That's my biological clock ticking. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
In the past, I had a smile on my face as I read about women who experience this sudden need and fervor to conceive a second child. They felt it, they said, with a certainty like no other. They knew that they were "ready." I turned the page and thought, "Well, I can't really imagine feeling that way for sure."
And for a long time, I didn't. When my sister in law told us she was pregnant with her second and Alex was only 10 weeks old, I said to my husband, "Does she remember what it's like to have a newborn? Why would she want to do it again?" Silly, silly me.
In the recent months, I have felt the yearn for a second child like nothing else. I see all the "signs" in myself. I stare at pregnant women hungrily, so much so I know they must wonder what the hell I am looking at. I look inside every single baby carriage and smile at the baby, every single time. I scour parenting magazines for the latest studies, the latest baby products, and look at various stores' baby registries.
I find poignancy and romance in everything, from songs to movies to comic books, and they all bring me to tears. I get my period, month after month, and think "Damn, another wasted opportunity."
I have a pregnancy eating plan mapped out, and am working on a birthing plan. Did I mention I'm not pregnant? Oh, and we're not even trying yet? Heh heh. So why are we waiting? Oh, many reasons. Our jobs, our finances, our existing son. We'd like our kids to have a four to five year age difference, so we're aiming for April to start "going at it."
That doesn't stop me from wishing that we'll have a moment of weakness and decide, to hell with all that financial planning, to hell with work, let's just do it, come on.
But it hasn't happened yet. It's just six little months, 24 weeks, a little over half a pregnancy, that I have to wait. And then, God willing, we get pregnant, and it all starts again. Only this time, it will be even more exciting than the first (if that's possible), and that is only because this time, we know the outcome; we know we get a baby (we knew that the first time too--anyone here have a case of the "ohmygodIcan'tbelievewe'reactuallyhavingababy" syndrome?). This time, I'll know that every single thing I show and tell my baby is getting stored in his or her brain for future use; I'll know to get a wipe warmer; I'll know that most toys for babies under nine months are complete wastes of space and money; and I'll know that Baby Einstein won't really make my kid any smarter.
And I'll trust my instincts, even more than the first time. I'll fight tooth and nail for a natural birth; I'll delay vaccinations; I'll make every decision pertaining to my new baby because I have researched it and believe it is the best thing to do, not because it's the "norm."
I approach getting pregnant again with some trepidation. I relish my size four body--and how much saggier will my breasts and belly become with a second baby? How much weight will I gain? Will I keep my vigilant promise to let only healthy, pure things come into contact with my stomach? What if my fetus demands only ice cream and pizza?
What if I miscarry? What if it happens more than once? What if we have complications in birth? What if our baby has a cleft lip, spinabifida, six toes? ARRRGGHHH !!! Just like my first pregnancy, which seemed like a wonderful dream, so this second impeding pregnancy seems like a miracle that will not happen. Much like my wedding day, which I still can't believe happened sometimes.
And what of my son? My sun rises and sets with that boy. He is my very breath, my very heart beat. I adore him endlessly. Will my love open and expand and include him and a new baby? Will he seem or feel less special because he won't be the only kid anymore?
Will I have enough time to devote to two kids? I lose my temper. I like my sleep. I like that Alex sleeps 'til 8:30, sometimes, 9, a.m. What if the new baby is colicky? A night owl?
Probably my worst trait is my opposition to change. Any change, good or bad, depresses me. I am a creature of habit--I like a warm, cozy nook. I like when things are in order, I like when things are finite and complete. Much like my first baby did, a second baby will throw all that upside down.
And I'm ready for it. My eyes well up with tears as I think about that first kick, those belly hiccups, those first ultrasounds. I lull myself to sleep thinking about my belly, my baby, my children.
I'm ready. Hear that, baby?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thank you, Kyle
Something’s happened recently which has changed my perspective on parenting, and life. I’ve learned of the death of a little boy who was three years old. He died tragically, senselessly, too soon, with too much life still ahead of him.
I became aware of his storylast year—after hours of crying and a promise to myself that I would keep my son as safe as I could for as long as possible, I moved on. I saw his story again some time ago, and since then, everything for me has changed. I know children die, awfully, all over the world—every day. But the effect of this little boy and his family on me has been profound.
Looking at my son, I feel as if I wasted a good part of his second year being not his parent, but his warden. Always worrying about whether what I was doing was right, good, and constantly worrying about other people’s assessment of my parenting skills. The last six months in particular had been full of yelling, tantrums, and “no!”. I realized I had been so pre-occupied with what my son was eating, how much sleep he was getting, and how to discipline him, that I had almost forgotten to be his mother. Not his mother, the cop, but his mom, in every sense of the word that means love, compassion, the allowance of exploration, and care.
It’s so easy to lose patience with a toddler. I know I’m not the only one. At the end of each day I look back and think of a million things I could have done differently, so that the day could have gone smoother. It’s so easy to forget to look at the big picture, while my toddler is screaming and turning purple. So what if he bangs his car into the wall and makes a mark? I can wash it off. So what if, for the 100th time, after I’ve told him not to, he dumps his Goldfish on the floor? I can sweep them up. So what if he pitches a fit because I won’t let him play with the vacuum? Instead of yelling at him, I scoop him up, I kiss him, and I tell him that I love him. When his tantrum is over, he takes my hand and we find something else to do, together.
