Peace has descended on my happy home. My house has recovered from a full day of children
running around, bouncing on beds and putting their hands all over the
walls.
The air conditioner is humming, and I can hear the occasional creaks from a house that is well loved and well used.
No children are laughing, screaming or asking for bowls of cereal.
This is the time that dreams are made of.
Or more accurately, this is the time I should actually be dreaming, because everyone else is sound asleep.
Everyone but me.
I'm so tired during the day that I could fall asleep while standing with a cup of coffee in my hands.
My eyes have such black rings under them that it took me a whole two minutes to realize that it wasn't mascara underneath my eyes.
But I can't give up my midnight rendezvous with someone I don't get to spend much time with: me.
There is something about the middle of the night that is just too seductive for me to resist.
I don't have to worry about a call from a school nurse telling me someone is sick. No calls from my teenager, Tom, telling me that he forgot the book that he has to have for English class.
Not even a call from my husband, Joe, telling me his train is late again or asking me if we need milk.
All my chickens are present and accounted for.
I can breathe. A feeling of serenity comes upon me.
Some nights I just lay in my bed listening to music and the sounds of Joe breathing. Sometimes I catch up on a movie or TV show from the DVR.
But mostly I'm on the computer working or communing with other digital moms in blogger nirvana.
When I was growing up in the dark ages before computers and movies on demand, my mother used the hours after midnight to indulge her passion--cleaning.
As a young girl, I would go downstairs to get a drink of water only to end up scaring my mother half to death as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees--too lost in her own thoughts to hear me approaching from behind.
My sisters and I bruised our shins more times than we'll ever count because we happened upon mom in the dining room or living room, with the furniture rearranged at 3:00 a.m.
I couldn't get over how much my mother was able to accomplish while we were sleeping.
I loved the times I would find my mother wide awake and engrossed in some household task. She would greet me with a warm, reassuring smile as she polished the sliver or cleaned out the fridge.
She was a willing and captive audience. I could tell her about my day, or what boy I liked without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my sisters or a call from her office. I loved it.
My mother was a great sport about it. Never once did she complain that I was interrupting her time or make me feel unwanted. For that I thank her.
She might even deserve sainthood for it because now I know how precious the hours between midnight and sunup are for a mom.
As tired as I get and as much as I may regret my lack of sleep the next day, I love and cherish my nightly solitude.
The chance to think a complete thought without a seven-year-old Peter asking to join the circus is hard to give up.
I also love to watch my children sleeping. It doesn't matter what Tom said to me hours before that had me contemplating boarding school, or the screaming fit from Lizzy, my special needs daughter.
Or the endless, yet entertaining questions Peter asks. At that hour, they look like angels. Their beauty take my breath away.
Memories of little babies lying in my arms fast asleep after a 2:00 a.m. nursing come flooding back.
Back then, when exhaustion takes on a whole new level, I would use my second wind to just hold and rock my baby.
I would will myself to remember the feel of the weight of a sleeping newborn, or the sweet smiles of a six-month-old dreaming.
The time goes by so quickly, every day moving faster than the next. One day, sooner than I care to admit, I won't need the quiet of a sleepy house to recharge my spirit. My children will be grown and gone.
I guess I'll sleep then.
For now I will enjoy my peaceful sleepy house. And remember to buy a better concealer for those under eye circles.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
No Going Back
A few weeks ago, the kids and I were on my bed laughing and joking while watching TV.
My youngest, Peter, was hugging me while my daughter Lizzy was trying to tickle me with her feet. She's only 10, but her feet are as big as mine.
I was grateful to have all my chickens around me.
Tom was sitting on the bed, trying to act a bit more mature at 13 than his younger sister and brother. But he was still laughing and kidding around.
I'm not sure who started it, but all of a sudden we started to talk about the possibility of going back in time.
I was pretty clear that I would not want to go back to my youth. I let my kids know I was very happy with my life and them.
"Mom, you wouldn't want to go back in time at all? Maybe when you were 20?"
"Gosh, no. I wouldn't want to be 20 again for all the tea in China."
Memories of a young woman afraid to speak up for herself while being yelled at in acting school came flooding back.
High heels, black coffee, and feeling out of place defined my life.
I snapped back to the present as Peter started to crawl up to me to say he needed a hug. I was so happy to be with my kids.
"But, mom, I've seen pictures of you back then, you looked good at 20, so pretty and in shape.You wouldn't want to go back to that time?"
