Dear Baby Two,
Hi, this is your mama. I don't know you at all yet. I am not skilled at that intuition stuff that is supposed to make me feel as if I know you already even though you are only the size of a pineapple. Even so, this early in our lives together, I would already like to apologize to you. I think I have neglected you the last eight months. By the time I was this far along with G, I had filled almost an entire journal of mama musings. I had painted G's room, bought her new furniture, looked at a million day cares, washed all of her new newborn clothes in special baby detergent and stenciled green stars over her crib.
For you? I have done nothing. I even keep forgetting to order newborn diapers. Even worse, the only time I really think of you in a live, little human person way, and not as an octopus in my belly with eight arms hitting me from all angles, is when I think of you in the context of how it will affect G. I wonder if this is the beginning of a your life of neglect from your mama. Oh dear, I can already see you reading that birth order book when you're 10 and drawing conclusions that are bound to make me feel bad.
So, let me just say now, before you're even out: I'm sorry. It's just that G was here first, Two, and therefore, she is all that I can think about and all that I can fathom loving so much and all that I imagine having in my life. I just can't wrap my head around you. G has been this gale-like force that has knocked me on my butt, slapped me around a bit, but ultimately has lead me to discover the real use for my heart. What more can you do that G has not already done? And then to top it off, I don't know how you will win: I worry how I will cope if you are like G (screaming banshee for eight months), but then I worry how I will react if you are not like G (chatty toddler who likes to sing along to such bands as The Beatles, Paramore and Patty Griffin. )
You are following a tough act, Little Person in there, and I am sorry about that. That's just the way it is. Which reminds me, I should probably make sure I remove G's name from over your crib...
Sheesh, maybe I should just give you the birth order book as you exit the womb.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Legacy
Someone at work has told me a couple of times that people who work part-time do not make work a priority. I think about this often. The remark seems pretty biting, unfounded, upsetting and discouraging.
But recently, I have been thinking deeper.
My aunt and my grandmother died, both within this month. When I heard the news that they were gone, the first thing that came to my mind was not, how much money they had, how much prestige they had, or even how much time they gave to their communities. The first thing that came to my mind on both occasions was: Wow, they raised such amazing people.
My aunt was a fiery woman who knew she always wanted to have 10 kids even though she grew up an only child. She taught me first-hand about "colorful" language, and was shocked to realize that my naive 13-year-old self did not know what the word "gay" meant.
My grandmother commanded the room in an opposite manner: through silence. Yet she was no push-over either, and somehow always seemed to let her opinions be known. She once cut off her grown daughter who had poured herself a second glass of wine.
I thought of them tonight as I was singing lullaby number 15 to G, after I had read her 10 books and given her one back rub (“wit' cream, mama”). It’s hard to imagine either one of them doing that with one of the 16 kids between them. But that certainly didn't affect the people they produced.
They were both mothers first. And although I can’t really say what they were like as mothers, I can look at the people they made and have a pretty good idea that they were pretty great mothers, even if they may have been a little different from me.
I guess I hope at the end of my life, that I won’t be judged by the money I made, the articles I got published or the races I ran, I guess I hope that I will be judged by my greatest product, my greatest gift to the world, my best and hardest work and yes, my priority, my kids. I think and hope that G will best represent me.
But recently, I have been thinking deeper.
My aunt and my grandmother died, both within this month. When I heard the news that they were gone, the first thing that came to my mind was not, how much money they had, how much prestige they had, or even how much time they gave to their communities. The first thing that came to my mind on both occasions was: Wow, they raised such amazing people.
My aunt was a fiery woman who knew she always wanted to have 10 kids even though she grew up an only child. She taught me first-hand about "colorful" language, and was shocked to realize that my naive 13-year-old self did not know what the word "gay" meant.
My grandmother commanded the room in an opposite manner: through silence. Yet she was no push-over either, and somehow always seemed to let her opinions be known. She once cut off her grown daughter who had poured herself a second glass of wine.
I thought of them tonight as I was singing lullaby number 15 to G, after I had read her 10 books and given her one back rub (“wit' cream, mama”). It’s hard to imagine either one of them doing that with one of the 16 kids between them. But that certainly didn't affect the people they produced.
They were both mothers first. And although I can’t really say what they were like as mothers, I can look at the people they made and have a pretty good idea that they were pretty great mothers, even if they may have been a little different from me.