Each time that I have wanted to lose my patience with Alex I think of this other little boy—the one who died, the one whose bright brown eyes and sweet smile remind me so much of my boy. I think of his parents, and how hard it must have been to bury him, to never see him, smell him, hug him again. How hard it must have been for them to return home, to his empty room, with the toys he would never play with and the clothes he would never wear. To think of what he could have and would have become, all the things they never got to know about him, and the wonderful adventures he would never get to have. I think of his love of animals and think he would have loved Go, Diego, Go!, much the same way Alex does. I feel as if my eyes have been opened, my heart changed; and this parenting thing, that I thought I had all figured out, actually is much bigger and much more important than I could have ever realized before.
So, I want to say, thank you, Kyle. Not only for keeping Alex and my future children safer, but for reminding me what life and love are truly about. Thank you for helping me to love my son, totally, completely, and to live with him and cherish each day. Thank you for reminding me to have adventures, laugh, and not sweat the small stuff.
Thank you to the Miller family for helping other parents and families to keep their kids safer. We will be getting a Britax for Alex as soon as he’s outgrown his current car seat, and we brought in a certified specialist that made sure our current seat was installed correctly. Thank you for your message, thank you for your love, and thank you for loving perfectly and completely.
Plase visit http://www.kyledavidmiller.org/pages/home/index.htm for more information on Kyle and his family.
I became aware of his storylast year—after hours of crying and a promise to myself that I would keep my son as safe as I could for as long as possible, I moved on. I saw his story again some time ago, and since then, everything for me has changed. I know children die, awfully, all over the world—every day. But the effect of this little boy and his family on me has been profound.
Looking at my son, I feel as if I wasted a good part of his second year being not his parent, but his warden. Always worrying about whether what I was doing was right, good, and constantly worrying about other people’s assessment of my parenting skills. The last six months in particular had been full of yelling, tantrums, and “no!”. I realized I had been so pre-occupied with what my son was eating, how much sleep he was getting, and how to discipline him, that I had almost forgotten to be his mother. Not his mother, the cop, but his mom, in every sense of the word that means love, compassion, the allowance of exploration, and care.
It’s so easy to lose patience with a toddler. I know I’m not the only one. At the end of each day I look back and think of a million things I could have done differently, so that the day could have gone smoother. It’s so easy to forget to look at the big picture, while my toddler is screaming and turning purple. So what if he bangs his car into the wall and makes a mark? I can wash it off. So what if, for the 100th time, after I’ve told him not to, he dumps his Goldfish on the floor? I can sweep them up. So what if he pitches a fit because I won’t let him play with the vacuum? Instead of yelling at him, I scoop him up, I kiss him, and I tell him that I love him. When his tantrum is over, he takes my hand and we find something else to do, together.
Each time that I have wanted to lose my patience with Alex I think of this other little boy—the one who died, the one whose bright brown eyes and sweet smile remind me so much of my boy. I think of his parents, and how hard it must have been to bury him, to never see him, smell him, hug him again. How hard it must have been for them to return home, to his empty room, with the toys he would never play with and the clothes he would never wear. To think of what he could have and would have become, all the things they never got to know about him, and the wonderful adventures he would never get to have. I think of his love of animals and think he would have loved Go, Diego, Go!, much the same way Alex does. I feel as if my eyes have been opened, my heart changed; and this parenting thing, that I thought I had all figured out, actually is much bigger and much more important than I could have ever realized before.
So, I want to say, thank you, Kyle. Not only for keeping Alex and my future children safer, but for reminding me what life and love are truly about. Thank you for helping me to love my son, totally, completely, and to live with him and cherish each day. Thank you for reminding me to have adventures, laugh, and not sweat the small stuff.
Thank you to the Miller family for helping other parents and families to keep their kids safer. We will be getting a Britax for Alex as soon as he’s outgrown his current car seat, and we brought in a certified specialist that made sure our current seat was installed correctly. Thank you for your message, thank you for your love, and thank you for loving perfectly and completely.
Plase visit http://www.kyledavidmiller.org/pages/home/index.htm for more information on Kyle and his family.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
My favorite neighborhood
I’ve lived in New York for 21 years, since I was a freshman in college, and I’ve lived in many, many neighborhoods. I had a compulsion to move in my 20s--I was just never comfortable. Here are the places I’ve lived, not necessarily in the correct order:
• Morningside Heights
• Brooklyn Heights
• Upper West Side
• Lower East Side
• East Village
• Cobble Hill
• Carroll Gardens
• Chelsea
• West Village (6 years)
• Sunset Park
And now, Astoria, and in a few months, the Ditmars side of Astoria. And this time, we’re homeowners, so perhaps this will be my last neighborhood? Who knows.
But finding Astoria and moving here was a great revelation. This is by far my favorite part of New York, and I feel like I have the breadth of experience of having lived in a lot of places to really back that up.
I found Astoria via Sesame Street, where my husband works, and which shoots at Kaufman Astoria studios on 34th Avenue. We had been living in Sunset Park together and had just married that fall, and he was working in the studio on that season’s episodes. So every morning he left our Brooklyn apartment at 7 AM, and he came home most nights at 10 PM.
We had no children then and I was working late most nights. I was still on staff at an ad agency; I hadn’t yet gone freelance and regained control of my hours. So we were both stretched thin.
