17 posts tagged “motherhood”

Prior to becoming a mother I worked for a large telecommunications corporation securing easements and service agreements.  Yes, definitely as exciting as it sounds.  But, on the upside my performance was measurable.  Doing well = signed contracts = commission.  Hard work paid off quite literally.

As a graduate student, my work is also measurable.  There's that thesis in the not so distant future, papers and grades, as well as how well I "perform" in discussions. 

This week I've been thinking about how motherhood doesn't have the same sort of measurable results.  There are results, but not in accessible, black and white terms.  Yes, I had a hand in the fact that the baby is in the 95 percentile for weight and height, but so did genetics.  Yes, my three-year-old daughter can sing Old MacDonald in tune, as well as various Ingrid Michaelson songs, but is that necessarily impressive?  I have a vague notion that most of the time I'm doing fine with the motherhood gig, but where's the proof?  My mother-in-law, bless her heart, always tells me I'm doing a good job when she sees the girls, but since the kids are individuals, little people with souls of their own, I scarcely feel like I can take credit for their health. 

Quite frequently I feel like a hamster in an exercise wheel on auto-pilot, particularly during the weeks when I have a lot going on with school.  These are the weeks where my time is parceled out quite strictly, with the exception of taking care of the girls.  They take priority over everything else.  They ultimately dictate the ebb and flow, and like water, fill in the cracks of any spare spaces of time. So, obviously they are the most important responsibility or "project" I have simmering. And yet, the job comes without a performance review.

There are days of epic failure where I doubt my effectiveness as a mother.  I can only measure my ability sometimes by the number of tantrums, the lost battles over fruits and veggies, and the frequency and depth of how I lost my cool.  Those days I wonder what the hell I was thinking when I put those birth control pills on the shelf for a month or two.

But, I suppose, like any great love in life, we can't put numbers or measurables on them.  Just like the Mastercard ad campaign, it's just "priceless".  The good, the bad, they're all rapidly moving moments that we just do our best with. 

My daughter had her first ballet recital over the weekend.  A couple weeks ago they released "hair and make-up instructions", and I went into a mild panic over having to apply blue eye shadow and red lipstick to a three-year-old.  I've always considered myself antithetical to the typical "Beauty Pageant Mom".  But, I got over the fear of making her look like Jon Benet or a tart in a tutu.  I also got over the feeling that the recital was strictly a blatent act of wallet-fattening by the studio. In fact, when she came off the stage at her first performance I felt a swell of pride and irrepressible excitement.  By the last performance on Saturday I felt butterflies of anticipation as I saw her take her mark on the dark stage.  I wasn't alone as I saw other mothers grasp their daughters in almost frenzied embrace after the performances, as if they had just finished dancing Coppelia with the Joffrey, not a three-minute number executed with the clumsy-footing and lack of self-consciousness only Pre-Schoolers can pull off.  It was then that it dawned on me that I may have broken a promise I had made to myself.  I had vowed to not project myself onto her, and based on the depth of emotion I felt, it seemed suspiciously like I was doing just that. 

Part of the joy of parenthood is living vicariously through your children.  Seeing the world with their fresh perspective can be healthy for everyone.  But, pursuing a life through them and making choices that reflect your desires versus theirs is the dark side of it.  It's a fine line sometimes.  How much of it is pride in your children and how much is your own unfullfilled dreams?  Only a therapist's couch can answer that.  I suppose that we'll all be okay as long as I remember that while she came from me, she's also separate from me, and that her independence will continue to grow just as my love for her deepens with time.  When I consider it that way, it feels rather bittersweet.

I had forgotten the intensity of mothering a new baby.  There are these chaotic moments when the baby is crying, I'm dying for a drink of water, the phone is ringing, my Pre-K-er needs help in the bathroom, and suddenly I realize the dryer has been full of clean (and now extremely wrinkly) clothes for three days.  It just seems like nothing gets done, despite all my best efforts to keep me and the other humans alive and well.  Plus, between me and my three-year-old the raw emotion quotient can skyrocket, particularly on days when my husband - the XY equalizer - is traveling for work. 

