Just Call Me "Joan"

I've been surprising myself. I'm surprised by how much I have been cracking under pressure. In front of Noemi. At Noemi. I'm not that mom--or at least I never wanted to be.

The reality is that things are far more in control than they were months ago--we are sleeping more, night terrors are infrequent, Noemi is better regulated overall and her mood is far more stable. She is not triggered into hysterics at the same rate or with the same level of intensity. Most days she is genuinely happy--and fun--and silly. I KNOW things are better--I FEEL things are better. Then why am I cracking now?

At least one of us in the Witmer household has descended into the mood-trough more times than I can count in recent weeks. Crocodile tears. Disrupted sleep. Triple the rate of the tantrums and throw some extra-yummy intensity sprinkles on top. You'd think that I would be able to tell my now better-rested self, Julie--this has happened before--there is an end--she'll be on the other side soon. Peace will return. But we're both fried. Again.

I've realized it is the blood-curdling screaming that triggers my blood pressure to rise and feelings of helplessness. We all have things from our own childhood that effect us as adults, and screaming is one of the prizes in my goodie-bag. I can't stand screaming. I know--who likes screaming? But really, I crumble with screaming. Not yelling, not crying, not tantrums, but screaming. It turns me into a little girl.

Noemi has been a screamer since the day we met her. My girl has pipes. And she doesn't have a whole lot between 1 and 10--she moves through 2 to 9 pretty quickly. Is this her temperament? You betcha--and I adore her passion. But I can tell the difference between when she is exerting her strong will and when her hyper-vigilance turns on and she is panicked. And screaming is her mode of communication in those moments.

Here is where I walk you down my road of shame...

I screamed back at Noemi twice last week. And I may or may not have "told" her to shut up at 4am during the two-hour scream fest just before slamming a door. sigh. I know, all parents crack. All parents lose their cool. But I'm now, regrettably, a card carrying member of the Mommie Dearest Club (sans the wire hanger).
I'll put a plug in for Dr. Lark Eshelman here...if you don't know her and your family needs help with attachment/trauma issues, seek her out. Today. This woman has helped our family in more ways than I can say. And though she is no longer at the Institute for Children and Families, as they have closed their doors, she does independent consultations via the phone or Skype. So I now can get therapy in my home--in my jammies--while drinking clear liquids. Sweet Jiminy Cricket, that's therapy for therapy. I digress...check her out.

So yeah, I'm worn down to a thin piece of soggy cheese. I'm like the left over bread at the bottom of a bowl of French onion soup.

BUT. This is what makes it worth it...

I mean, honestly, when Noemi is present in her own skin, the results are pure magik. I am renewed by her humor daily. We are getting plenty of these days thrown into the mix, too...lest I not emphasize that enough.

Donovan and I decided a break from these forsaken Pennsylvania winters was in order, so we will all head to Florida to celebrate our upcoming 35th and 36th birthdays (dum dum dum duuuuuuum). Nothing beats sun, sand and seagulls to wash the loonies away. We will be keeping our fingers and toes crossed that the non-stop water play will help keep Noemi regulated during this routine-buster. Are we crazy? Perhaps. But staying here might just may turn me into the dark side of Joan Crawford.