And we hated our apartment and we hated our neighborhood. But like most things you hate but that envelope you, we didn’t really consider changing. We had really low rent, we loved each other and we weren’t home that much.
But the neighborhood felt so unfriendly and desolate and downtrodden. I used to powerwalk (my knees couldn’t handle running, so yes, I became one of those silly-looking women—and when I start exercising again, I’ll go back) in Green-wood Cemetery, which was nearby, but they kicked me out (you can’t powerwalk in a cemetery, even if you bring along a bouquet of flowers so you look like you are going to visit a grave… that is how low I had sunk—pretending to mourn a loved one so I could work out). So I had to powerwalk through the streets, and it was so lonely until I got to Park Slope, and then it was too crowded.
So we just endured, enjoyed our cheap rent and rejoiced when Fresh Direct started delivering so we actually had okay groceries (there were no good restaurants near us either).
And then came the Sesame Street Christmas Party, which used to be a big extravaganza. It was held on the set (by Hooper’s store) with tons of food and a DJ playing eighties hits and disco, and a wild Muppet pageant, and singing, and alcohol, and some office hijinks. I’m not great at those parties but this one was fun.
After the party, the entire cast and crew were allowed to take Town cars home (big perk after months of late nights!), so we climbed into ours outside the studio and it took off through the Astoria streets. And that’s when I fell in love.
It was late December and late at night, and my husband and I were giggling at the drunken people (a mystery guest and one of the interns) making out in front of the studio (big gossip for the next morning!) and I looked out the window, happy to be in the car heading to our apartment.
And all of a sudden I knew I wanted to live here, in this neighborhood. It looked as though a family could be happy here, in these quiet streets. It looked as though people had real lives here, that they weren’t just camping out until the next best thing showed itself. It felt as though a life could be built here and enjoyed and treasured.
I mentioned how pretty I thought Astoria was to my husband and he sort of blinked at me. He had never considered it a neighborhood—it was where the studio was, nothing more and nothing less.
It was in Queens, and Queens, to young, ambitious people in New York, was very low on the totem pole. In fact, it was lower than where Brooklyn used to be. And yet somehow Brooklyn has become cool and desirable. Anyway, Queens just wasn’t on his radar. It hadn’t been on mine either until that moment. Plus my father had grown up in Jackson Heights, and he had talked often about escaping Queens. For me to actually desire to live in Queens was truly bizarre to my dad.
So my husband thought about it, and fairly quickly he agreed with me (transforming his commute from an hour to five minutes was a big incentive). And six months later we moved to Astoria, and a few months later had our first child. Astoria is where our family truly began.
I love it here. And it is the place I imagined it might be that night in the Town Car heading back to Brooklyn—yet far, far more.
I’d love to know how other moms found Astoria. It is my favorite part of New York City, and I wish I had found it years before.
• Morningside Heights
• Brooklyn Heights
• Upper West Side
• Lower East Side
• East Village
• Cobble Hill
• Carroll Gardens
• Chelsea
• West Village (6 years)
• Sunset Park
And now, Astoria, and in a few months, the Ditmars side of Astoria. And this time, we’re homeowners, so perhaps this will be my last neighborhood? Who knows.
But finding Astoria and moving here was a great revelation. This is by far my favorite part of New York, and I feel like I have the breadth of experience of having lived in a lot of places to really back that up.
I found Astoria via Sesame Street, where my husband works, and which shoots at Kaufman Astoria studios on 34th Avenue. We had been living in Sunset Park together and had just married that fall, and he was working in the studio on that season’s episodes. So every morning he left our Brooklyn apartment at 7 AM, and he came home most nights at 10 PM.
We had no children then and I was working late most nights. I was still on staff at an ad agency; I hadn’t yet gone freelance and regained control of my hours. So we were both stretched thin.
And we hated our apartment and we hated our neighborhood. But like most things you hate but that envelope you, we didn’t really consider changing. We had really low rent, we loved each other and we weren’t home that much.
But the neighborhood felt so unfriendly and desolate and downtrodden. I used to powerwalk (my knees couldn’t handle running, so yes, I became one of those silly-looking women—and when I start exercising again, I’ll go back) in Green-wood Cemetery, which was nearby, but they kicked me out (you can’t powerwalk in a cemetery, even if you bring along a bouquet of flowers so you look like you are going to visit a grave… that is how low I had sunk—pretending to mourn a loved one so I could work out). So I had to powerwalk through the streets, and it was so lonely until I got to Park Slope, and then it was too crowded.
So we just endured, enjoyed our cheap rent and rejoiced when Fresh Direct started delivering so we actually had okay groceries (there were no good restaurants near us either).
And then came the Sesame Street Christmas Party, which used to be a big extravaganza. It was held on the set (by Hooper’s store) with tons of food and a DJ playing eighties hits and disco, and a wild Muppet pageant, and singing, and alcohol, and some office hijinks. I’m not great at those parties but this one was fun.
After the party, the entire cast and crew were allowed to take Town cars home (big perk after months of late nights!), so we climbed into ours outside the studio and it took off through the Astoria streets. And that’s when I fell in love.
It was late December and late at night, and my husband and I were giggling at the drunken people (a mystery guest and one of the interns) making out in front of the studio (big gossip for the next morning!) and I looked out the window, happy to be in the car heading to our apartment.