I guess I hope at the end of my life, that I won’t be judged by the money I made, the articles I got published or the races I ran, I guess I hope that I will be judged by my greatest product, my greatest gift to the world, my best and hardest work and yes, my priority, my kids. I think and hope that G will best represent me.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Baby Deadline
I have this feeling that I recognize from when I was pregnant with G. As the countdown begins to baby two, I have that feeling that I am about to enter a void, a place where I have no life, no opportunities, little income and limited mobility. To counter that feeling, I am trying to find new projects and opportunities to fit in before I enter that baby space. But I am quickly realizing that my baby deadline is getting close.
Today T and I stopped by Starbucks on our way home from the doc's and sat there for a bit before rushing home to G. I watched another mom with her little girl and envied her a bit cause she was there with her cute little lady who was wearing an awesome embroidered long pink coat and saying funny and astute things like, "Why do I have to be quiet in Starbucks?" The mom looked tired and unamused. It was the end of the day. She had been running around all day with her grl. She was waiting for her husband to come home to have someone to talk to and someone to take on the responsibility of parent. She probably looked a lot like me at the end of my G days.
A mama friend of mine and I spoke today about feeling stuck: unable to move forward in our careers, but also unwilling to risk moving forward for fear that it would compromise the flexibility and comfort of our jobs that make it easy for us to be mamas first.
Why do we have to have more now? What is more? Do we know that "more" is better?
G and I have been a little off these days, between her whines and my hormones. Her "I want dada,"s make me crazy. I wonder if she senses that I am going to have another baby priority soon? I feel like she is moving away from me a bit. Man, that seems like such a dumb thing to say. But maybe we are both bracing ourselves for what is to come. Thinking back, the worst times in my relationship with my Mom came before big, life changes like college and marriage. Maybe that's how moms and daughters do it, even if the daughter can't even say "life change" yet, let alone understand it.
But tomorrow is a new day! It's wide open for G and me and we are going to make the most of it. We are going to seize the day! live in the moment! and not care about baby deadlines, hormones, whines, or the impending void. We are just going to play, and drink hot chocolate and not worry about any of that.
Today T and I stopped by Starbucks on our way home from the doc's and sat there for a bit before rushing home to G. I watched another mom with her little girl and envied her a bit cause she was there with her cute little lady who was wearing an awesome embroidered long pink coat and saying funny and astute things like, "Why do I have to be quiet in Starbucks?" The mom looked tired and unamused. It was the end of the day. She had been running around all day with her grl. She was waiting for her husband to come home to have someone to talk to and someone to take on the responsibility of parent. She probably looked a lot like me at the end of my G days.
A mama friend of mine and I spoke today about feeling stuck: unable to move forward in our careers, but also unwilling to risk moving forward for fear that it would compromise the flexibility and comfort of our jobs that make it easy for us to be mamas first.
Why do we have to have more now? What is more? Do we know that "more" is better?
G and I have been a little off these days, between her whines and my hormones. Her "I want dada,"s make me crazy. I wonder if she senses that I am going to have another baby priority soon? I feel like she is moving away from me a bit. Man, that seems like such a dumb thing to say. But maybe we are both bracing ourselves for what is to come. Thinking back, the worst times in my relationship with my Mom came before big, life changes like college and marriage. Maybe that's how moms and daughters do it, even if the daughter can't even say "life change" yet, let alone understand it.
But tomorrow is a new day! It's wide open for G and me and we are going to make the most of it. We are going to seize the day! live in the moment! and not care about baby deadlines, hormones, whines, or the impending void. We are just going to play, and drink hot chocolate and not worry about any of that.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Round Two
G lifted up her shirt and pointed to her belly at my doctor's appointment yesterday and announced to the waiting room, "Baby."
Try explaining that there is a baby in mama's belly to a 21-month old. It's almost as crazy as trying to explain it to the mama: "So, there is this person inside me and today he or she grew ears. And tomorrow, he/she will start sucking his/her thumb and the next day, maybe open his/her eyes and react to a light shown outside my belly. Oh! and he/she is breathing liquid and at times gets the hiccups." Ok, right. That's totally easy to warp my head around.
The Safeway cashier who scanned my pregnancy test, stopped abruptly to ask. "Whoewah, does the fahrtha know?"
Being pregnant a second time is a lot less of a big deal. No parties. Not as much sympathy. Fewer random back rubs from T. It's like I know too much about what is to come this time around, so it feels less exciting and a little more...exhausting. But then on the good side, Round Two feels more normal, less stressful and more confident.
