Tuesday, October 7, 2008

How am I, I ask?

As I stand, sorting through laundry, making beds, tiding the messes that follow me around, like a constant annoying companion, it struck me, that I don't really, honestly like doing these things.  They just are, for the most part, the day to day grind.  If I don't do it they won't get done, and then where would we be?  


Well, I guess I wouldn't be swallowed up by this unyielding expectation, I've somehow gotten sucked into.  The expectation that I cook, clean, make beds, play with children, and above all do it happily.  There are days when I just want to lock myself in a room, selfishly sit and sip coffee, not read another preschool book, watch another moment of  Treehouse or play on the floor, eyes glazed over hoping the moments pass more quickly.  Why?  Because I want to cram everything into this tiny bit of time.  I want things for me, for my children, and can't find, or accept that sometimes something has to give.  The beds might have to go unmade, the dishes might have to pile up, the house might have to become a cesspool for a while, in order for me to feel like I can do what I want and need. 

I hate the smothering feeling I've allowed myself to exist in, because this is what one is supposed to be doing when they stay at home with and for their children, right?  Sometimes I just seriously don't know who I am or what I want.  Then, there are those very rare moments, when it creeps in, you know, that you could easily and very peacefully exist in a life that might seem, on surface anyway, chaotic, yet underneath, it's precious, creative and full.  

It's like I hold back from this other desired life.  One where I make a pot of coffee, let my preschooler paint, play with play doh and make messes to her hearts content while I draw, enjoy a day or life time of free living, of embracing who I am , or who I want to be, without the guilt of looking at the mess around me, us.

I sat with a good friend a little while back and she said something to me that I have thought about often everyday since.  She said her mother once told her, find out who you are, not what you are, find it, know it and accept it.  I've run this through my mind over and over again, trying to find who it is I am, through the layers of what I have built in order to make myself who and what a mother, a wife is supposed to be.  In whose eyes?  Well mine, or maybe society's, I'm not completely sure I know.

What I do know is that I have this small warm feeling in the core of myself that is growing, and it really feels good to suspect, that somewhere I am going to finally find out who I really am.  

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Gift


In those absolutely rare flashes of clarity, that occur to few and far between, it's an amazing marvel to see my children. Life is filled with so much noise--white noise, background noise, fulsome noise, outside noise--that my life, and how it intersects with my children, is seldom quiet. But recently, the din has lessened (I know it won't last long, so I'm grasping the moments), and I found myself seeing these people I helped create.


I stand, sit, lie, and gawk in awe. 

Seeing them this way, in this brighter light (or with the veil lifted) is like being in a nature film, where, through time-lapsed photography, we watch a seed grow into a stalk, then into a bud, then into a flower, then, finally, but in a matter of moments, into full bloom. The remarkable beauty takes your breath away, yet makes you laugh at the impossibility of it. There's this sense of seeing something rare and special and forbidden, almost voyeuristic. 

How can you possibly explain to them, or someone who has never raised a child, that regardless of their age you see them as they were--with puff-ball hair, small, clutching hands, soft cheeks, and voices to wake the dead? 

My oldest son is 20. And, honestly, we struggle to find a way to communicate. I continue to be his mother, utterly flawed, yet with expectations and requirements, and he's pushing away from being my son--he's bursting out of his skin to be an adult, but he's confined by my rules, my way. So we tread carefully, and often clumsily around each other. We toss out barbs and occasionally wound each other. He's developed a protective skin to cover his sensitivities and vulnerabilities, and I hate it. I desperately miss the warm, sweet, thoughtful, gentle little boy he was, before he began to protect himself from the world, but mostly from the nasty, vitriolic divorce his father and I went through. 

I still see the slim 8 year old, worry filling his face, as he pressed one of his special, treasured keepsakes into his sister's hand as I flew out the door racing her to the Emergency room, not the tall, hairy man he's becoming.

We have constant and regular conflict. Up, down, in, out, back, forth--"we don't respect him, his needs, or his privacy." "He doesn't help out the way he should, drinks our last beer, every time, and has no direction." But, then, as things always do, something changed the other day: a shock to our family that registered on the Richter scale. And as I braced for the shaking and trembling the shock would cause, I also braced for his reaction and what it would do to him, and us. I expected the worst. I actually thought I might lose him.

But as I steeled myself, my life was thrown into the slow-but-double-time motion of that nature film, and I saw my son begin to bloom. He's beautiful, just as I always suspected he would be. 

I know that this moment suspended in time will end and that we'll go back to our see-saw of strife. It's life. But for right now I'm staring in wonder and holding my breath. The seeds of who my children are, and who they will be, were always there. That tall, hairy man is the sweet, gentle boy.

My children are beautiful. And for this brief moment, when bills and groceries and lessons and housework and cooking and scrambling to make a life fades to the background, I'm deeply grateful for this glimpse of their possibility, and their radiance. And today, to be their mother, is a gift. 

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Good Enough


I'm a grown-up now, although it seems I'm still stumbling through some kind of childhood, trying to find my feet.  I'm a mother, a wife, a friend, nearly forty years in the making I might add, yet still I feel judged, unsure of who I am, of who everyone wants, or expects me to be.  I am what I am, I think, but unfortunately with that comes this perception by others of who and what they think I am.  Truly, I'm a rather simple person, not all that complex, I want what most others want, to feel loved, complete (as much as we can) and accepted for who I am, even when I am not sure I myself know.


My childhood, frankly sucked, it was tough, I'm sure like many others.  It has left me worried constantly that I'm not living up to it, whatever it may be.  Now my parenting, friendships, and relationships are couched in this fear, fear that I'm not good enough, smart enough or interesting enough to contribute anything of substance.

As a mother, it seems you have to live up to so much, you must be so many things, yet your world is gradually shrinking.  This is magnified even more now, because I stay home full time with my children.  I'm out of the loop, I have little to offer, in the way of new and interesting ideas.  I don't want to feel like I should be crucified or made to feel less than intelligent because I don't have an enormous world of current experience to draw from, but sadly I do.  I want to be brimming with interesting topics to engage others in, but often I am not.  Instead I have small snippets of my own life, my own experiences to share, and I hope that is enough.

I used to scoff at the idea, that one day my world would get small enough that I would become one of those women, who shared pictures or talked endlessly about her children, parenting and the other mundane issues that now surround my life.  But here I am.  This is what my life is for now.  It probably won't be like this forever, but for now it is what it is, and I'm more than okay with that.  Yes, there certainly are days when I want so much more, when I think back to the days when my life looked much differently, much more exciting, and I do long for those days. But as it sits today, my life is dirty dishes, and re-runs of Franklin the Turtle.  It might not be glamorous or world changing, but it's okay.

I complain a great deal, but I don't want or need to tout some sign that tells the world I'm angry all of the time.  Sure I get down about things, it gets lonely being a mother, a parent, a partner. That's just the reality of life, it's not unique or earth shattering, everyone feels these things. And yes, I might want to rip my hair out in frustration at being a mother, and what, that in turn, makes me in other people's eyes.  The truth is I just want to get through today, tomorrow, and hope that what comes later is good.  I don't want to buck the tide and fight against everything, I thought as a young woman I would, I'm just too damn tired.  

I'm tired of worrying whether what I have to offer the rest of the world or my own small world is enough.  Anything I have to share with others comes from me, what I know or feel, I can't offer anything more.  We give of ourselves what we can, it might seem insignificant to some, but sometimes that's all we've got, or all we're willing to give away.  

I guess for me it's a struggle, it will likely always be.  I'm slowly learning to accept myself, and all that I am, and hopefully not only for my sake, but for those who choose to share their lives with me, that will be enough. 




