DadaMama

It's My Birthday Month!

Next Sunday I will be 27 years old.

27.

I remember being seven and thinking, "I wonder what I will be like when I am 22?" I always thought that getting older meant that somehow you would feel different. That suddenly I would Know Things and I would Drive a Car and I would Push the Cart all by myself at the grocery store. I would also Stay Up Late, as late as I wanted.

But as I've gotten older, I've realized that getting older doesn't mean I have all the answers and it certainly doesn't mean that I get whatever I want. The journey from there to here, however, has been full of unexpected and delicious moments.

When I got to college and lived on my own for the first time, I bought some Pillsbury cookie dough and I kept it in the fridge as a snack. My mother would never let me do that because of the salmonella. Guess what? Not only did I eat the cookie dough as a snack--I also used to stand in front of the refrigerator with the door flung wide for ten, fifteen minutes at a time.

I could never decide what I wanted to eat, but it didn't matter because my father wasn't there to tell me to hurry! and close! the! door!

I remember going grocery shopping for the first time, and realizing that Food Costs Money. Kind of a lot of money, as it turns out. I remember when I started paying all of my own bills, how scary-but-freeing that was.

I remember deciding that I was going to take a trip to Ohio with Dashing Husband (we were just dating at the time) and then taking that trip without permission.

Without permission. Can you tell what a goody-two shoes I was?

I remember getting my tattoo, and how I was kind of a dork because I wanted it on my upper thigh, but I had forgotten to wear shorts. So I had to take off my pants.

But really? The one defining moment of my 27 years on this earth is one connected to Gus. We were still in the hospital and the boy was oh, 26 or so hours old. I had finally gotten up enough nerve to unwrap my baby. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a diaper, and he seemed cold. I wanted to dress him, but for some reason I felt as if I should ask the nurse if that was ok.

When I asked, the nurse looked at me very nicely, and said something to the effect of, "he's yours, do whatever you want." That was the moment I realized that Gus really was mine. I was somebody's mother. Dashing Husband and I had the beginnings of our own tribe.

We can make our own people. In that instant I wanted nothing more than to be good to my baby, to teach him well and watch him grow up. And if I accomplish nothing else for the rest of my life, it won't matter.

I am somebody's mother. The same girl, but better.

My Sister Would Have Been Embarassed For Me

This morning, I was trying to get to my friend Rachel's house. We were getting the kids together for a small play date, but I forgot how to get to her house.

Which is how I found myself, on my cell phone, backing over someone else's landscaping in front of six people. Well played. They stared after my car long past what was actually decorous when one has just made an ass of herself. There was a hideous crunching sound, and I don't think those plants will ever be the same again.

Huzzah!

Also, I am thisclose to putting dreads in my hair. I already know what my family will think of this. But here's the thing: I promised myself that when I got out of the Army, I would embrace my Bohemian soul and set her free. I love dreads, have always loved them, and recently read an essay by Anne Lamott about her getting dreads that basically sold me.

Don't try to stop me. It's only hair, and if I hate them and have to shave my head, well, I'm okay with it. Besides, I might look hotter than I already do! Not possible, you say?! Well, imagine me in my rainbow galoshes with dreads. Yes, yes. Ultra-hotness is within my reach.

Speaking of hair:

Attack of the slide hair!

That is all. Have a lovely day, my peeps.

Striving for Balance

There is something buzzing around inside my head, something trapped and stifled, something making my chest feel tight. I am having trouble reconciling the woman I am with the woman I want to be. I am struggling with Dreaded Mommy Guilt and finding it present in almost everything I do all day long.

The monologue in my head goes something like this:

Should I have spoken to Gus like that? Why does he make me so mad? Should I have woken the baby to bathe him this evening? Should I have served something other than Spiderman Mac n' Cheese for dinner? Will Gus remember the battle that preceded sleep this evening? Have I permanently scarred the child? Is Will going to remember falling out of his chair and hitting his wee tender head? Should I have watched cartoons with the boy instead of making coffee this morning? Should I have turned on the TV at all?

