Sunday, May 11, 2014
About my Mom on Mothers' Day
I think there is a little crazy in all mamas. And it’s no wonder. We are keeping people alive, people who are part of us, a part of who we are. It’s complicated. But I also think that balancing that crazy, a mother has the ability to be serene, calm and wise at times when everyone else is falling apart. I guess it’s sort of like the yin and the yang.
I have seen this calmness first-hand recently as my mom’s love kept me fed, sane, safe and comforted. The needs of a 38 year old are at times no different from the needs of a three year old.
Moms never get much attention, and no where is that more obvious than in the millions of photos that feature everyone but the mama. And I think for my mom who doesn’t like attention, that is just fine. But this year, Mom, a little ode dedicated to you. I will never be able to repay you for all you have done for me, but I can give you a few words.
My Mom.
My Mom is...
Strong to the point of crazy.
Giving to the point of a calendar filled with other peoples’ appointments, sporting events, beach times and babysitting needs.
Genuine to the point of the (occasional) dropping of a good, satisfying “Shhhhhhhhhhitttttttt.” (Emphasis on the sh and the t.)
Fun to the point of a fall in the sand.
Determined to the point of almost giving my Dad hyperthermia.
Loving to the point of emphatic.
My Mom has the most honest and real faith of any one I know, getting mad, asking for help and ultimately leaving the big problems to the big One. She also has a shit list for people who have performed in some sort of sub-par way. But an evening of beer and burgers on the back patio will swiftly take anyone off it.
My Mom loves Chardonnay, biking (long distances only), historical fiction, the beach at sunset and a room full of her family. She would like to have dinner with most any author, she doesn’t believe in regrets, and she has this pretty unique and cool belief that there are invisible people next to us all the time, living on different celestial planes.
But most importantly to me, I realize now, more than ever that my Mom's devotion to her kids is never-ending and her life journey has not been simple or easy at times. But my Mom can always see that her Starbucks decaf black coffee to-go mug is half-full, never dwelling on any pain for long. Instead looking forward, she’ll open up her calendar to the back page where she writes down events in the coming years, and she’ll say, “When is that again?” Then she’ll jot whatever happening down in pen, book a hotel room or two and plan on making chili.
And then she’ll be there, like she always is.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Eve
Effing Eve. Did she know how she would doom the rest of her kind when she bit into that red apple? An apple for God's sake! Not even a minty mojito or a hopped up IPA or a piece of good, rich Scharffen Berger dark chocolate. An apple! Hope it was worth it sister cause you screwed us. You were stuck in paradise and we are stuck, well not exactly in hell, but we are stuck somewhere between middle school boob insecurities and menopause.
We chicks are burdened with physical discomforts, emotional surges, and the expectations of our Mother in laws. We muddle through cramping, pregnancy, childbirth, aching boobs full of milk, and then to top it off, a good five year window of night sweats. We are the ones expected to send the thank you notes, the ones expected to have the bathroom clean, and the ones expected to make sure the kids get to the dentist every year. All of this is expected while we get our own asses dressed and out the door in order to make 77 cents to Adam’s every dollar.
Effing Eve.
My cousin’s theory is that the grl in the garden was bored. “God! If Adam starts to go on again about how much his big toe is killing him, I am seriously going to lose it.” Or maybe it was more like, “God! How impressed do I have to be that Adam lifted those three big rocks and moved them away from the pear tree?”
My cousin says Eve didn’t have her girlfriends around. She had no one to talk to. She wasn’t interested in sitting around eating grapes and strawberries all day, watching the elk run up and down the forest walls.
I didn’t mean for this to be a diatribe against men. There are many good uses for them. Sperm is one of them. And if you get a good man, like I did, he is the stable in the crazy, the calm in the frenzy and the beautiful accompaniment to a pretty decent song. I just feel like if I come back, I would rather come back as Adam.
I know there’s a lot of pressure on men too. They're expected to make money, exhibit toughness and strength and know how to throw a football. I just feel that something about the Y chromosome leaves them with quite a bit more control over their bodies, their moods and their lives.
A lot is written these days about the high expectations of women and mothers and the hows and whys about it. Is it the woman’s fault? Is it the man’s fault? Society’s fault? I don’t know. I do think my cousin was on to something though when she said Eve was missing some good girlfriends. I appreciate that these days, a grl can admit to feeling overwhelmed and inadequate without fear of being ostracized.
Maybe that’s it! Maybe I’ve been looking at Eve in the completely wrong way! Maybe Eve took one for the team! Maybe she didn’t doom us to pain and agony! Rather she freed us to make our own decisions, albeit not the best ones. She freed us from the pressure of perfection and a clean bathroom! She freed us from the boundaries of a man’s paradise and instead shouted to the heavens, “I WANT MORE!” She might have been banished from the garden but she wasn’t banished from the story. And she lives on and well that she should. Eve! I’m sorry! I had you wrong sister. You did it! You freed us to be women! Emotional, crampy, imperfect women. You freed us to make our own decisions and lead our own lives. In the process, yes, you did condemn us to some worldly discomforts, but the pain passes, the cycle ends and what we end up with are lives of our own choosing, adventures of our own taking, and passions that compel us to at once love and scream. And I realize now that I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Eve, thanks sister.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The triathlon and the 5k
I am trying very hard not to be one of those mothers who talks about how easy boys are and how hard grls are.