Tuesday, July 22, 2008

It Hurts to be Beautiful

I am going to tell you a harrowing tale. One that makes my blood run cold, and makes me wonder what we're we making of our daughters? 


Every Monday night my 20 year old son plays poker with friends. These are, for the most part, good kids (yeah, there's a little pot, a little more beer, and a lotta bad language, but there's no crack or handguns or plotting to overthrow the Man), they're intelligent, respectful young men. 

They always play in the same place: in the basement at Jeremy's* house (*names changed to protect the innocent, or not so innocent--really, I'm only protecting myself, my son would kill me in my sleep if I revealed any real names). At 22 or 23 years old, Jeremy has managed to pull himself up by his boot straps (or in this case, by his keyboard) find work in an exciting, challenging career he excels at, and buy his own house, which he shares with his girlfriend. By most standards, it's impressive for a 42 year old to excel at their career and buy a house, but at 22 it's jaw-dropping. 

Well, as I reclined after supper on Monday night, after a indulgent repast, patting my growing girth, it occurred to me that my son wasn't performing his careful preparations for poker night (throwing on his favorite crumpled t-shirt from the bottom of a laundry basket and attempting to find at least one sock that didn't expose his big toe). When I asked him why he wasn't going to the game, he told me that the game was cancelled for the next couple of weeks. Why? I inquire. His answer shocked and saddened me: 

"Well, Jeremy's girlfriend is recovering from surgery."

"Oh my God, is she okay?" I say, alarmed enough to sit up straight (which caused an immediate cramp).

"Yeah, she's okay. She's just recovering from her boob-job." 

"What? She had breast implants!! Why? How old is she?!" Let me tell you, I, who am not easily shocked, was shocked. 

Evidently, Jeremy's 20 year old girlfriend, Laura* (*names changed to protect the recently up-cupped) has been dreaming of breast implants for years. She worked through high school and full-time when she graduated, saving and saving, not for university or a trip abroad, but for bigger breasts. 

"Why did she get breast implants? Were her boobs really small? Why would she do that?" I say, becoming increasingly agitated, to my increasingly uncomfortable son. 

"Well, no," he says, "she had nice boobs, you know, regular size. She's a really pretty girl. She wasn't flat-chested. Jeremy said she's just always wanted bigger boobs."

"How big did she go, like a C-cup, or something? And how does Jeremy feel about it?" I'm not naive, in fact, just the opposite, but this was something I was having trouble wrapping my head around. 

"Well, actually, she went for a Double-D, and..."

"What!!!! What the hell!!! Holy shit!!!! Why would she do that? Why would she do that to herself!!!!?????" I rudely interrupt.

"I dunno. I guess she just wanted bigger boobs," shrugs my son.

"Oh my God. What does Jeremy think?"

"Actually," says my son, "He's not very happy about it. He didn't want her to do it. But it was her dream, and he loves her and he said he'd support her." 

"Yeah, your damn right he's going to need to support her....him and WonderBra, for the rest of her back-pain filled life." 

As a woman and as a mother I'm saddened and confused. What are we telling our daughters about their worth? What are we telling them about their value as people? What kind of world is this where a beautiful, young woman is entirely motivated by bigger breasts? What kind of world does she need to feel safe enough, special enough, good enough, attractive enough? What kind of world makes it's young women feel so imperfect? What kind of world are we making for our daughters? 

And how did we come to a place that places more value on your waist to hip ratio then on your brain to stupidity ratio? 

I feel mute. I'm so filled with rage and frustration that I'm unable to articulate how enraged I am. But the next moment, I'm so saddened that I feel weak. 

I suppose, by the standards society sets, so consequently by our standards, it's pretty simple for our daughters to figure out where they fit and where they belong. Their achievements, self-respect, and strength is sitting in their bras, their noses, their haircut and highlights, or the seat of their jeans. 

I'm not wagging my finger at others. I'm not blameless. I've created the same atmosphere in my house, around my girls. I have and do constantly critique myself, my shape, my flaws. I was getting ready for work the other day and one of my daughters said, "You look nice mom." I could have been graceful and accept the compliment. But I didn't, and I wasn't. My answer was, "Yeah, nice for a fat girl." All she said was, "Ahhh, mom, you're not fat. " Then she walked away. And she's right. I'm not fat. But I'm plagued with doubt about my 40 year old curves. I'm uncomfortable in my less than perfect frame. But it's not me that I damaged with those 6 careless words (though I certainly didn't do myself any favors). It was my bright, beautiful daughter. 

How can she learn to grow into the kind of woman who's confident in her self, her beauty, her intelligence, her capabilities, when she sees me, her role model, so unable to be comfortable in mine. 

This is hard. And I don't know how to fix it. I just know that I need to, at least in my world. I know sex sells, I know that attractive people get farther, faster. I know that there's power in beauty. But I also know that that doesn't have to be all. I know that I want more for my girls. I want their power to come from inside of them, rather than inside their bras. I want them to recognize how beautiful and smart they are. And for my sons? I want them to see women for everything they are, not for everything they show

Maybe I can't achieve this. Possibly, my daughters are contemplating implants. But when my son and his friends tell me they feel bad that Laura felt she needed breast implants, I can hope a little. 
 

Friday, July 18, 2008

All my ducks back in the nest





Oh I'm a sap, a real, super crybaby sap.  Today I picked up my son from camp.  He's been gone 13 days, and it was a long 13 days.  I missed him painfully, but hid it quite well, my husband would argue this though.


The drive never felt so long.  The road just kept on extending out, further and further, like we would never arrive.  Finally we arrived to see this gigantic looking kid perched on a log.  I honestly didn't think it was my kid from that distance.  He looked so big and tall, lean and tanned.  That is until he came running to meet me.  Then I could see without a doubt it was him.

I have never felt a hug that held so much in it.  He hugged me pressed his face into my chest and we both burst into tears.  Big hot sobbing tears.  I promised myself, again, that I wouldn't break down when I saw him, but this time I couldn't hold back.  He cried, I cried, we laughed, composed ourselves, grabbed his gear and headed home.

God it's good to have all my little ducks back together.  They can be such a source of angst, but I wouldn't know what to do without them all!!  

Welcome home!

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Ready, Set, Go


Okay, I thought that the kids being home, having a very loose schedule to contend with, would give me oodles of time to think, write, post, draw, read and relax.  What a schmuck I am.  Of course that hasn't happened.  Instead I've been trying to invent ways of evading the kids, all of them, in order to put a few meaningless blurbs on the blog, or read a couple of paragraphs here and there.


Obviously I have not been at all successful, in fact, I feel like I've fallen further behind.  I've gotten less time to be selfish, if you call wanting to change your tampon in private, being selfish.  I don't even feel like I have the time or energy to bestow any kind of intimacy on my ever patient husband.  What is going on here?

Well I'll tell you my friends, I'm a mother, a parent, a spent, drained shell of a woman.  Sometimes it kind of hits me, that not only I, but millions, probably billions, of other parents out there, did not put in the kind of thought we should have, into becoming parents.  I adore my children, I even admit to loving being a mom now and then, but I don't know if I'd have chosen willingly to spend from mid-twenties onward, being a parent, had I the opportunity to really see my future.

It's bloody hard.  Harder yet, to admit that it's not all we thought it was cracked up to be.  From the moment of conception, in whatever form that takes.  Whether one has waited years to become a parent, or whether it was over a few bottles of wine, and a sudden, "let's just throw caution to the wind", sort of deal, it changes your life forever.  

