When my alarm went off today at 5:15, I was abruptly awoken. Some days, especially lately, I am already awake, just lying there dreading the ironically sing- songy tune I have selected from my iPhone to break my slumber. But today I was jolted-- profoundly in the midst of not just sleep, but a vivid dream.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
People Will Be Able To....
Expectation is something with which I have always struggled. I don't mean I don't like meeting expectations; it's more that I hate the idea of "expecting" -- wanting something to happen or not happen, and then being either let down or excited by the results. It's way too frightening. I lived in complete panic for good portions of my pregnancy waiting for results and likelihoods and odds-- and even jubilation after good results never makes me say, 'Well that worrying wasn't that bad.'
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
At work, we talk all the time about the future. We write our objectives for each class period on the board, according to the acronym SWBAT: "Students will be able to." By the end of the period, students will be able to write an effective paraphrase or analyze a piece of literary criticism or emulate an author's style or whatever. And we've asked admin, what if the kids CAN'T do what we set out? What if they don't meet the expectation? The answer is that it's okay, but the next day we've got to find a way to remediate so that students will be able to do the thing, whatever it is.
It makes expectation sound so simple: if at first you don't succeed, try another route. Then it'll get done.
But the classroom-- and its trials and tribulations isn't-- real life. Expectations can let us down mightily in our "real lives," and there's usually not much you can do. I've been hearing lots of bad news about folks lately, and in most cases, it's all surprise: nothing that could have been projected with a clever acronym and then remedied later. Life tosses out so many curve balls that the expectation of how a ball will speed into the air is often irrelevant.
I think about cooking when I ponder expectation. I'm not one of those people who uses my oven for sweater storage, but I am also not a gourmand: I am somewhere hazy in the middle. I like cooking (most times), but if a planned dish is a little bit cutting- edge for me, I am a recipe follower through- and- through. I rely on someone on allrecipes.com to tell me how to accomplish a task and basically assure me I won't eff it up. And from there, I still CAN screw it up. But with some guidance, I am more likely to get the meal I want. Sometimes I taste the finished product and it's awesome; other times, I am thinking, "This isn't how I pictured it. Harumph."
And in the kitchen of the world, I fall short when I don't have the crutch of a recipe: a handy stat or set of odds or given assurance that something will go well or poorly. And really, even the set of odds indicates zero. And so as a result, I start to rely on silly things like superstition, fear, and the "power" of jinxing. I marvel at people who can write things on Facebook like, "What a day to be alive! I love my job and my hubby!" That statement seems so ballsy to me. It would be the all- time life- irony for something horrible to happen to that person and someone else would say, "Wow-- so ironic-- she was JUST saying how well things are going." I never, therefore, let myself recognize how good things are. The fear of the ironic outcome is far too petrifying.
It's superstitious thinking in its worst form. But I can't seem to get away from using it. Just when I feel I might be too comfortable or pleased with something, I know I am sure to be knocked on my ass. Thus, a protective mechanism is never to fully embrace things.
You're probably thinking, "That's a shizzy way to live, you nutbag." And I can recognize that I deserve the title. But I have woven myself quite a web of weird anxious comfort by thinking this way. By relying on the knowledge that things will probably start to suck soon. I read a book called Change Your Brain, Change Your Life once, and the author called upon his readership to think only positive thoughts at all times. When I shut the book, I vowed to change my thought- patterns. But I've never been successful.
So lately, with all this unthinkable, unexpected, unprepared for news, a teacher being killed in a school bathroom among it, I have to keep wondering about expectation and how often we can really rely on it. The expectation is, surely, not that THAT will ever happen. But it can. And it does. And in a much less grand- scheme- important news story, nobody expected the Red Sox to go from worst to first. And nobody expected a group of well- respected girls in our school to do something horrific. And nobody expected the weather to be so warm and nice today. Down and up, sideways, the news goes everywhere. And expectation never really matters.
We try to control things, and sometimes we can. But most often we can't. It always seems that at the most unplanned for moments, the most shocking things occur-- be they wonderful or gruesome. It's a good thing there's no acronym for life: nothing saying, People Will Be Able To.... Because we never know what we can do until we get to a moment, a second, a milli- second. I have to remember that while I can cook with a recipe, I can't know if my oven will break, but I also can't know if my basil will taste way better than Jenny Smith's from the website.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Hints of the Past
Today is one of those blah days when I should be working on 100 things, but I need to write. I don't think I can even touch a few of the topics that have been swirling in my brain, so I am going to write about something totally different: nostalgia.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
Since we had Mabel, I have been trying to make our house as "natural" as I can: organic soaps and shower products, natural detergents and cleaning supplies, and as much organic food as is feasible given the price and availability. I don't microwave plastic or use canned food anymore, and we try to minimize our consumption of frozen food laden with preservatives. I am by no means a total organic convert, and I eat plenty of junk food. Every now and then I break my own rules, and I don't let the effort to be more green invade our comfort level (certain things just taste gross if all- natural, and certain products are just not useful). But I do what I can in an effort to be a little more healthy now that we have the little one.