Well, maybe not that happy to be with my kids.
I looked at Tom and laughed. Hysterically.
Fearing that he may have hurt me, he back-peddled a bit. "Not that you don't look good now."
"It's OK, Tom. I know I don't look like I did when I was 20."
Then I really freaked him out.
"I still wouldn't want to go back."
He looked completely baffled.
Not wanting to totally upset the order in his world, I added that it would be nice to feel more in shape and perhaps have a bit more energy like I did when I was younger.
He laughed with me and seemed satisfied with my answer.
The truth is, I don't want to be 20 again.
Though I wouldn't mind being able to party all night and then go to work in the morning without skipping a beat. Or loose five pounds just by switching from eating a muffin to a bagel in a week.
True, I don't look like I did when I was in my twenties, or even my thirties. At 46, I'm showing my age a bit. But even with all that, I still wouldn't want to be a day younger than I am today.
Along with my gray hair, wrinkles, and thicker waistline, I'm also stronger, physically and mentally, then I was before.
I can pick up a seven-year-old Peter and carry him over a puddle with the ease of lifting a feather. I go up and down the stairs so many times in one day that I should have the calves of a super model. And, when I do manage to get to the gym, I handle the equipment and have more stamina then I did when I was 30.
I speak my mind without hesitating, and I do it without butterflies in my stomach.
My priorities are clear, and I'm comfortable letting others know what they are.
At 46 I no longer worry what people think of me.
It amazes and even saddens me that in my twenties and even some of my thirties, my day could be made or broken by what someone said to me on the subway.
I would obsess over what coworkers or friends thought. Walking down a Manhattan street was always cause to feel insecure about my looks, even though I spent my pre-child years at a perfect weight for me.
Two pounds up could make or break whether I would leave the house. I worried over the way I looked like the way I now worry over my daughter and her myriad physical and developmental problems.
What I looked like was of vital importance. And, no matter how good someone said I looked it was never good enough for me.
I chased the idealized version of what a woman should look like and could tell you a list of my faults as easily as I now recite the phone numbers of my kids' doctors, or Lizzy's medications.
Yesterday as I walking out of the gym, very sweaty, not a stitch of make-up on except my precious lipstick, I realized that the desire to look good remained.
What has changed is the overwhelming pressure to be perfect.
I'm at a point in my life where I really like and accept who I am, the good and bad.
It didn't come easy though.
I have often joked that I have spent the equivalent of a small house on therapy. I also am married to a man who loves me for who I am and not just what I look like.
That's good because after having my third baby at 39 and going through all the stress of having two children with a variety of learning issues and especially all that has been involved in dealing with Lizzy's special needs, this old gray mare ain't what she use to be.
I wish I could go back to the younger woman I was and let her know that the world will still spin on it's axis because the scale says 126 instead of 125 one day.
I think of all the time I spent obsessing on what someone thought of me, or if I said something stupid to somebody and I want to cry for that young girl.
There were so many things I could have done with all that time and energy. So many passions I could have explored, yet didn't.
Becoming a mother changed me in more ways than I could ever say, but it's the strange gift of dealing with my kids special issues that was my real transformation.
I wouldn't wish the pain of watching Lizzy scream uncontrollably and not know who I am, or the hours we have spent watching her endure test after test on anyone. Five MRIs have revealed extensive brain damage, but not one doctor can tell us why.
And it's no day at the beach to watch Tom work so hard studying only to still fail a test because of his dyslexia or see how hard Peter has to work some days just to get out a clear sentence.
But it sure puts life in perspective.
I don't sweat the small stuff so much. It's not nearly as important as it once was.
True, I don't look like I once did.
But I'm not afraid of my own shadow anymore either.
The young woman who was so afraid to speak up for herself bears no resemblance to the woman who has no problem speaking her mind to anyone.
Whether I'm discussing a treatment plan with one of my daughters doctors or something that my son needs to make school easier, I'm confident in my ability as an advocate for my kids.
There was a time when the mere act of asking a bank teller for my own money could make me want to faint.
I would be lying if I said I don't want to get back to a more comfortable and healthy size. I do. I miss being able to walk into a store I love and know that things will look good on me.
It's reassuring to see the scale start to move down, even if it's at a snail's pace. I feel good when I take a minute to breathe before reaching for a cookie or a piece of chocolate. I love going to the gym and doing more today then I did yesterday.
