A Christmas Wish

The thing about life is that it isn't fair (cliche of all cliches, I know). What no one ever tells you, though, is that it can be very fair for some people, just not to you and that is what makes it so unfair. In fact, often life is unfairly fair, as it were, to the certain people that shouldn't get any fair treatment. It's really not fair.

I've been thinking about my friend lately. She is musically talented, funny and beautiful. She is a mom and she is single. I wish that it were just hearsay, the fact that there are single moms out there, but it isn't. There are many. I can so easily complain about the work involved at being a mom, the lack of sleep, the constant interruptions, the diapers, the feeding, the relentless repetitive motherly tasks. But then I think of my friend and I feel, quite honestly, like a wimp. Single moms just don't get enough props for all that they do.

In the last couple of weeks my cheeks have become very familiar with the many silent tears my eyes seem to so easily shed. I go about my day when it will occur to me how it would be sad to do this mother thing alone. I've been struck with the little things (which are not little, really) like, no one to pick up milk on the way home, or change the dirty diaper when you don't feel like it, no one to nudge in the middle of the night to get your crying baby, no one to bring the groceries in. When your baby does something ridiculously cute that you're convinced no other baby in the whole world has ever done and your chest fills up with pride, there is no one to look over to and share that moment with. There is no adult to get really mad at and remind you that behind your sleepy eyes you're still alive and full of passion. There is no one take out the trash and balance the checkbook or surprise you with flowers just because. There is no one to say that you look sexy when you're still dressed in pajamas at 5 in the afternoon, or to hug you tight and say that you're a great mom even after you served only buttered noodles for dinner. There is no other adult voice except your own echo down the hall. It's just not fair.

My friend's circumstances are not of her own making and honestly, I wouldn't care if they were. The life of every mom is meant to be shared with someone that loves you back, stretch marks and all. In a "fair world" both the gloriously happy moments where you had no idea such joy could be felt at once and the moments that you're certain that you will indeed pull out each strand of hair from your head alike, all of it is meant to be shared. That would be beautiful and fair.

This Christmas, my friend, if I could, I would take all the unfair moments of your life and make them fair. I would put them in a lovely candy-striped box and tie a beautiful red bow around it. The card would say that I think you are a beautiful woman and an amazing mom.

If I could, I would.

Nice Events

When I was single I was really nice. When I got married I was just nice. Now that I am a mom, "nice" is more of an event. My mom was always nice. She still is very nice.

The other day I went to Target for several important reasons and many frivolous ones. The important reasons were for such things like diapers, toilet paper, food for my baby, etc. The frivolous reasons were for such things like a fresh cup of Starbucks located conveniently at the Target I selected to go to (I would like to kiss whoever thought of that idea), clearance racks, ok, more clearance racks and anything cute. Oh, I must not forget I was in dire need of half and half for the fresh cups of coffee I make at home. The problem with the important reasons is that they are boring. There is no way around this. For example, there is nothing fun about reaching for a bundle of toilet paper and hearing the "thud" as it hits the cart. It's not particularly cute.

Target offers other problems for me. As I swing about the aisles of the store, coffee in one hand, cart in the other, thoughts of real importance swing away from my little brain ( I wonder if my brain is cute. Anything little usually is). I lose focus. I forget that I need things like diapers. If it's not cute, smells pretty, or absolutely frivolous my brain can't seem to think about it. The only type of information it can contain is everything I don't really need, like scented candles or half n' half.

The other problem that comes with Target is that I lose track of time. Time simply does not exist when I'm sipping coffee and looking at cute stuff. Not good.

Not good at all. I left Target in a tizzy. Usually, I can't stand the store by the time I leave, my brain is simply overtaken by over stimulation. Even still, I was nice to the cashier. When I got back into the car I realized that my baby should have already eaten lunch and should have been sleeping peacefully in her crib with a little drool drizzle on her cheek. How did this happen?

Well, naturally, as any baby should, mine started to scream. I reached for the fresh Target bag and realized that I purchased NO food for her, nothing. It didn't help matters much when I realized that I had remembered to buy half n' half. Home was about 500 miles away. My happy, swinging, coffee drinking mood took a sudden fall. It fell to right about where I feel like a horrible mom. So I called my husband. I told him this, that I am not a good mom. I wondered out loud if I was cut out for this or not. I said these things in kind of a loud voice, as it were. I like to call it venting. It's a nice term and it gives me permission not to be. I glanced at my half filled coffee cup. My brain seemed so little. The steady screaming was getting to me.

I opened the front door and my husband appeared out of nowhere! I almost screamed it scared me so much. I thought he was at work. I felt this presented an excellent opportunity to blame someone or something. I did what seemed most natural, even right at the time. I picked him to blame. Somehow being alarmed that he was home, adding to my already frenzied state, seemed to be a lovely segue into connecting him to my feeling of incompetence, and more importantly, it made him responsible for that feeling. I like blaming sometimes. It moves the guilt around to places that are far away from me. Ok, maybe the "place" is usually my husband. That is never nice.