Pregnancy, in general, is not all that fun to me, as my random puking on Friday night might suggest. And yet, being pregnant is at the same time sort of magical, or spiritual, or something. It's sort of like proof of God. It's just too amazing and mind-boggling to be a random act of nature. And it seems that other people who smile at me on the street when they see my swollen belly, may subconsciously think the same.
That must be why people love to touch a pregnant belly or ask a pregnant woman about her due date, or how she feels, or if she's excited, or if she wants a boy or a girl. And while, I don't love to be called, "cute," as most 30 somethings probably don't, I have to realize, it's not really about me. I think people just have this desire to be close even for a second, to a pregnant woman because of what she symbolizes. No matter what people do or do not believe, or how cynical the world is, or how much financial trouble the US is in, a pregnant woman can often be this sign of hope or goodness or a sign of just something way bigger and way more important than any one of us.
The other day G lifted up my shirt to kiss my belly. Then she pulled my shirt back down and said, "Bye Bye Baby." She doesn't really get what's going on. But then, it's a pretty crazy concept for anyone, really. That must be what makes it so amazing.
Try explaining that there is a baby in mama's belly to a 21-month old. It's almost as crazy as trying to explain it to the mama: "So, there is this person inside me and today he or she grew ears. And tomorrow, he/she will start sucking his/her thumb and the next day, maybe open his/her eyes and react to a light shown outside my belly. Oh! and he/she is breathing liquid and at times gets the hiccups." Ok, right. That's totally easy to warp my head around.
The Safeway cashier who scanned my pregnancy test, stopped abruptly to ask. "Whoewah, does the fahrtha know?"
Being pregnant a second time is a lot less of a big deal. No parties. Not as much sympathy. Fewer random back rubs from T. It's like I know too much about what is to come this time around, so it feels less exciting and a little more...exhausting. But then on the good side, Round Two feels more normal, less stressful and more confident.
Pregnancy, in general, is not all that fun to me, as my random puking on Friday night might suggest. And yet, being pregnant is at the same time sort of magical, or spiritual, or something. It's sort of like proof of God. It's just too amazing and mind-boggling to be a random act of nature. And it seems that other people who smile at me on the street when they see my swollen belly, may subconsciously think the same.
That must be why people love to touch a pregnant belly or ask a pregnant woman about her due date, or how she feels, or if she's excited, or if she wants a boy or a girl. And while, I don't love to be called, "cute," as most 30 somethings probably don't, I have to realize, it's not really about me. I think people just have this desire to be close even for a second, to a pregnant woman because of what she symbolizes. No matter what people do or do not believe, or how cynical the world is, or how much financial trouble the US is in, a pregnant woman can often be this sign of hope or goodness or a sign of just something way bigger and way more important than any one of us.
The other day G lifted up my shirt to kiss my belly. Then she pulled my shirt back down and said, "Bye Bye Baby." She doesn't really get what's going on. But then, it's a pretty crazy concept for anyone, really. That must be what makes it so amazing.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Crazy Mama and the Starbucks Experience
At one point in time, long, long ago, the fall time change meant another hour of sleep. Now, as every mama knows, it only means another hour of awake. My grandfather used to say that daylight savings time was all for the golfers. I am pretty sure he said that with a little bit of disdain. He wasn't a golfer. He was a railroad engineer who worked nights, so I bet he wasn't too fond of random messings with time. Me, I think maybe Starbucks is in on daylight savings. They know that the mamas will be needing an extra cup when their kid starts to make a habit of 5 am rises. Time change=more coffee.
This is why G and I found ourselves in Starbucks this morning, way before the 9-5ers were well-caffeinated. I love my neighborhood. There are plenty of every kind of people in my hood: mamas, nannies, partiers, druggies, rich, poor, cool boot wearing women, homeless, shoeless man. I love the diversity, even if I do get a little annoyed when the junkie on our block reprimands me for not having shoes on G. (This has happened twice, from two different stoopers.) It's a great place to live. BUT, Starbucks before 9 am on a weekday with a toddler who is trying to shove over the VIA coffee display feels a little...uncomfortable.
T and I decided a while ago that all mamas are crazy. And this I now know for a fact. This morning, I actually felt crazy. Or I felt like everyone else felt I was crazy.
But then, YOU try to keep one eye on an active toddler in a crowded space, with breakables everywhere, while at the same time keeping tabs on your purse, your place in line, your over-sized stroller and your husband's drink order. It's actually much harder than the non-mama might think.