And all of a sudden I knew I wanted to live here, in this neighborhood. It looked as though a family could be happy here, in these quiet streets. It looked as though people had real lives here, that they weren’t just camping out until the next best thing showed itself. It felt as though a life could be built here and enjoyed and treasured.
I mentioned how pretty I thought Astoria was to my husband and he sort of blinked at me. He had never considered it a neighborhood—it was where the studio was, nothing more and nothing less.
It was in Queens, and Queens, to young, ambitious people in New York, was very low on the totem pole. In fact, it was lower than where Brooklyn used to be. And yet somehow Brooklyn has become cool and desirable. Anyway, Queens just wasn’t on his radar. It hadn’t been on mine either until that moment. Plus my father had grown up in Jackson Heights, and he had talked often about escaping Queens. For me to actually desire to live in Queens was truly bizarre to my dad.
So my husband thought about it, and fairly quickly he agreed with me (transforming his commute from an hour to five minutes was a big incentive). And six months later we moved to Astoria, and a few months later had our first child. Astoria is where our family truly began.
I love it here. And it is the place I imagined it might be that night in the Town Car heading back to Brooklyn—yet far, far more.
I’d love to know how other moms found Astoria. It is my favorite part of New York City, and I wish I had found it years before.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Doing
I have spent the last week trying to find the perfect cake to make for my son’s birthday party next weekend. I have tested so many recipes that it’s absolutely insane. I made my husband sit down and make a schedule for next week for who will clean what and when. My parents and sister are coming in to town and I’ve tried to schedule as many fun-filled events as I can pack into a long weekend for us all. And then there’s the party – inviting all of our friends and my son’s friends, getting the party favors, planning to make the food. I have four different lists going at the moment of what to buy and when, what goes where and how to do it.
Until this morning, when I thought of next weekend, I broke out into a sweat, stressing about everything. The funny part? My son is turning one. He cares nothing about cake or sparkly kitchen floors. He won’t know if his wrapping paper matches the party-themed napkins or if the cake is gluten-free, dairy-free or none of the above. So why am I doing all of this?
This is what I do. I’m a do-er. I like to do things and go places and cross things off of lists. And since I’ve had my son, my “do” addiction is out of control. It seems like as soon as I cross one thing off, three more things are added on. Cross off getting groceries – add on doing more laundry, calling to make an appointment with the pediatrician, and ordering diapers.
In my “other” life, I’m a Holistic Health Counselor. I coach people on how to make their own wellness a priority and to find peace and grace, yet when I look at how I’ve been living recently, I can honestly say that my life resembles neither peace nor grace.
A great man once taught me about “the magic of mirroring”, meaning that clients who are attracted to my practice will most likely have challenges that I have overcome or am dealing with currently.
So yesterday, I was listening with great pity to my client, who was telling me that she finds no satisfaction in achieving a goal, but rather takes pride in finding something new and more challenging to keep her mind active. I asked her when she was going to find peace in just “be-ing”. I challenged her to just be with her feelings for a moment and it was difficult for her to do.
Then, it struck me. She is my mirror. She has been adding things to her list long enough for her babies to turn into men. Is this going to be me when my son is grown? Still over-achieving? Still crossing off one thing, only to add three more?
In church, the pastor was talking about “earthly riches”. Reminding us that “ you can’t take it with you”. But what about my “to do” list? Can I take that with me?
And what about when my son is thinking back on his childhood – maybe talking to a therapist or a health counselor. Will he remember us “be-ing” together? Or will he remember frequently seeing the back of my head as I intently mix up cakes and fold laundry and email and…
…make him wait for me to complete my never-ending list.
This life is about “be-ing”. Being together. Being loved. Being a friend. Being a mom and a wife and a daughter and a sister. I can be a human “doing” or a human “being”.
So how do I break my “doing” addiction?
For today, I am different choices, and if it means I have to include those on my “to do” list, I will. Add cherishing every sense as my son nurses from my breast while falling asleep. Add choosing to sit on the couch next to my husband and hold hands. Add going to bed early enough to be open to what the Universe has in store for me the next day.
And I know I can’t “take it with me” -- but if I can, I’d rather take my son than a really nice cake.
Until this morning, when I thought of next weekend, I broke out into a sweat, stressing about everything. The funny part? My son is turning one. He cares nothing about cake or sparkly kitchen floors. He won’t know if his wrapping paper matches the party-themed napkins or if the cake is gluten-free, dairy-free or none of the above. So why am I doing all of this?
This is what I do. I’m a do-er. I like to do things and go places and cross things off of lists. And since I’ve had my son, my “do” addiction is out of control. It seems like as soon as I cross one thing off, three more things are added on. Cross off getting groceries – add on doing more laundry, calling to make an appointment with the pediatrician, and ordering diapers.
In my “other” life, I’m a Holistic Health Counselor. I coach people on how to make their own wellness a priority and to find peace and grace, yet when I look at how I’ve been living recently, I can honestly say that my life resembles neither peace nor grace.
A great man once taught me about “the magic of mirroring”, meaning that clients who are attracted to my practice will most likely have challenges that I have overcome or am dealing with currently.