While I feel good about these choices we make (I say "we" because, surprisingly, for the most part, J is now on board, despite some grousing and questioning in the beginning. He subsequently read an article about pesticides and changed his tune. I still can't get him on natural bath products, but he's good with all else), I sometimes just long for stuff fraught with phthalates and other supposedly- hazardous chemicals. Or I miss a time when nobody worried about them.
My favorite nostalgic smell is that of Dial soap-- the orange bar, specifically. This soap is my childhood at the Cape-- at my grandmother's previous house, where she lived by herself for many years and we would visit all the time. A few summers, I would go for weeks at a time, and my cousin R would fly in from Colorado to join. We'd spend our days working on our tans at the beach and then choreographing dance routines to Salt n Pepa tunes in the basement. The prior house owners had a big pool table in the basement, and my grandmother never had it removed. Sometimes R and I would sleep on it, and sometimes we would actually play pool. Every day, a post- beach shower was made complete by a bar of Dial orange. I didn't think much of it back in 1992, but now when I smell it (my ObGyn's office uses it), I am overcome by a nostalgia so overwhelming that I'm not sure whether to smile or cry. Such innocence, such naivete is associated with those years-- and the breaking of said innocence too-- I smoked my first cigarette and drank my first booze (a wine cooler) with my cousin during one of those summers.
Another one is the scent of Junior Mints. I am immediately in my other grandmother's car-- a silver Ford Taurus, with her offering me some of the candies. She would sit at the end of our driveway and wait for me to get off the elementary school bus, and then take me on a voyage doing errands at the bank in Westwood or at the Roche Brothers. We'd end up at her house where my mom would pick me up. Nana had a plaid seat cover for the driver's spot, as she couldn't see high enough I guess as she aged, and when I smell Junior Mints, I think of that seat cover and the fun trips in which she would always secure for me a few good bank lollipops.
And my own scents (I mean ones I have purchased, not that I have given off :)) bring me places too. Bath and Body Works "Moonlight Path" plants me in the summer apartment I shared with my good friend C in Providence during the summer before our senior year of college. We both loved the scent, so we bought the lotion and the perfume and would share. I don't think I've worn it since then (maybe just here and there). But upon detecting it on someone else, I see myself in our dilapidated, cheap apartment or at a shift at the restaurant where we both worked. I had the the whole world ahead of me back then and had no idea.
We have a "no fragrance" rule in school this year due to common student allergies. Between that and my own non- use of chemical stuff, I rarely get whiffs of smells that deliver me to great places. Places and times when I was either content or too naive to know I wasn't. I wonder what sorts of stuff will make Mabel feel nostalgic. Though I didn't record them all here, I've got lots of other smells in my nostalgia arsenal: brownies are my mom on Sunday nights; Tide laundry is the across- the- street- neighbors; coffee is my 5th- grade teacher Mrs. Gorman. It's funny how our bodies take in these scents, memorize them, and relate them. Pretty cool given we don't know we are doing it.
I hope I can create some ways that Mabel can, as she gets older, transport herself back in time via nostalgia. This traveling through time is of such comfort, despite the fact that it reminds me the times are gone.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Trio
Yes, I'm adding entries twice in one day. My last entry was dour, I do acknowledge. But it's where my head is. And yet, after I published it, I realized I never blogged about Saturday, despite taking notes in my iPhone at the time.
Saturday evening, J went fishing, so I took Mabel out for a girls' dinner at the gourmet hot- spot of Panera. :) They've got a good kids' menu and happen to offer a mac n' cheese dish (for adults!) that I was craving like a bee wants honey.
Before we left the house, I had been stressing and was upset about a million and one things. I got Mabel up from her nap and brought her downstairs, only to have the sweetest thing I can imagine happen. I should backtrack and report that Mabel loves giving kisses-- she is not very discerning in whom she chooses for recipients either. But we usually have to ask: "Can you give Nana a kiss goodbye?" That sort of thing.
On Saturday, however, as Mabel sat on my lap, she peered into my eyes for a solid three seconds. And then, on her own whim, she planted a ginormous wet one on my face-- partially right on my mouth, and partially on my cheek. And then when I gave her one back, she gave me another. Mabel cuddles up to us all the time, and will give hugs freely, but the unrequested kiss made my moment, my day, my week, my month-- possibly my year. It was, in my mind, as if she thought, "Here I am sitting with Mama. I should show her some affection." Pure delight. Times like a hundred.
The second event in the trio of things that made me melt in that two- hour time span was her making raspberry sounds in the backseat the whole way to Panera. Sure, she's made that sound before, but she usually hunts for a reaction from one of us. This was, instead, unadulterated, pure fun in her car seat-- just cracking herself up over and over. She didn't need an audience. I can't express the second- hand joy I feel when I see Mabel experiencing joy.