I miss the feeling of being at my best. Yet what I look like, and what others think of me no longer defines me.
At 46 I feel freer to be who I am than who people want me to be.
I see possibilities and opportunities everywhere I look, and I no longer fear success.
At 13, I don't expect Tom to totally understand all that. Every day he is bombarded with images of what "beauty" looks like and what "hot" is.
I do hope though that my feelings and attitude will affect how he views the world and shape what matters as he gets started on life.
If only a little bit.
My youngest, Peter, was hugging me while my daughter Lizzy was trying to tickle me with her feet. She's only 10, but her feet are as big as mine.
I was grateful to have all my chickens around me.
Tom was sitting on the bed, trying to act a bit more mature at 13 than his younger sister and brother. But he was still laughing and kidding around.
I'm not sure who started it, but all of a sudden we started to talk about the possibility of going back in time.
I was pretty clear that I would not want to go back to my youth. I let my kids know I was very happy with my life and them.
"Mom, you wouldn't want to go back in time at all? Maybe when you were 20?"
"Gosh, no. I wouldn't want to be 20 again for all the tea in China."
Memories of a young woman afraid to speak up for herself while being yelled at in acting school came flooding back.
High heels, black coffee, and feeling out of place defined my life.
I snapped back to the present as Peter started to crawl up to me to say he needed a hug. I was so happy to be with my kids.
"But, mom, I've seen pictures of you back then, you looked good at 20, so pretty and in shape.You wouldn't want to go back to that time?"
Well, maybe not that happy to be with my kids.
I looked at Tom and laughed. Hysterically.
Fearing that he may have hurt me, he back-peddled a bit. "Not that you don't look good now."
"It's OK, Tom. I know I don't look like I did when I was 20."
Then I really freaked him out.
"I still wouldn't want to go back."
He looked completely baffled.
Not wanting to totally upset the order in his world, I added that it would be nice to feel more in shape and perhaps have a bit more energy like I did when I was younger.
He laughed with me and seemed satisfied with my answer.
The truth is, I don't want to be 20 again.
Though I wouldn't mind being able to party all night and then go to work in the morning without skipping a beat. Or loose five pounds just by switching from eating a muffin to a bagel in a week.
True, I don't look like I did when I was in my twenties, or even my thirties. At 46, I'm showing my age a bit. But even with all that, I still wouldn't want to be a day younger than I am today.
Along with my gray hair, wrinkles, and thicker waistline, I'm also stronger, physically and mentally, then I was before.
I can pick up a seven-year-old Peter and carry him over a puddle with the ease of lifting a feather. I go up and down the stairs so many times in one day that I should have the calves of a super model. And, when I do manage to get to the gym, I handle the equipment and have more stamina then I did when I was 30.
I speak my mind without hesitating, and I do it without butterflies in my stomach.
My priorities are clear, and I'm comfortable letting others know what they are.
At 46 I no longer worry what people think of me.
It amazes and even saddens me that in my twenties and even some of my thirties, my day could be made or broken by what someone said to me on the subway.
I would obsess over what coworkers or friends thought. Walking down a Manhattan street was always cause to feel insecure about my looks, even though I spent my pre-child years at a perfect weight for me.
Two pounds up could make or break whether I would leave the house. I worried over the way I looked like the way I now worry over my daughter and her myriad physical and developmental problems.
What I looked like was of vital importance. And, no matter how good someone said I looked it was never good enough for me.
I chased the idealized version of what a woman should look like and could tell you a list of my faults as easily as I now recite the phone numbers of my kids' doctors, or Lizzy's medications.
Yesterday as I walking out of the gym, very sweaty, not a stitch of make-up on except my precious lipstick, I realized that the desire to look good remained.
What has changed is the overwhelming pressure to be perfect.
I'm at a point in my life where I really like and accept who I am, the good and bad.
It didn't come easy though.
I have often joked that I have spent the equivalent of a small house on therapy. I also am married to a man who loves me for who I am and not just what I look like.
That's good because after having my third baby at 39 and going through all the stress of having two children with a variety of learning issues and especially all that has been involved in dealing with Lizzy's special needs, this old gray mare ain't what she use to be.
I wish I could go back to the younger woman I was and let her know that the world will still spin on it's axis because the scale says 126 instead of 125 one day.
I think of all the time I spent obsessing on what someone thought of me, or if I said something stupid to somebody and I want to cry for that young girl.
There were so many things I could have done with all that time and energy. So many passions I could have explored, yet didn't.