However, if I were to be completely honest, I would have to admit that I add to the crazy a bit. Zen, I am not. For example, why do I feel I must speak to G in a louder voice than I would to anyone else?
G, MY GRL, DID YOU LOOSE YOUR STRAW ALREADY? OK, MAMA WILL GO GET YOU ANOTHER ONE. JUST WAIT RIGHT THERE, K? MAMA WILL BE BACK. STAY THERE. IT'S OK. LOOK, YEAH! MAMA FOUND A NEW STRAW. WHAT DO YOU SAY, MY GRL? THANK YOU MAMA? OK, SWEET GRL. YOU'RE MY GRL. THANK YOU MY GRL. I LOVE YOU MY GRL.
Then my stroller made a break for it, hitting the guy in a green bowtie (yes, a bowtie, on a Wednesday morning.) and then it nicked the women in the Stilettos. (I have absolutely no idea what kind of shoes they were. All I know is they were not walking shoes.) So after I cursed T silently for not re-hooking up the stroller break, I grabbed it and tried to stash it in a corner, which was really a corner of no return in the back of the shop between the door and the mega coffee line. Luckily, some woman who no doubt thought I was crazy saved the stroller, dragging it around the people and closer to the door. "Jesus Woman!" I could hear her say in her head, "Get it together!"
As I went to pay for my coffee, uber conscious of the line behind me and the depth of my purse, I threw my bag on the counter. It was then that I felt the beady eyes of judgement. I just picked up a $168 Lucky bag from the outlet for $50 bucks. But these people didn't know this. All they knew was that I used more than two adjectives to order my coffee, I was slightly out of control in my mama-ing, and that I had just casually thrown a $168 bag on the Starbucks counter. U.G.H. I thought, they think I am "one of THOSE mamas." I don't know what that means, really, but I am sure it's not a compliment.
TO top it all off, Bowtie squeezed by G and me at the door as I was trying to figure out how to handle three drinks, a purse, a toddler and a runaway stroller, without losing or killing anyone, and without feeling more obtrusive than I already did. Bowtie didn't even look at us. He just walked right out the door, with not even an "excuse me," as he let the door close behind him.
When I returned home around 8:17 a.m., I was exhausted.
The truth is, I don't think those people in Starbucks thought much about G and me. They were too busy thinking about their own lives, schedules, and bowties. I was just something else they would have to maneuver around that day. I was just another Crazy Mama, in Starbucks, ordering an expensive drink with an expensive bag, with a toddler, before 9 a.m., with a rather large stroller, and a big voice, trying to keep her head on straight while also getting (for the love of God!) a little caffeine.
I swear, Starbucks is totally in on the time change.
This is why G and I found ourselves in Starbucks this morning, way before the 9-5ers were well-caffeinated. I love my neighborhood. There are plenty of every kind of people in my hood: mamas, nannies, partiers, druggies, rich, poor, cool boot wearing women, homeless, shoeless man. I love the diversity, even if I do get a little annoyed when the junkie on our block reprimands me for not having shoes on G. (This has happened twice, from two different stoopers.) It's a great place to live. BUT, Starbucks before 9 am on a weekday with a toddler who is trying to shove over the VIA coffee display feels a little...uncomfortable.
T and I decided a while ago that all mamas are crazy. And this I now know for a fact. This morning, I actually felt crazy. Or I felt like everyone else felt I was crazy.
But then, YOU try to keep one eye on an active toddler in a crowded space, with breakables everywhere, while at the same time keeping tabs on your purse, your place in line, your over-sized stroller and your husband's drink order. It's actually much harder than the non-mama might think.
However, if I were to be completely honest, I would have to admit that I add to the crazy a bit. Zen, I am not. For example, why do I feel I must speak to G in a louder voice than I would to anyone else?
G, MY GRL, DID YOU LOOSE YOUR STRAW ALREADY? OK, MAMA WILL GO GET YOU ANOTHER ONE. JUST WAIT RIGHT THERE, K? MAMA WILL BE BACK. STAY THERE. IT'S OK. LOOK, YEAH! MAMA FOUND A NEW STRAW. WHAT DO YOU SAY, MY GRL? THANK YOU MAMA? OK, SWEET GRL. YOU'RE MY GRL. THANK YOU MY GRL. I LOVE YOU MY GRL.