And the most goofy but awesome part of this trio happened at Panera. It's a tall order bringing a toddler to a place where she just wants to run freely when I don't have J or anyone else with me to fetter her to us. She kicked and squirmed the whole time I held her-- in a long line to boot. Mabel annoyed me with her wanting to run to the kitchen in back, and initial refusal to sit still. But once the food came out and she could chomp on that coveted grilled cheese, all was good again. Mabel looked up at the bright lights above her head while she chewed, and I gave her neck a slight tickle. After hearing her roar laughing, I did it again. And then she starting nearly ASKING to be tickled. She would look at me, very strategically and dramatically look up, and wait for me to attack. Each time we would see how long she could stand it before breaking. I've never had so much fun at Panera, or probably out for any meal, for that matter.
When I put Mabel to bed that night, I didn't feel the exhausted relief I sometimes feel at her bedtime. I wanted her to stay up. I knew she couldn't of course, but I felt like a kid whose pal had to go home.
The little trio made me smile for a while. I scurried to enter the events into my iPhone and shortly fell asleep watching Bridesmaids, into the slumber of a content mom.
Saturday evening, J went fishing, so I took Mabel out for a girls' dinner at the gourmet hot- spot of Panera. :) They've got a good kids' menu and happen to offer a mac n' cheese dish (for adults!) that I was craving like a bee wants honey.
Before we left the house, I had been stressing and was upset about a million and one things. I got Mabel up from her nap and brought her downstairs, only to have the sweetest thing I can imagine happen. I should backtrack and report that Mabel loves giving kisses-- she is not very discerning in whom she chooses for recipients either. But we usually have to ask: "Can you give Nana a kiss goodbye?" That sort of thing.
On Saturday, however, as Mabel sat on my lap, she peered into my eyes for a solid three seconds. And then, on her own whim, she planted a ginormous wet one on my face-- partially right on my mouth, and partially on my cheek. And then when I gave her one back, she gave me another. Mabel cuddles up to us all the time, and will give hugs freely, but the unrequested kiss made my moment, my day, my week, my month-- possibly my year. It was, in my mind, as if she thought, "Here I am sitting with Mama. I should show her some affection." Pure delight. Times like a hundred.
The second event in the trio of things that made me melt in that two- hour time span was her making raspberry sounds in the backseat the whole way to Panera. Sure, she's made that sound before, but she usually hunts for a reaction from one of us. This was, instead, unadulterated, pure fun in her car seat-- just cracking herself up over and over. She didn't need an audience. I can't express the second- hand joy I feel when I see Mabel experiencing joy.
And the most goofy but awesome part of this trio happened at Panera. It's a tall order bringing a toddler to a place where she just wants to run freely when I don't have J or anyone else with me to fetter her to us. She kicked and squirmed the whole time I held her-- in a long line to boot. Mabel annoyed me with her wanting to run to the kitchen in back, and initial refusal to sit still. But once the food came out and she could chomp on that coveted grilled cheese, all was good again. Mabel looked up at the bright lights above her head while she chewed, and I gave her neck a slight tickle. After hearing her roar laughing, I did it again. And then she starting nearly ASKING to be tickled. She would look at me, very strategically and dramatically look up, and wait for me to attack. Each time we would see how long she could stand it before breaking. I've never had so much fun at Panera, or probably out for any meal, for that matter.
When I put Mabel to bed that night, I didn't feel the exhausted relief I sometimes feel at her bedtime. I wanted her to stay up. I knew she couldn't of course, but I felt like a kid whose pal had to go home.
The little trio made me smile for a while. I scurried to enter the events into my iPhone and shortly fell asleep watching Bridesmaids, into the slumber of a content mom.
Can't Compartmentalize
Lately I have been thinking about gravity. Not the scientific concept but the word-- how very grave so many things are in the world around me. I know that I've written a few blogs that have talked about the going getting tough, or about worry, and have ended those entries with some sort of sentiment about being more mindful or meditative or acknowledging a Human Sunrise. Today I don't have sunshiny answers, if I'm being totally honest with myself, which I said I would always be in this blogging venture. Instead I have questions-- with which I will end this entry. If anyone knows any of the answers, please advise.
The other day, a very dear friend of mine told me an absolutely horrific piece of news: her cousins- in- law (with whom my friend is very close) lost their 11- week old son. I don't know the details yet, but this very gloomily curious part of my brain always exhorts me to look up obituaries online any time I hear of a passing. I have no idea what seeing the obituary sates in me or even accomplishes, but I always feel a pull to see the story. And so today I googled the baby's name, and, bam, the obit instantly came up. When I clicked on it, the sweet child's smiling face was at the top of the screen. He looks like a typical infant-- endearing, gorgeous, loving and lovable, and just plain cheery. What an ironic juxtaposition-- this picture coupled with the dark news below it.