But.
If G is a triathlon that stretches over choppy waters, mountainous terrain, and muddy trails, d is a flat 5k on a clear, cool, bright morning. Both could be challenging. Both could be easy. It just depends on how you feel that day, how you've trained, and how you want to run the race.
D loves to smile. He smiles at his mama. He smiles at his dada. He smiles at his big sister. He smiles at the bagger at the grocery store, at the couple walking down the street, at his own reflection in the mirror. He smiles when he wakes up. He smiles as he is falling asleep lying next to me holding my hand. He just smiles all the time.
G gives nothing away for free. She is up and down in a matter of nanoseconds. She is refusing to go outside. She is kicking her legs as I try to get her dressed. She is demanding another Elmo. She is crawling under the bathroom stall and running for the door at the zoo leaving me with my pants down and d hanging from my chest in the Bjorn.
Then she is also:
Explaining that the green tomatoes grow on a vine.
Asking me if I had a good night sleep.
Carefully trying to measure out the flour for cookies.
Moving her head to the beat of a new song.
D is amazed by her. He looks at her, eyes wide, mouth agape and is in awe.
Even this early in mama-ing two kids, I feel two very different relationships emerging. I want to protect d. I want to hang out with G. Maybe it's their ages at this point, or maybe I am becoming one of those mothers who talks about how they "cherish" their boys and rely on their grls. Ick. It's just that G seems so complicated and d so straight-forward. I guess they are just like two very different races. At least I know I love triathlons and 5ks equally well.
But.
If G is a triathlon that stretches over choppy waters, mountainous terrain, and muddy trails, d is a flat 5k on a clear, cool, bright morning. Both could be challenging. Both could be easy. It just depends on how you feel that day, how you've trained, and how you want to run the race.
D loves to smile. He smiles at his mama. He smiles at his dada. He smiles at his big sister. He smiles at the bagger at the grocery store, at the couple walking down the street, at his own reflection in the mirror. He smiles when he wakes up. He smiles as he is falling asleep lying next to me holding my hand. He just smiles all the time.
G gives nothing away for free. She is up and down in a matter of nanoseconds. She is refusing to go outside. She is kicking her legs as I try to get her dressed. She is demanding another Elmo. She is crawling under the bathroom stall and running for the door at the zoo leaving me with my pants down and d hanging from my chest in the Bjorn.
Then she is also:
Explaining that the green tomatoes grow on a vine.
Asking me if I had a good night sleep.
Carefully trying to measure out the flour for cookies.
Moving her head to the beat of a new song.
D is amazed by her. He looks at her, eyes wide, mouth agape and is in awe.
Even this early in mama-ing two kids, I feel two very different relationships emerging. I want to protect d. I want to hang out with G. Maybe it's their ages at this point, or maybe I am becoming one of those mothers who talks about how they "cherish" their boys and rely on their grls. Ick. It's just that G seems so complicated and d so straight-forward. I guess they are just like two very different races. At least I know I love triathlons and 5ks equally well.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Summer Storms in Colorado
Storms come up fast in the Rocky Mountains and summer evenings are prone to electrifying displays of nature. I spent a couple summers there in a former life and would often get caught in such shows while out on a run. But just as fast as a storm would glissade around a mountain peak and throw her fury at me with rain, hail and lighting, she would move on, leaving behind her a dissipating sky of oranges, yellows, purples and blues. And soon the outside mountain-side bars serving pitchers (pitchers!) of Fat Tire would fill once more.
G is a passionate lady. And sometimes her passions lie in rather ridiculous places. For example, she needs her pink polka dotted blanket to make a perfect rectangle lying over her. None of the edges can be turned up and both of her feet must at all times be completely covered. A misplaced polka dot could mean the difference between mellow time and meltdown time.
A few months after G was born, I applied for a new job. I emailed them my resume, some writing clips, and my family's 2009 reunion flyer. I was reunion chair that year and instead of sending the prospective employer my references, I sent them a list of what each family member needed to bring to the reunion. (Appetizer: Deanne, Lori and Chris; Decorations: Caleb, Abby and Susie.) When the employer emailed me about my mistake, I wrote back, "Well, I thought you might want to meet my family too!"
I never heard back from them.
G has a new scooter. She rocks on it. The grl is two years old and she rides that thing down the street like she was made for it. Yesterday, she got so excited to get out there on the road that as she was going to get her scooter, she ran over to it and stepped on it off balance and ended up in the splits on the ground crying. I picked her up and let her cry a bit and wondered if she would like to take a scooter break. Nope. Her tears dried and moments later we were back on the streets trying to master steering.
Last week I went to an audition. I wore a pink skirt and some makeup, shook the music director's hands, chatted about my background a bit and then the director turned to me and asked. "So, what did you bring to sing for us today?"
Right. Music. I knew I was forgetting something.
"Nothing!" I said, attempting to remain calm but wondering if it just wouldn't be better to turn and run out of the church without even saying goodbye, leaving them in a blur of pastels.
"Nothing? You brought nothing?" the organist gasped.
I ended up singing something I didn't know badly, shook hands again, smiled, thanked everyone and walked out on the verge of tears.