I have wisened up from when my older daughter was an infant though.  This go-around the daily shower, the occasional western bacon cheeseburger, and online retail therapy are utterly non-negotiable.  I know I need these things as sure as air, water, and diet coke.  But other decisions seem less clear and rather nebulous. If I get a two-hour child-free window on Saturday afternoon, how do I spend it?  By myself on a run or just browsing a bookstore?  With a girlfriend for mental therapy?  Or with my husband, who it seems, I have not had a complete conversation with for a few months? There is so much to do when I get my brief, psuedo release from motherhood.   

I've also been planning my graduate courseload this fall, and I'm torn.  There are classes I want to take, but when I sit down to arrange childcare I feel this twinge of sadness that I'll be away from the girls.  In trying to have my cake and eat it too, I'm finding myself emotionally split. 

My husband reminded me yesterday that one day our daughters will be older, and rolling their eyes when I try to tell them a story about Cinderella making blueberry pie, and wanting to be in contact with their peers 24/7 instead of me...and I will miss these days when they are small, sweet dictators who need so much all the time.  He is right, and when he mentioned this my eyes involuntarily tear-ed up.  It could have been my hormones, but deep down I think it's because as hard as it is right now, it's exactly where I want to be.

I used to consider myself the consummate multi-tasker...that was until my husband left on a business trip Monday and I was left alone with our two kids for the first time for a few days/nights.  Pop Quiz - Your preschooler decides she has to use the potty right when your newborn desperately wants to nurse - who needs you more?  The day is filled with these kinds of questions that have no correct answer, but might result in more clean-up later, crying, frustration, or all of the above.

Truthfully though, going from 1 to 2 is infinitely easier than going from 0 to 1. Others may disagree, but I've been surprised by my utter calm within the eye of the storm.  Turns out I know what the hell I'm doing.  So far so good.

Today two different mothers at my daughter's preschool pointed at my rounded belly and said, "You're pregnant!  I didn't know you were expecting!".  I guess the jig is up.  I have to come out of the closet as a Breeder.  It's a beautiful, natural, awesome experience to be pregnant, and in the privacy of my home I savor my baby's kicks and punches, and am excited we're getting closer to meeting her.  But, in public, it seems like an entirely different kind of attention that I'm not comfortable with.  I feel like I'm wearing a large sign proclaiming, "Yes, I procreate and my body is not my own right now."  In some ways I am excited that I'm now noticeably pregnant - after all, you can only hide the early, beer-gut-ish bulge under empire-waisted shirts so long, but there's something rather vulnerable in having your fertility on display.  Some strangers read it as a green light to stare, dispense advice, or most horrifying, invading your personal space by putting their hands on you like they're actually, somehow touching your baby.

The fascination is, for the most part, natural human curiosity.  No harm intended.  I mean what isn't fascinating about the fact that a living human being grows from microscopic to watermelon-sized all within a woman's abdomen. They call it a miracle for a reason.  Still, when you house that miracle sometimes you just wish you could wear a muu-muu and live undercover for just a little longer.

One of the most surprising elements of motherhood for me is the swing of emotion.  One moment I am grinning at my daughter's sweet rendition of the Sesame Street theme song, and I mentally catalog how polite or independent or helpful she's been lately. 

And then, moments later she's taken a pile of leaves (gathered from our morning walk) and shredded them ceremoniously around the living room, and is refusing to allow the dog within 5 feet of her, while screaming half-intelligible sentences that the dog clearly doesn't understand. She's gone from happy to completely irritated from zero to 10 seconds, and my mood can't help but follow.

That's when I roll my eyes and a part of me wants to yank her by the collar and say something that will definitely merit hours of therapy later in life.  This would clearly be extreme given the degree of her offense.  So, in my mind, I go there, while I snatch at leaf crumbs and silently fume.  I can't help but feel a little sorry for myself. 

Yeah, I know.  Who am I to feel sorry for myself?  Welcome to parenthood.  There's no medals or awards to be won, just a daily battle of sanity.  And I'm not more or less extraordinary than the next parent. 

After this episode, I opened the fridge and hoped to see a large bottle of rum or gin, but instead had to settle for a virgin screwdriver.  As I sipped my orange juice, and took some deep breaths, I decided that I've either A) Landed in a hormonal bermuda triangle, B) Am overdue a child-free afternoon, C) Am normal, or D) All of the above.

Sure, having a child is fulfilling, and it just takes a whisper of something gone awry to remind me if something were to happen to my daughter I would go completely, unalterably insane.  But, there are these days too, where I'm just weary of the responsibility for no reason other than I'm human.