I can't get his beautiful image out of my head, nor can I release the idea of what his parents must be going through. I simply don't understand a world that allows such a thing to happen. I don't mean to insult anyone's religious sensibilities or faith, but how can these two parents in any way accept this death? How can they ever say, "God needed him"? Around the time of Newtown, I wrote about how things that we call "unthinkable" actually ARE thinkable-- we just don't want to imagine them. The pain is too sharp. But I tend to do this thing where I take other people's-- even strangers'-- worries or dealings upon myself and I obsess over how the people must be coping.
News like this is jarring and horrific, but the news on the TV every night has nearly become ineffectual. It's so sad, so dismal every single night, that it's hard to react anymore. But somewhere, the family of the guy who was driving the car that collided with a dumptruck yesterday is grieving. And somewhere else, the loved ones of the tortured and murdered girl are bawling their eyes out too.
When I come to work, I like to think I can leave behind my sullen obsessions, but they're there, too. The nonverbal autistic boy down the hall who shrieks all day long, the colleague whose 36- year- old brother died last week of a rare Sarcoma, the front office receptionist with ovarian cancer. When you reach a certain age, and the invincibility complex disappears, you notice and breathe in every tragedy within a mile of you. And then you start to wonder how and when it will befall you. Maybe I shouldn't write in second- person point- of- view there, because maybe not everyone does all this. Maybe I have some sick neurosis.
And while I'm being honest, on some days, my feelings get so desperate that I wonder why so many people keep going, keep having kids, keep at it-- when there is so damn much to lose. Now that I am a mom, there are types of loss that I know that, if I were to experience, I would not want to live any longer. I haven't really felt that way before and it's friggin' scary. Not only do I no longer have a bubble to live inside, but I don't even see bubbles in my adult radius.
I was reminded me of this whole facing- the- cruelties- of- life concept the other day when I was previewing an interview with Arthur Miller to show one of my classes, as they are reading Death of a Salesman. Miller expounds on the notion of life being sadness-- he says that "life IS catastrophe" ultimately. He wrote his works largely to expose his views of how average people cope when the worst happenings of humanity emerge in the lives of everyday folks. Miller's silver lining is that in between all the tragedy and the rubble from it, humans accomplish great things. Hmmm-- is this enough, dear Arthur? Argh, it still just sounds so forlorn.
So, I am not going to tie everything up in a neat bow today because I don't see the need. I don't have a way to do it anyway. When the gifts and wonderful things in life can so quickly and easily bring you your worst nightmare realized, how do we REALLY go through life cherishing people and keeping an optimistic perspective? Are there adults who see or hear awful news and compartmentalize it and then still say life is wonderful? I'd love to live in a more positive state of mind.. I just can't get there.
When for every great happening I witness in a month I can name four horrendous ones, how do you keep your eye on the great? It's true that youth is wasted on the young, because many of the kids I teach seem unfazed-- or, no, that's unfair-- they seem unscathed by other people's terrible events. I know it's the age they're at, but even all through my 20s I think I could do that compartmentalizing thing pretty well. Is this the curse of middle age? Living in fear?
I can't end an entry on that sentence-- I just can't. So I WILL say that I know that there is a lot of good in the world-- I do see it with my very eyes. The problem is that it's the good we so profoundly fear losing.
The other day, a very dear friend of mine told me an absolutely horrific piece of news: her cousins- in- law (with whom my friend is very close) lost their 11- week old son. I don't know the details yet, but this very gloomily curious part of my brain always exhorts me to look up obituaries online any time I hear of a passing. I have no idea what seeing the obituary sates in me or even accomplishes, but I always feel a pull to see the story. And so today I googled the baby's name, and, bam, the obit instantly came up. When I clicked on it, the sweet child's smiling face was at the top of the screen. He looks like a typical infant-- endearing, gorgeous, loving and lovable, and just plain cheery. What an ironic juxtaposition-- this picture coupled with the dark news below it.
I can't get his beautiful image out of my head, nor can I release the idea of what his parents must be going through. I simply don't understand a world that allows such a thing to happen. I don't mean to insult anyone's religious sensibilities or faith, but how can these two parents in any way accept this death? How can they ever say, "God needed him"? Around the time of Newtown, I wrote about how things that we call "unthinkable" actually ARE thinkable-- we just don't want to imagine them. The pain is too sharp. But I tend to do this thing where I take other people's-- even strangers'-- worries or dealings upon myself and I obsess over how the people must be coping.
News like this is jarring and horrific, but the news on the TV every night has nearly become ineffectual. It's so sad, so dismal every single night, that it's hard to react anymore. But somewhere, the family of the guy who was driving the car that collided with a dumptruck yesterday is grieving. And somewhere else, the loved ones of the tortured and murdered girl are bawling their eyes out too.