I seem to carry around my failures in a little space in my head and can without warning be suddenly and unexpectedly haunted by mishaps that happened decades ago. My grl has no such space. She falls. She cries. She gets up. She forgets. It's that easy. The weather may be stormy, but it will pass quickly and the sun will come out again soon.
Every now and then for a brief second, something about the city air smells like Colorado after a storm. I chase the smell down the street, but it always seem to evade me.
G is a passionate lady. And sometimes her passions lie in rather ridiculous places. For example, she needs her pink polka dotted blanket to make a perfect rectangle lying over her. None of the edges can be turned up and both of her feet must at all times be completely covered. A misplaced polka dot could mean the difference between mellow time and meltdown time.
A few months after G was born, I applied for a new job. I emailed them my resume, some writing clips, and my family's 2009 reunion flyer. I was reunion chair that year and instead of sending the prospective employer my references, I sent them a list of what each family member needed to bring to the reunion. (Appetizer: Deanne, Lori and Chris; Decorations: Caleb, Abby and Susie.) When the employer emailed me about my mistake, I wrote back, "Well, I thought you might want to meet my family too!"
I never heard back from them.
G has a new scooter. She rocks on it. The grl is two years old and she rides that thing down the street like she was made for it. Yesterday, she got so excited to get out there on the road that as she was going to get her scooter, she ran over to it and stepped on it off balance and ended up in the splits on the ground crying. I picked her up and let her cry a bit and wondered if she would like to take a scooter break. Nope. Her tears dried and moments later we were back on the streets trying to master steering.
Last week I went to an audition. I wore a pink skirt and some makeup, shook the music director's hands, chatted about my background a bit and then the director turned to me and asked. "So, what did you bring to sing for us today?"
Right. Music. I knew I was forgetting something.
"Nothing!" I said, attempting to remain calm but wondering if it just wouldn't be better to turn and run out of the church without even saying goodbye, leaving them in a blur of pastels.
"Nothing? You brought nothing?" the organist gasped.
I ended up singing something I didn't know badly, shook hands again, smiled, thanked everyone and walked out on the verge of tears.
I seem to carry around my failures in a little space in my head and can without warning be suddenly and unexpectedly haunted by mishaps that happened decades ago. My grl has no such space. She falls. She cries. She gets up. She forgets. It's that easy. The weather may be stormy, but it will pass quickly and the sun will come out again soon.
Every now and then for a brief second, something about the city air smells like Colorado after a storm. I chase the smell down the street, but it always seem to evade me.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Dance
I described G to a friend recently saying what a smart two year old she is, already speaking in complex sentences, singing the alphabet and counting to 20.
"That's good. She will be successful in life then," he said.
"I don't care what she does as long as she's happy," I told him, stealing words and sentiments from my Mother.
G is a passionate and fiery kid. She loves to smile and laugh and wail on her drums and run down the street as fast as she can, and listen to music on 11. ("Turn it up! Turn it up!" she demands in the car.) The grl really sucks the marrow from every second she can. At the end of the day she is dirty and sweaty with strawberry and chocolate stains and chalk and bubbles all over the front of her shirt. Her hair is a wet mop on the top of her head and her legs are covered in little cuts and bruises. The grl does not live life half-assed.
I have a hard time figuring out how to respond to "How was your day?" Trying to keep two kids under two alive and occupied and engaged in a day is both the best and worst of times. There are good seconds and there are bad seconds. One moment G is belting out, "Tomorrow" and d is cooing on my lap, and the next G is wigging about the improper placement of her blanket and d is puking all over me. Some days I feel like I am running up a hill, and it's good, I like to run and all and the weather is pretty good and my knees feel ok in my news shoes and stuff, but man, I would really like to get to a little plateau to take a breath somewhere up ahead.
I wonder often what makes people happy, what drives people, what people would do if they could do absolutely anything with their days. Is it the right job? Money? Relationships? Or is it something more intangible like a sense of accomplishment, or the feeling you get from pushing yourself and getting out of your comfort zone as my cross country coach would say. Whatever it is, we all seem to need something to make us happy.
We have this toy that plays really bad, distorted sounding music that goes faster or slower depending on how fast you draw on it. It doesn't play complete songs. It just starts and stops in random places. G re- discovered the toy this evening and started dancing to it. Her dancing is made up of the most awkward looking, unnatural movements you have ever seen. It's a staccato dance that highlights her body's hinges: elbows and knees, wrists and hips all moving in various directions. And she throws her limbs into the air so hard, she throws herself off balance at times, stumbling a second before continuing her dervish. There is absolutely no grace involved. She is just so swept up by the music that she seems to have very little control over her body.
It is awesome.
G doesn't need a job, or money, or friends, or a sense of accomplishment or that feeling you get when you push yourself or any of that to feel happy. She just is. Why does it have to be more complicated than that?
Yesterday, at the end of the day, G said to no one particular, "That was a good day."
I hope my grl always dances her weird, primal, a-rhythmic dance.
"That's good. She will be successful in life then," he said.
"I don't care what she does as long as she's happy," I told him, stealing words and sentiments from my Mother.