So yesterday, I was listening with great pity to my client, who was telling me that she finds no satisfaction in achieving a goal, but rather takes pride in finding something new and more challenging to keep her mind active. I asked her when she was going to find peace in just “be-ing”. I challenged her to just be with her feelings for a moment and it was difficult for her to do.
Then, it struck me. She is my mirror. She has been adding things to her list long enough for her babies to turn into men. Is this going to be me when my son is grown? Still over-achieving? Still crossing off one thing, only to add three more?
In church, the pastor was talking about “earthly riches”. Reminding us that “ you can’t take it with you”. But what about my “to do” list? Can I take that with me?
And what about when my son is thinking back on his childhood – maybe talking to a therapist or a health counselor. Will he remember us “be-ing” together? Or will he remember frequently seeing the back of my head as I intently mix up cakes and fold laundry and email and…
…make him wait for me to complete my never-ending list.
This life is about “be-ing”. Being together. Being loved. Being a friend. Being a mom and a wife and a daughter and a sister. I can be a human “doing” or a human “being”.
So how do I break my “doing” addiction?
For today, I am different choices, and if it means I have to include those on my “to do” list, I will. Add cherishing every sense as my son nurses from my breast while falling asleep. Add choosing to sit on the couch next to my husband and hold hands. Add going to bed early enough to be open to what the Universe has in store for me the next day.
And I know I can’t “take it with me” -- but if I can, I’d rather take my son than a really nice cake.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Somewhere in between
There are moments during the day when I feel pure joy--contentment and satisfaction with where I am, what I’m doing, the choices I’ve made. Then there are other moments when I feel sheer terror--uncertainty, disappointment, and failure.
But most of the time, I feel stuck somewhere in the middle: the quintessential “part-time working mom,” a mix of both working and staying home, the “best” of both of the crazy worlds I’ve wrapped myself in.
It’s an interesting experience, living in both worlds. As I walk down the street on my way to work, in my pressed pants and pointy fashion shoes, I think the moms passing by me with their strollers have no idea that I, too, have been pregnant; I, too, have been in labor; I have agonized over breast or bottle feeding; Ferberizing or attachment parenting; which formula to choose; daycare; Stride Rite or Payless; and the list goes on and on. On the glorious days I am not at work, when I too have the option to walk leisurely down the street with my extraordinary son in his stroller, I see the business women, refusing to move aside on the narrow sidewalk so I can pass through, and I know they have no idea--no idea that I’ve been a college student; a journalist, an account executive.
When I am at work, I feel as if I have no connection with motherhood; when I am pushing a stroller, businesswomen look at me with disdain. We judge each other with one glance, not knowing at all what our lives are like.
At work, I’m surrounded by so many different types of people: overachievers; people who have been there too long and know too much; people who know nothing; people who are on my side; and people who are not. But I have not met anyone who understands what I’m going through, who can offer support--who can say, “hey, you know what? I’ve been there.”
At home, I have my amazing two year old son, who delights and surprises me every day with what he’s learned, with his hugs, his love for books and Dora the Explorer, and his obsession with cars, trucks, diggers, and anything that makes loud and obnoxious noise. He sits and watches baseball with my husband as if he understands what’s going on, and he watches me cook with such an intense curiosity that at moments I am sure he’ll grow up to be a chef.
Someone once told me that becoming a mother means resigning yourself over to a life of guilt. Over my first tumultuous and eye-opening year of being a parent, I have yet to hear a more accurate statement.
I went back to work as a retail manager full time after six months at home with Alex. Guilty was a word that defined me then. I felt guilty for working; guilty for accruing so much debt over the years that I had no choice but to work, full time; guilty for leaving my child in someone else’s care; guilty for checking my email when I could have been reading to my son. I didn’t have time to use the bathroom, shave my legs, or cook. Making the bed meant I couldn’t blow dry my hair that day. My husband and I went days at a time with no eye contact.
Now, a part-time employee and mostly full-time mother, I’ve had to give up my normal “all or nothing” way of life. I may have time to cook a gourmet meal, but if I’m working the next day, clean-up falls behind. I drive myself insane, hand making invitations to parties and thank you notes two days after. I still can’t find time to shave my legs. I bake cakes and cookies from scratch, host Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Easter.
I haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks.
I’ve had to really step down at work. I still enjoy what I do, gratefully--and my company’s flexibility has allowed me to create a schedule that I can be comfortable with. But I have those moments, where I’m listening to someone explain something to me as if I’m an imbecile, and I want to scream, “Hey, I get it! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!” I have a certain amount of responsibility, but I am not allowed to step over that--if I do, I am promptly reminded of my new role. I am still a manager in many respects, but have lost my place. My traumatic birth experience and the aftermath means nothing to my co-workers--and why should it? To them, women give birth every day--to me, giving birth to my son was nothing short of a miracle.
Seeing my recent dramatic weight loss, no asks me what it was like those first few weeks after the birth, when looking at my sagging, deflated body in the mirror, I sobbed as I thought that I would never be the same again, my body would never bounce back. I hid my pre-pregnancy clothes deep in my closet, certain that they would never again see the light of day.
Now I look at myself and can’t believe that I was ever pregnant, and nine months pregnant at that. I yearn to conceive again, to have that special, miraculous secret that after a few precious weeks grows into a very visible and very real pregnancy that everyone wants to share. I ache to feel the kicks and hiccups in my belly, reminding me of the unbelievable fact that I am carrying another human being in my body.