When I come to work, I like to think I can leave behind my sullen obsessions, but they're there, too. The nonverbal autistic boy down the hall who shrieks all day long, the colleague whose 36- year- old brother died last week of a rare Sarcoma, the front office receptionist with ovarian cancer. When you reach a certain age, and the invincibility complex disappears, you notice and breathe in every tragedy within a mile of you. And then you start to wonder how and when it will befall you. Maybe I shouldn't write in second- person point- of- view there, because maybe not everyone does all this. Maybe I have some sick neurosis.
And while I'm being honest, on some days, my feelings get so desperate that I wonder why so many people keep going, keep having kids, keep at it-- when there is so damn much to lose. Now that I am a mom, there are types of loss that I know that, if I were to experience, I would not want to live any longer. I haven't really felt that way before and it's friggin' scary. Not only do I no longer have a bubble to live inside, but I don't even see bubbles in my adult radius.
I was reminded me of this whole facing- the- cruelties- of- life concept the other day when I was previewing an interview with Arthur Miller to show one of my classes, as they are reading Death of a Salesman. Miller expounds on the notion of life being sadness-- he says that "life IS catastrophe" ultimately. He wrote his works largely to expose his views of how average people cope when the worst happenings of humanity emerge in the lives of everyday folks. Miller's silver lining is that in between all the tragedy and the rubble from it, humans accomplish great things. Hmmm-- is this enough, dear Arthur? Argh, it still just sounds so forlorn.
So, I am not going to tie everything up in a neat bow today because I don't see the need. I don't have a way to do it anyway. When the gifts and wonderful things in life can so quickly and easily bring you your worst nightmare realized, how do we REALLY go through life cherishing people and keeping an optimistic perspective? Are there adults who see or hear awful news and compartmentalize it and then still say life is wonderful? I'd love to live in a more positive state of mind.. I just can't get there.
When for every great happening I witness in a month I can name four horrendous ones, how do you keep your eye on the great? It's true that youth is wasted on the young, because many of the kids I teach seem unfazed-- or, no, that's unfair-- they seem unscathed by other people's terrible events. I know it's the age they're at, but even all through my 20s I think I could do that compartmentalizing thing pretty well. Is this the curse of middle age? Living in fear?
I can't end an entry on that sentence-- I just can't. So I WILL say that I know that there is a lot of good in the world-- I do see it with my very eyes. The problem is that it's the good we so profoundly fear losing.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Lessons: Part Two
7. You're probably doing something wrong. I say that tongue- in-
cheek, as it's something I think a lot of mothers feel: we must be
screwing our children up somehow. Yet, with no
facetiousness at all, we should actually admit and validate-- yes, we
probably ARE doing something wrong. But the "something" is probably
minor. And unless you went to the Barnum and Bailey Circus School,
you're likely not an able juggler. I juggle as much as I can, yet I
have had to make peace with the simple concept that there is always
going to be some arena of parenting in which I could be doing more.
There have been a few nights Mabel hasn't gotten a bath, or that we
haven't cleaned the wax out of her ears. Or a few weeks in which she
has eaten microwave organic pancakes three nights in a row. I haven't
been forceful or consistent enough in getting her to try and like new
veggies-- some nights, after working all day, that battle is just too
much. I'm sure she's gone to day care in clothes that are too warm or
too cool, and I know for a fact I have let her stand up in store carts--
even sometimes without Purelling the carts first. Imagine the horror!
Mabel still has a bottle before bed at night at 18- months- old. It is
essentially her binky, as she was never a pacifier kid (despite our
trying), and the bottle soothes her. While I know she should be off it,
I just can't break away from the total peace at night when she sits
with her "buh- buh" for thirty minutes watching one of her shows,
totally content and not making a peep. This summer I vowed to take her
to Story Hour at the library and never did. We've given her French
fries too many times when we shouldn't have. I could keep going, but I
have adopted a precept around relativity-- in the large scheme of
life, how much is this XYZ thing going to affect her, if it keeps her/
us sane? You can only do what you can do in the reality of everyday life.
8. You might be let down sometimes. While I can say without hesitation that 90 percent of what Mabel does mesmerizes me, there have been times she hasn't been so spellbinding. When she was 2- months- old and lying in a bouncy seat for three hours, I was bored-- and a little let down with motherhood. I felt wretched for even thinking it. But as much as I loved Mabel, she wasn't all that interesting all the time. I would crave the outside world, or wish she would just leap up from the bouncy chair and sing me a ditty. Even now, in the midst of typical toddler derring- do--- when she will scale her high chair or break out in new "choreography"-- there are days or nights that just aren't exciting. Toddlers get whiny. They push our buttons and make us wonder, "Is that all there is??" It's just quite lucky for us (and them, I suppose) that the next moment or day, they'll do something that knocks our socks off. Don't feel like a total failure of a mother if you aren't enthralled with each moment of caring for your kid.