This occurred to me again today, as I was changing what seemed like, the tenth shitty diaper of the day.  I am a mom, a real no-shit, mother.  My life has been irrevocably altered, who I am will never be who I once was, years ago.  I automatically think now about things, like, mealtimes, snack time, sunscreen, bedtime.  Those are the first thoughts in my head when the days starts, "what do the kids need?", then I can pee and have a cup of coffee.  The little sounds that are constantly in the background, you know the ten thousand chants of, "mommy?", we hear everyday, yet somehow still block out, become, for whatever reason a part of us.  

The constant thoughts that are present in our minds of our children; where are they, what are they doing, who are they with, have they eaten, what time will they be home, what time do I have to pick them up.  This is now ingrained in my person, who I am, who I have become.  I can't seem to shake it.  The sounds, the thoughts are always with me, even when I am so exhausted, drifting off into sleep.  Those thoughts are just between that moment I am conscious and dead-to-the-world asleep.

When you become a parent, your world changes, almost without you knowing it.  New parents ask themselves, "will this all come naturally to me one day?".  Oh it will become more than natural, it will become like blinking, so automatic you won't even notice.  You'll be wiping your child's snotty nose with the bottom of your shirt, or spitting on a tissue to wipe their face, in no time flat.  And the horror is you won't even notice when that change takes place.

Whether you like it or not, your life is no longer your own.  You honestly are unable or incapable of ever doing anything easily again.  Your days of getting only yourself organized are over.  Your mind has essentially been taken over, and all you can do now is run with it.

In the time it's taken me to write this, I have literally had to stop at least a dozen times, and, what is so ironic about this, is it's normal, I wouldn't expect anything less.  Somedays are easier at coping with these changes, interruptions, yet other days it's nearly impossible.  They make you want to run screaming, crying off into the sunset, never to look back.  

All of the little things about becoming a parent, makes one just that, a parent, that's all.  We're not super human, we're not able to leap over buildings in a single bound, we're just people.  Silly people, who've decided to extend our genetic pool by becoming parents.  We have our ups and downs, and at the end of the day we're just happy to have made it through another day, another year, another child without completely imploding.  

Being a parent is like running a marathon, a lifelong, achy, marathon.  You have those moments where you catch a second wind and you feel like you are invincible.  Then you have those other moments where you really hit the wall, and feel like you just can't go on.  Just take a big deep breath and carry on, we all make to the end someday, some way.

    

Friday, July 11, 2008

Fun, fun, fun


I try not to be petty when it comes to my ex-husband and his relationship with our children.  It's hard, sometimes nearly impossible, but I honestly do try.  But, then there are those moments, those that make me want to dance and sing for my kids, begging them to like me more than they like him, begging them to want to be with me more than they want to be with him.  


Hell, haven't I been the one who's stayed up countless nights, holding them while they were sick and threw up everywhere but into the toilet or bucket, wiping their tears away when they were in pain, physically or emotionally.  

I never wanted to be that mom who needs her children to tell her how much they love her or appreciate her, but somehow inside of me there is this tiny voice that wants, no, needs, the recognition, especially when I feel like I am in constant competition with their dad.  The fun guy, the man who has always remained on the perimeter of their lives, present almost exclusively for only the weekends or holidays.  

He's not ever really had to think about much, responsibility wise, when it comes to the kids.    Mostly, all he has to worry about, is what time he needs to pick them up, when their extra school holidays are, and what time he has to drop them off, dirty laundry and undone homework in tow.  I know I sound bitter, and I really don't mean to.  He loves his kids and he's a good dad to them, at least in his mind.  No, his parenting is not what I would call ideal, but he might say the same when it comes to my parenting.  I'm sure he does what he feels is best, and all I can ask is that he loves our children.

My issue is more with myself, and what I struggle with internally.  I know it's irrational to try to compete with the other parent, but that doesn't stop me feeling the way I do.  I don't ever actually do anything that indicates any kind of direct attempt at trying to win the kids over.  I just wish I didn't have to feel this way.  Like, the way less fun parent, the rule maker, the bad cop the one who always has to do the hard work of parenting.  

I want to be the one who can run off at a moments notice and make my child feel like they are the centre of attention.  That I don't have to worry about laundry, cooking, the hum-drum of daily life.  But I can't.  What's more, is I don't think I would want to be the parent who doesn't care for them everyday, hum-drum and all.  

I guess I just get a little jealous here and there.  I want to know that the kids want to be with me as much as they want to be with their dad.  Even though I may not be as exciting.  I may not be able to take them skiing every weekend during the winter, or do many of their favorite things whenever I get the chance to spend one-on-one time with them.  Instead, mostly I just sit with them on the foot of their beds, curl up on the couch to watch a movie with them, or talk with them about their day.  It's not all that glamorous, but it's pretty damn good. 

Apparently life can't always be a carnival, that is, unless you have an ex-spouse who takes most of the heat when it comes to raising the kids.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Me, lonely?


It's been all of five days and I thought, well convinced myself anyway, when I dropped him off at camp, that I wouldn't miss him all that much.  I've been away from the kids a number of times (product of divorce), and to tell the truth, it's not ever been as bad as some have made it out to be.  Honestly, most times, it's been great, I've always needed the break and they've also needed a break from me.  Of course the house always seems so much quieter, and cleaner for that matter, but there is always this little part of me that wonders how their days are when they are away from me.  


This time it's been different.  I've been achingly lonely for him.  I imagine his big toothy smile, his freckled happy face, and I get choked up.  I miss the kid like crazy.  I worry whether I've packed enough warm clothes, sunscreen, bug spray, underwear.  I told myself  not to act like a blithering idiot when I left him there, standing alone looking so proud to be going to camp for a whole two weeks.  I didn't.  I asked him if he was alright, made sure we had a look at his accommodation, gave him a hug a kiss, another hug and kiss and left him. 

I know he's alright, but it's really weird sending your child off when it's not to his other parent.  Especially for this length of time.  I know he'll come back, feeling more grown up, looking taller, browner (well, pinker in his case), and happy, happy that he had the chance to have this experience.

I hope he remembers to brush his teeth, floss, for his braces sake, and have a shower often, so he doesn't horrify the other campers with his stench.  I hope he isn't afraid to use the outhouse at night, and he hasn't been eaten alive by mosquitoes, and that he uses his sunscreen regularly ( the poor guy needs it).

I, on the other hand want to spend the remainder of his trip imagining that he is having the time of his life, and push away the terrifying thoughts that he might be mauled by a cougar or a bear, or worse, that he gets lost alone in the forest without repellent, sunscreen or clean underwear.  I know I sound like a complete nut.  I just needed to vent in order to get through the next seven nights.

  

The Motherhood Gene

Oh my God


I've just had a bone-clattering revelation. I'm sitting here, with my mouth hanging just slightly open, eyes glazed like donuts, with the slightest sweat beading on my brow. I've become the one and only thing I was determined never, ever, ever, in infinity, ever to become. It's a shock, and a little hard to say out loud, but, I've become my mother. 

The transformation was so creeping and insidious that I didn't recognize it until it was too late. I didn't see it happening--and now, (insert high pitched, quavering scream here) it's done. 

When I was a teenager, and then a new mom, being anything at all like my mother was my greatest fear (next to being abducted by aliens and anally probed). I mean, come on--she always looked tired and in need of a haircut, she didn't ever take the time to paint her toenails or try new makeup styles, she'd fall asleep, upright at the table, after supper, she constantly had a pencil behind her ear and a never-ending list of things to do, sure she spent more money than she could afford on nice jeans for me, but did she really expect me to go to the mall with her in the pair she'd been wearing since the 70s? She was forever worried about where my brothers and I were going and who we were going with, and, geesh, just try to leave home to back pack around Europe, and she was a burbling, snotty mess. It was down-right embarrassing. Didn't she have any self-respect?!