G is a passionate and fiery kid. She loves to smile and laugh and wail on her drums and run down the street as fast as she can, and listen to music on 11. ("Turn it up! Turn it up!" she demands in the car.) The grl really sucks the marrow from every second she can. At the end of the day she is dirty and sweaty with strawberry and chocolate stains and chalk and bubbles all over the front of her shirt. Her hair is a wet mop on the top of her head and her legs are covered in little cuts and bruises. The grl does not live life half-assed.
I have a hard time figuring out how to respond to "How was your day?" Trying to keep two kids under two alive and occupied and engaged in a day is both the best and worst of times. There are good seconds and there are bad seconds. One moment G is belting out, "Tomorrow" and d is cooing on my lap, and the next G is wigging about the improper placement of her blanket and d is puking all over me. Some days I feel like I am running up a hill, and it's good, I like to run and all and the weather is pretty good and my knees feel ok in my news shoes and stuff, but man, I would really like to get to a little plateau to take a breath somewhere up ahead.
I wonder often what makes people happy, what drives people, what people would do if they could do absolutely anything with their days. Is it the right job? Money? Relationships? Or is it something more intangible like a sense of accomplishment, or the feeling you get from pushing yourself and getting out of your comfort zone as my cross country coach would say. Whatever it is, we all seem to need something to make us happy.
We have this toy that plays really bad, distorted sounding music that goes faster or slower depending on how fast you draw on it. It doesn't play complete songs. It just starts and stops in random places. G re- discovered the toy this evening and started dancing to it. Her dancing is made up of the most awkward looking, unnatural movements you have ever seen. It's a staccato dance that highlights her body's hinges: elbows and knees, wrists and hips all moving in various directions. And she throws her limbs into the air so hard, she throws herself off balance at times, stumbling a second before continuing her dervish. There is absolutely no grace involved. She is just so swept up by the music that she seems to have very little control over her body.
It is awesome.
G doesn't need a job, or money, or friends, or a sense of accomplishment or that feeling you get when you push yourself or any of that to feel happy. She just is. Why does it have to be more complicated than that?
Yesterday, at the end of the day, G said to no one particular, "That was a good day."
I hope my grl always dances her weird, primal, a-rhythmic dance.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Top 10 of my favorite things people have said to pregnant me
You look great!
You look tired!
You look exhausted.
You look green.
Are those your husband’s pants?
You look like you're about to pop!
Wow.
Damn.
My kid weighed 10 pounds. I should have had a c section. I tore A LOT.
And my personal favorite from a co-worker I hardly know:
Boy, you must really like to breed.
What were your favorite comments previously-pregnant or pregnant-peeps out there? This is where I am in my pregnancy! Just annoyed! I feel there are very well meaning-ed people out there who cross the line at times when it comes to conversing with a pregnant lady. And guys can be even weirder just by the way they look at a pregnant chick- like they can't decide if they want to protect her or seduce her.
Does being this pregnant feel a little like wearing a version of the Scarlet Letter? Pregnancy is no longer cute at this point.
I am clearly hormonal and tired. I am sure the non-pregnant me will soon think the pregnant me ridiculous.
But seriously, if I get into the elevator one more time and someone asks me my due date, I may lose it. Although I guess that's better than someone commenting on my breeding...
You look tired!
You look exhausted.
You look green.
Are those your husband’s pants?
You look like you're about to pop!
Wow.
Damn.
My kid weighed 10 pounds. I should have had a c section. I tore A LOT.
And my personal favorite from a co-worker I hardly know:
Boy, you must really like to breed.
What were your favorite comments previously-pregnant or pregnant-peeps out there? This is where I am in my pregnancy! Just annoyed! I feel there are very well meaning-ed people out there who cross the line at times when it comes to conversing with a pregnant lady. And guys can be even weirder just by the way they look at a pregnant chick- like they can't decide if they want to protect her or seduce her.
Does being this pregnant feel a little like wearing a version of the Scarlet Letter? Pregnancy is no longer cute at this point.
I am clearly hormonal and tired. I am sure the non-pregnant me will soon think the pregnant me ridiculous.
But seriously, if I get into the elevator one more time and someone asks me my due date, I may lose it. Although I guess that's better than someone commenting on my breeding...
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Things
-I feel as though Two keeps growing, but the skin around him does not, giving me the uncomfortable feeling of wearing a pair of pants that are three sizes too small.
-When the 20-something girl sharing the swim lane beside me asks if I am alright, maybe that's a good indication that I should stop swimming.
-Please, stop looking at me - everyone.
-I really should have re-thought the two piece Speedo. Go ahead everyone, stare away...
-It is a known fact that when you bring your toddler to the doctor's appointment, you will have to wait approximately 41 minutes before you are seen by the doctor. When you bring your book to the doctor's office, ("oh, bliss! I have a doctor's appointment today! I can crack open that new library book, finally!") you will have to wait approximately one minute to be seen by the doctor. I guess it's sort of like Paddington Bear bringing his umbrella outside on sunny days.
-I am waiting (as are the toys, clothes and crumbs littered around my apartment) to feel that nesting faze come over me.
-I like it that pregnant women have something in common with birds.
- Two must sleep with his hands clenched and his arms straight out in front of him. When I lie down, it feels like I am lying on one of the corners of G's books.
-I am pretty sure he's a he in there.
-My husband referred to my belly as "engorged" tonight because he says he thought that was the nicest way to put it.
-I want to be one of those moms who knows all the other moms on the playground.