I don't know how my mother was so nice all my growing up years and beyond. We certainly gave her plenty of reasons not to be nice to us. But she always was. Always. This is rather irritating because I can't blame my childhood for my lack of niceness. My sister-in-law says that people have it all wrong when they say that it's more spiritual to be single. It's not. You can be selfish without knowing it and therefore feel no guilt because of it. You get married and the opportunities to reveal your selfishness come up all the time. You become a parent and those opportunities multiply by the minute.

These days my nice "events" seem to get smaller and smaller. I guess I can only blame myself. That can be a problem, however. Blaming myself is not fun and definitely not cute. It's hard. My brain doesn't like it. It's little remember? Who knows, maybe if I practice taking the blame more often my brain will grow a little and those nice "events" will last longer. I'm going to work on that. I don't know, maybe another cup of Starbucks coffee will help.

Penelope, this blog's for you...

Lovey, today you are 18 months old! You've grown into a lovely little toddler, but like papa says, you will still be our baby until you're three. Our year-and-a-half together has flown by. I know that sounds cliché, but that's how it feels. I'm sure I'll be saying that all throughout your life, your first day of school, when you graduate from college and even when you become a first-time mom.

That is the reason for this blog. I want to record my journey with you. You and I are writing a beautiful story, one that is real, unafraid and honest, threaded together with love and speckled throughout with many tears and a lot of laughter and tenderness. I want you to know that I am not perfect (not that you will need a blog to realize this! I am sure you are reminded of this everyday), but that I love you deeply, and that it is a wonderful thing to be a mother, your mamae. I hope years from now when you are a lovely young woman, maybe with a baby in your arms and when blogs will most likely seem archaic and old-fashioned you will find that our story will still ring true with the one you will write with your baby. I hope that it makes you laugh, cry and most of all, realize that your mother loves you without pretence and without condition.

This is our story, you and me. I like you and me...


I love that when you kiss me you pucker up only your lower lip and say, "Hmmm."

I love that when you try to sing along with a song you move your lips quickly, but make no sound. You do this earnestly.

I love that you know what you want and what you don't want.

I love your chuckle, especially when you're trying to laugh along with something papa and I think is funny.

I love that when you want me to read you a story you "back up" into me, your little bum leading the way.

I love that when you are in a room full of new people you will not crack a smile. When we are out and about, however, you are intentional about saying hi to every living soul. It's like you think you're required to.

I love how when you are hungry you say, "numa, numa, nummy."

I love that when I’m on the computer you come up behind me quietly and tickle my back, then say, “Tuckle, tuckle, tuckle.”

I love that you sometimes put your shoes on backwards.

I love that out of nowhere you will come and find me just to say hi and tilt your head so far to the side that sometimes you tip over.

I love that you know how to hug real tight, so tight that sometimes your little arms tremble and you always say, "Hmmm."

I love that when you see something pretty you bend your knees and lean forward and say, "Wow!"

I love that when you hear music you feel responsible to dance to it. You drop all your toy duties and stand up, usually raise your little arms in the air as if the music is about to lift you off. You twirl. I like that you don't always smile, you're sincere and earnest about the dance. Sometimes you look for your baby and dance with her. Other times, you ask me to dance with you. You say emphatically, "Dance!" We twirl cheek to cheek.

I love that when I rock you, your chest on mine, you like to tuck your soft little arms between us.

I love that when I say I'm sorry for losing my patience with you, you seem to understand and hug me back.

I love that even after a long day, I lay in bed and my last thoughts are often of you.

I love that you can make my heart swell up, full, with love.


We go well together, you and me. I like us a lot.

Sore Eyes

There is a certain "mom look" that I swore I would never have. You know, the a-little-too-much-ruffle, a-little-too-much-seasonal-appliqued-vest, a-little-too-much-floral, all in the wrong places, topped off with the overgrown ponytail look. I used to wonder where these moms would purchase such things, maybe in a Mom Fashion catalog. I didn't know. I remember I would shake my little internal head with pity (ok, maybe a snobbish, condescending type of pity) and say, "how could they leave the house looking like that?'' I think I've been enlightened.

Since becoming a mom I haven't come across any Mom Fashion catalogs, but I have come across a lot of sleepless nights, for starters. Sleep depravity does something to a person. I can't figure out how to describe it. Perhaps it's a thinkless mode, called "I don't care." Usually, the thinkless mode outlasts the outing, as it were, to the grocery store, the gas station, the grocery store again. I remember not being shocked if I heard the expression, "a sight for sore eyes" in reference to me. These days I'm afraid I can make any eyes sore. I just wish the thinkless, "I don't care" mode would always outlast the outing, without exceptions. It doesn't.

A recent day ago, I pulled into a grocery parking lot and in the corner of my eye I noticed a fellow first-time-mom, well dressed and size minus 3, who I sort of knew. Her baby is a couple of months younger than mine. She was walking to the store that I was about to enter. I didn't let my glance rest on her more than a split second for fear that she, too, would see me. I chose the better, non-discriminating option and turned my head and talked to my baby who was unhappily strapped in her car seat. (Between these few lines my baby has already woken up twice! I've got my little prayers crossed that that will be it for at least five hours or so.) I didn't feel like bumping into her and doing the whole, we-have-to-small-talk-since-we-know-each-other's-names-even-though-we-both-think-this-is-stupid, thing, especially when I didn't need to look in the review mirror to remind myself of what I looked like when I left the house.