I vowed to be the exact opposite of womanhood and motherhood. I was going to be liberal, cool, calm, unrushed, and sophisticated. My philosophy was simple, intuitive, and intelligent--every person has their own path to walk, and their feet are firmly planted on that path the second they're born, so all I had to do was give the people I brought into the world a place to live and grow, spread a little love and warmth around, and the rest was up to them. If they made mistakes, it was part of their growth, important to where their path was taking them, not my concern. I was free to live my life while they lived theirs, and yeah, our lives would intersect, but sometimes that might be kinda nice and fun. In fact, after my first child was born, and I was moving with his father to a small town, where I likely couldn't work, I asked my mom (and this is a direct quote), "What am I going to do all day? I'm going to be so bored. It'll only take an hour to clean the house, and then what?"

Well, I know you suspect what I'm going to tell you next. Mmmhhmmm. My philosophy imploded about a week after I had to put it into practice. And it wasn't pretty. 

I was a bloody mess. 

Twenty years later? Still a mess. I constantly have a pencil tucked behind my ear, dirt under my fingernails, I still manage to wear t-shirts with breast milk stains on them (my last child stopped nursing 3 and a half years ago), my hair occasionally looks like I've dragged a brush through it, and as for the lists, I can't keep them organized. I keep losing them, so consequently I can't keep track of what I've done, what I'm doing, or what I'm suppose to do (in fact, before I owned a cell phone, I actually lost one of my kids because I misplaced the field trip notice that told me where I had to pick him up. It was a harry couple of hours!) When I wear toenail polish, it looks chipped about 15 minutes after I've applied it, and worst of all, I spend every waking (and often sleeping) moment of my life in a state of perpetual worry about my kids--I'm a snotty, burbly mess. In short....I'm my mom. I'm starting to look like her--my small, perky boobs seem to be getting bigger every bloody day, and sound like her. I find her voice coming out of my body at a startlingly regular rate. Just the other day, in a fit of frustration, I inadvertently used one of the well-know gems I heard regularly throughout my youth--"If you keep acting like that, I'm going to drop kick you in the crotch." 

The transformation is complete. And now, after the shock has worn off, I realize it's not as bad as I imagined it would be. She wasn't perfect. She blew it sometimes (lotsa times). But age is the great equalizer and I see things differently. She wasn't deplorable. She was a mom and woman doing everything she could to make our lives, and her life, work. She encountered struggles, successes, joy, vomit, and interminable Christmas concerts, just like me, just like you. 

From here, where I sit, right now, it seems to me that the things I reviled in her are the things I've become (though honestly, I'll never be as organized or tidy as she is--I mean, she never once lost one of us). As it turns out, the reality is nothing like the fear. It took me alotta years to figure this out. 

And what about her? What about my mom? Twenty years later, she's become everything I intended to be--well put together, sophisticated, cool, calm, and unrushed. 

Maybe if I'm really, really lucky, someday, I'll get to grow into that part of her too. 

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Takin' It Easy


Today I just want to sit and be.  I don't want to run through the day, lists abound, rushing to get everything done.  I want to enjoy the smallest one.  Watch her laugh and be silly, sit with her endlessly, not worrying about the beds, laundry or dishes.  


Today I want her to feel I am here, present, available.  I don't want to quiet her, hold her off, make her wait.  I want to be her best mommy today, her playmate, her friend.  So I pack our ragged backpack, with our towels, our sunscreen, our snacks.  And love the day with her in it.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Will I Always be Broken?


Sometimes it hits me like a slap in the face.  You know, the kind of slap in the face that comes when you're not expecting it?  Well that's how it feels once in a while.  When the realization creeps in that I'm pretty alone in the world.  Here I'm supposed to be this brave strong woman, mother and wife, but more often I'm left feeling like a small scared child, abandoned at the bus station with no where to go.


I have a loving, wonderful, warm husband, three beautiful children, not much missing really.  Aside from that feeling of belonging, somewhere and to someone.  I know, this is so old already, but I keep coming back to it, running through all of it.  The reasons, the fears, the what ifs.

Mostly it hits me when there are events in my life, or my children's lives, that I would love more than anything to have someone who I am, we are,  connected to through blood to share it with.  I had my last child without having my mother in my life.  Our beautiful baby was born and the event was shared with only a few, my mother not being one.  

I wanted throughout my pregnancy to talk with her, shop with her, laugh with her.  But it's just a big fantasy, one that I keep reliving.  One that I keep alive by imagining the kind of relationships I will have with my own children when they are grown.  One that I envy in others when I see them with their mothers, or fathers for that matter.

I'm not a heartless callous daughter, who doesn't speak to her mother because I am simply making a point, or pissed off about years of misunderstandings.  You know the mother daughter complex, "she just doesn't get me."  On the contrary, I' ve spend many, many years trying to get this relationship to work, or at least make in manageable enough not to put me in the nut house myself.  But it always falls flat, the rug is pulled out from under me and I'm left, most times, in complete shock.   

I' ve had all sorts of advice, like, "forget it, put it behind you, it's brought you too much pain as it is."  It's good advice, especially from those who have seen me through much of the pain associated with the relationship with my mother. But I am not sure they can understand the complete aloneness this decision brings.   I've also had plenty tell me, "You've only got one mother, and when she's gone, you'll have regrets forever.", this stings more than I can explain.  As I am a mother, and I can't tell you what it would do to me to lose my children.

What I can tell you, is that not having my mother in my life grows more difficult each day.  We all need a place to belong, meaning outside ourselves, without that we're wander, and wonder. What happens when where you come from is too disastrous a beginning to ever want to go back?

So here I sit, a few years later, the same place I was when this all began.  

Today I go for a test.  I'm not happy about it, and I would like more than anything to talk with her about it, but how?  I keep running it through my mind, what if something is really wrong with me, will she ever know, what if something terrible happens to her, will I ever know?  I don't have any answers, and I know it seems it should be just as easy as just picking up the phone, or writing a letter.  It is not.  Letting her back into my life, our lives, comes at such a high cost, and I'm not sure I am prepared to pay.  

So I live, for the moment anyway, with my decision.

Stellar and Stupid Parenting Moments of the Week

Welcome to week one of a new weekly feature here at Motherhood Bytes (In fact, I only just thought it up--it's fly-by-the-seat-of our-pants week here.


Stellar and Stupid Parenting Moments of the Week

By all that is sensible and logical in the universe, I should have introduced this on Friday, or Sunday--those being the typical end of the week days, but being the madly irrational woman I feel confident I have proven myself to be, I've left it 'til a Monday. And as the creator of this column, I figured it was only right that I kick things off, and really, since none of my compatriots even suspect I've invented it, I have no choice. So here goes. Here are my monumentally stellar and stupid parenting moments of the week:

Going for Gold: This week, I went in to work at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m. so I could work nearly a full day and then pull a fast-excape. I wanted to spend the warm, sweet, sticky afternoon with my kids. It was worth it.

Supreme Underachiever: My 6 year old son has never been in organized sports. I have lots of excuses--he's too young to even get what's going on, he's an artist not an athlete, all the poor little buggers do out there on the soccer pitch is chase the ball like a bunch of lemmings--and we can do that in the backyard (and the backyard doesn't have a registration fee). Really, I'm just lazy. Well, the other day, as we were playing a miniature game of baseball in our registration-free backyard, he got fed up, threw himself down on the patio with his legs splayed and his arms hanging limply at his sides, and shouted, "You NEVER register me for sports!!! I just wanna play sports! You never let me play!!!!!"

Job well done, Sloth-Girl! Job well done. 