Often, I look at my baby and think I want ten more. Then I ease into my size four jeans and guiltily think that I cannot ever imagine gaining 40 pounds again, for anyone.
I don't get to enjoy the title of “stay at home mom.” I don't belong to any Mommy and Me groups, don't go to Gymboree, don't hold any scrapbooking parties (even though I’d love to do all those things!). My paycheck has been cut down by more than half, my work responsibilities falling into an indescribable gray area, a lot of our financial freedom gone.
And so, I am caught in the inevitable tug of war, not one or the other, but somewhere in between. There are many times, like while I’m getting yelled at by the 15th customer that hour or while I’m dealing with yet another co-worker I never want to see again, that I wish I could bury my face in my son’s hair, smelling his sweet smell, or that I could see his precious face peek out over the top of his crib, his nap done. I never wish I were at work when I’m at home. Ever. The things I enjoy about working have nothing to do with the work itself--rather, I enjoy getting to dress up, and the 10-minute walk to the train, the only time during any day that I am truly alone.
I really don’t need to work to feel a sense of accomplishment--I get that from my hobbies: photography, writing, scrapbooking, cooking. I feel accomplished when I look at my son, when my husband comes home to a clean place and dinner cooking on the stove; when he tells me that he’ll support me and we’ll find a way no matter what I want to do--the choice is mine. I never take for granted how lucky I am to have a husband like that--and know there are many women who do not enjoy that luxury.
I’d like to have two more children and stay home full time. But for now, I’m here: employee sometimes, mother and wife always, myself never. I grab on to those moments when everything feels perfect and hold on tight, arranging them in my mind like a scrapbook page.
Maybe life is just a balancing act. Maybe there are women like me everywhere, walking the tight rope, never finished, never complete. We are all just members of the same circus, juggling, balancing, and sometimes falling. But when I pick my son up and he says “Mommy, I love you,” when he lays his head on my shoulder and strokes my arm--then I'm just his mom: and then the tug of war ceases. And at that moment, I am exactly where I want to be.
But most of the time, I feel stuck somewhere in the middle: the quintessential “part-time working mom,” a mix of both working and staying home, the “best” of both of the crazy worlds I’ve wrapped myself in.
It’s an interesting experience, living in both worlds. As I walk down the street on my way to work, in my pressed pants and pointy fashion shoes, I think the moms passing by me with their strollers have no idea that I, too, have been pregnant; I, too, have been in labor; I have agonized over breast or bottle feeding; Ferberizing or attachment parenting; which formula to choose; daycare; Stride Rite or Payless; and the list goes on and on. On the glorious days I am not at work, when I too have the option to walk leisurely down the street with my extraordinary son in his stroller, I see the business women, refusing to move aside on the narrow sidewalk so I can pass through, and I know they have no idea--no idea that I’ve been a college student; a journalist, an account executive.
When I am at work, I feel as if I have no connection with motherhood; when I am pushing a stroller, businesswomen look at me with disdain. We judge each other with one glance, not knowing at all what our lives are like.
At work, I’m surrounded by so many different types of people: overachievers; people who have been there too long and know too much; people who know nothing; people who are on my side; and people who are not. But I have not met anyone who understands what I’m going through, who can offer support--who can say, “hey, you know what? I’ve been there.”
At home, I have my amazing two year old son, who delights and surprises me every day with what he’s learned, with his hugs, his love for books and Dora the Explorer, and his obsession with cars, trucks, diggers, and anything that makes loud and obnoxious noise. He sits and watches baseball with my husband as if he understands what’s going on, and he watches me cook with such an intense curiosity that at moments I am sure he’ll grow up to be a chef.
Someone once told me that becoming a mother means resigning yourself over to a life of guilt. Over my first tumultuous and eye-opening year of being a parent, I have yet to hear a more accurate statement.
I went back to work as a retail manager full time after six months at home with Alex. Guilty was a word that defined me then. I felt guilty for working; guilty for accruing so much debt over the years that I had no choice but to work, full time; guilty for leaving my child in someone else’s care; guilty for checking my email when I could have been reading to my son. I didn’t have time to use the bathroom, shave my legs, or cook. Making the bed meant I couldn’t blow dry my hair that day. My husband and I went days at a time with no eye contact.
Now, a part-time employee and mostly full-time mother, I’ve had to give up my normal “all or nothing” way of life. I may have time to cook a gourmet meal, but if I’m working the next day, clean-up falls behind. I drive myself insane, hand making invitations to parties and thank you notes two days after. I still can’t find time to shave my legs. I bake cakes and cookies from scratch, host Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Easter.
I haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks.
I’ve had to really step down at work. I still enjoy what I do, gratefully--and my company’s flexibility has allowed me to create a schedule that I can be comfortable with. But I have those moments, where I’m listening to someone explain something to me as if I’m an imbecile, and I want to scream, “Hey, I get it! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!” I have a certain amount of responsibility, but I am not allowed to step over that--if I do, I am promptly reminded of my new role. I am still a manager in many respects, but have lost my place. My traumatic birth experience and the aftermath means nothing to my co-workers--and why should it? To them, women give birth every day--to me, giving birth to my son was nothing short of a miracle.
