulations Sarabean!! Thank you for making me your maitron of honor and for throwing four days of great parties!
Nelsons getting busy on the dance floor: 
Ethan, Colby, & Grant.... Nelson cousins: 
Charles Frederick Sharp was born in Madison, Wisconsin on April 21st, 1957, the son of Emmit Frederick Sharp, who preceded him in death, and Robbye Lewellyn Sharp. He died February 19, 2011 at the age of 53 from complications of swine flu. He is survived and loved by his mother, Robbye Richards, who will miss him every Bronco’s football game, his sister Marti Nelson of Houston, Texas, who lost her personal photography teacher, and most of all, his daughter Rachel Sharp, whom he loved more than anything in this world. He is also mourned by numerous nieces and nephews, extended family members, and many friends, some now informally adopted as family.
My uncle got the flu which gave him double pnemonia which sent him to ICU where he fought for his life for the past week and a half. He lost that battle this afternoon. I am sad. Sad for my grandma. Sad for my mom... I want to hug her. Aching for my cousin who lived with him and I imagine knew him best. My thoughts and prayers are heavy for them right now.
I'm going to have a tough time choosing a Christmas Card... I love our family pictures this year, particularly the individuals of the kids! I want your opinions on the group picture I should use. Here are several of my favorites...
I rarely, if ever use this blog as a forum for self-therapy. But today, I feel the need to write.
One of my kids has some very real anxieties and helping her work through them has been my greatest parenting challenge to date. We decided to do swim team this year but she has just been fearful of the entire thing from the beginning. I thought just a couple of weeks of practice and she'd fall in love with the sport. However, this particular team did not have a consistent coach until the 3rd week, there were 10+ kids per one adult, no friends on the team, CHAOS at meets, a fear of failing in a race, not being able to breathe like she wants to, and more were all factors contributing to her fears. At practice, I could get her in the water, but I couldn't make her try and sometimes I would see the coach literally just carry her across the water and her arms and legs would remain completely paralyzed. It didn't take me long to realize that she was not going to swim, no matter how many compliments or bribes I offered. And so, when Jared was available to watch my other girls, I began to get in the water with her. Two or three times a week I got in the water during practice and worked with her in our own lane. She responded well to me and I could tell she loved having that one-on-one time with me. She definitely improved and discovered that she loved backstroke because she could breathe the entire time and that she was actually pretty good at it.
I won't go through every detail of the season, but basically she refused to swim at the meets and she barely tried at practice unless I was in the water with her. I put so much effort into helping her alleviate every possible stressor, to prepare her for what was going to happen, but as the race approached, I could feel her heart start racing and she'd start saying, "I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it." She'd lose control of her ability to make a conscious choice and she wouldn't swim. At the 3rd meet, she got in the water. She was halfway down the lane - in first place in the first heat - and then she stopped, grabbed the rope, and crawled her way back to the start line. At the 4th meet, all of the stars aligned and she actually swam the backstroke. Forget that I bribed her with rollerblades, that we happen to be swimming at our home pool, that she refused to do a warm-up, that she had to sit with me until right before the race, that I had to walk her to the starting block, stay with her until her heat, and then walk alongside the wall with her the entire time she swam so that she could see me until the end. Forget all of that! She got 2nd place in her heat and she felt really good about herself. She wanted to put that ribbon in her scrapbook. She got her bribe and everyone was complimenting her about how fast she was and how pretty her stroke was. Success!! That's all she needed, right? One success and she could then cope with her anxieties and the next time would be a piece of cake. It seemed that way the next week at practice. She actually got in the pool on her own the last two days, learned to breathe on the side for freestyle without me, and didn't run over to me once during the middle of practice.
Wrong. The final meet was yesterday and she was going to swim. We were at our home pool. It was all going to come together again. She didn't even second guess the fact. Until she realized that she wasn't swimming in the outside lane and that I couldn't walk alongside the pool, cheering her on the entire way. She was only one lane over but it was too much. She couldn't adapt. And here is where I earned the parent of the year award. I was trying to calm her down. "You can do it. Would you rather me stay here in front of your lane so you can see me or walk alongside the wall so you can hear me? I'll be with you the whole way. Its just like last time." Her: "I can't do it. I can't do it." Her heat is up. I try to force her in the water. She's screaming at me and kicking her feet. The announcer asks if we have all of our swimmers. She jumps out of the water. And I just throw my hands up. Yell that she's not swimming. I storm off to our stuff. I was embarrassed at the way I reacted. For those that didn't know the situation (which was pretty much everybody), I'm sure I looked like one of those parents. The kind that pushes and forces and expects perfection from their kids, no questions asked.
I tell Jared I'm just taking all the girls home. As I'm pacing to the car, she tries to grab my hand and I pull mine away. When I get in the car, I start crying. She asks why I'm crying and I tell her its because she didn't get in that water. Ouch. I know. She starts crying. Not my proudest moment.
Sweet Jared says, "It doesn't matter Mel. It's not worth it. Don't worry about it." But I had put so much into this, into easing her fears, into trying to help her gain confidence, into helping her realize how good and powerful and CAPABLE she is. And it still didn't work. It wasn't about her swimming. It was about the rest of her life. It was about the fact that her life is so much harder than it needs to be and I had no idea how to make it any easier. At that moment - I was DONE. I gave up. I have said that probably 80% of my parenting efforts go into trying to figure this child out. And yet, I fail. At that moment, I just couldn't do it anymore.
When we got home, she went to her room and shut the door. I went to my room and shut the door. After a few minutes, I went up to apologize and talk to her. She wasn't ready. About 20 minutes later, she came downstairs and just laid on me and snuggled. I love how forgiving kids can be. We were good. We were going to be okay.
And then I was able to talk to a couple of dear friends who gave me hope and helped me refocus. I said, "the world is not going to coddle her along the way like I tried to do but if I don't do anything, she will sit at home and do nothing and be perfectly content with that." She said, "but your job is to help her learn how to cope with her fears. Your job is to help her prepare for the unexpected by walking her through mentally what she will do in different situations before the situations happen. At this age, she doesn't know how to cope, how to prepare. She'll eventually be able to do it on her own. Keep trying to help her excel but give her as much choice in the matter as you can. Help her to prepare and then let her decide. And be okay with her decision. Point out the consequences to her choices and then let her choose again and be okay with her choice again."
All things I wanted to hear, I needed to hear. But probably my favorite thing that was said was that I have the opportunity to write her story. I can either write her as a shy, fearful, anxious child who can't do things because she's just too shy. Or, I can do my best to prepare her for her fears so that when she gets to that moment where they start coming on hard, she is prepared and she can make a conscious choice before conscious thought is taken over by anxiety. I can write her as a BRAVE little girl who has fears just like every other child but she is so brave that she chooses to beat them. And when she chooses not to beat them, I don't have to be irritated and frustrated. I can show love regardless and remind her how she felt those times when she did beat them so that the next time she's in the same situation, she can remember over and over that she IS brave and that it feels good to be brave and it feels good to do things. And I can remind her again and again. And tell her she's brave again and again.
And so I'm back on. I haven't given up. I'm ready to educated myself more. And I'm ready to write that story for her...
(I feel much better now... thanks for listening)
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