But after baring my parenting faux-pas, I thought you should hear a real doozy, courtesy of newsoftheweird.com

The reputation of the Japanese for being humble is falling to Western norms among primary-school parents, according to a June dispatch from Tokyo in The Times of London. "Across Japan, teachers are reporting an astonishing change in the character of parents" as they push for their children's "rights." In one school's performance of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, "there were 25 Snow Whites after "monster parents" bullied officials into admitting that it was not fair to have just one kid in the title role. [The Times (London), 6-7-08] 

Have a moderately sane, occasionally indulgent parenting week!

Friday, July 4, 2008

It's a Perfect Day for Bananafish

I have a confession to make. Yes, another one. Another shameful, dirty, secret, secret. It's the reason I've been so remiss in writing (it's been plaguing my thoughts and making me about as fun to be around as a pube-speckled bar of soap):


I don't know who I am. 

That's it. That's all there is to it. I know--big fat stinkin' deal. You were hoping for a salacious shameful, dirty, secret, secret. A great fat juicy one, like, maybe, I slyly channel Mrs. Robinson and exploit my own Ben Braddock on the third Thursday of every month, or that I have a clitoral piercing that tickles when I walk, or that when I say I'm just running out to Home Depot to get a washer for the drippy tap, I'm really getting away from the house to conduct my side-business as the Madam of a high-cost escort service (politicians and professionals only, naturally). 

Sorry to disappoint. But I'm not that fun. The best and most revealing thing I can tell you about myself is, I don't know who I am. Who does, really, other than Seymour Glass, Arjuna, or the Dalai Lama? 

But I can't really model myself on one of them: one's fictional (and dead), one's mythological (and dead), and one is fully booked up into my next life giving keynote speeches (after which time, I'll be dead). So, outside of saying: this is how many kids I have, or this is how many times I've been married, or this is the job I go to every day, or this is how old I am, or this is my astrological sign, or this is what color my hair is, really, I have no way to define myself. Except, that I'm a desperate, confused, conflicted, raging maniac. 

And so I smile--most of the time. I pretend I am what I imagine other people see in me: smart, attractive, brave, kind, snide, flippant, standoffish, and haughty.  And I pretend to be the person other people see me being: a mother, a wife, a writer, an editor, a daughter, a sister, a friend. Sometimes. Today. The weight of these things is, at one time, heavy and ethereal. All at once, I feel the full weight on gravity pushing me deeper and deeper into myself and the ground, and then in an instant, I feel like smoke, formless and drifting and unable to grab hold of anything, anyone, myself. Sometimes, I want so desperately to throw this, them, everything off, and disappear so that I might discover who I am, what I am, why I am.

But what does this have to do with you? For that matter, what does this have to do with me? It's just philosophical navel-gazing, right? Yet everything I touch is touched by this, every person in my life grazes up against this crazy black hole. And what does that do to the people I love? These are people I chose or got stuck with, and people who chose or got stuck with me. I want so desperately, like most parents, for my children to have a better life than I have. I sometimes desperately wish that I could restrict that desire for them to having a bigger house, a nicer car, a fatter bank account, or a slimmer ass, but I'm saddled with this constant searching that makes me almost obsessively crave completeness for my kids. To have the real, true gift of knowing themselves. But now the crux: how do I teach them, or model for them, how to be whole when I'm so unsure myself. 

So where does this leave me? No where new. No where different. Where does this leave them? Sadly, but honestly, on their own. It's crazy really. I love them madly, insanely, and often, madly wish they'd leave me alone--maybe so I could find a way to just be with them. Maybe so I could find a way to just be with myself. See, what I tell you about being a desperate, confused, conflicted, raging maniac. I've been here before. It'll pass. But right now, it's sad. I want so much to be so much more than the person who buys their groceries, cooks their meals, goes to their parent-teacher interview, hold their hands. I want to be the woman and mother they deserve (and the woman and mother I deserve too). But for right now, I'll just keep pretending. Fake it til you make it, right? 

I suppose we really are, at the end of the day, only a light unto ourselves. We are what we come into the world with, and the only thing we leave the world with, but it doesn't stop me thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking and wishing and wanting to be more. 

My grandmother used to say, "If ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise." Sweet Jesus, what I wouldn't give for a nice dose of ignorance right now. 

I'll just have to settle for a Scotch. 

Thursday, July 3, 2008

It's Lonely At The Top


It's lonely at the top, of the food chain that is, well in my house anyway.  It's eat or be eaten, and I tend to be the big drooling T-Rex that is terrorizing the rest of the innocents.


Seriously though, we've all been subjected to those ridiculous sayings, "If mom ma's not happy no body's happy", and the likes.  Well sad but true, much of that rings true for many of us.  Like it or not somehow we've been thrust to the top of the heap, willing or not, we are standing on a pseudo pedestal, and man it's a lonely place to be.

Suddenly we become to the go-to-person for everything, from what the entirety of our family is going to eat, to what we will do as a group.  Not only that, we also become the know-all of too much else in every body's personal lives.  It's just too much for one person, we're supposedly the most enlightened in our household, and sometimes we just want to catch a freakin' break.  Sit there with drool pouring down our dumbfounded chins, and just be still and quiet.

I am not sure I was meant for an entire group of people to follow, obligingly and sometimes blindly.  For God's sake sometimes I don't even know what I want to wear, eat, drink or think for that matter.  Yet, I am given the task of doing this for others.  How can they have this much faith and trust in me, especially when, for the most part I fall flat on my face, or fail miserably at a lot of it.

Oh it makes us moms tired and frustrated.  I am sick to death of making decisions, I want to be told what, where, when we are doing something, and follow along like a lemming.  I don't want to be asked, after being clear about wanting to do something, anything, what it is I had in mind.  Humor me, do whatever it takes, just make a decision that doesn't involve me having the final word.

I seriously don't want the rest of my family hovering around me like bees in a colony, I want them to be free, independent decision makers.  I want them to take the initiative without being told, exactly what that initiative is.  Because, my friend, if I have to tell you then I might as well do it myself. 

All of this being said, it's hard to give up one's throne.  Especially when our faith in those under us is constantly called into question.


Wednesday, July 2, 2008

My Babies


I watch my little girl grow, she is changing incredibly everyday.  I am amazed at what a tiny little person, and her ever growing mind can do.  Each day I'm afraid I am becoming increasingly more forgetful, struggling to remember the simplest of things, the placement of keys, a parking space, a common word.  And here this small wonder whisks through life, gathering, storing and using enormous amounts of information, always hungry for more.


What happens to us as we age?  It's scary to think, it wasn't too long ago I felt as hungry for new information as she is now.  Now I feel a low fog creeping in, stealing away that hunger, making me tired and complacent.

I remember gathering new things I' learned, as though they were tiny precious stones.  Putting them deep into my pocket to take out and admire, and brag about later.  Now I watch a small little girl, with wonderment shining in her big blue eyes.  Forming words from what she hears repeated to her.  Taking my hand to show me something that has intrigued her.  She stumbles over the new words that fall from her perfect little mouth.  She savours each of her new words like a delicious treat, running them over her tiny tongue.

It's a beautiful thing to watch your child learn, and grow.  For some reason, maybe it's denial, I forget that it happens everyday.  That each day she'll continue to change right before my eyes.  Still I am stunned when she does something she has never done before.  When she says a new word, or makes huge physical leaps and bounds, I'm left feeling proud, a little sad, and unbelievable happy, all at the same time. 

I am so excited to see what her future holds.  To watch her become more independent, stand on her own two feet, to grow into a girl, and then into a young woman.  But there is always the tiny ache that makes me forget the sleepless nights, the frustration of temper tantrums, and the sheer exhaustion of being the parent of a small child. 