And it never ceases. 

If only I had more patience. If only I got more exercise and had some time for myself. If only my husband and I got to do something other than put children to bed and then fall under the blankets ourselves each night. If only I could live in the moment and stop wishing I was somewhere else. If only there was more money, more time, and more sleep. If only, if only, if only.

Mothering, housekeeping, being a wife. Such a small list of words to describe a job that never ends. I could get sappy here and say, at least it pays in little boy kisses and whole-body hugs--but lately that seems like small change. These children of mine are relentless. They want me--only me--day and night. They want me to feed them, to fill their juice cups, to kiss their hurts, to scare away their monsters.

I am their everything. I feel like my own nothing.

I have been told that Gus's behavior problems would cease a bit if he knew that I liked him, if I could just produce more hugs, more kisses, more excuses to praise him. If I could just dig a little deeper, reach into my nearly-dry well and by some magic trick make him feel loved, secure, and whole again.

This advice makes me want to scream until my throat hurts: because I am trying. Because I love my son and I know I would, without hesitation, let wild dogs tear me limb-from-limb before I let something hurt him. Because I would hate for anyone to see us together and think that I hate this mother thing.

Because I love Gus's wild taste in clothes and the yellow truck boots he wears with everything. I love his energy, his spirit, and his independence. I love how for him, naked time is not only a time to shed your clothes--it's a time to shed your inhibitions and be one of the wild things.

But some days it feels as if I am scrambling up an icy slope in the wrong pair of shoes. Some days it's all I can do to keep my words civil and my voice low. Some days I cannot take one more little hand reaching for my body. Some days I am certain my creativity and drive must have been tossed out with the trash.

It seems I betrayed Gus by giving birth to his brother, making a Dynamic Duo into a Reluctant Trio. And so it feels as if this is all my fault, the needy child, the undone laundry, and the anger that rises into my chest each time something unexpected happens. Each time I find myself in a situation I cannot control. I am learning some things the hard way.

It turns out that parenting is not about inflicting your will on a child. It turns out that after the rosy glow of babyhood fades, you and your son will have to learn to live with each other in a whole new universe. You will have to compromise, and sometimes you will have to apologize. And every time a new line is drawn in the sand, you will each have to decide which side you're going to stand on. 

Gus is Gus. I am more than these responsibilities. All that has happened in the last few months feels like growing pains, like a relationship starting to take on real form. We are two people learning how to be child and parent, mother and son.

Two people learning how to be.

By the Flickering Screen of a Dying Laptop

If I were rich, I would totally buy the smallest, fanciest laptop I could find.

Someday.

Also, is anyone else tired of the Publix Pilgrims? Apparently they have children. Called...wait for it... Lilgrims. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Moving on.

So I saw my counselor for the first time today, and I like her. I don't know why everyone isn't in therapy. I mean, what's not to love about someone willing to listen to you talk about yourself for a whole hour? It appeals to the narcissist in me.

But seriously--the woman listened with her entire body. I think I should learn to do that. Also, she posed an interesting question that has had me thinking since I walked out of her office. The question was: what's good about my life?

When she asked me I didn't immmediately have an answer. Not because there's nothing good about my life, but because I haven't thought about the good things recently. At least, not very consistently.   But there are a lot of good things, so I am going to list them here for you, as I think of them, in no particular order.

1. My family is healthy, especially my oldest child. Where else would he get all that energy to drive me nuts?

2. I am married to a wonderful, supportive man that I love dearly--even when we're arguing.

3. I have an enormous support system that includes lots of friends and family.

4. Even though we've only lived here six months, our house is pretty much the way we like it. I am looking forward to painting the boys' room soon, and it will include a mural of a tree.