Becoming a mother changed me in more ways than I could ever say, but it's the strange gift of dealing with my kids special issues that was my real transformation.
I wouldn't wish the pain of watching Lizzy scream uncontrollably and not know who I am, or the hours we have spent watching her endure test after test on anyone. Five MRIs have revealed extensive brain damage, but not one doctor can tell us why.
And it's no day at the beach to watch Tom work so hard studying only to still fail a test because of his dyslexia or see how hard Peter has to work some days just to get out a clear sentence.
But it sure puts life in perspective.
I don't sweat the small stuff so much. It's not nearly as important as it once was.
True, I don't look like I once did.
But I'm not afraid of my own shadow anymore either.
The young woman who was so afraid to speak up for herself bears no resemblance to the woman who has no problem speaking her mind to anyone.
Whether I'm discussing a treatment plan with one of my daughters doctors or something that my son needs to make school easier, I'm confident in my ability as an advocate for my kids.
There was a time when the mere act of asking a bank teller for my own money could make me want to faint.
I would be lying if I said I don't want to get back to a more comfortable and healthy size. I do. I miss being able to walk into a store I love and know that things will look good on me.
It's reassuring to see the scale start to move down, even if it's at a snail's pace. I feel good when I take a minute to breathe before reaching for a cookie or a piece of chocolate. I love going to the gym and doing more today then I did yesterday.
I miss the feeling of being at my best. Yet what I look like, and what others think of me no longer defines me.
At 46 I feel freer to be who I am than who people want me to be.
I see possibilities and opportunities everywhere I look, and I no longer fear success.
At 13, I don't expect Tom to totally understand all that. Every day he is bombarded with images of what "beauty" looks like and what "hot" is.
I do hope though that my feelings and attitude will affect how he views the world and shape what matters as he gets started on life.
If only a little bit.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
The Great Divide?
It was 13 years ago, but I can still clearly remember the day I told my boss that I would not be returning to my job after I had my baby.
The baby it took me almost two years to have--I was going to be a stay-at-home mom.
I was thrilled and excited. I was conflicted and scared out of my mind. Before I took this momentous step I read numerous articles on the "right" way one was to approach this subject with your employer.
The articles advised a woman to remain professional and confident in her decision. Always being careful to keep the door open should she choose to reenter the paid workforce.
My heart was beating fast.
The two women I worked with knew I was leaving, and they knew what I was going to discuss with my boss when I walked in his office.
I closed the door.
I looked at his corner office with the balcony overlooking Park Avenue.
Hard to believe I had been with Mike for seven years. I knew him before I got married, before I tried to have a baby, and before I traded my beloved, albeit small, one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan for a house in Queens.
He was someone I admired as a professional, and I liked working for him. As a boss, he was supportive when I decided to go back to school, even reminding me to study or work on a paper while I was at the office.
As my road to motherhood got more and more complicated with each miscarriage, I felt lucky that I worked for someone who would encourage me to take time off to recover after each loss or who never questioned when I needed to leave early or come in late due to a trip to the doctor.
But now I was at the other side of the desk for a happy reason.
I was seven months pregnant. Happier than I ever had been in my whole life.
I started my carefully crafted spiel just like all the articles suggested.
Confident.
Completely sure of my decision.
Then I cried.
Exactly what every article said not to do.
Maybe I wasn't completely sure this was right for me?
Truth be told, I had always assumed I would work with a have-my-cake-and-eat-it-too arrangement where I worked a few days a week and stayed home a few days. Mike had no problem with me doing just that.
I did not have to choose, I could have the "best" of both worlds.
Yet after having four miscarriages in a relatively short time, my whole idea of motherhood had changed. I wanted to completely embrace this new chapter in my life. I wanted every moment I could have with my baby.
What the heck was I doing?
I was 33. For my whole adult life, I'd worked in and enjoyed the corporate environment.
Plus, I had strong feminist beliefs. I liked the idea that I made my own money and had my own life. I wasn't sure how I was going to like feeling financially dependent on my husband.
Joe and I had many talks about how our marriage was a partnership and my staying home and doing the daily care for our child was a vital part of the arrangement. I was still an equal partner in the relationship even if I wasn't earning a pay check.
I wasn't sure if I was really cut out for life at home. I wasn't much of a cook, hated to clean, and had never been good at coupon clipping. I also didn't sew or even iron very well.
After all, isn't that what a good stay-at-home mom does?
