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.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
IDIOTS
There is something special about parenthood that makes even the most confident among us feel like complete idiots. That unique something: kids.
There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out. You've read all the books and poured over all the research. OR you've worked with kids your entire life. OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life. OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day. OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does. You got this. You're ready. You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that. Or that. Your kids will never behave that way. You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.
And then you have kids.
The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become. I had seen such things and my children would never, ever behave that way in public. Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo. I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist. I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly. One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor. Yes, woman I've never met. Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation. As will teaching him fart jokes. Thank you.
Ugh. It was completely humiliating. And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen. What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening. I was caught completely off-guard. We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old. Everything had been fine. Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all. And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.
As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding. They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door). I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three." And then I smiled a great big giant smile. Good luck, ladies!
Because I knew I couldn't warn them. They wouldn't believe me! Not their kids. Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty. Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans. What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out. Or until we die. Why do we not learn? It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation. You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh. Plans, schmans. You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon. Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.
Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet. Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time. The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends. None of us are right. We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids. We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard. But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner? sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.
My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived. I was that mother. Whatever.
There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out. You've read all the books and poured over all the research. OR you've worked with kids your entire life. OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life. OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day. OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does. You got this. You're ready. You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that. Or that. Your kids will never behave that way. You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.
And then you have kids.
The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become. I had seen such things and my children would never, ever behave that way in public. Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo. I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist. I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly. One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor. Yes, woman I've never met. Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation. As will teaching him fart jokes. Thank you.
Ugh. It was completely humiliating. And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen. What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening. I was caught completely off-guard. We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old. Everything had been fine. Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all. And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.
As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding. They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door). I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three." And then I smiled a great big giant smile. Good luck, ladies!
Because I knew I couldn't warn them. They wouldn't believe me! Not their kids. Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty. Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans. What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out. Or until we die. Why do we not learn? It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation. You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh. Plans, schmans. You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon. Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.
Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet. Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time. The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends. None of us are right. We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids. We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard. But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner? sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.
My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived. I was that mother. Whatever.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Those Days
You know how sometimes you look around and you're like, "Is this my life?" and then you realize, "Yes, this is my life," and then you want to crawl in a hole for 2 months? Yeah. That.
The past few days have been those kinds of days. They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack. Shockingly, things are not going well.
Yesterday: Nothing went smoothly. Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles. All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet). Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied. Time outs were had. Much whining occurred. This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them. Because then there's the guilt. Why can't I handle this? And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother. Who then also screamed. And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm. Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.
Today: A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama. Four time outs before 10:30 a.m. And then there were two more before lunch. My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time. To his baby brother. While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning. I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof). I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable. Lost on both counts. And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour. This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.
People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.
(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this. You better have 'em, people. YOU BETTER. I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)
Pffffttt. I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me. All I know is that I am not a fan. NOT.
I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons. AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE. I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better. I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life. I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore. I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day. I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them. But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier. I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything. I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not. But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now. I'm tired.
Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape. Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V. Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.
Ahhh.... simpler times. I'd like those.
Please tell me you have days like these.
The past few days have been those kinds of days. They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack. Shockingly, things are not going well.
Yesterday: Nothing went smoothly. Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles. All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet). Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied. Time outs were had. Much whining occurred. This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them. Because then there's the guilt. Why can't I handle this? And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother. Who then also screamed. And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm. Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.
Today: A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama. Four time outs before 10:30 a.m. And then there were two more before lunch. My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time. To his baby brother. While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning. I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof). I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable. Lost on both counts. And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour. This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.
People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.
(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this. You better have 'em, people. YOU BETTER. I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)
Pffffttt. I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me. All I know is that I am not a fan. NOT.
I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons. AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE. I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better. I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life. I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore. I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day. I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them. But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier. I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything. I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not. But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now. I'm tired.
Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape. Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V. Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.
Ahhh.... simpler times. I'd like those.
Please tell me you have days like these.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Premature Teenaging
My toddler appears to be experiencing what I can only describe as premature teenaging. It's weird and unpleasant. And also a tiny bit funny.
He now regularly asks me to stop singing, stop dancing, or stop doing anything else that might be, like, TOTALLY embarrassing. OMG, Mom. He's getting smelly. I constantly think about a friend telling me about a house she visited inhabited by two teenage boys. Her one comment: "It smelled like balls and feet." (Oh my god. MY house is going to smell like balls and feet!) Recently, when I ask him what he wants to eat, he says, "I don't know. Just get me somefin." Um, really? And he's started trying to call me Mom instead of Mommy. As in, "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM!" "Mom" wears pleated khakis and has that weird, frizzy, mid-length, triangle bob. I AM NOT MOM. It feels bossy and premature and I hate it.