 I've watched two other children grow up and away from me, becoming real, live people.  They no longer need me to wipe their noses, or their bums, thank God, I can never be grateful enough for that. But, they'll no longer crawl up onto my lap, hold my face in their hands, tell me they want to live with me forever, or marry me because they just can't leave.  Instead they've become these wonderful (although exceptionally annoying much of the time) people, who are separating, ever so slowly from the clutches of their mother.

I guess that's the thing with the smallest one.  I float between wanting to get my own independence back, yet wanting to hang onto the remaining moments of my last and youngest child being small.   

Monday, June 30, 2008

Slump


I'm terrified, I'm in the mother of all slumps.  Summer is finally showing itself, the kids are done school, no more lunches, no more tight schedules, no more homework or backpacks.  I always look forward to this time of year.  When I can finally shut down, slow down and unwind from the year's tightening grip.  But this year it feels different.


The big kids are older, they aren't around too much, the little kid, well, she's still little, and me, well, I sit and wait.  I wait for some kind of epiphany, some kind sign that will point me in the direction I need to go, but nothing.  I think I've spent the better part of the last 13 years running on auto pilot, just doing what needs to be done.  I've run around like a crazy person year after year, without any kind of a break, and now I am staring face to face at one (well kind of), and I don't know what the hell to do with it.  The longer I sit and wait the more difficult it becomes to dig myself back out of this pit.

My creativity is in the toilet at the moment and I'm not sure how to get it back.  I still do the day to day stuff of most mothers do, tidy, complain, clean, complain, cook, complain and finally do it all over again.  It just seems like it's missing something, chaos maybe, I don't know.  It seems the more I used to have on the go and on my plate the easier it was to get through the days.  My heart raced, I had more purpose than emptying the dishwasher or changing the beds.  

Now the days somehow don't feel long enough, but at the same time feel sort of endless.  How the hell can that be, I ask myself?  But there it is.  I want to sit quietly and read, I want to be in a room full of exciting people, I want to draw, I want to sing, to dance, to feel more alive, and for some reason I want it all at once.  I know that 's impossible, I know it's slightly irrational (well more than slightly), but it doesn't make me want any of it any less.

I want purpose, and I already know that people will be thinking, "well you already have purpose, and a very important fulfilling purpose, in being a mother".  Well that's all well and good, but sometimes, hearing that, or thinking that yourself, just doesn't cut it.  I am a mother, and there are many pieces of it that I enjoy and dare I say love, but then there are other parts, parts that leave you feeling a little disillusioned, for lack of a better description.  One can only do and redo certain things so many times without feeling like they've somehow lost it.

Somedays, it's all one can do just to get up, put one foot in front of the other, go through the motions of the day, go to bed that night with the knowledge that tomorrow you'll get up and do all of it again, and probably in the same order.

So slumped I am.  I'm sure I'll get out of it one day, hopefully anyway.  Until then I'm glad I can say it, feel it and do what I can to fight it, or maybe I'll learn to embrace it.  God that's a scary thought.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The New Life of a Former Sexpot


Sounds riveting doesn't it? Well not so much.

There once was a girl who was fun, exciting, and sexy. She liked to stay up late at night (well she used to be able to anyway), she loved adventure, traveling, eating exotic foods, doing things at the spur of the moment. She loved having wild, crazy passionate sex, and felt sexy doing so.


Well, what ever happened to that girl? She grew up, got married, had a few kids and lost her power. No it wasn't the super hero kind of power, but it was the kind of power that made her feel alive, and vibrant. And no it's not all about sex and the loss of what it used to be and mean to her. It's the loss of feeling desired, of feeling sexy and youthful. More frightening than that it's the realization that she is slowly becoming less visible to the rest of the world.


She sits back and watches. As women age, something happens, people start to perceive them differently. It seems like we lose something vital not only when we age, but when we become mothers. The perception of ourselves is forever altered, and it changes how others see us. And this doesn't seem to affect men/fathers in the same way.


Instead as men grow older they become more interesting, more attractive and therefore more appealing. Men gain, and women lose. I don't know how this occurs, but I've watched it happen time and again.


There is an interesting dynamic that takes place. When women are younger, they have all of the power, whereas, younger men do not. Very young women have this vibrancy about them, a kind of super charged sexuality that young men are drawn into and ultimately controlled (to some degree) by. And as women get older, have children, this power often shifts to their male mate.


Often after becoming a mother, we see a very large change in our sexual drives. Our energy is obviously focused elsewhere, like trying to maintain sanity, take care of everyone else around us and if there is any time left, we try to get some much needed sleep. The way we see, or imagine our bodies changes significantly, and that sexpot we used to be has faded into oblivion.


I personally miss feeling like a hot, sexy, desired woman. I am also thoroughly sick of feeling haggard, exhausted and unattractive, like I am just going through the motions much of the time when it comes to sex. I want more than a "quick after all the kids go to bed" romp in the sack, because we're just too damn tired to do anything else.


I want the passion back! I want to stomp my feet and demand that old feeling back! I want to have my husband walk trough the door and want nothing more than to rip my clothes off. I want to go to a movie and not be able to keep our hands off of each other. I want to be a super charged sexpot again, but how?


It's hard to come to terms with a new life, a new you, and let me tell you this isn't all that new. It's been a number of years, but only now is it really starting to hit home. It's the fact that age, and motherhood has changed me, the sexpot, for good. Too bad really, because I used to be way more fun.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Run Patty, Run

So my friends, here's the skinny. I have to come clean. I have to share with you in the honest hope that my personal trials, frustration, and anguish can help you understand yourself, and thus, my dear, dear compatriots, save yourself! 


This weekend,  I lay in bed, with tears of laughter leaking down my face, as my four-year old stood at the foot of the bed, half-naked, with her curly head stuck through the arm hole of her t-shirt, I had a shocking and terrifying realization--I'm not myself. Something in me has changed. That core, fundamental thing that made me, me, it's, well, not gone, exactly. More just, bent. 

But what? What had caused this shift in my consciousness? When did it start? Could it be reversed? Would I reverse it, if I could? This, clearly, was going to take some brain power. The kind of brain power that can only be fueled by coffee. So up I got, put on a housecoat that looks only moderately less ragged than Osama Bin Laden's beard, untangled the t-shirt on a now furious, hysterical pre-schooler, and afixed my thinking cap. This was a question that was burning to be answered. I would get to the bottom of this issue. I mean, I was at stake!

After several cups of brain-builder (which, roughly, translates to 6 cups of coffee) I had a revelation, a breakthrough, an epiphany (and, honestly, some intense caffeine shakes)--I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Yes! Stockholm Syndrome!! The amazing disorder in which normal, healthy, intelligent, and moderately attractive people, when taken captive, begin to identify with, and grow sympathetic to, their captors. I'm the Patty Hearst of parenthood!

I see the pattern now: we are quietly, happily, and freely going about our lives, planning to do things, and actually having the time to get them done. Eating in restaurants, going to the theatre, peeing in complete privacy, and, well, simply put, enjoying our lives. Then suddenly, there they are! These small, sleepless, loud, aggravating people. They burst in to our lives and homes surrounded by mess, and they make themselves at home. It's all so clear now. 

We instantly become captive to these demanding, squalling, insistent little fungi. They may as well be holding a gun to our heads. We're trapped in the house, held hostage by these tiny tyrants. So what do we do? What can we do? We fall prey to Stockholm Syndrome. We start to relate to them, to empathize with them, to understand them, and I dare say, to love them. They recreate us in their image, and we're lost! We used to wake when our bodies told us too (when we'd had enough sleep--remember?!! Remember having enough sleep?! Sweet Jesus, what a dreamy notion), now, we wake to their military-like precision--6:30 a.m. on the dot! We used to watch intense, dark, and sometimes sexy foreign films, now, the only exposure we get to world culture is through Dora the Explorer (Hola!), and that girl is about as sexy as potato (though the monkey's not bad). We used to feel a sense of control over our future, now, we can't even get control of our hair!