We had just moved to Queens a few months before I found out I was pregnant. I knew no one that stayed home. What could I possibly do all day that would keep me interested?
I thought of my own mom.
She had stayed home with my sisters and me until my youngest sister went to kindergarten.
My mother admitted that for her it was a very stifling existence.
She came alive when she joined the "real world," first with becoming president of the PTA and then a real estate broker.
My mother's work brought her life meaning and purpose. Making her own money gave her a sense of power she never had.
Was I just picking a road to hell and 50 pounds by choosing to stay home?
I pulled myself together. Mike told me he thought I was making the right decision for me.
My last week of work Mike had a little retirement lunch for me that included the other four people in our small office.
On my last day I packed up my desk, said my goodbyes and went home and waited for my new job to begin.
Our son Tom decided to be born 10 days past his due date, so I had a few weeks home before my new job officially started.
I tried my hand at cooking dinner for my husband each night and did tons of baby laundry. I went to lunch with my mom and shopped for the baby. It felt like a vacation.
And then I had my beautiful baby boy.
Vacation over.
Mike and his partner came to visit me in the hospital. They brought flowers and sent sterling silver gifts from Tiffany's.
But that chapter of my life was over.
It was now official, I was stay-at-home mom.
Three weeks into my new job, I was sure I'd made a horrible mistake. I couldn't figure out how to open up the stroller or put Tom in his Baby Bjorn carrier.
Heck, it could take almost an hour just to change his diaper and get him dressed some days.
And I was nursing.
All. The. Time.
I was exhausted. I was sure I was ruining my son for life.
I started making mental contributions for his future therapy.
To make matters worse, I knew I loved my beautiful and perfect son, but I wasn't sure I liked him very much.
What kind of mother doesn't like her own baby?
I envied my husband's long commute and even longer work days.
I was lost.
I had no friends.
My own mother became very important to me.
I went to Dunkin Donuts so much in Tom's first year that the counter people bought him a Christmas present. He still has the stuffed bear.
I was determined to not turn into one of those baby-obsessed women my friends and I use to make fun of, and I gave myself some rules.
I would read at least one new book a week fearing that my brain cells would disappear from watching all the children's programs.
I joined the local gym and would bring Tom to the nursery and work out.
I joined mother's groups, started mother's groups, and took every Baby and Me class I could find.
I was not going to be sucked into the baby abyss.
But something happened.
I fell in love with the job.
And I fell into the abyss.
The more children I had, the more the carefully crafted balance of reading and working out got out of kilter.
There were days I longed for better working conditions and more accommodating people to work for.
But for the most part, I adored my job. It felt right for me.
And, I realize I was, and still am, so fortunate to have a choice when so many women do not.
Funny, but it never occurred to me that all these years later a string of articles would stir such heated debate about the "right' way to be a mother.
Foolishly, I thought we had gotten past that.
Over 40 years ago, my mother fought for her right to make her own choices about the life she lived.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s she nursed all three of her daughters, although other people, her parents included, thought she was crazy.
Her best friend called her a barbarian.
When she decided to enter the paid workforce after my youngest sister started school, she was told she was wrong to want more than just the welfare of her family.
She saw the tide change from one of disapproval of moms who worked outside of the home to moms being criticized for choosing to stay home.
Then it was my turn.
I always thought that what my mom and others were fighting for was the chance for women to make their own decisions.
And, I think that's where the problem lies.
If we are lucky enough to have a choice, it's hard to choose. We never are sure if we are doing "it" right. We look for outside validation.
When our children are little how fast they walk or talk or how much or how little they eat can become the things dreams or nightmares are made of when talking to other moms at the playground.
As they get older, it's the grades they get, or how many activities and sports they excel at, or what college they get into that can seem to be the yardstick moms are measured against.
But then our baby may smile at us, or our teenager gives us a hug just because.
They giggle and look happy and all of sudden, for one moment, it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of our decision, it only matters what the child staring back at us thinks.
Because, we are the only mom they have, and for them, that's enough.
The baby it took me almost two years to have--I was going to be a stay-at-home mom.
I was thrilled and excited. I was conflicted and scared out of my mind. Before I took this momentous step I read numerous articles on the "right" way one was to approach this subject with your employer.
The articles advised a woman to remain professional and confident in her decision. Always being careful to keep the door open should she choose to reenter the paid workforce.
My heart was beating fast.