5. My tomato plants have tomatoes on them. My broccoli plants are going to yield broccoli soon. This is a major success.

6. My miniature rosebush is lush and gorgeous and my mom is jealous.

7. Christmas is soon, and I can't wait to start making cookies and picking out a tree.

8. My husband taught me a new word last week that makes me giggle every time I think about it.

9. I am a good mother, even on my bad days.

10. Sex and the City on TBS.

11. I can bake anything. Especially chocolate cake.

12. I bought new, fabulous socks last week.

13. I am still best friends with the girl I met in eighth-grade gym class.

14. My brother can get me free movie tickets.

15. I have a blog. I even have a few blog fans.

16. My sister makes unmentionable cookies.

17. I am going to see my friends Casey and Will next week. And then someday I am going to visit them Down Under.

18. I am going to SeaWorld next weekend, and Gus and I are going to look at penguins and polar bears and sharks and whales. We are most excited about the whales.

There's more, but I am tired and distracted by television. Stay tuned!

I'm Starting to Feel Like a Bubble

1. That's what Gus said to me this morning, and I think I know what he means. I'm starting to feel lighter after last week's hellish-ness, less worried, more confident that somehow this is all going to work out just fine.  I am starting to rise above my anxiety and hormonal neurosis (did I mention that I started my cycle again last week, six months to the day after Will's birth?). I have just remembered that there is a light at the end of this tunnel, though sometimes I can't see it.

2. Tomorrow is my first visit with a psychologist, which I am looking forward to. After deciding three months ago that I might be having problems with depression, anxiety, or both, I finally made an appointment. It was hard to make myself pick up the phone and it's going to be hard to admit that I am struggling to a woman I have never met. But I do not like the person I am becoming in the midst of all this inner turmoil.

3. Will is sick. Again. The poor child cannot breathe through his nose, which he finds distressing. Several times last night one of us would get him settled only to hear him crying hysterically fifteen minutes later. When picked up, he makes this horrible noise that sounds like someone coughing and vomiting simultaneously, like someone choking to death on mucous.  I see a lot of saline and Vicks Vapo-rub in my future.

4. Last night I added salmon to my normal quiche recipe. It was fabulous and has left me with all sorts of ideas about what to add to my quiche next. Lobster! Crab! Italian sausage! Bacon! Squirrel!

5. Will turned six months old last week. He can sit up unassisted, and has started to develop opinions about when and where he will sit and which toys he will play with.

The jingly butterfly toy? Awesome.

Newspaper? Awesome and sort of edible.

The buckles on the baby seat? Way cool.

The fuzzy blue elephant rattle? Lame. Will gave it a big fat thumbs down and then tossed it out of his sight.

He continues to adore his big brother, and has really started to love bathtime. He gets excited when he hears the water running, and he cannot stuff the washcloths into his mouth fast enough. The cat and dogs also fascinate him. It's as if he sees them and thinks, "who are these furry people? Why do they lick my face and hands?" The cat loves Will because he is now eating baby food. If you are a fat, orange, lazy tabby living in this household, pureed baby fruit is like manna from heaven. Seriously.

My Sweet Will  laughs all the time, sometimes for no reason except sheer happiness. When I look at him, he catches my eye and giggles this nerdy little staccato giggle that makes me want to eat him whole. He is the most consistently happy person in our house, even when he feels crappity.

At his check-up, Will weighed in at eighteen pounds--a full ten pounds heavier than the day he was born. I used to lay him all curled up on my belly and think that he could still fit back in the womb.  But now when I lay him on me he sprawls all over, all legs and arms and fat delicious cheeks.  He sleeps in our bed, one hand usually resting on whichever part of me is closest. I lay next to him at night and smell his baby head and wish that I could freeze time and keep him six months old forever.

Asleep, Will is a study in perfect contentment untainted by fear. He has developed a habit of sleeping on his side with his thumb tucked neatly into his mouth. While he sucks his thumb, he uses his other hand to rub whatever pillowcase he can reach. In this Will is very like his brother, who still falls asleep every night running his fingers over and over the ridges on a crocheted blanket. 

My baby is perfect, a whole half-a-year old. And I still can't stop kissing his cheeks.