Help-no really...Help!

My ten year old daughter has just told me that she has an "unapproved" Facebook account (you have to be 13 according to Facebook to join-see how well that is working?). She, like her friends, is ten going on 13 and pushing into the envelope of what she can see and do. And I am proud of her. She was a careful and fearful child-we nicknamed her "safety girl" at age 3. I like that she is breaking rules and seeking information and stretching her reach. And she is very good at telling me what she is doing-I don't get all the details but she knows what is OK and not OK with me and that the rules should not be broken when it comes to safety.

But now she has reached into my world. And here is the dilemma: I feel that as a good parent I should be aware and involved and have access to what she is doing online, at least for the next few years as she flexes her online savvy and self. She and her friends have google mail and message and have glogs, and it is pretty cool to be able to email or text her when she is at her dad'.

Facebook, however, is my world. Clearly, it is public to a point, and though, certainly there are Facebook rules that apply even when my social filter doesn't, I am conscious of who I choose to allow as a friend-no clients or people that I would not like to have access to my personal life, no mom and dad (although I do have my aunt as a friend).

So what do I do? Do I insist that she and I be friends on Facebook (she has already said she would like that so it wouldn't actually be insisting), or do I let her just exist and ask to see her pages once in a while (or creep through her friends list like I did last night)? There is really nothing on my page that is ridiculously incriminating (except for the tagged photos of me from my 20th High School Reunion that I would like to disappear) and I do have teens as friends....

Or is this such a big deal after all?

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Father's Day Shmother's Day

Okay, okay, okay, I know I already sound like a bitch, but I guess we have to be open to equality here when it comes to acknowledging, made-up, useless, forced holidays like Father's Day and Mother's Day. It's just another opportunity to make us face our parenting ups and downs, measured of course by the kinds of cards and gifts we receive, if in fact we receive any at all.

Well, I'm glad to say that we have a fantastic dad in our house, I mean a fabulous, committed father. Made only more wonderful by the fact that he is a step dad to my children, but treats them as though they are his own. He doesn't differentiate, he makes good on any promise he makes to any of them, his biological children or non-biological children. He's a good man.

My children are lucky enough to have two father's in their lives. Their dad is also a big part of their lives, the fun parts only of course. He doesn't have to worry about whether one of them needs to get to the doctor, the dentist, the orthodontist, a guitar lesson or anything else that requires him not having fun. Instead he usually holds off and sees them when it's a weekend preferably a long weekend, and he will pick them up at a lesson, if I get them there, barring there is no rush hour traffic for him to fight. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's a gem!

So now I get to the real point. What constitutes a father? Is it simple biology, or is it measured by the same sort of investment mother's make to their children? It just really pisses me off that the man who stood their while I pushed his gigantic headed children out of my body, now barely knows them. And honestly doesn't even seem to give a shit that he is losing them, that they are slowing sliding out of his grip. They'll soon stand before him virtual strangers, and it will be too late.

He stopped over today and gave me this long winded description of how disappointed he is in our son. Apparently he has a bad attitude. God, that's hard to say, our son. Sometimes it feels as though the kids have only always been mine, where he's concerned, and now suddenly, he's fucking disappointed. Give me a break.

What does he expect, that he has been able to slip in and out of the kids lives like a dream and now he should be the centre of their universe? I highly doubt that will be the outcome.

We as mother's spend our days, our lives as parents, being parents. Yes, there are also plenty of father's out there who give and do as much as any mother, my husband honestly being one who is very, very committed. I guess I am just furious that their biological dad is given the title, and gets to share in much of the great stuff when he falls short in so many other areas.

Now my son, our son, gets to spend part of Father's Day with his dad. It's great, I'm glad they get to do this. But now this young boy is being put in a position that I was put in with my mother as a child so many times. He'll be expected to hand over a card, say the right things, and feel the right things, because this holiday says so. Does he feel them? I don't really know, I do know he loves his dad, but is growing increasingly further from him everyday. I just think it is unfair that we are made to feel things about these made-up holidays, that more often than not point out that we are just not cutting the mustard as parents, or kids.

Anyway, in light of my own bitterness...I do hope everyone is with someone they love this weekend, father or not.

It is so fucking unfair

There are so many tragedies of divorce. It was the single most difficult thing I have had to do in my life to decide to end our nuclear family, knowing that I would not see my children all of the time. I spend those days without them aching for them, missing them so deeply and completely that I feel physical pain. But here is the true tragedy; regardless of how much I missed them, how much they missed me, as soon as we are together we step right back into the function and dysfunction of a 'regular' family. It can be literally within minutes of seeing them again that we have fallen into the patterns of sibling fights and parental frustration, of not listening and consequences, of "but its not my mess' and 'because I said so'. And I am so sad and so angry. Shouldn't we all be on our best behaviour? Shouldn't we recognize how precious and tenuous our time is? And I feel that it is all of us. I know that I can set the expectation and the mood and influence much of the interaction, but I can't do it all. And mostly I fuck it up. They are girls and they at the age where they are needing to challenge and they are aware and yet unaware of the role they play in the family. I am so desperately sad that this is what our time has become and I can't help believing it would be different somehow if we were in a nuclear family.