The two women I worked with knew I was leaving, and they knew what I was going to discuss with my boss when I walked in his office.
I closed the door.
I looked at his corner office with the balcony overlooking Park Avenue.
Hard to believe I had been with Mike for seven years. I knew him before I got married, before I tried to have a baby, and before I traded my beloved, albeit small, one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan for a house in Queens.
He was someone I admired as a professional, and I liked working for him. As a boss, he was supportive when I decided to go back to school, even reminding me to study or work on a paper while I was at the office.
As my road to motherhood got more and more complicated with each miscarriage, I felt lucky that I worked for someone who would encourage me to take time off to recover after each loss or who never questioned when I needed to leave early or come in late due to a trip to the doctor.
But now I was at the other side of the desk for a happy reason.
I was seven months pregnant. Happier than I ever had been in my whole life.
I started my carefully crafted spiel just like all the articles suggested.
Confident.
Completely sure of my decision.
Then I cried.
Exactly what every article said not to do.
Maybe I wasn't completely sure this was right for me?
Truth be told, I had always assumed I would work with a have-my-cake-and-eat-it-too arrangement where I worked a few days a week and stayed home a few days. Mike had no problem with me doing just that.
I did not have to choose, I could have the "best" of both worlds.
Yet after having four miscarriages in a relatively short time, my whole idea of motherhood had changed. I wanted to completely embrace this new chapter in my life. I wanted every moment I could have with my baby.
What the heck was I doing?
I was 33. For my whole adult life, I'd worked in and enjoyed the corporate environment.
Plus, I had strong feminist beliefs. I liked the idea that I made my own money and had my own life. I wasn't sure how I was going to like feeling financially dependent on my husband.
Joe and I had many talks about how our marriage was a partnership and my staying home and doing the daily care for our child was a vital part of the arrangement. I was still an equal partner in the relationship even if I wasn't earning a pay check.
I wasn't sure if I was really cut out for life at home. I wasn't much of a cook, hated to clean, and had never been good at coupon clipping. I also didn't sew or even iron very well.
After all, isn't that what a good stay-at-home mom does?
We had just moved to Queens a few months before I found out I was pregnant. I knew no one that stayed home. What could I possibly do all day that would keep me interested?
I thought of my own mom.
She had stayed home with my sisters and me until my youngest sister went to kindergarten.
My mother admitted that for her it was a very stifling existence.
She came alive when she joined the "real world," first with becoming president of the PTA and then a real estate broker.
My mother's work brought her life meaning and purpose. Making her own money gave her a sense of power she never had.
Was I just picking a road to hell and 50 pounds by choosing to stay home?
I pulled myself together. Mike told me he thought I was making the right decision for me.
My last week of work Mike had a little retirement lunch for me that included the other four people in our small office.
On my last day I packed up my desk, said my goodbyes and went home and waited for my new job to begin.
Our son Tom decided to be born 10 days past his due date, so I had a few weeks home before my new job officially started.
I tried my hand at cooking dinner for my husband each night and did tons of baby laundry. I went to lunch with my mom and shopped for the baby. It felt like a vacation.
And then I had my beautiful baby boy.
Vacation over.
Mike and his partner came to visit me in the hospital. They brought flowers and sent sterling silver gifts from Tiffany's.
But that chapter of my life was over.
It was now official, I was stay-at-home mom.
Three weeks into my new job, I was sure I'd made a horrible mistake. I couldn't figure out how to open up the stroller or put Tom in his Baby Bjorn carrier.
Heck, it could take almost an hour just to change his diaper and get him dressed some days.
And I was nursing.
All. The. Time.
I was exhausted. I was sure I was ruining my son for life.
I started making mental contributions for his future therapy.
To make matters worse, I knew I loved my beautiful and perfect son, but I wasn't sure I liked him very much.
What kind of mother doesn't like her own baby?
I envied my husband's long commute and even longer work days.
I was lost.
I had no friends.
My own mother became very important to me.
I went to Dunkin Donuts so much in Tom's first year that the counter people bought him a Christmas present. He still has the stuffed bear.
I was determined to not turn into one of those baby-obsessed women my friends and I use to make fun of, and I gave myself some rules.
I would read at least one new book a week fearing that my brain cells would disappear from watching all the children's programs.
I joined the local gym and would bring Tom to the nursery and work out.
I joined mother's groups, started mother's groups, and took every Baby and Me class I could find.
I was not going to be sucked into the baby abyss.