Then my stroller made a break for it, hitting the guy in a green bowtie (yes, a bowtie, on a Wednesday morning.) and then it nicked the women in the Stilettos. (I have absolutely no idea what kind of shoes they were. All I know is they were not walking shoes.) So after I cursed T silently for not re-hooking up the stroller break, I grabbed it and tried to stash it in a corner, which was really a corner of no return in the back of the shop between the door and the mega coffee line. Luckily, some woman who no doubt thought I was crazy saved the stroller, dragging it around the people and closer to the door. "Jesus Woman!" I could hear her say in her head, "Get it together!"
As I went to pay for my coffee, uber conscious of the line behind me and the depth of my purse, I threw my bag on the counter. It was then that I felt the beady eyes of judgement. I just picked up a $168 Lucky bag from the outlet for $50 bucks. But these people didn't know this. All they knew was that I used more than two adjectives to order my coffee, I was slightly out of control in my mama-ing, and that I had just casually thrown a $168 bag on the Starbucks counter. U.G.H. I thought, they think I am "one of THOSE mamas." I don't know what that means, really, but I am sure it's not a compliment.
TO top it all off, Bowtie squeezed by G and me at the door as I was trying to figure out how to handle three drinks, a purse, a toddler and a runaway stroller, without losing or killing anyone, and without feeling more obtrusive than I already did. Bowtie didn't even look at us. He just walked right out the door, with not even an "excuse me," as he let the door close behind him.
When I returned home around 8:17 a.m., I was exhausted.
The truth is, I don't think those people in Starbucks thought much about G and me. They were too busy thinking about their own lives, schedules, and bowties. I was just something else they would have to maneuver around that day. I was just another Crazy Mama, in Starbucks, ordering an expensive drink with an expensive bag, with a toddler, before 9 a.m., with a rather large stroller, and a big voice, trying to keep her head on straight while also getting (for the love of God!) a little caffeine.
I swear, Starbucks is totally in on the time change.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Random Musings
A friend of mine describes parenting as driving through the Baltimore Tunnel on your way to New York City. Before you get enter the tunnel, you're listening to music, you're singing, you have the windows rolled down...Then you get in the tunnel and suddenly you become very tense and focused. You have to drive. No radio. No chatter. You are just concentrating on getting safely through. And once you get through, then you can go have check out all the fun in New York City.
There is some dumb movie out there starring Bruce Willis and Michelle Pheiffer that came out years ago. A line in the movie haunts me. Bruce and Michelle are married, but a few kids later, their marriage is on the rocks. Bruce turns to Michelle and says, "What happened to that fun girl I used to know?"
T and I recently went to dinner at a childless friends' apartment. Not only was it totally clean, it was the most organized space I had ever seen. It was like their apartment was drawn on a piece of white paper with a gray pencil, using right angles only. I mean, even if you don't have kids, where are your months old stashes of New Yorkers that you haven't read but can bring your self to throw away? Where are your nostalgic high school sweatshirts that have more rips and more memories than your college sweatshirts right next to them that you can't possibly throw out lest you forget that one frat party that one time where you stood on the radiator and danced with P to, what was that song...?
When we returned to our own place that night strewn with colorful stuffed animals and toys that play slightly out of tune songs that get in your head for weeks, I felt a little defeated.
Whoever said women can have it all must have been a man.
Bygones.
I had a lovely lunch today with G and a couple of our friends at a very cool neighborhood spot full of very good looking people working on their macs and ordering second and third lattes. (Wow! No recession here!) G has the energy of someone high on cocaine, so I spent most of the time running after her, maneuvering around messenger bags and faded couches. But the day was lovely. My G is charming and happy and loving and so full of life. She is so worth all the crazy that she has made of my life.
I don't need to see New York City anytime soon.
There is some dumb movie out there starring Bruce Willis and Michelle Pheiffer that came out years ago. A line in the movie haunts me. Bruce and Michelle are married, but a few kids later, their marriage is on the rocks. Bruce turns to Michelle and says, "What happened to that fun girl I used to know?"
T and I recently went to dinner at a childless friends' apartment. Not only was it totally clean, it was the most organized space I had ever seen. It was like their apartment was drawn on a piece of white paper with a gray pencil, using right angles only. I mean, even if you don't have kids, where are your months old stashes of New Yorkers that you haven't read but can bring your self to throw away? Where are your nostalgic high school sweatshirts that have more rips and more memories than your college sweatshirts right next to them that you can't possibly throw out lest you forget that one frat party that one time where you stood on the radiator and danced with P to, what was that song...?
When we returned to our own place that night strewn with colorful stuffed animals and toys that play slightly out of tune songs that get in your head for weeks, I felt a little defeated.