Blowing the Lid Off This Thing!

I'm a mother, so naturally I believe in conspiracy theories. I mean, come on....there's no possible way there was a single shooter in that library annex. And, find me someone in the western world who didn't think that those first American moon landing photos looked like they were taken on a Hollywood back lot? I dare you to try to convince me that Kentucky Fried Chicken doesn't add some kind of ingredient that makes it irresistible? And really, the world is round? I wanna know who perpetuated that doozy? 

But easily, the most shocking, yet under reported and least discussed conspiracy of them all is, "The Motherhood Mood." Some one, some where (I don't want to point fingers or name names, but my investigations have led me to believe that this destructive dialog was started by someone with a penis) created a myth that really pisses me off: mothers are all deliriously happy to, first, be pregnant, then to give birth, and finally, to have our lives, our thoughts, our hopes, dreams, needs, and desires eternally altered. In short, we aren't allowed to say we're angry, disappointed, lonely, frustrated, sad, or just plain pissed. We've been robbed of our right to the honest expression of our feelings. We've been made into the Stepford Moms. 

So I'm going to shatter the conspiracy, at great personal risk (in fact, as I sit here typing, I expect the CIA or CSIS to break down the door, unplug my keyboard, and slap my hand.)

This myth is so deeply entrenched in our psyches that our greatest oppressors are ourselves, and each other. Woman against woman (and not in the porn mud wrestling pit way, either. This is worse). We find little ways to diminish each other--we judge each other by our children's progress. Come on, you've been there. When one of your sisters, or friends, or even your mother says, "Frankie's not potty trained?! Oh. Too bad! I'm so lucky! Jocelyn was completely trained  by the time she was 19 months. Oh yeah...even night-trained. She was so easy! Are you giving him stickers? Oh, well, I'm sure he'll do it someday." 

Or, we judge each other's decision to stay home or work. This can be cruel and particularly vicious. Some how, if I decide to work, I must be making the statement that my needs are more important than my kids, and that being at home isn't good enough for me, and that I think I'm more enlightened than a stay-at-home mom, thus it threatens women who decide to stay at home. Alternately, if you decide to stay at home, you must be making some comment on my commitment to my children, and how much of a better mother you are for sacrificing everything you need for your kids (and you never complain because that would undermine your position). It also must suggest that my working somehow threatens you and makes you less valuable to society. 

Or, what about, when we get together and we rake our eyes over each other to assess hairstyles, fashion, manicures, and tan lines--and that's just after we've checked out each others kids. My critical eye hasn't fallen on the mom yet! What kind of stroller do you push? What's your opinion on cloth or disposable? Do you have them in soccer, guitar, gymnastics, painting? And are you coaching or teaching any of these activities?

What's happened to us? Why do we do this to ourselves and each other? Who robbed us of our voices and why aren't we fighting to get them back? Every one else, every one else, on the planet whines, snivels, and cries about their jobs and their responsibilities--from my kindergartener to the President of the United States. But not us moms. Any expression that things aren't just 100% super-peachy-keen-super-awesome-fantastic and we're letting the world down. It's a conspiracy I tell you!

When I express my dissatisfaction with being a mother, a working mother, a working mother and wife, people are shocked and horrified. I once told my mother-in-law that while I loved my family deeply, they just weren't enough. They simply didn't complete me. She just sat there in horror looking at me as if I'd just grown a third boob. 

I want to say, without fear of reprisal (from other moms or some secret CIA agency): 

• Why don't men hear a sick child during the night? 
  
• Why does the responsibility for dentist appointments fall to me? 
  
• If I have to tell him that he needs to pick up diapers on the way home from work, I might as well just do it myself! 
  
• I'm angry that my husband can walk away from the house and our family, and not worry that things will get done and people will be taken care of. 
  
• I want to weep and pummel my husband (not necessarily in that order) when, at 3:00 AM I have to (again) tell him that no, he can't actually put the pillow cases and sheets full of  vomit straight in the washing machine, while I'm sitting with a 4 year old who's puking in a bucket (and all over me). 
• Why does gender define the household chores? It makes me crazy that vagina=cooking and cleaning toilets and penis=snow shoveling and washing the car. 
• I'm lonely and tired, and I hate that I have nothing of my own!! Nothing! 
• I can't bear being responsible for everything! The weight is too much. Sometimes I feel so heavy from everyone's expectations that I can barely move my limbs.
• I just wanna take a pee all by myself--no company, no interruptions, no fingers under the door, and no frantic knocking shouting about how bad they gotta go. Just me, my bladder, and a People magazine!