But something happened.
I fell in love with the job.
And I fell into the abyss.
The more children I had, the more the carefully crafted balance of reading and working out got out of kilter.
There were days I longed for better working conditions and more accommodating people to work for.
But for the most part, I adored my job. It felt right for me.
And, I realize I was, and still am, so fortunate to have a choice when so many women do not.
Funny, but it never occurred to me that all these years later a string of articles would stir such heated debate about the "right' way to be a mother.
Foolishly, I thought we had gotten past that.
Over 40 years ago, my mother fought for her right to make her own choices about the life she lived.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s she nursed all three of her daughters, although other people, her parents included, thought she was crazy.
Her best friend called her a barbarian.
When she decided to enter the paid workforce after my youngest sister started school, she was told she was wrong to want more than just the welfare of her family.
She saw the tide change from one of disapproval of moms who worked outside of the home to moms being criticized for choosing to stay home.
Then it was my turn.
I always thought that what my mom and others were fighting for was the chance for women to make their own decisions.
And, I think that's where the problem lies.
If we are lucky enough to have a choice, it's hard to choose. We never are sure if we are doing "it" right. We look for outside validation.
When our children are little how fast they walk or talk or how much or how little they eat can become the things dreams or nightmares are made of when talking to other moms at the playground.
As they get older, it's the grades they get, or how many activities and sports they excel at, or what college they get into that can seem to be the yardstick moms are measured against.
But then our baby may smile at us, or our teenager gives us a hug just because.
They giggle and look happy and all of sudden, for one moment, it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of our decision, it only matters what the child staring back at us thinks.
Because, we are the only mom they have, and for them, that's enough.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Looking Back
Being a daughter has never been easy for me. As hard as it may be to believe, I have always been a control freak and have never taken kindly to being told what to do. Even has a child I was always convinced I knew better than my own mother.
This complicated our relationship a bit.
Becoming a mom myself has softened our relationship. Having a teenager has made me eternally grateful that she did not sell me.
I originally published this piece last year, May 29, 2011 titled Touchstones. Since it's always been one of my favorites, I'm glad to re-visit it for Mother's day.
.
Each day I do the "morning tango." First, I get my daughter on her bus, blow her a kiss, return to the front door, and then come back out again with my youngest. After he gets on his bus with a kiss and a smile, once again I go into the house only to come back out half an hour later to drive my oldest son to middle school.
Each time, I dash in and out of my door, I get to see a little piece of my childhood and one of my most treasured possessions... my quartz rock.
The rock sits among shrubs from our home's previous owners and some flowers and perennials I planted. At about a foot long, the rock blends in with its surroundings and also stands out as something special and unique.
Just like it did when it was in my mother's garden. First in the house we lived in until I was 9 and then at the house my parents remain in today.
As a young girl, I loved sitting outside and daydreaming among the flowers my mother carefully tended. I would imagine the rock as a large diamond fit for a princess or a magical crystal that held the secrets of the world. It could be whatever I wanted it be.
Yet it was special and beautiful in its own right--catching sunlight and throwing off rainbows.
I was never clear how my mom got the unusual stone. As a child, I loved to think of all the mysterious places it could come from. Years later, I learned my mother's uncle found it on his travels and gave it to my grandmother, who then gave it to my mom.
I can still remember my mom weeding and planting her little rock garden in the front of our first house. Neighbors would stop by and chat with her, telling her the latest news or gossip. Many people commented on the unusual quartz.
My mother was so young and beautiful. I loved to talk to her whenever she was gardening. My mom was always on the run with many obligations, PTA president, ambulance corps volunteer, church obligations, or helping a friend. I had a lot of competition for her time.
I loved that for the time she was in her garden, she could be mine. I would sing to her or just chat about my day.
When we moved, the rock went with us. I would see it in the new garden and take comfort that at least something was the same.
Once we moved, my mother started working in real estate and her time became even more precious, but she would still find time to putter in her garden and the rock, my sisters, and I would be there.
I wonder what my children will use as their touchstone to me as they grow older. Will the rock have some significance to them? Or will they remember me obsessively going over the rose bushes and getting mad at any aphids nervy enough to eat my beloved flowers?
Or the times they come with me to cut my flowers and then sit with me as I make a flower arrangement for one of their teachers, a friend, or just for them.
Will the sight of a book I read to them bring them back to a happy time in their life as they remember the silly voices I used to make the characters come alive? Or the songs I sang to them when I rocked them to sleep?