-I don't want to be one of those moms who knows all the other moms on the playground.
-All the women my age at the Oscars looked depressingly old, and they have nannies and masseuses and nutritionists and trainers and people who clean their bathrooms and...I am doomed.
-When the 20-something girl sharing the swim lane beside me asks if I am alright, maybe that's a good indication that I should stop swimming.
-Please, stop looking at me - everyone.
-I really should have re-thought the two piece Speedo. Go ahead everyone, stare away...
-It is a known fact that when you bring your toddler to the doctor's appointment, you will have to wait approximately 41 minutes before you are seen by the doctor. When you bring your book to the doctor's office, ("oh, bliss! I have a doctor's appointment today! I can crack open that new library book, finally!") you will have to wait approximately one minute to be seen by the doctor. I guess it's sort of like Paddington Bear bringing his umbrella outside on sunny days.
-I am waiting (as are the toys, clothes and crumbs littered around my apartment) to feel that nesting faze come over me.
-I like it that pregnant women have something in common with birds.
- Two must sleep with his hands clenched and his arms straight out in front of him. When I lie down, it feels like I am lying on one of the corners of G's books.
-I am pretty sure he's a he in there.
-My husband referred to my belly as "engorged" tonight because he says he thought that was the nicest way to put it.
-I want to be one of those moms who knows all the other moms on the playground.
-I don't want to be one of those moms who knows all the other moms on the playground.
-All the women my age at the Oscars looked depressingly old, and they have nannies and masseuses and nutritionists and trainers and people who clean their bathrooms and...I am doomed.
Friday, February 4, 2011
A Letter to Baby Two
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I have been told that my inability to tell G "no" will come back to kick me in the butt. But I am just not good at it. I know I should tell her no when she tries to feed herself oatmeal in the morning. I know I should tell her no when she stands on the dining table chair. I know I should tell her no when she cries to be picked up when I am washing dishes. And that's just the beginning: I should tell her no to cookies, Gatorade, eating only the chocolate chips out of my chocolate chip muffin, to climbing the spiral staircase at the beach, to walking down the city street barefoot, to throwing her toys (she has an amazing arm), to dragging her blanket through puddles, to falling asleep on me, to eating crackers off the floor, to drinking water out of a glass, and definitely from demanding escape from her stroller in the supermarket.
I don't.
I have a little part of my brain that is devoted to the word no. It holds all the bad memories of the times I have heard the word spoken to me in the last few decades. It's a space full of disappointing moments with voice teachers, editors and friends, and I would love to be rid of it, but I just can't seem to drop it, and I find myself retreating to that space when I feel lame or defeated.
G has no such space. To her, and to her parents, her life is only about yes, what she can do. There is no can't. She doesn't understand that word. Her life is this blank sheet of paper on which she can write anything she wants. It's almost overwhelming as a parent. It's up to us to show her everything out there!
I know that no matter how smart G is, how coordinated she is, how outspoken she is and how smiley she is, she will hear the word "no" someday. She may even have a small space in her head devoted to it, although I hope not. But for my part, I have decided to save that word for her and use it sparingly. She will hear it soon enough someday, from strangers, from friends, from bosses. Until then, why not let her see only what is possible.
I don't.
I have a little part of my brain that is devoted to the word no. It holds all the bad memories of the times I have heard the word spoken to me in the last few decades. It's a space full of disappointing moments with voice teachers, editors and friends, and I would love to be rid of it, but I just can't seem to drop it, and I find myself retreating to that space when I feel lame or defeated.
G has no such space. To her, and to her parents, her life is only about yes, what she can do. There is no can't. She doesn't understand that word. Her life is this blank sheet of paper on which she can write anything she wants. It's almost overwhelming as a parent. It's up to us to show her everything out there!
I know that no matter how smart G is, how coordinated she is, how outspoken she is and how smiley she is, she will hear the word "no" someday. She may even have a small space in her head devoted to it, although I hope not. But for my part, I have decided to save that word for her and use it sparingly. She will hear it soon enough someday, from strangers, from friends, from bosses. Until then, why not let her see only what is possible.
Monday, June 21, 2010
A Cookie
I just read a mama blog in which she referred to the birth of her kid as "magical," and the first two weeks of her kid's life as "the best time."
Seriously?
This was not my experience. To me, birth is an explosion of liquids. And the first weeks after giving birth are purely survival.
I just got G to bed. It is 10 p.m. She was up at 6:30 a.m. Somebody, get me a cookie, fast.
"I just wish other mamas would have warned us how hard it would be," my mama neighbor said to me. This is a funny comment now that I am writing it, but my friend was totally serious. She is six months pregnant and was sitting with her two year old, talking about how she and her husband were figuring out how they were going to handle their lives with two kids, two careers, and a bazillion chores.
I didn't ask her if she would have done things differently had she known what mamahood entailed.
I love the real mamas who live in my building, all weighing careers with kids, and their own lives with their families' lives. And at the same time trying to maintain presentable bathrooms, and relationships with the ones who got them into this mess in the first place: their husbands.
The instinct to have kids must run really deep. Why do people do it over and over and over again throughout the ages? It's hard! And gross! And it totally screws up your schedule!