How did this happen? He's not even three yet. Do all toddlers go through this?
Or wait... does this mean he's getting it out of his system before junior high? Cause that would be AWESOME.
He now regularly asks me to stop singing, stop dancing, or stop doing anything else that might be, like, TOTALLY embarrassing. OMG, Mom. He's getting smelly. I constantly think about a friend telling me about a house she visited inhabited by two teenage boys. Her one comment: "It smelled like balls and feet." (Oh my god. MY house is going to smell like balls and feet!) Recently, when I ask him what he wants to eat, he says, "I don't know. Just get me somefin." Um, really? And he's started trying to call me Mom instead of Mommy. As in, "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM!" "Mom" wears pleated khakis and has that weird, frizzy, mid-length, triangle bob. I AM NOT MOM. It feels bossy and premature and I hate it.
How did this happen? He's not even three yet. Do all toddlers go through this?
Or wait... does this mean he's getting it out of his system before junior high? Cause that would be AWESOME.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
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!
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!
Friday, February 17, 2012
Power Struggle
First, some bad poetry by yours truly:
Once a teacher of literature,
Purveyor of words and ideas,
I now disseminate Cheerios,
Teach nose-blowing, please and thank you.
Some days I am lost
In a sea of trains and tiny socks.
While there are a great many things to love about being a mother (and I assure you, there is a lot that I do love), I have found that becoming a stay-at-home parent has created a serious power struggle within me. And honestly, I did not expect this.
As I and many of my fellow at-home mamas stand on the precipice of sanity, I'm left wondering how it is that we- the stay-at-home parents- can maintain a sense of self. This isn't to say that I don't have a sense of purpose. I do. I believe wholeheartedly in what I do. At the risk of sounding saccharine and cliche, I will say that staying home with my children has been an absolute gift. I know the time I've been able to spend with my children is irreplaceable and I am so thankful I've been there for the first steps, first words, and the little bumps and bruises. Nonetheless, I can't help but think that parts of me have begun to disappear along the way.
I used to be a teacher. I used to teach and discuss literature all day, every day. (Or almost every day... there were, of course, the obligatory days of discussing why it is not okay to steal or to yell or to sleep through every class. Or take your pants off in the middle of a Socratic Seminar.) I used to create curriculum, discuss ideas and teaching strategies with colleagues, immerse myself in piles and piles of poetry. I used to meet with friends under the guise of planning, and end up discussing the glories of Walt Whitman or the intensities Heart of Darkness.
Now, I spend my days playing trucks and cleaning sticky little hands and faces. I change diapers and fetch tiny pairs of underwear covered in trains or Sesame Street characters. Instead of reading Emerson, I read Dr. Seuss. Rather than grading papers, I do laundry and make baby food.
I'm not complaining, exactly. I like reading Dr. Seuss. I love getting down on the floor and playing with my boys. I feel good about making healthy food for the kids. I do NOT miss grading papers or the politics that are ever-present in public education. But it's a strange transition from individual to stay-at-home mother. An individual's decisions are based entirely on the individual. She may take her partner into account and may even put her partner's needs ahead of hers at times, but she is still her own person.
As a stay-at-home mom (especially of children under 3), my childrens' needs always come first. This doesn't necessarily sound significant, but it means that everything I do must ensure that the kids are taken care of first. On the small scale, it means I can't even pee until I'm sure that both kids are safe and aren't going to climb atop a table or pull a pot down onto their heads. Even then, one or both of them usually follows me into the bathroom. On the large scale, it means that my needs are sometimes not met at all. I can't sit down and write when inspiration strikes. I can't go to yoga or sit and read with a good cup of coffee. I can't unload the dishwasher when I want to because the baby tries to crawl inside and yank all the dishes out. It means I can barely complete a sentence without interruption.
And again, I'm not complaining in the way that it sounds like I'm complaining. I've chosen this life and, as frustrating as it can be, I feel good about it. I know that despite difficulties, it's the right choice for my family and I feel lucky to be at home with my children. I know that being a working mother has its own giant set of problems that I can't begin to understand. I can only speak to my own experiences and for me, it is hard to feel like I'm disappearing under all this mothering. I love identifying as a mother, but it's getting to the point where that's ALL I identify with. Most of the time I am no longer Shannon; I am only Mommy. And this leaves me feeling sad and confused.
Recently, I've had a few opportunities to spend quality time with some wonderful friends and some wonderful drinks sans kids. (Thank you, Husband o' mine!) What I find is that I revert quickly to my old self. I am relaxed, listening intently, laughing and swearing like a sailor. It's awesome. This is not to say that I don't like myself as a mother, but I like other parts of myself, too. Having a few hours of uninterrupted conversation with a friend feels so indulgent now, and I find that I crave it like mad. I am clamoring to get out and find more opportunities to be me. To figure out who me is now. Not separate from Mommy, but in addition to.