9. You will obsess over sleep. Before we had Mabel, there was much comfort in knowing that a sleepless night meant I could nap the next day. With no such fortune anymore, I now obsess over making sure I get to bed early so that the break- of- dawn wake- up doesn't plague me the following day. I don't always sleep well at all, but I am lamely tucked in bed by 9:30 every night.. and that usually includes weekends. If you go out with friends at night, you will second- guess that third glass of wine because toddlers don't respect the hangover. Mabel doesn't give a shiz if my head pounds-- she still demands I get off that couch promptly and take her outside to the porch. You will find yourself sitting at a restaurant going, "If J and I go home now, and get in bed by 11, we will get 8 hours. But that's if we leave RIGHT now, and then fall RIGHT to sleep in bed." It's a stupid game. Your body is going to sleep when it feels like it, but you'll still think you have some control. Oh, and you will have at least two gruesome hangovers that will make you rue the day you ever partook in a beverage.
10. Some people won't "get" parenthood, but it doesn't mean they don't care. Not all your relatives are going to baby- proof their homes, but they still love you and your kid. Your brother might still plan a late dinner or social event and not get why you don't want to be out all- hours, but it's not that he is uncaring, ignorant, or mean. He just doesn't get the full scope. Did YOU get the full scope before becoming a mom? I know I didn't. Why WOULD non- parents really accommodate you, when you think about it? Most people will not keep whole milk in their homes or have an arsenal of Sesame Street episodes on demand, but they will still invite you to stay at their houses and will still love on your kid like crazy. You have to try not to think of the outside world as insensitive, and have to do your best to roll with the punches. J and I have a mix of family and friends who are parents and non- parents. Everyone is in his or her own current situation, and it's unique. You have to just live in your own little world and not expect people to know its ins and outs.
11. You, without a doubt, must promise you will still have a life. I can't really say more than this: if you give up your own pursuits, or don't spend time with friends, you will find yourself the needy and desperate mother of an 18- year- old who is going off to college, still making your child ride buckled up in the backseat, and emailing his or her prospective college roommates to see what they're like, and, subsequently, contacting his or her college professors to ask why he/ she got a B on the Econ paper. Yup-- you'll be bat- siz crazy if you pour your whole being into momhood and forget other joys.
12. You'll feel the most indescribable but profound and radiant connection to your kid. It's instinctual and basic, but it's ever- present. While I have no regard for Martyr Moms, as I have blogged about before, I will agree that momhood is a gift that can't be paralleled... not because it is more special than some other gifts, but because it is so different. When I haven't seen Mabel in a weekend, I have a visceral longing for her. I can't help but squeeze and kiss and tickle her like mad. One of my students said today that when 9/11 happened, his mom came to pick him up at preschool (yes, that is how young my now- junior and -senior students were then), not because she feared for his safety at the preschool, but because, in her words, she "just had to hold [him]." Yup, I get it. And when this boy told the story, I got goosebumps. It's uncontrollable, and it seems implausible, but it is truly sensational.
8. You might be let down sometimes. While I can say without hesitation that 90 percent of what Mabel does mesmerizes me, there have been times she hasn't been so spellbinding. When she was 2- months- old and lying in a bouncy seat for three hours, I was bored-- and a little let down with motherhood. I felt wretched for even thinking it. But as much as I loved Mabel, she wasn't all that interesting all the time. I would crave the outside world, or wish she would just leap up from the bouncy chair and sing me a ditty. Even now, in the midst of typical toddler derring- do--- when she will scale her high chair or break out in new "choreography"-- there are days or nights that just aren't exciting. Toddlers get whiny. They push our buttons and make us wonder, "Is that all there is??" It's just quite lucky for us (and them, I suppose) that the next moment or day, they'll do something that knocks our socks off. Don't feel like a total failure of a mother if you aren't enthralled with each moment of caring for your kid.
9. You will obsess over sleep. Before we had Mabel, there was much comfort in knowing that a sleepless night meant I could nap the next day. With no such fortune anymore, I now obsess over making sure I get to bed early so that the break- of- dawn wake- up doesn't plague me the following day. I don't always sleep well at all, but I am lamely tucked in bed by 9:30 every night.. and that usually includes weekends. If you go out with friends at night, you will second- guess that third glass of wine because toddlers don't respect the hangover. Mabel doesn't give a shiz if my head pounds-- she still demands I get off that couch promptly and take her outside to the porch. You will find yourself sitting at a restaurant going, "If J and I go home now, and get in bed by 11, we will get 8 hours. But that's if we leave RIGHT now, and then fall RIGHT to sleep in bed." It's a stupid game. Your body is going to sleep when it feels like it, but you'll still think you have some control. Oh, and you will have at least two gruesome hangovers that will make you rue the day you ever partook in a beverage.