Seeing my recent dramatic weight loss, no asks me what it was like those first few weeks after the birth, when looking at my sagging, deflated body in the mirror, I sobbed as I thought that I would never be the same again, my body would never bounce back. I hid my pre-pregnancy clothes deep in my closet, certain that they would never again see the light of day.
Now I look at myself and can’t believe that I was ever pregnant, and nine months pregnant at that. I yearn to conceive again, to have that special, miraculous secret that after a few precious weeks grows into a very visible and very real pregnancy that everyone wants to share. I ache to feel the kicks and hiccups in my belly, reminding me of the unbelievable fact that I am carrying another human being in my body.
Often, I look at my baby and think I want ten more. Then I ease into my size four jeans and guiltily think that I cannot ever imagine gaining 40 pounds again, for anyone.
I don't get to enjoy the title of “stay at home mom.” I don't belong to any Mommy and Me groups, don't go to Gymboree, don't hold any scrapbooking parties (even though I’d love to do all those things!). My paycheck has been cut down by more than half, my work responsibilities falling into an indescribable gray area, a lot of our financial freedom gone.
And so, I am caught in the inevitable tug of war, not one or the other, but somewhere in between. There are many times, like while I’m getting yelled at by the 15th customer that hour or while I’m dealing with yet another co-worker I never want to see again, that I wish I could bury my face in my son’s hair, smelling his sweet smell, or that I could see his precious face peek out over the top of his crib, his nap done. I never wish I were at work when I’m at home. Ever. The things I enjoy about working have nothing to do with the work itself--rather, I enjoy getting to dress up, and the 10-minute walk to the train, the only time during any day that I am truly alone.
I really don’t need to work to feel a sense of accomplishment--I get that from my hobbies: photography, writing, scrapbooking, cooking. I feel accomplished when I look at my son, when my husband comes home to a clean place and dinner cooking on the stove; when he tells me that he’ll support me and we’ll find a way no matter what I want to do--the choice is mine. I never take for granted how lucky I am to have a husband like that--and know there are many women who do not enjoy that luxury.
I’d like to have two more children and stay home full time. But for now, I’m here: employee sometimes, mother and wife always, myself never. I grab on to those moments when everything feels perfect and hold on tight, arranging them in my mind like a scrapbook page.
Maybe life is just a balancing act. Maybe there are women like me everywhere, walking the tight rope, never finished, never complete. We are all just members of the same circus, juggling, balancing, and sometimes falling. But when I pick my son up and he says “Mommy, I love you,” when he lays his head on my shoulder and strokes my arm--then I'm just his mom: and then the tug of war ceases. And at that moment, I am exactly where I want to be.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
And then we almost moved to ...
During the past two, three months I was living in a reticent and reluctant world, I guess it felt like I was living in a box. Things were about to change. My in-laws were in town and we had a wonderful time together, but then again, back to normal life.
I packed myself up and lived day by day as if it was my last day here in Astoria. (there's a voice inside telling me how dramatic I am - so let's put this voice aside for a moment. I am what I am)
Moving puts us in a delicate situation in which we have to deal with practical things and abstract issues. In our case, we wanted to move because of Antonio's new job in Jersey City, because we wanted to have dad home earlier and enjoy him as much as we could. So we started looking for information about rentals in Jersey City and Hoboken. We actually visited the place a couple of times and as much as we liked the area, we disliked the rental price, the small-sized apartments and the quality of some of the schools near the areas we were interested in moving in.
Finally, yesterday we sat down and talked about this big step. We weighed pros and cons, and were very honest about our desires, fears, dreams and how the moving would affect them ... The fact is, it is hard to leave Astoria (this lively neighborhood) and the life we have here (and all the friends). And although I am not sure for how long we are staying, for the moment we are staying for good.
I guess now I can put the box away. Life is waiting and I don't want to miss a thing!
I packed myself up and lived day by day as if it was my last day here in Astoria. (there's a voice inside telling me how dramatic I am - so let's put this voice aside for a moment. I am what I am)
Moving puts us in a delicate situation in which we have to deal with practical things and abstract issues. In our case, we wanted to move because of Antonio's new job in Jersey City, because we wanted to have dad home earlier and enjoy him as much as we could. So we started looking for information about rentals in Jersey City and Hoboken. We actually visited the place a couple of times and as much as we liked the area, we disliked the rental price, the small-sized apartments and the quality of some of the schools near the areas we were interested in moving in.
Finally, yesterday we sat down and talked about this big step. We weighed pros and cons, and were very honest about our desires, fears, dreams and how the moving would affect them ... The fact is, it is hard to leave Astoria (this lively neighborhood) and the life we have here (and all the friends). And although I am not sure for how long we are staying, for the moment we are staying for good.
I guess now I can put the box away. Life is waiting and I don't want to miss a thing!
Saturday, October 6, 2007
I love my boys
Ok, I only have one son and I am pregnant with a girl. So who are my boys?
They include my son and his gang. I joined this mom's group when my son was only a few weeks old and went to my first meetup when Samuel was 7 weeks old. I was such a geek. I went with a notebook and wrote down everything everyone recommended: an indoor playcenter called bumbolee's, swim lessons at the Y, well it was a short list, there was not much around Astoria. I took notes on who I met- I'm horrible with names and I didn't want to forget the names- I needed friends desperately. Who would figure that these women would be such an inportant part of my life now?