Whoever said women can have it all must have been a man.
Bygones.
I had a lovely lunch today with G and a couple of our friends at a very cool neighborhood spot full of very good looking people working on their macs and ordering second and third lattes. (Wow! No recession here!) G has the energy of someone high on cocaine, so I spent most of the time running after her, maneuvering around messenger bags and faded couches. But the day was lovely. My G is charming and happy and loving and so full of life. She is so worth all the crazy that she has made of my life.
I don't need to see New York City anytime soon.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sometimes I Throw Things
When I was a kid, my Mother, on occasion, would say through clenched teeth, "I quit motherhood!" I always picture her saying it over a basket of dirty laundry in the basement. It never sacred me. I knew it didn't mean anything, really. But now as a mama, I know that that was my Mom's way of voicing frustration with her job.
There is a little dent in the wall of G's bedroom, right behind the door knob. I don't remember the particulars now, but at some point, out of frustration, I threw the door open so wildly that I made that dent. The chipping paint stands as a symbol of a crazy moment that I prefer to dismiss with a laugh.
I have been known to throw things: cell phones, books, and most recently, I threw a raw egg against the side of the dining room wall, out of frustration.
Such actions worry my dear, stable and calm husband, concerned for my sanity. But from conversation with other mamas, I do think there is an element of crazy that comes with the territory. A mama from work confessed to throwing a glass of red wine against the wall. A friend admitted to not being able to deal with her girls after 5 in the afternoon. Tina Fey's character in "Date Night" concedes that she would like to trade her daughter for a life time of wine.
There is nothing like mamahood. Nothing.
I have never had to do anything very trying in my life: lay bricks for a living, escape genocide, survive a mud slide, so I do feel a little weak on the days that I just can't seem to pull it together and be ok with 12 hours dictated by the whims and whines of a toddler, but I do find the job pretty challenging and I wonder at the women who appear to think of motherhood as a bowl full of cherries.
I love my grl intensely. I hate that she won't let me pee in the morning without freaking out. I love that she can sing the melody to the ABCs. I hate when she demands "tunes" and then throws a fit if I play a tune not to her satisfaction. I love that my grl pats me on the back as I hold her, as if to say, "I know you're working hard mama. Thank you." I hate that she whines if I try to wash the dishes and let her play alone.
I will try very hard in the future to stop throwing things, but I know it won't be easy. But then I have to remember, anything worth it isn't really easy: triathlons, a gourmet dinner, a byline...And Mamahood is no different.
Ultimately, of course, it's better than all those things combined, even if I don't always recognize it, and even if it makes me want to throw things once in a while.
There is a little dent in the wall of G's bedroom, right behind the door knob. I don't remember the particulars now, but at some point, out of frustration, I threw the door open so wildly that I made that dent. The chipping paint stands as a symbol of a crazy moment that I prefer to dismiss with a laugh.
I have been known to throw things: cell phones, books, and most recently, I threw a raw egg against the side of the dining room wall, out of frustration.
Such actions worry my dear, stable and calm husband, concerned for my sanity. But from conversation with other mamas, I do think there is an element of crazy that comes with the territory. A mama from work confessed to throwing a glass of red wine against the wall. A friend admitted to not being able to deal with her girls after 5 in the afternoon. Tina Fey's character in "Date Night" concedes that she would like to trade her daughter for a life time of wine.
There is nothing like mamahood. Nothing.
I have never had to do anything very trying in my life: lay bricks for a living, escape genocide, survive a mud slide, so I do feel a little weak on the days that I just can't seem to pull it together and be ok with 12 hours dictated by the whims and whines of a toddler, but I do find the job pretty challenging and I wonder at the women who appear to think of motherhood as a bowl full of cherries.
I love my grl intensely. I hate that she won't let me pee in the morning without freaking out. I love that she can sing the melody to the ABCs. I hate when she demands "tunes" and then throws a fit if I play a tune not to her satisfaction. I love that my grl pats me on the back as I hold her, as if to say, "I know you're working hard mama. Thank you." I hate that she whines if I try to wash the dishes and let her play alone.
I will try very hard in the future to stop throwing things, but I know it won't be easy. But then I have to remember, anything worth it isn't really easy: triathlons, a gourmet dinner, a byline...And Mamahood is no different.
Ultimately, of course, it's better than all those things combined, even if I don't always recognize it, and even if it makes me want to throw things once in a while.
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