10. Some people won't "get" parenthood, but it doesn't mean they don't care. Not all your relatives are going to baby- proof their homes, but they still love you and your kid. Your brother might still plan a late dinner or social event and not get why you don't want to be out all- hours, but it's not that he is uncaring, ignorant, or mean. He just doesn't get the full scope. Did YOU get the full scope before becoming a mom? I know I didn't. Why WOULD non- parents really accommodate you, when you think about it? Most people will not keep whole milk in their homes or have an arsenal of Sesame Street episodes on demand, but they will still invite you to stay at their houses and will still love on your kid like crazy. You have to try not to think of the outside world as insensitive, and have to do your best to roll with the punches. J and I have a mix of family and friends who are parents and non- parents. Everyone is in his or her own current situation, and it's unique. You have to just live in your own little world and not expect people to know its ins and outs.
11. You, without a doubt, must promise you will still have a life. I can't really say more than this: if you give up your own pursuits, or don't spend time with friends, you will find yourself the needy and desperate mother of an 18- year- old who is going off to college, still making your child ride buckled up in the backseat, and emailing his or her prospective college roommates to see what they're like, and, subsequently, contacting his or her college professors to ask why he/ she got a B on the Econ paper. Yup-- you'll be bat- siz crazy if you pour your whole being into momhood and forget other joys.
12. You'll feel the most indescribable but profound and radiant connection to your kid. It's instinctual and basic, but it's ever- present. While I have no regard for Martyr Moms, as I have blogged about before, I will agree that momhood is a gift that can't be paralleled... not because it is more special than some other gifts, but because it is so different. When I haven't seen Mabel in a weekend, I have a visceral longing for her. I can't help but squeeze and kiss and tickle her like mad. One of my students said today that when 9/11 happened, his mom came to pick him up at preschool (yes, that is how young my now- junior and -senior students were then), not because she feared for his safety at the preschool, but because, in her words, she "just had to hold [him]." Yup, I get it. And when this boy told the story, I got goosebumps. It's uncontrollable, and it seems implausible, but it is truly sensational.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Lessons
Over the past 18.5 months, since parenthood greeted me, I have been learning. Much of the time, I don't even realize I am a student. But I am going to share some lessons today-- lessons I have learned about inevitabilities in parenting.
1. Your house will never be clean again. If you clean the muck, you will have clutter-- and vice- versa. You can hire a cleaning crew or get on your hands and knees and scrub like a madwoman every day, but some form of dirt or plastic blocks or dirty laundry haphazardly dumped from a basket will always thwart you. You must adopt the "best I can" mantra and genuinely live it. I have been repeatedly convinced I could be a good foe for messes, but, alas, I give up the struggle. I am still going to clean my house, but it is never going to look like it did pre- kid. You need to just surrender. You will feel better.
2. You will watch the kids' TV shows you always hated before having kids. My friend came over once when I was single and talked of the likes of Bob the Builder and Word Girl. I did not give a shiz who these toons were. None of it excited me and I didn't even want to hear about why her kids liked the shows. You will not only start watching kid tv, but you will start opining on the shows. I can tell you that I like Sesame Street, Sid the Science Kid, Super Why, Martha Speaks, and Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and that I loathe Thomas the Tank Engine. I tolerate Caillou and The Cat in the Hat. I could give specific reasons for each and sing the theme songs too. Many days at work go by when my head is-- all day long-- infiltrated by the melody of "Look up high, in the sky, it's a bird, it can fly... Let's all hurry to the flying fairy school!"
3. You will become, in at least one way, the mom you said you wouldn't be. Pre- kids, I rolled my eyes when friends would say their kids were sleeping in their beds with them, or that they were too nervous to leave their kids with a sitter. It was so easy at the time to scorn and criticize. "They are just screwing these kids up!" You later learn a little bit more about what it's like when your kid won't fall back to sleep in the crib and you yourself are looking for a modicum of rest. You also find out what it's like not to trust most people with your kid. It's instinctual. Just accept it. Yup, you are that woman now.
4. Everyone has an opinion. From whether you should nurse, to whether you should sleep train, to what kind of frickin' baby food you should serve, a lot of folks around you will want to give you the "best" advice. When the advice is unsolicited, it's most annoying, so learn to avoid the baby topic with the people who like to offer without request. But be careful, too, about whom you ask for help. A well- meaning bit of feedback could be a full report on the dangers of crib bumpers or a l00- part list of foods that constipate kids. We must consider that as humans, we like to feel useful. Naturally, we want to offer the best helping hand we can. People are well- meaning but they can still be as condescending or frustrating as all get- out. Ask for help only from people you can tolerate.
5. Speaking of help, don't go online to parent boards. A little Web MD never hurt anyone, eh? Well, I would debate that, as was evidenced by my search there for "dizziness" in which I had unreservedly decided I had a brain tumor. But parent boards can be more grotesque. People troll and write dumb things. They also want to be know- it- alls. And you will see on those boards the saddest, most extreme forms of dire happenings. Parent boards will make you feel inept OR gloomy about the state of the world OR paranoid about your choices OR just pissed off at how dumb people are. Don't go on boards often. Call the pedi office or ask a well- meaning, non- lecturey friend.