What I never imagined from that first meetup was that my son would learn his first social lessons, from the babies I met at these first meetups. My son is growing up with his set of buddies. He asks for them by name. "Mami I want to see my amigos" and he goes on to list the names of those he wants to see today. When we leave playgroups he leaves crying like he's some poor neglected child who never gets to play with friends.
These buddies I have seen since they were babes. As moms we've all shared in crying through the night, rolling over, crawling, walking, running, holy shit he won't stop running, and the lovely "dude can you leave my breasts alone already"? Now these little guys are making their own friendships and rules. They laugh, tease, hit, ok sometimes bite, hug, and love each other. When I see them together it is mayhem and complete joy. My eyes light up at not just seeing my son, but at seeing his friends. I am so proud of all these kids and their accomplishments together. Look at how strong so and so is. Look how far so and so is climbing. I can't believe how clever your son is to say that. Wow I can't believe how much energy so and so has. Dude your son is so gorgeous...
I really feel like bragging about all these kids like they were my own. So even if I never have another son, ladies thanks for making me feel like I have several.
They include my son and his gang. I joined this mom's group when my son was only a few weeks old and went to my first meetup when Samuel was 7 weeks old. I was such a geek. I went with a notebook and wrote down everything everyone recommended: an indoor playcenter called bumbolee's, swim lessons at the Y, well it was a short list, there was not much around Astoria. I took notes on who I met- I'm horrible with names and I didn't want to forget the names- I needed friends desperately. Who would figure that these women would be such an inportant part of my life now?
What I never imagined from that first meetup was that my son would learn his first social lessons, from the babies I met at these first meetups. My son is growing up with his set of buddies. He asks for them by name. "Mami I want to see my amigos" and he goes on to list the names of those he wants to see today. When we leave playgroups he leaves crying like he's some poor neglected child who never gets to play with friends.
These buddies I have seen since they were babes. As moms we've all shared in crying through the night, rolling over, crawling, walking, running, holy shit he won't stop running, and the lovely "dude can you leave my breasts alone already"? Now these little guys are making their own friendships and rules. They laugh, tease, hit, ok sometimes bite, hug, and love each other. When I see them together it is mayhem and complete joy. My eyes light up at not just seeing my son, but at seeing his friends. I am so proud of all these kids and their accomplishments together. Look at how strong so and so is. Look how far so and so is climbing. I can't believe how clever your son is to say that. Wow I can't believe how much energy so and so has. Dude your son is so gorgeous...
I really feel like bragging about all these kids like they were my own. So even if I never have another son, ladies thanks for making me feel like I have several.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Your turn, Mommy
Right now, I'm a favorite playmate. Not *the* favorite, but definitely in the top 5- for both of my kids. I'm very often asked to play trains, or cars, to paint or draw, and always to read books before bed. Also, though my singing is sometimes unwelcome, I am often asked to sing favorites-- right now it's "I've been working on the railroad," particularly, "Sing someone's in the kitchen!"
Outside, it's often- "Your turn. You roll, Mommy," and I obligingly roll on the grass. We can roll together, and my 6 month old is left to watch us confusedly. I'm asked to "swing" him by holding him under his arm pits. When asked to draw chalk pictures and letters or numbers, I'm happy to help. I am asked to ride bikes, too, but right now it's hard because I most often am carrying the 6 month old and we can't both fit. But I am helpful when it comes to taking worms carefully out of the dirt, and often asked to rescue bugs. We fill up buckets with water and pour it over the flowers or onto the driveway. We put leaves on the tiny rivers and watch them float away.
My 6 month old is also in love. All I have to do to get him to smile is smile myself. Or laugh, or tickle him under his chin. If I sing, he's ecstatic. I'm forever being groped- my hair is grabbed so that he can pull us more closely together and my cheeks and chin are used for teething. He yells and squeals to get me to look at him and he'd love to stay all day on my lap (and often nearly does).
I know that someday- hopefully not too soon- I will no longer be the preferred companion. I'll be *mom* and hopefully will fulfill other roles in their lives. During the days that feel like everyone constantly needs me, I have to remember that this, too, will pass.
Outside, it's often- "Your turn. You roll, Mommy," and I obligingly roll on the grass. We can roll together, and my 6 month old is left to watch us confusedly. I'm asked to "swing" him by holding him under his arm pits. When asked to draw chalk pictures and letters or numbers, I'm happy to help. I am asked to ride bikes, too, but right now it's hard because I most often am carrying the 6 month old and we can't both fit. But I am helpful when it comes to taking worms carefully out of the dirt, and often asked to rescue bugs. We fill up buckets with water and pour it over the flowers or onto the driveway. We put leaves on the tiny rivers and watch them float away.
My 6 month old is also in love. All I have to do to get him to smile is smile myself. Or laugh, or tickle him under his chin. If I sing, he's ecstatic. I'm forever being groped- my hair is grabbed so that he can pull us more closely together and my cheeks and chin are used for teething. He yells and squeals to get me to look at him and he'd love to stay all day on my lap (and often nearly does).
I know that someday- hopefully not too soon- I will no longer be the preferred companion. I'll be *mom* and hopefully will fulfill other roles in their lives. During the days that feel like everyone constantly needs me, I have to remember that this, too, will pass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