Is it for love? That kind of voracious, grind your teeth and hold your breath love that feels at times more like pain than love? Is it for hope? Belief in the future? Belief in mankind? What is it that compels us to keep breeding?
I would expound further, but it's midnight and I have to get up in six hours to my Moody Morning G.
Really, I deserve that cookie.
Seriously?
This was not my experience. To me, birth is an explosion of liquids. And the first weeks after giving birth are purely survival.
I just got G to bed. It is 10 p.m. She was up at 6:30 a.m. Somebody, get me a cookie, fast.
"I just wish other mamas would have warned us how hard it would be," my mama neighbor said to me. This is a funny comment now that I am writing it, but my friend was totally serious. She is six months pregnant and was sitting with her two year old, talking about how she and her husband were figuring out how they were going to handle their lives with two kids, two careers, and a bazillion chores.
I didn't ask her if she would have done things differently had she known what mamahood entailed.
I love the real mamas who live in my building, all weighing careers with kids, and their own lives with their families' lives. And at the same time trying to maintain presentable bathrooms, and relationships with the ones who got them into this mess in the first place: their husbands.
The instinct to have kids must run really deep. Why do people do it over and over and over again throughout the ages? It's hard! And gross! And it totally screws up your schedule!
Is it for love? That kind of voracious, grind your teeth and hold your breath love that feels at times more like pain than love? Is it for hope? Belief in the future? Belief in mankind? What is it that compels us to keep breeding?
I would expound further, but it's midnight and I have to get up in six hours to my Moody Morning G.
Really, I deserve that cookie.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Departments
A friend and I were talking about the Gore breakup recently. She was convinced that he had another woman. I said I thought it would be more fun if she had another man. "Mothers don't have time for affairs," my friend told me.
Growing up, I heard the phrase, "That's not my department," a lot. It was my parents' way of delegating tasks to each other. When the plumber needed to be called for a leaky faucet, my Dad would say, "That's not my department." When the plumber needed to be paid after his services, my Mom would say, "That's not my department."
My Mom's department was the bigger one, if way less lucrative, but the system 40 some years later has seemed to work.
In October of 2005, I won the Powerball Jackpot when I married the sweet TL. There are myriad reasons for his lovelines, not least of which (when you have a one year old) is that he will do whatever I ask him. So one day I asked him to clean the bathroom. Okay, fine, he said, and proceeded to prop up his computer on the sink right there next to the toothpaste and soap, type in www.mlb.com and watch the Red Sox game while "cleaning" the bathroom. What is that phrase? If you want something done right, do it yourself?
It's a complaint of every mama I know: Life's daily tasks often seem to fall to the mama and there is nothing 50-50 about it. It doesn't matter if the mama works full-time as a lawyer, part time as a teacher or stays home with the kids and runs them from school to play dates to dance recitals to guitar lessons, mamas just do more.
"You girls have it so good," my neighbor's mother told her. And we do. The dads of today do a lot. TL cooks dinner, baths G and puts her to sleep after working all day. I think my own Dad, in watching his kids become parents appreciates now what my Mom did all those years during the day by herself. But my Mom thinks it's almost harder today. The roles are not so easily defined and so the tasks not obviously the mama's or the dad's. How do you know which department you are supposed to be running anyway?
I guess you just figure it out as you go along, hopefully. In the meantime, I think, (sigh) the bathroom is mine.
Growing up, I heard the phrase, "That's not my department," a lot. It was my parents' way of delegating tasks to each other. When the plumber needed to be called for a leaky faucet, my Dad would say, "That's not my department." When the plumber needed to be paid after his services, my Mom would say, "That's not my department."
My Mom's department was the bigger one, if way less lucrative, but the system 40 some years later has seemed to work.
In October of 2005, I won the Powerball Jackpot when I married the sweet TL. There are myriad reasons for his lovelines, not least of which (when you have a one year old) is that he will do whatever I ask him. So one day I asked him to clean the bathroom. Okay, fine, he said, and proceeded to prop up his computer on the sink right there next to the toothpaste and soap, type in www.mlb.com and watch the Red Sox game while "cleaning" the bathroom. What is that phrase? If you want something done right, do it yourself?
It's a complaint of every mama I know: Life's daily tasks often seem to fall to the mama and there is nothing 50-50 about it. It doesn't matter if the mama works full-time as a lawyer, part time as a teacher or stays home with the kids and runs them from school to play dates to dance recitals to guitar lessons, mamas just do more.
"You girls have it so good," my neighbor's mother told her. And we do. The dads of today do a lot. TL cooks dinner, baths G and puts her to sleep after working all day. I think my own Dad, in watching his kids become parents appreciates now what my Mom did all those years during the day by herself. But my Mom thinks it's almost harder today. The roles are not so easily defined and so the tasks not obviously the mama's or the dad's. How do you know which department you are supposed to be running anyway?
I guess you just figure it out as you go along, hopefully. In the meantime, I think, (sigh) the bathroom is mine.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
To Be Present
My grl's eyes are very dark. They are the color of the raisins that she ate (and then spit out) tonight. I love them. They look rounder than most eyes too; like the way a little kid would draw two eyes on a stick figure. There is a cheesy one year old boy out there who will someday say something to G like, "I could lose myself in your eyes." Ick. But then, I can understand that he might.
