Hello. Welcome to the Winter of My Discontent.

When the goin' gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So you go out and get a job at the mall.  Like you did 10 years ago.  Because every other option is exhausted and you have to suck up your pride, stop acting like Winona Ryder in Reality Bites and STOP WHINING ALREADY.  Gah.

Sometimes it really sucks to be the grown-up.

I'm realizing just how- righteous?  Proud?  Insistent?  Hopeful?- I've become, and taking a job at the mall is stupidly humbling to say the least.  It feels like a step backward.  It's literally something I was doing 10 years ago.  It's a 60% pay cut from my previous career as a teacher.  And it's probably ultimately good for me.  But I can't say I love the idea of it.  Not yet.

The truth is, it's probably going to be awesome once I adjust to the idea of working with former students. (No literally, I am WORKING WITH A FORMER STUDENT.)  But the thing is, there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with getting a job at the mall.  Or working with a former student.  And retail can be totally bomb, yo.  I'm only pissed off because I feel like I was forced into a corner and I didn't get the jobs that I really wanted.  You know, the jobs that I'm actually completely unqualified for.  But I'm going to be working at a store that I actually really like.  I get a kick-ass discount.  I'll get to talk to other adults (!!!) about things other than poop or sleep (!!!) AND I'll get something that is all mine.  Something separate from "Mommy"... and that is something I've been craving.  And I'll probably get some new clothes out of the deal... once I get a few paychecks.

But.  But.  I can't get over the fact that I'm doing was I doing 10 years ago.  It feels... stagnant.  It feels out of place.  It feels anti-progressive.  But it's also necessary.  We're struggling.  My husband is a student at a private college and financial aid is getting harder and harder to come by.  I believe in what he's doing- what we're doing- and I believe in my choice to stay home rather than work exclusively to pay for day care.  Even if I'd never stopped teaching, we'd still be in the same position.  My salary wouldn't even have covered daycare for two little ones.  And I've always valued time with my children and my husband above money.  But.  But.  I'm tired of people telling me to deliver pizzas.  I'm tired of people thinking I'm slacking.  And I'm tired of being scared all the time.

So.  A job at the mall.

And also, as of yesterday, a job tutoring.  Which feels a little more my speed.  I'm attempting to do both for a while.  Which means I won't actually see my husband.  Ever.  We'll be communicating entirely through post-its.  Which sucks.  But... when the going gets tough... you still have to take care of your kids.  So, here goes.

Mr. Independence

It is insane to me how quickly these little creatures grow.  One second, they're catapulting around in your belly, and the next second they're marching off into preschool without a single backward glance.  Blink, and years have gone by.  Holy cliche, Batman.

Last week, my son started preschool.  He had his first drop-off day on Tuesday and I was sure, sure that the second I turned to leave, his sad little pouty lip would pop out and tears would spring up in his eyes.  I knew he'd be scared.  Except that he wasn't.  I'd been telling him I'd be dropping him off and trying to prepare him for what I was sure would be a totally traumatic event.  We don't leave him very often because... well, we don't ever have the money to go anywhere, so we definitely don't have the money for a babysitter.  And you can only ask friends to be so generous (although I'm pretty sure we've stretched it to the limit and sucked them all dry... our friends are about the kindest on the planet).  Sooo... I figured that being dropped off at a place he'd only ever been once with kids he'd only met once and adults he'd never met (apart from the teacher) would be a little scary.  I assumed he'd be nervous.

Nope.  He half-hugged me goodbye and waltzed off into preschool without so much as second glance back at me.  I was aghast.  My boy is pulling away from me already... and he's not even three yet.

It's surprising how difficult it is to loosen my vice-like grip on the cord.  I never saw myself as the uber-attached parent, but now that he's trying with all of his might to pry himself away from me... I see that I am.  He's my first baby, and now I understand that saying about having your heart walking around outside of your body.  Oof.  It's terrifying.

But it's also completely exhilarating.  I'm watching him experience all of these new things and watching as he tries all the things I was scared to try when I was little.  He's still timid, but he's stepping out there.  The other day, a friend and I went to a playground with our babies and my big boy, and off he went to the big play structure.  I watched from across the playground as he climbed the parts of the play structure he'd never dared to try.  He tried this one and that one, and I found myself completely transfixed, excited and terrified, whispering to myself, "Careful, baby.  Careful.  Good!  Good boy, you did it!"  He worked around the difficulties and figured it out, all on his own.  And I thought, well... that's it.  He doesn't really need me anymore.

And I know he does, of course.  We all need our parents- for longer than some of us would like to admit.  But he's separating himself from me.  And even though I'm so proud of these steps he's taking, I'm a little sad to know that they're taking him further away from me.  It's a strange thing, being a parent.  You want them to grow and learn, but you know that with all the growing and learning comes pain and heartache that you can't protect them from.  And that part is torture.

I'm so excited to be there and watch as my oldest boy grows up and becomes his own little person.  But I hate to think about all the tough parts of growing up.  I hope I can help him weather the storms.  I hope I can be there to comfort and reassure him, without overpowering him.  I hope I can help him to feel proud and confident.  I hope I can be a part of it all, without taking any of it away from him.

My heart really is walking around without me.  It's a strange sensation.  And part of me really likes it.

FREEDOM!!!!

Apparently, I weaned my baby last night.  It wasn't really the plan, but he made his lack of interest in breastfeeding so glaringly clear that I had to pay attention.  I think it was the screeching and the twisting away repeatedly that made me stop and focus.  Because I am nothing if not observant.

What was it driving me to attempt to force-nurse this kid?  (I didn't, quit freaking out.)  He was clearly not into it at all and yet there I was trying to switch sides over and over, cooing at my poor baby in an attempt to get him to latch on for more than 5 seconds before origami-ing himself away again.  After about 15 minutes of squealing like a tortured piglet and impossible back bends, I picked that baby up and asked him if he was done.  "Are you finished here?  Are you moving on now?  Are you actually, VOLUNTARILY giving me my body back?  All done, Baby?"  And he grinned the biggest grin... and then catapulted himself into a pile of duvet.  I took that as a yes.

So, I'm free I guess.  It's weird.  Part of the weirdness stems from Last Baby Syndrome and the end of an era and blah, blah, blah.  But part of it also comes from my EXTENSIVE collection of mommy guilt. (Seriously, I could center an entire blog around it.  Oh, wait....)  I was planning to nurse him until 14 months just like his big brother for the sake of equality.  You know, so I wouldn't have to hear all that, "MOM.  You know this is all your fault because you stopped breastfeeding me too early.  My brother doesn't have these problems.  POINT MADE."  Those arguments totally happen.  And I was feeling all bummed and guilty that I hadn't made it to that magical benchmark... until my husband reminded me that the babe is just two weeks away from 14 months.  So that counts, right?  Equality maintained(ish).

Apart from being weird, it's also totally and completely and endlessly awesome, because I'M FREEEEEE!!!!!  Well, I'm free-ish. My body at least belongs to me now (although there will be kids hanging off of it for quite some time yet).  I can consume tequila and cold medicine and sketchy untested vitamin supplements with wild abandon.  I can tattoo myself from head to toe and use countless poisonous skin and hair products.  I could, in theory, leave for an entire week and the kids would be fine.  For the first time in four years (!!!), my offspring are no longer dependent on my body for sustenance, and that feels awesome.

Hurry, someone pass me some sketchy untested supplements and let's go get neck tattoos!