6. It's okay to just want a break. I read this article about mindfulness when parenting-- in fact, I know for sure I referenced it in a blog entry. And yes, I do need to be more mindful. I need to slow down and smell the proverbial roses sometimes. For sure. But this piece insinuated you were horrible for checking your watch to count down to when the kid will go to sleep. I mean, are we supposed to be superhuman? Are we supposed to never long for alone time? Are we supposed to be patient and giving 24/7? I am not. I have tried my best, and on most days I do well. But I have decided it's ok if your kid's whines are driving you to drink and you're going to put him to bed 20 minutes early tonight because can you ever just watch Jeopardy in peace?!
More to come... And I know I don't have to say it, but my caveat is this: Obviously, despite the difficulties I am presenting lightheartedly here, parenting is the sweetest and most awe- inducing thing you can dream of. Even when you have poop on your thumb or mushy seeds from an apple flung on pretty rug.
1. Your house will never be clean again. If you clean the muck, you will have clutter-- and vice- versa. You can hire a cleaning crew or get on your hands and knees and scrub like a madwoman every day, but some form of dirt or plastic blocks or dirty laundry haphazardly dumped from a basket will always thwart you. You must adopt the "best I can" mantra and genuinely live it. I have been repeatedly convinced I could be a good foe for messes, but, alas, I give up the struggle. I am still going to clean my house, but it is never going to look like it did pre- kid. You need to just surrender. You will feel better.
2. You will watch the kids' TV shows you always hated before having kids. My friend came over once when I was single and talked of the likes of Bob the Builder and Word Girl. I did not give a shiz who these toons were. None of it excited me and I didn't even want to hear about why her kids liked the shows. You will not only start watching kid tv, but you will start opining on the shows. I can tell you that I like Sesame Street, Sid the Science Kid, Super Why, Martha Speaks, and Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and that I loathe Thomas the Tank Engine. I tolerate Caillou and The Cat in the Hat. I could give specific reasons for each and sing the theme songs too. Many days at work go by when my head is-- all day long-- infiltrated by the melody of "Look up high, in the sky, it's a bird, it can fly... Let's all hurry to the flying fairy school!"
3. You will become, in at least one way, the mom you said you wouldn't be. Pre- kids, I rolled my eyes when friends would say their kids were sleeping in their beds with them, or that they were too nervous to leave their kids with a sitter. It was so easy at the time to scorn and criticize. "They are just screwing these kids up!" You later learn a little bit more about what it's like when your kid won't fall back to sleep in the crib and you yourself are looking for a modicum of rest. You also find out what it's like not to trust most people with your kid. It's instinctual. Just accept it. Yup, you are that woman now.
4. Everyone has an opinion. From whether you should nurse, to whether you should sleep train, to what kind of frickin' baby food you should serve, a lot of folks around you will want to give you the "best" advice. When the advice is unsolicited, it's most annoying, so learn to avoid the baby topic with the people who like to offer without request. But be careful, too, about whom you ask for help. A well- meaning bit of feedback could be a full report on the dangers of crib bumpers or a l00- part list of foods that constipate kids. We must consider that as humans, we like to feel useful. Naturally, we want to offer the best helping hand we can. People are well- meaning but they can still be as condescending or frustrating as all get- out. Ask for help only from people you can tolerate.
5. Speaking of help, don't go online to parent boards. A little Web MD never hurt anyone, eh? Well, I would debate that, as was evidenced by my search there for "dizziness" in which I had unreservedly decided I had a brain tumor. But parent boards can be more grotesque. People troll and write dumb things. They also want to be know- it- alls. And you will see on those boards the saddest, most extreme forms of dire happenings. Parent boards will make you feel inept OR gloomy about the state of the world OR paranoid about your choices OR just pissed off at how dumb people are. Don't go on boards often. Call the pedi office or ask a well- meaning, non- lecturey friend.
6. It's okay to just want a break. I read this article about mindfulness when parenting-- in fact, I know for sure I referenced it in a blog entry. And yes, I do need to be more mindful. I need to slow down and smell the proverbial roses sometimes. For sure. But this piece insinuated you were horrible for checking your watch to count down to when the kid will go to sleep. I mean, are we supposed to be superhuman? Are we supposed to never long for alone time? Are we supposed to be patient and giving 24/7? I am not. I have tried my best, and on most days I do well. But I have decided it's ok if your kid's whines are driving you to drink and you're going to put him to bed 20 minutes early tonight because can you ever just watch Jeopardy in peace?!
More to come... And I know I don't have to say it, but my caveat is this: Obviously, despite the difficulties I am presenting lightheartedly here, parenting is the sweetest and most awe- inducing thing you can dream of. Even when you have poop on your thumb or mushy seeds from an apple flung on pretty rug.
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