G looks at everything. She can spot a small piece of green trash, the size of a dime on an otherwise clean playground, from across the park. She will go to it, pick it up and look at it. Then of course she puts it in her mouth, but before she does, she gives the piece of wrapper her undivided attention. She really sees it. I suppose when absolutely everything you see is something new, that's what you do. She does this with books, flowers, that fuzzy that was stuck to her fingers the other day, dogs on the street, city birds out our window, strangers, mama, everything. She looks so intently, she seems to see something that I don't. It's sort of like that guy in American Beauty looking at the plastic bag floating in the wind.
It's amazing walking down the street how oblivious people seem to be of the world. So many people are plugged into various devices, they are missing so much, I think.
G misses nothing.
I have been trying really hard to be present these days, and see and look the way that G does, and value whatever it is that is right in front of me, and whatever time is happening right now. It's sort of hard to do, and today as I was trying to "be present," I think I ended up totally just zoning out.
I watched T's middle school baseball team play a game of wiffle ball recently. They were so fun to watch. They didn't seem to care about anything but right then and there, laughing as they slid around the gym floor running into each other.
When do kids loose that ability to be present? And why?
It's amazing how wise kids are, and how little credit we give them.
G looks at everything. She can spot a small piece of green trash, the size of a dime on an otherwise clean playground, from across the park. She will go to it, pick it up and look at it. Then of course she puts it in her mouth, but before she does, she gives the piece of wrapper her undivided attention. She really sees it. I suppose when absolutely everything you see is something new, that's what you do. She does this with books, flowers, that fuzzy that was stuck to her fingers the other day, dogs on the street, city birds out our window, strangers, mama, everything. She looks so intently, she seems to see something that I don't. It's sort of like that guy in American Beauty looking at the plastic bag floating in the wind.
It's amazing walking down the street how oblivious people seem to be of the world. So many people are plugged into various devices, they are missing so much, I think.
G misses nothing.
I have been trying really hard to be present these days, and see and look the way that G does, and value whatever it is that is right in front of me, and whatever time is happening right now. It's sort of hard to do, and today as I was trying to "be present," I think I ended up totally just zoning out.
I watched T's middle school baseball team play a game of wiffle ball recently. They were so fun to watch. They didn't seem to care about anything but right then and there, laughing as they slid around the gym floor running into each other.
When do kids loose that ability to be present? And why?
It's amazing how wise kids are, and how little credit we give them.
Monday, April 26, 2010
"Fake It Until You Make It."
Aerosmith front man Steven Tyler was once asked about how he got to be a famous rock star. His response: "Fake it until you make it."
I can not fake it. And I am increasingly concluding that this is a detriment to any forward movement in my "career." The girl at work who wears black boots that make a sound as she walks by, she is faking it until she makes it, and doing it really well, I think. (But just what is that sound her boots are making anyway? Are there chains wrapped around her ankles?)
Or the blond chick at work who seems to be afraid that my low-chick-on-the-totem-pole cooties will jump onto her. She won't even look at me. She is also faking it until she makes it, and she too is doing a good job.
I may be too honest. Most people don't admit their flaws or their knowledge gaps. They laugh along, or walk away, or bs until they figure it out. I have never been able to do this. I don't know why. I'm not totally against faking it. It just seems like a lot of work and energy and it would put me in a position to be called out at anytime. That sounds uncomfortable.
But where this honesty seems to be working is in mamahood. G is so real and uninhibited and cool. She doesn't play weird games and therefore doesn't expect weird games from her mama. It's all very simple: Mama hugs her and speaks to her softly, therefore mama loves her. Mama tells her "no" to sicking her finger into the outlet, therefore, she is totally curious about what that will do. Mama won't eat chocolate around her unless mama is planning on giving her some. Mama really wants to let her climb on the dining room table because she is so impressed with her, but realizes this may be setting a bad precedent.
G expects everything and everyone around her to be as simple and real as she is. If G is sad, she cries. If G is happy, she smiles. If G is frustrated that the blanket she is standing on won't move, she hisses through her clenched teeth and then cries out. She is out there with her feelings and thoughts. What you see if what you get. She knows no other way.
If only it could stay that way.
When is it that G will realize that people are more complex than they may appear? That they may have ulterior motives or deep scars or hidden flaws? When will G conclude that many people are faking it until they make it?
It worked for Steven Tyler, but I'm hoping that faking it is not the only way to make it. There are people who succeed by putting themselves out there honestly to be judged by who they truly are, and not by who they are trying to be.
That's what I hope anyway. But in any case, as a mama, I like that I am not a faker. G will never wonder how her mama really feels about her, or who her mama really is. Hopefully this will add a little simplicity and calm and stability to her life in a world that will at times feel complicated and confusing. Other people around her may not be able to give her that. But her mama always will.
I can not fake it. And I am increasingly concluding that this is a detriment to any forward movement in my "career." The girl at work who wears black boots that make a sound as she walks by, she is faking it until she makes it, and doing it really well, I think. (But just what is that sound her boots are making anyway? Are there chains wrapped around her ankles?)
Or the blond chick at work who seems to be afraid that my low-chick-on-the-totem-pole cooties will jump onto her. She won't even look at me. She is also faking it until she makes it, and she too is doing a good job.