So when, after 20 years of parenting, as I'm lying in bed, watching my youngest, naked from the nipples down, struggle with a piece of clothing, in a scene so comic as to be sitcom worthy, the blindfold is pulled from my eyes and I can see what's happened--I really have been kidnapped, and I've learned to live with it. I've learned to think and feel and relate to my knee-high captors. In fact, some days, (once, a couple of weeks ago, and maybe tomorrow) I've learned to love it. 

Who knew that these grilled-cheese-eating-dirt-behind-the-ears-nose-picking terrorists were such masters of psychology! 

I've been inculcated, my friends, but you don't have to be (well, actually, at this point, there's probably nothing you can do. If you're reading this and understanding even a third of what I'm saying, you're in too deep). You could try to fight the Stockholm Syndrome. You could be difficult, and fight the take-over. You could hold out for the cavalry to come and liberate you. But really, resistance is futile. Once you've invited them in, it's all over. Just roll with it baby. I mean, yeah, we've lost ourselves, our personalities, and, mostly, our will to live (with out Thai food), but maybe, just maybe, if I could get one of those cute hats and jumpsuits like Patty, it wouldn't be so bad! 

These Kids


This will probably make me sound a little ancient, but what the hell.


Lately I've been looking around at kids, wondering what the heck is going on. I see such a lack of respect, a lack of drive and disregard for themselves, community, family and everything else in general. Last night my husband and I sat up talking about this well past midnight. He's always the one that is more reasonable, the one that definitely sees all sides to an issue, so it was best for me to discuss this with someone who isn't as opinionated about things as I usually am.



What sort of sparked this was talking with friends of ours and hearing about a law that was recently passed, either in Canada or in Alberta, making it illegal to spank your own child. Sorry I am this ill informed, I rarely listen to radio or watch the news, terrible I know, but it's often just too disturbing and depressing. Not that I am an advocate of spanking or not spanking, really I just feel that should be left to the parent's discretion, and definitely shouldn't be up for public debate. Protecting children from certain harm is one thing, but when it over steps the boundaries into everyday people's lives I think it's too much.



Well this got us to talking last night about how we feel things are going in our own home and community. I'm seeing a huge upsurge of kids around our community, hanging around in large groups, getting into all kinds of trouble, wrecking personal property, drinking openly in public, and doing this without much regard for consequences. We live in a beautiful community, one where you would come into and think, not a lot of shit would go on here. Well it does, and no I don't live in a glass bubble, I do realize that bad things happen in all sorts of places, but it is still a bit surprising. Believe me I grew up in the hood, and stuff like this would have been surprising even there.



On Saturday afternoon we stood outside, on our front lawn as two young guys, probably no older than 17, wandered down a path, not far from our yard. They each had a beer in their hand and were hooting a hollering, waving at us, acting like jackasses (talk about sounding like I'm a hundred). Well as they were carrying on, an older couple walked past and the older man's demeanor was surprising, he seemed a little afraid. This kind of took me aback, as I remember how I felt as a teen and how I would never have been that blatant and disrespectful without being scared shitless of the consequences. These guys seemed like they could care less what anyone thought. In fact, they seemed to challenge the notion that anyone had a right to expect anything more from them.



I'm disturbed, I'm worried. Where does this leave our children in a few years? This generation just seems so disconnected, so unconcerned and unmotivated. I struggle with trying to understand where they are coming from, the ways in which they communicate with one another. They seem to spend more time talking with each other electronically rather than verbally, person to person, and through this something gets lost along the way. The human element of communicating changes, the climate of relationships has shifted and we are starting to see the runoff in other areas.



We are the generation of parents who have learned to give our children a voice, to let them have an opinion about what happens in their lives, their family's lives, and this has somehow backfired on us. We've tried to include our children in decision making. Giving them the feeling that their opinions are very valuable, they are, but to what end? We are now left with kids that feel they are entitled in every way. Entitled, because we've spent endless amounts of time instilling in them that they are unique, and important in every way. I am as guilty of this as anyone. And this, sadly was probably more magnified when I was a single parent.



I've wanted to give my kids a voice in their lives, because I never had one. I've wanted to give them opportunities that I didn't have, things that I didn't have, and now I'm left with kids that want, and expect, without regard. They really are good and respectful kids, but they have this underlying expectation that things they want or need should be provided, without question. And I have done this. Now I sit and try to figure out how do undo at least some of it.



Have we gone too far, and can we ever get back? I ask myself if past generations of parents, and grandparents felt like this. Did they fear that we to were going to be the lost generation, unable to cope or do things for ourselves? I don't think it could ever have been as bad as I've seen it get in recent past. Now we seem to be in some kind of a crisis, with kids video taping beatings of each other. Where will this go, how much further into chaos can we travel.



I'm curious about what other people are feeling, thinking and experiencing in respect to this issue. I hope we as a society can get a handle on these things, start to makes some serious changes and expect more of our children, communities and ourselves.

Friday, June 20, 2008

I just want to change your freakin' diaper!!


Jesus Murphy, you'd think after literally 10,000 diaper changes over the course of 20 months, the kid would bloody well put two and two together. You come when you're called, lay down, lay still and just get the damn diaper change over with. But noooo. The little shit, full of shit, likes to take off running as soon as she gets a whiff that I am aiming to change her stinky ass. Who wants to sit in that stench anyway? Gross.

Then when I get her down on the floor, it's like trying to hold Linda Blair in place. Head thrashing, teeth bared, Jesus, her head practically spins completely around. For once I would like to get through a diaper change without sweating like a big fat man, wrestling a hog. It's like a WWE match, and I'm usually the big loser.

I guess it beats cleaning shit up off the floor, hey, there's always an up side. What would be even better, is if she'd just get potty trained already, yeah right!!

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Belly Fat


I know, we're all sick of hearing about each other's fat bums, saggy boobs, and all that shit, but let me back up here and explain. First of all let me scream, I am sick to death of having belly fat. I may have always had chunky thighs and ham arms, but I could always pride myself on having a nice flat tummy, yes, even after having a couple of kids.


Well my pride is now awash. After having a third child, and doing this after 35, I find my body is in revolt (and revolting for that matter). I don't know what the hell is going on, and it seems it is not only me...there are others out there suffering this same peculiar affliction. I've spoken to them, I've met them, I've even had the opportunity to see their belly dough from time to time. I might not watch everything I put into my face, but I work pretty hard physically, and it should count for something I would think. But no. No matter how hard I work, how much I sweat, this stuff stays put.


Now, why suddenly do you ask, am I shocked by this? Well it has kind of crept up on me, found a nice waist to cling to and has made itself at home. And I hate it, I want it gone. Short of having it sucked out, I am baffled at what to do. And yes I've heard you can dramatically alter what you carry around your middle by eating clean. Well let me tell you my friends, I am a dirty girl from way back, and there is no way I am cleaning up everything I eat, or drink. I've got to have a little joy in my life, and sometimes that just means a good bottle of wine and a pizza . So I guess it might just be here to stay.


Not only does this belly fat alter how you look, it can really change the way you feel. Now more than ever I feel a bit dumpy, a bit bumpy and frankly a little old momish. Well, I am aware that I am and old mom, but fuck, do I have to see it in every mirror or window I pass by?