Will the sound of fingers on a keyboard remind them of me sitting in my room typing my blog? Will they remember sitting on my bed, watching TV, arguing with each other until I yell, "For the love of all that is holy, knock it off."
What is the legacy I will leave my children? What memory will comfort them when I no longer can?
The years are rolling on, and my face is looking more like my mother's. As much as I am my own person, I notice some of my mom's mannerisms seeping into mine. Time is moving on, and we are getting older. I know one day I am going to look outside and the rock will be something that comforts me when my mom no longer can.
One day I will not be able to call my mom up and ask her to watch the kids, reserve a machine at the gym, or go for a cup of coffee. At that point, our infamous arguments and fights will no longer matter. Who got what, or who said what to who, will cease to matter. All I will have left is a crystal rock and the memory of the beautiful mother who I adored yet could not always understand.
Thankfully, I still have today to make a call.
This complicated our relationship a bit.
Becoming a mom myself has softened our relationship. Having a teenager has made me eternally grateful that she did not sell me.
I originally published this piece last year, May 29, 2011 titled Touchstones. Since it's always been one of my favorites, I'm glad to re-visit it for Mother's day.
.
Each day I do the "morning tango." First, I get my daughter on her bus, blow her a kiss, return to the front door, and then come back out again with my youngest. After he gets on his bus with a kiss and a smile, once again I go into the house only to come back out half an hour later to drive my oldest son to middle school.
Each time, I dash in and out of my door, I get to see a little piece of my childhood and one of my most treasured possessions... my quartz rock.
The rock sits among shrubs from our home's previous owners and some flowers and perennials I planted. At about a foot long, the rock blends in with its surroundings and also stands out as something special and unique.
Just like it did when it was in my mother's garden. First in the house we lived in until I was 9 and then at the house my parents remain in today.
As a young girl, I loved sitting outside and daydreaming among the flowers my mother carefully tended. I would imagine the rock as a large diamond fit for a princess or a magical crystal that held the secrets of the world. It could be whatever I wanted it be.
Yet it was special and beautiful in its own right--catching sunlight and throwing off rainbows.
I was never clear how my mom got the unusual stone. As a child, I loved to think of all the mysterious places it could come from. Years later, I learned my mother's uncle found it on his travels and gave it to my grandmother, who then gave it to my mom.
I can still remember my mom weeding and planting her little rock garden in the front of our first house. Neighbors would stop by and chat with her, telling her the latest news or gossip. Many people commented on the unusual quartz.
My mother was so young and beautiful. I loved to talk to her whenever she was gardening. My mom was always on the run with many obligations, PTA president, ambulance corps volunteer, church obligations, or helping a friend. I had a lot of competition for her time.
I loved that for the time she was in her garden, she could be mine. I would sing to her or just chat about my day.
When we moved, the rock went with us. I would see it in the new garden and take comfort that at least something was the same.
Once we moved, my mother started working in real estate and her time became even more precious, but she would still find time to putter in her garden and the rock, my sisters, and I would be there.
I wonder what my children will use as their touchstone to me as they grow older. Will the rock have some significance to them? Or will they remember me obsessively going over the rose bushes and getting mad at any aphids nervy enough to eat my beloved flowers?
Or the times they come with me to cut my flowers and then sit with me as I make a flower arrangement for one of their teachers, a friend, or just for them.
Will the sight of a book I read to them bring them back to a happy time in their life as they remember the silly voices I used to make the characters come alive? Or the songs I sang to them when I rocked them to sleep?
Will the sound of fingers on a keyboard remind them of me sitting in my room typing my blog? Will they remember sitting on my bed, watching TV, arguing with each other until I yell, "For the love of all that is holy, knock it off."
What is the legacy I will leave my children? What memory will comfort them when I no longer can?
The years are rolling on, and my face is looking more like my mother's. As much as I am my own person, I notice some of my mom's mannerisms seeping into mine. Time is moving on, and we are getting older. I know one day I am going to look outside and the rock will be something that comforts me when my mom no longer can.
One day I will not be able to call my mom up and ask her to watch the kids, reserve a machine at the gym, or go for a cup of coffee. At that point, our infamous arguments and fights will no longer matter. Who got what, or who said what to who, will cease to matter. All I will have left is a crystal rock and the memory of the beautiful mother who I adored yet could not always understand.
Thankfully, I still have today to make a call.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