I may be too honest. Most people don't admit their flaws or their knowledge gaps. They laugh along, or walk away, or bs until they figure it out. I have never been able to do this. I don't know why. I'm not totally against faking it. It just seems like a lot of work and energy and it would put me in a position to be called out at anytime. That sounds uncomfortable.
But where this honesty seems to be working is in mamahood. G is so real and uninhibited and cool. She doesn't play weird games and therefore doesn't expect weird games from her mama. It's all very simple: Mama hugs her and speaks to her softly, therefore mama loves her. Mama tells her "no" to sicking her finger into the outlet, therefore, she is totally curious about what that will do. Mama won't eat chocolate around her unless mama is planning on giving her some. Mama really wants to let her climb on the dining room table because she is so impressed with her, but realizes this may be setting a bad precedent.
G expects everything and everyone around her to be as simple and real as she is. If G is sad, she cries. If G is happy, she smiles. If G is frustrated that the blanket she is standing on won't move, she hisses through her clenched teeth and then cries out. She is out there with her feelings and thoughts. What you see if what you get. She knows no other way.
If only it could stay that way.
When is it that G will realize that people are more complex than they may appear? That they may have ulterior motives or deep scars or hidden flaws? When will G conclude that many people are faking it until they make it?
It worked for Steven Tyler, but I'm hoping that faking it is not the only way to make it. There are people who succeed by putting themselves out there honestly to be judged by who they truly are, and not by who they are trying to be.
That's what I hope anyway. But in any case, as a mama, I like that I am not a faker. G will never wonder how her mama really feels about her, or who her mama really is. Hopefully this will add a little simplicity and calm and stability to her life in a world that will at times feel complicated and confusing. Other people around her may not be able to give her that. But her mama always will.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Compassionate Competitiveness
There's a girl at work who carries a bag that reads, "I don't like people." I smile at her when I see her in the hall, as I do to everyone at work, with the thought that maybe someday, someone might swing the bat for me. But my smiles to this chick are consistently met with glares: big, mean, head down, lips pursed, intentional glares. It's as if she is sucking in the light around her and contaminating it with her mean vibe. The girl is good at glaring. Her bag speaks the truth.
This weekend, G met her first Not-So-Nice Toddler. My sweet nephew turned two and had a birthday party that included about 15 little peeps all running around, in and out of the house, in and out of their mamas' arms and in and out of various moods. G was happy to be somewhere different with a lot of action, but, she preferred the sidelines. She watched and took it all in.
The first time the little chick shoved G down, I was standing right there. I didn't want to just scoop her up and take her away, I sort of wanted to try to teach her something, something about being tough, or something about standing her ground or something about people. "Get back up, my grl," I told her. And the chick shoved her down again.
This little girl's mom was very nice, and as she steered her kid away and I boxed G out, she mentioned that she wished she had a little bit of whatever fire it is that her kid has. That, she said, could help her in her business world. I could use a little of it too, really. The smiles only go so far.
G was left with a bruise on her left cheek. G's dad was mad. My mama friend this morning was appalled. I'd like to think the G learned something, maybe not about being tough, (by the end of the night, G resorted to tears after a few too many shoves) or standing her ground, (G couldn't. The other chick was older and taller) or even people (I am sure G has forgotten the other chick) but, maybe something about life or birthday parties or blond chicks. Who knows?
From my end, I am now wondering about how I should teach my lady to handle aggression. Turn the other cheek? Shove back? Walk away? No option seems appealing to me. I don't want G to get into an all out brawl, but I also don't want her to neglect to stand up for herself. She'll need a bit of an edge, at times, to get where she wants to go. But then again, I wouldn't want her to shove everyone down in her way either. Can you teach compassionate competitiveness?
Here is yet another another lesson that I am not sure I understand myself.
This weekend, G met her first Not-So-Nice Toddler. My sweet nephew turned two and had a birthday party that included about 15 little peeps all running around, in and out of the house, in and out of their mamas' arms and in and out of various moods. G was happy to be somewhere different with a lot of action, but, she preferred the sidelines. She watched and took it all in.
The first time the little chick shoved G down, I was standing right there. I didn't want to just scoop her up and take her away, I sort of wanted to try to teach her something, something about being tough, or something about standing her ground or something about people. "Get back up, my grl," I told her. And the chick shoved her down again.
This little girl's mom was very nice, and as she steered her kid away and I boxed G out, she mentioned that she wished she had a little bit of whatever fire it is that her kid has. That, she said, could help her in her business world. I could use a little of it too, really. The smiles only go so far.
G was left with a bruise on her left cheek. G's dad was mad. My mama friend this morning was appalled. I'd like to think the G learned something, maybe not about being tough, (by the end of the night, G resorted to tears after a few too many shoves) or standing her ground, (G couldn't. The other chick was older and taller) or even people (I am sure G has forgotten the other chick) but, maybe something about life or birthday parties or blond chicks. Who knows?
From my end, I am now wondering about how I should teach my lady to handle aggression. Turn the other cheek? Shove back? Walk away? No option seems appealing to me. I don't want G to get into an all out brawl, but I also don't want her to neglect to stand up for herself. She'll need a bit of an edge, at times, to get where she wants to go. But then again, I wouldn't want her to shove everyone down in her way either. Can you teach compassionate competitiveness?
Here is yet another another lesson that I am not sure I understand myself.
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