I wasn't ready for full-time working motherhood. 

Or I suppose, more accurately, the job I had - while enjoyable for the paycheck, adult company, and "measurable results" - wasn't as fulfilling as I thought it might be. 

I realize that it's a luxury that I can walk away from it.  I know under different circumstances I would've had to swallow my pride, stop whining about being away from my daughter, and basically just zip it for the greater good.  But, I'm lucky.

Work-related misery wasn't doing good things for my health - mental or physical, and in the long-run that wasn't good for my family. I also couldn't silence the urges to go to Grad School, write, absorb the rapidly moving moments of my daughter's development, and be that happy homemaker I've wrestled with, but ultimately become (mostly) content with.  In short, to use one of my favorite analogies, I was pushing a rock up a hill that just came rolling back onto me.  So, it was time to stop pushing the rock.

Of course all of this brings me back to square one.  But, it's different than it was several weeks ago, when I was heavy with anxiety about the "fork in the road".  I suppose sometimes we just have to hang out on the other side of the fence a while to know it's not greener. Or maybe I'm just one of those people that has to try everything at least once, so I don't feel like I'm missing out.  Either way, for now, I know where I belong, and that means I can sleep soundly tonight...at least for one night anyway.

Picture the following: A toy-strewn living room, a kitchen where the dishes haven’t magically loaded themselves into the dishwasher, a wild toddler sans underpants, but covered in stickers, and me - clad in a pair of black yoga pants and t-shirt.  My life as I knew it and the white carpet in the house really haven’t been the same since my daughter’s blessed arrival.
 

So, when The Yummy Mummy Manifesto flew into radar, I was intrigued. 

The subtitle is Baby, Beauty, Balance, and Bliss….all very important B words.  It’s meant to be a book of advice and reflections on the wide mental and physical world of motherhood.  And as you probably know, I love my mommy books.

 

The author, Anna Johnson, defines Yummy as “joyous, naughty, delicious, creative, intrepid, and sensually alive”, and concedes that mothering in this fashion is not taking the easy or popular road.  She covers everything from style to nutrition to running a house and how to stay sane.

 

The heart of the book is valuable and holds an inspired message.  Despite sometimes feeling like just a “cradle and service station”, or guilty about any combination of things, she reminds mothers to follow our instincts. 

 

That said, parts of the book resemble a narcissistic monologue on bohemian mothering, which may be world’s apart from your own experience.  I found myself taking little gems and skipping over other chapters completely (particularly some of the pregnancy-related ones). 

For example, she completely lost me when she devoted pages on pages about “utterly scrumptious names” (Nothing could make me name my son Adonis or daughter Gogo), but then reeled me back in with this sentence:

“Until I finally joined the ranks, I hated every homily I heard about the lifestyle, commitment, and knotty conundrums of motherhood.”

Followed with:

“Erma Bombeck carried on about domestic angst and housewife hell with a dry, endless cackle, but now I realize she was a Buddha of suburbia.  Only a Zen master could sail through all this smiling, and monks don’t mother.  They meditate.” 

Another favorite: “It’s a passion and it’s a job, and just because it needs to be done, it shouldn’t obliterate the identity and importance of the woman doing it.”

Reading The Yummy Mummy Manifesto is a bit like listening to an older sister you both admire and question.  Some of what she says will be dead on helpful and affirming, and other parts are just going to cause you to roll your eyes.  I believe that’s because Johnson writes in a candid tone, and her book isn't meant to be an instruction manual.  It's written more like a blog - something to be savored bit by bit, but not used as a rigorous reference.

A humorous book on motherhood?  Yes, please.  After all, even though “it’s the hardest job you’ll ever love”, if we all took motherhood too seriously we would literally tear our hair out, or take the first flight out of town.  I’ve seen far too many new mothers hunt for the elusive ideal of motherhood, wherein you ALWAYS feed your child something healthy, NEVER let them watch TV, and OTHERWISE beat your sleep-deprived psyche to a bloody pulp. 

Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s follow-up to Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay, is Naptime is the New Happy Hour – a funny, honest collection of scenes with a toddler.  She covers the joys of potty training, choosing a preschool, tantrums, and dealing with those Smug Moms you just want to punch. 