And this, in great part, is why I started this blog. I wanted to have an outlet, a way to nurture the part of me that gets buried under all the diapers and laundry and milk cups. I still want to be Mommy- it's my most treasured role- but I think it's important that it not be my only role.
I am more than diapers, damn it. Sometimes I can write words in a row. Hopefully those words sometimes manage to sound nice and make sense and possibly even cause a person to think or laugh or smile in empathy.
Once a teacher of literature,
Purveyor of words and ideas,
I now disseminate Cheerios,
Teach nose-blowing, please and thank you.
Some days I am lost
In a sea of trains and tiny socks.
While there are a great many things to love about being a mother (and I assure you, there is a lot that I do love), I have found that becoming a stay-at-home parent has created a serious power struggle within me. And honestly, I did not expect this.
As I and many of my fellow at-home mamas stand on the precipice of sanity, I'm left wondering how it is that we- the stay-at-home parents- can maintain a sense of self. This isn't to say that I don't have a sense of purpose. I do. I believe wholeheartedly in what I do. At the risk of sounding saccharine and cliche, I will say that staying home with my children has been an absolute gift. I know the time I've been able to spend with my children is irreplaceable and I am so thankful I've been there for the first steps, first words, and the little bumps and bruises. Nonetheless, I can't help but think that parts of me have begun to disappear along the way.
I used to be a teacher. I used to teach and discuss literature all day, every day. (Or almost every day... there were, of course, the obligatory days of discussing why it is not okay to steal or to yell or to sleep through every class. Or take your pants off in the middle of a Socratic Seminar.) I used to create curriculum, discuss ideas and teaching strategies with colleagues, immerse myself in piles and piles of poetry. I used to meet with friends under the guise of planning, and end up discussing the glories of Walt Whitman or the intensities Heart of Darkness.
Now, I spend my days playing trucks and cleaning sticky little hands and faces. I change diapers and fetch tiny pairs of underwear covered in trains or Sesame Street characters. Instead of reading Emerson, I read Dr. Seuss. Rather than grading papers, I do laundry and make baby food.
I'm not complaining, exactly. I like reading Dr. Seuss. I love getting down on the floor and playing with my boys. I feel good about making healthy food for the kids. I do NOT miss grading papers or the politics that are ever-present in public education. But it's a strange transition from individual to stay-at-home mother. An individual's decisions are based entirely on the individual. She may take her partner into account and may even put her partner's needs ahead of hers at times, but she is still her own person.
As a stay-at-home mom (especially of children under 3), my childrens' needs always come first. This doesn't necessarily sound significant, but it means that everything I do must ensure that the kids are taken care of first. On the small scale, it means I can't even pee until I'm sure that both kids are safe and aren't going to climb atop a table or pull a pot down onto their heads. Even then, one or both of them usually follows me into the bathroom. On the large scale, it means that my needs are sometimes not met at all. I can't sit down and write when inspiration strikes. I can't go to yoga or sit and read with a good cup of coffee. I can't unload the dishwasher when I want to because the baby tries to crawl inside and yank all the dishes out. It means I can barely complete a sentence without interruption.
And again, I'm not complaining in the way that it sounds like I'm complaining. I've chosen this life and, as frustrating as it can be, I feel good about it. I know that despite difficulties, it's the right choice for my family and I feel lucky to be at home with my children. I know that being a working mother has its own giant set of problems that I can't begin to understand. I can only speak to my own experiences and for me, it is hard to feel like I'm disappearing under all this mothering. I love identifying as a mother, but it's getting to the point where that's ALL I identify with. Most of the time I am no longer Shannon; I am only Mommy. And this leaves me feeling sad and confused.
Recently, I've had a few opportunities to spend quality time with some wonderful friends and some wonderful drinks sans kids. (Thank you, Husband o' mine!) What I find is that I revert quickly to my old self. I am relaxed, listening intently, laughing and swearing like a sailor. It's awesome. This is not to say that I don't like myself as a mother, but I like other parts of myself, too. Having a few hours of uninterrupted conversation with a friend feels so indulgent now, and I find that I crave it like mad. I am clamoring to get out and find more opportunities to be me. To figure out who me is now. Not separate from Mommy, but in addition to.
And this, in great part, is why I started this blog. I wanted to have an outlet, a way to nurture the part of me that gets buried under all the diapers and laundry and milk cups. I still want to be Mommy- it's my most treasured role- but I think it's important that it not be my only role.