My shoulders slouched. I wanted them to slouch all the way down to my goldfish/graham cracker infested car floor. Earlier that day I clearly remembered noticing dandruff speckled throughout my year-old haircut. What was that all about? I could feel the crotch of my jeans halfway down my ripply thighs. My hand-me-down shirt didn't fit, but on the bright side, the sleeves had bleach stains. In that split second of seeing that person I was jolted into reality. I don't always like reality. So I promptly did what any reasonable person would do. I quickly exited the parking lot and off I went to another grocery store.

It wasn't a fun ride. My baby was hungry and tired (never a good combination). But I couldn't really blame her, when that combination is going on with me I always want to act like a 17-month-old: scream. That is precisely what she was doing. I acted quickly and broke off pieces of a candy bar that my boss had just given me and eagerly gave it to her as I drove in a panic. (That was her first official candy bar, another one of those, "I would never do that" ideals. Mind you, I had some of that candy bar, too.)

There is something about anonymity. It can be very soothing. Not to be known, not to be spoken a whole lot to. Not to be reminded of all that I hoped to be but wasn't. That's what I wanted at that moment. I don't like that I want that sometimes. The elusive goal of the perfect mom can often plague me. The problem with that goal is the "perfect" part. It doesn't exist. I think all of us, first-time moms, second and fifth-time moms and floral-applique-ruffly-moms alike just need to give ourselves a pat on the back that one more day our baby (or babies) was fed, hugged and kissed an awful lot. That is beautiful. Beautiful enough for any sore eyes.

(Update on the baby: since last mentioned, she has woken up four additional times. Rocked twice, snuggled cheek-to-cheek in mama and papa's bed once and currently, in mama's arm. The other arm is busy typing.)

Squeeze

I heard it, the sound I most dread hearing at night: my daughter’s cry. I know that might sound like a “motherly” thing to say. It might even conjure up certain ideals of motherhood, the compassionate tug at a mother’s heart to imagine that her child is sad or even hurt followed by the innate desire to rescue and to hold. Well, this is not what I’m talking about. None of those so-called motherly instincts are invoked in the middle of the night. It’s like I forget that I’m a mom. It’s more like the feeling of sheer anxiety mixed in with a good dose of selfishness and thoughts like, “what the heck is the matter with this child?” or, “I can’t stand this!” “Why do I have to get her (as if she had another mom)?”

The room was pitch black (which come to think of it, maybe if I saw her little face looking up at me I might feel a bit more “motherly”, but then again, do I want her to have memories of my irritated expression? Nah. I’m sticking with the pitch black thing). Her cry was mournful but soon it turned into rage. This did not help matters much. I picked her up and decided to rock her (screw all the books that say you shouldn’t do that for fear of creating a habit). I was tired, I figured I’d do the quick fix method (translated, anything that makes my baby stop crying with no thought of future consequences). She settled down and within a second she was asleep. So I carefully put her back in her crib. War erupted! Immediately, without hesitation, which was so impolite, she became like a dormant volcano who finally decides to erupt after four hundred years. I decided to do the “book” thing and stay by her side, but not pick her up. Whatever.

Ten minutes or so had gone by, but by “middle-of-the-night” standard this is equivalent to a solid two hours. I had had it! No remnants of “motherliness” left in this one! I wanted to cry. I, too, felt I had good reason to. I wanted to cry because I wasn’t sleeping and wanted to be. I was so tired! I wanted to cry because those stupid books were probably right; rocking your baby to sleep is never a good idea. I wanted to cry because I realized that my left over “baby fat” was sort of “hanging” over the crib railing and it was so infuriatingly uncomfortable! I wanted to cry because some moms are so freakin’ skinny! I wanted to cry because I felt helpless. I wanted to cry because this is not how it’s supposed to go, this motherhood thing. So I did. I cried and cried.
It was quite a sight, if there ever was one, baby in the crib crying her head off and mother gently leaning over the crib a few inches away from baby’s face crying her head off. I could hear my hot tears rapidly falling around my daughter and even on her tummy. I kept praying that my husband wouldn’t come in for fear that the light from the hallway would shine on my face which inevitably would have made my daughter believe in monsters. I am certain of it. My mouth was wide open (and I have a big one) and my face was all crumpled up. A sight it was and one that is never found in the storybooks of mother and child.

I picked her up. I sat down in the rocking chair and rocked her (Screw those stupid baby books again!). This time I just listened to her. She was still catching her breath from all that crying. Her heart was beating fast. Her little pudgy cheeks were hot to the touch, still wet with tears. She put her little arms around me and squeezed me tight. I squeezed her back. And just like that, all my selfishness just melted away. My motherly instincts were back in full force. Nothing is ever better than snuggling with my baby. Her breathing became calm and steady like a light whispering of leaves on a fall day. I could listen to that sound all night.

I remembered that I was a mom. All I needed was a little squeeze.