Today I felt this more than ever. I took my daughter to have to top of her ear pierced and we had to go to a piercing, tattoo place to have it done. Well, we walk in and I kind of get a look from the young girl behind the counter, that says, "yeah, what do you want?". Then it hit me, I look like a middle aged mom, who's lost and wandering in for directions. I wanted to roll up my pant leg and say, "look I do belong here, I've had my fair share of visits to a tattoo parlor, probably had my first one when you were still in pre-fucking-school!!". But I couldn't of course, since I was standing there with my child. So, I explained why we were there, and we got on with our business.


This exchange just makes me realize how much I have changed, how much my body has changed, and in the end how it's made people see me. I don't wish to be twenty again, with a rock hard body (okay I am lying here, I do, I do), but I do wish I could feel that kind of confidence that came with strutting around when I was that age. Now I have to be conscious of sucking in my belly fat, being called ma'am and looking like a mom nearing forty. It sucks man.


I used to think I was pretty cool. Like I rode the back of the bus, flew by the seat of my pants. Now, not so much I guess. Instead, I sit closer to the front of the bus just in case I miss my stop and the seat of my pants, well, they're much larger than they used to be, and I've realized I'm a little afraid of flying. What can you do??

Despair


Today I just want to give up. I want to slink home to my bedroom, turn off the lights and close the drapes and crawl under the covers. Maybe I will never come out again. I can't do this. I can't be a great mom and a brilliant employee and a loving, sexy partner all at once. I can't seem to get even one of them right, because when I try the other plates all drop. I am like the lame, creepy juggler at the carnival that everyone is embarrassed to watch because they know he is going to drop everything. I am tired and heart-wrenchingly sad and so desperate to just quit.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

My Beautifuls

I'm worn to a frazzle. Perhaps it's my own fault (well, no perhaps about it. Blame can be placed squarely in my corner, for first, having 5 kids--the last two when I was over 34, and second, for working full time--out of the home).


No matter how much I want to look polished and glamorous, walking briskly in to work in my red patent leather heels, swinging my perfectly worn brief case, I end up looking like a haggard, harried shell of a woman with a fragile hold on reality. 

But I do have beauty in my life. And some days, for that, at least, I'm grateful. 

My beautifuls.



My babies.






















Of course, I'm not home from work yet. They're always more gorgeous from afar!

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Exhaustion


Exhaustion comes in all shapes and sizes. My source of exhaustion, I mean bone tired, can't move another muscle exhaustion, just happens to come disguised as a sweet little girl, all twenty five pounds of her. Oh my God, I don't know how I could ever have had two small children under two years old, and actually have managed.

Maybe my memory isn't that great, but truly, honestly, cross-my-heart, I never, ever, remember feeling this exhausted. By the time my first child was 20 months old, my second was five months old...I know, insanity. But for some reason, it worked, rather smoothly, and with relative order, most of the time. Now I have only one small person to contend with and I can't even seem to spend 10 consecutive minutes sitting for a meal.


It has to be something to do with age, and being too tired to really give a crap most of the time. Not like when I was in my twenties, and keeping things in control seemed to be so much more important, plus I guess I had the energy. I could hold out longer, put up with a hell of a lot more than I can now. Surprisingly, I think my patience may have been better (and really I'm not the most patient person in the world). I wanted to win then, be a really good mom, who did most things on some kind of a schedule. Now, I'm too tired to even think about planning a schedule, let alone carrying one out.


A number of my friends have had children after 35 and they all seem to concur, that the child or children they have after 35 seem to be a little more difficult to deal with. I guess if it's one's first child they don't really have anything to measure it by. It's not that I remember everything as being perfect, running smoothly all of the time. On the contrary, I was close to berserk those first three years or so, but man did I rule with an iron will, and fist.


Now my iron fist, has gotten a little fluffy and my will is waning. Mostly I'm too tired to argue too long, and frankly I can't stand the noise of it anymore. So, more often than not, I cave, I just give up. I feed my crazy child, spoonfuls of food as she zings by my chair. I don't often ensure that she has all of the food groups each day, I do my best but, mostly I am just freakin' happy that she has something in her tummy by bedtime.


Oh, my poor old body is getting tired. My arms feel like lead, my eyes are heavy by 8pm and the thought of picking up one more little disaster she has left behind makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry.



I don't know what I was thinking. Did I really believe that running around after another small child so many years after the first would be easy? I actually, do believe I was delusional enough to think, "come on, I've done it before, how much harder could it be now?" Well it is harder, much, much harder. Now my recovery isn't as quick, a couple of sleepless nights or in my case sleepless years really does a number on you.



Everyday I look in the mirror hoping things are going to start to look up, they don't. Instead I know another day is just around the corner, and by this time again tomorrow, I'll still be as exhausted as I am today.



Monday, June 16, 2008

Being a Mom


You know, I never wanted to be known only as a mom. I promised myself when I had children that I would still be me, stay true to who I thought I was, and not turn into one of those pinched faced women who gossip over back fences. No, not me. I was going to stay cool, stay hip, stay young and with it...well as long as my hips stayed young that is. I never wanted the first thing that sprung to mind when people asked about me, was my children, but my children are always the first thing that comes into my head when someone asks about me.


It's funny really. I honestly fought the notion that being a mom would define me, but it has. It permeates my life, my artwork, my friendships, it is who I am, who I've become. Of course I still fight it sometimes, struggle against giving in to it, yet at the same time I can be nothing else if I am not a mom. Being a mother has made me who I am, which is not always good, and never ever perfect. It has left me feeling more human than I think anything else could.

I was a student once, a thinking, struggling student, who was hungry to learn. And at this same time I was still a mother. I remember the feeling I got when I was in University, and the students whom I was surrounded by were at least 10 yrs younger. I felt nearly invisible most of the time, unimportant, like my motherhood gave them license to feel my thoughts were no longer as valuable. I think that is when I probably clung most desperately to being a mother, when I realized what being a mother meant to my life.

I still don't want to be the kind of mom who has stopped her own life in lieu of her children's. I still want to feel like a woman, but I guess that it can no longer mean feeling like a woman without children. This can be terrifying some days. It's been so long I can't remember what I felt like when it was just me. When all I had to think about was what I needed or wanted. There are days when I long to really, truly remember those moments, and to have them again. But of course this would mean I was not a mother, and I can't picture that. For, I am a mother.

Being a mother, is nothing like I could ever have imagined. It is much harder, more joyous, way scarier than I could ever have been prepared for. Soon I will have spent more than half my life being a mother, more of my memories will be of my children, than of my youth.

Those early memories will fade, new ones will come, and in the end what I think about most is what it means for me, to be a mom. My youthful thoughts have been replaced. Now I think about how age, and experience has changed my vision of motherhood. How motherhood envelopes one's life, whether you want it to, or expect it to. I think about what little thought I had given to being a mother before I became one, and now being a mom I finally realize how it changes your life forever. For me, it has become who I am, rather than what I am.



Friday, June 13, 2008

Happy Father's Day, Mom

So I don't have a father. I mean, strictly speaking, I have a father. But honestly, sperm donor is a much more adequate description, though cliched. He physically left when I was about 3 years old, but from what I can tell, he'd really left a long time before then. 


I saw him once, again, when I was 18. And I called him to tell him I was pregnant, with my third child. After that, nothing. He has said, in no uncertain terms, that he doesn't give a rat's ass if I'm alive or dead, something along the lines of, "You're not my child." 

So I don't have a father. Instead, I have a mother. She was it. She was my all in all. And, while she may have wobbled in some of the elements, she stuck the landing. 

So this post is to say Happy Father's Day to all the moms doing it alone. Happy Father's Day to all the single moms struggling to raise their kids, make ends meet, and have a life. Happy Father's Day to those amazing women who find a way to be both parents to their kids. 

But most of all, Happy Father's Day to my mom. You done good girl.