I am more than diapers, damn it. Sometimes I can write words in a row. Hopefully those words sometimes manage to sound nice and make sense and possibly even cause a person to think or laugh or smile in empathy.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Things to Remember
'Tis Valentine's Day and I should probably be proclaiming love n' shit. But hot damn if those darling kiddos of mine weren't throwing peas everywhere and refusing to sleep today. They know not what they do and alas, they are not yet aware of little chalky heart thingies. So... this.
On days like today, I find it important to have something to look at to remind me why I do what do. When I was teaching, I borrowed an idea from a mentor and that thing was something cheesily called a "Smile File." I filled it with kind letters from students, notes from fellow teachers, especially awesome assignments and anything else that made me happy and reminded me why I chose to teach. Teaching is an incredibly difficult job, but a job worth doing. My Smile File helped me remember that.
I am finding now that I'd like something similar to remind me why I love being the mother of two young boys. On the days when want to sit down and cry into my applesauce-crusted arms, it would be nice to be able to cut myself off at the pass and take a little look-see at the things that make me smile. I love my boys and I never, ever doubt that. Ever. But sometimes after a hard day and little sleep it becomes difficult to remember why I love being home with them.
So, this is my file o' love for staying at home with my two little whipper-snappers. Apropos on Valentine's Day, no? Try not barf. Perhaps even smile.
(And don't be alarmed by my waxing happy. I'll be back to my whiny, complainy self in no time.)
Reasons I Love Motherhood:
* Hugging my babies
* Receiving spontaneous and heartfelt hugs, kisses, and "I love you"s.
* Words like "opameal" (oatmeal), "fravrite" (favorite), and "noom" (balloon)
* Actually watching the wheels turn as a new idea develops
* Watching them try something new every single day
* The shit-eating grins they grace me with right before they do something they know is naughty
* Watching them sing and dance and my amazement at how naturally it comes to both of them
* Even on the days I can't come up with a reason to laugh, they give me one
Reasons to Love Having Two Kids Under Three:
* Listening to my toddler sing to my baby
* Watching them crack each other up until each is red-faced and rolling around on the floor
* Listening to them blow raspberries on the living room window with periodic pauses for the toddler to giggle and the baby to chortle like a 90 year old man
* The spontaneous composing of songs like: "Wren, I Love You. Yes I Do." Soon to be a Top 40 hit. Look out, Beiber.
* The way the little one looks at the big one.
* The way the big one looks out for the little one when he doesn't think I'm paying attention
* In approximately one year, I will be done with diapers FOREVER and my house will no longer smell like poop
On days like today, I find it important to have something to look at to remind me why I do what do. When I was teaching, I borrowed an idea from a mentor and that thing was something cheesily called a "Smile File." I filled it with kind letters from students, notes from fellow teachers, especially awesome assignments and anything else that made me happy and reminded me why I chose to teach. Teaching is an incredibly difficult job, but a job worth doing. My Smile File helped me remember that.
I am finding now that I'd like something similar to remind me why I love being the mother of two young boys. On the days when want to sit down and cry into my applesauce-crusted arms, it would be nice to be able to cut myself off at the pass and take a little look-see at the things that make me smile. I love my boys and I never, ever doubt that. Ever. But sometimes after a hard day and little sleep it becomes difficult to remember why I love being home with them.
So, this is my file o' love for staying at home with my two little whipper-snappers. Apropos on Valentine's Day, no? Try not barf. Perhaps even smile.
(And don't be alarmed by my waxing happy. I'll be back to my whiny, complainy self in no time.)
Reasons I Love Motherhood:
* Hugging my babies
* Receiving spontaneous and heartfelt hugs, kisses, and "I love you"s.
* Words like "opameal" (oatmeal), "fravrite" (favorite), and "noom" (balloon)
* Actually watching the wheels turn as a new idea develops
* Watching them try something new every single day
* The shit-eating grins they grace me with right before they do something they know is naughty
* Watching them sing and dance and my amazement at how naturally it comes to both of them
* Even on the days I can't come up with a reason to laugh, they give me one
Reasons to Love Having Two Kids Under Three:
* Listening to my toddler sing to my baby
* Watching them crack each other up until each is red-faced and rolling around on the floor
* Listening to them blow raspberries on the living room window with periodic pauses for the toddler to giggle and the baby to chortle like a 90 year old man
* The spontaneous composing of songs like: "Wren, I Love You. Yes I Do." Soon to be a Top 40 hit. Look out, Beiber.
* The way the little one looks at the big one.
* The way the big one looks out for the little one when he doesn't think I'm paying attention
* In approximately one year, I will be done with diapers FOREVER and my house will no longer smell like poop
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