 

Wilder-Taylor is unapologetic about her toddler’s TV habit and cookie consumption, and honestly dishes about her mixed feelings on suburbia.  Her book was easy to read, possibly because she’s written down thoughts that I’ve had in my head, but not uttered out loud (or only to close friends), reaffirming that while I love my child completely, I’m not a “bad mother” for occasionally setting my child in front of the TV so I can take a shower or catch up on reading blogs (oops, did I just admit that?).

 

Her account of flying with her toddler and hating her a little afterwards hit a little close to home, and her chapter on stay-at-home versus work-outside-of-the-home was honest and quite comforting.

 

She is a little heavy on the joke of medicating herself, with heavy doses of sarcasm, which made me feel occasionally like I was reading the literary equivalent of stand-up comedy, but looking aside that one aspect, I found myself reading it whenever I had little pockets of time. 

 

In the end, life with a toddler is frustrating, rewarding, and quite frequently funny, if you choose to see it that way.  Naptime is the new Happy Hour definitely captures those funny moments, and in easily digestible bites.

My daughter, like most two-year-olds loves the playground.  Between the slides, the swings, and sand, what’s not to like?  Personally, I hate them.  I can tolerate them, perhaps even enjoy a little if I’m meeting a friend and her offspring, but on the regular occasions where I'm there with only my daughter in tow, I start to feel disenchanted and fish-out-of-water like Sarah from Little Children.

 

I will admit that I go to the playground secretly hoping.  There is a distant, however possible shot, I’ll meet a fellow mom I can genuinely connect with and befriend.  Playgrounds are after all the stay-at-home-mom bar scene.  But, one of the major obstacles to achieving this is that I’m shy.  I’ve adapted in certain settings, such as dinner parties and the traditional workplace, but something about the playground puts me back to the age where I can make eye contact and smile, but freeze up when attempting conversation.  Back in the day, I also sucked at dating, though at least in the bars I could swig a rum and coke to help my social skills.  This same behavior might be seen as possibly irresponsible, and of course illegal with children present.

 

Today, my daughter, who thankfully isn’t stunted in the social department and probably won’t be later thanks to my husband, befriended a fellow multicultural kidlet.  He had blond-ish dreadlocks and I learned by eavesdropping that his “flavor of swirl” is German and Jamaican.  An unassuming, though lovely woman, quietly spoke a mixture of German and English to him, and encouraged him to share the dump truck and other sand toys with my daughter.  I really wanted to converse with her (other than murmuring thank you).  But, did I?  No.  Instead I let another woman who wasn’t horribly annoying, but slightly interrogating, ask her a slew of questions.  And feeling like a teenager whose afraid of rejection, I quietly sat on the edge of the sandbox and stared off into space.

 

I’m not sure how to break out of the shell of shyness.  But, I really think that this is one of the only routes where I’ll meet comrades these days.

 

There was a time when I was on the hunt for a playgroup.  The need for social interaction about a year ago was so intense that I swallowed any inherent timidity and joined a parent organization that has affiliated playgroups.  My first shot was a group of women that seemed relatively engaging and supportive, until the subject of breastfeeding came up.  I was at that point still nursing my daughter at least a few times a day.  The consensus in the group was that nursing was somehow strange and deviant after 12 months.  They couldn’t put their finger on why, but they just thought it was “wrong”.  Next up was the subject of Gerber’s First Meats, wherein they discussed the merits of reconstituted sticks of chicken and beef that came in handy jars.  If there are varying degrees of “natural” and hippy-dom, I was practically a barefoot, commune-living, tie-dyer compared to these ladies.  Needless to state, I never saw them again.

 

My second experience was quite different.  I drove up to a palatial estate about 20 minutes from my home in an upscale neighborhood.  The hostess was warm and genuine, so I could momentarily overlook the amazing view from the second floor, the authentic Dr.Seuss artwork hanging on the playroom walls, and the fact that her housekeeper had answered the door.  But, when the other women showed up that same feeling of “Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore” hit me like bricks.  Apparently, one of the women was on the hunt for more furniture, and Pottery Barn Kids was not good enough.  They also decided that for playgroup they would have “spa day” where they would hire manicurists and masseuses to come in.  My family has actually been affected by the shift from two incomes to one, so the idea of spa day with a bunch of women who drove Land Rovers and X5’s just sounded insane.  Needless to state, I never saw them again.

Why is it so hard to befriend women who are like-minded and in similar situations?