So every mom, every where, throw off the shackles of this conspiracy! It doesn't make you a BAD MOMMY to say, "Today, I was a bad mommy, and, yah know, it wasn't too bad!" Or, "Oh, just screw it! If I have to go to one more f#*&ing PTA meeting I'm going to hurt somebody." Or, "You work out, I work in, what the hell, we both work--let's get drunk!" Or better yet, "Honey, if you have kids and can manage to brush your teeth in the morning and get the little beggars to school less that 15 minutes late, you are the Martha Stewart of parenthood! Good on ya! Now go congratulate yourself with a scotch!"  

Wipe that frozen, icy Jesus-I-love-every-single-little-thing-about-my-life smile (that doesn't reach any where near your wild trapped-in-this-life eyes) off your face and let's overthrow this conspiracy. The Stepford Moms may have great hair, but girls, nice hair won't give you a tenth of the satisfaction you'll get when you tell your husband that you hate cleaning the goddamn toilets, so for the rest of your parenthood together, every Saturday he can clean those greasy receptacles and make sure the kids get lunch, 'cause you'll be at the car wash for two hours (because, that's just how long  it takes!). 

Girls to Women

Lately I've been doing a fair bit of reading on mothering. Not the kind of reading that is instructional, I can barely follow a bloody recipe, so I can't imagine the pressure of trying to follow rules on how to be a better mother. Plus I am reasonably lazy and I think, having had three children, all of whom have survived so far, I must be doing something right. They may need years of therapy, but hey, no one's perfect.

The reading I have been doing is mostly on how women view motherhood, relationships with their children, and how women are viewed from the general public, once they become mothers. I have been focusing in on mother/child relationships, probably because I no longer have a relationship with my own mother. I am, to say the least, worried, worried about how my relationship, or lack there of with my own mother, will affect my relationship with my children, my daughters in particular. I know, I know, there is always so much of a focus placed on mother/daughter relationships and mother/son relationships tend to seem as though they are overlooked.

This is definitely not the case. I have spend equal amounts of time dissecting my mothering and my relationship with both my son and daughters...it's just that I find it curious that most women who have daughters have the same fears I do. Will we have a good, decent relationship when they are grown? How will our later relationship play out? With my son, I don't seem to have these concerns, at least not yet. We are close, he seems strong, confident and sure of who he is and where he belongs in the world, although he is just a mere twelve years old.

My eldest daughter is the opposite unfortunately, and for this I am concerned. She seems to be much less self-assured, afraid to be who she wants to be. I am not sure whether this is simply a product of culture, home environment or in born personality. I have always thought we have given the two older kids anyway, a chance to be who they are, regardless of what anyone else thinks. I have as strong a relationship with her as well. I guess my biggest fear is that somehow along the way it is going to become frayed, tarnished somehow. I understand that of course I am a much different parent than my own mother was able to be, but the fear still draws me in.

As women raising daughters we are often made to feel like we have to force some kind of separation, push them to be strong, at the same time we push them away from us. Why is it that we want strong , confident young women to emerge, but the only way we seem to know how to do this is by severing the attachment to mother somehow? I shouldn't generalize I guess. It's just in asking a number of other moms who are raising girls if they have ever felt this way, the answer is often yes. This has caused much confusion for me, where I am not sure how or why I need my daughter to feel this kind of separation. I read this passage recently and it sums things up quite nicely.

Separation and autonomy are not equivalent: a person need not separate from mothers emotionally to be autonomous. Under the dominion of experts, mothers are urged to create a separation and disconnection from daughters that their daughters do not want. Early childhood and adolescence are the two stages of life where separation has been decreed as imperative to the independence and autonomy of children. To mother "right", women disconnect from their daughters and begin to see them as society will. Rather than strengthen girls this breach of trust leaves girls weakened and adrift.

-Elizabeth Debold, Marie Wilson, and Idelisse Malave

I guess what I want most for her, for all of them really, is to be able to know and understand who they are, and why they make the choices they do. I have been a good mother, a good female role model to all of them, I think. Probably what stumps me the most is that I have not been shown how to do it, how to let my children follow my lead, and feel confident about what I offer them. It is enough, will it prepare them for what they will need as they become adults? And in this will our relationships stay strong, or will I continue to try to separate in the name of independence? I hope I do not. Though I do hope more than anything, that they will want for themselves all that I want for them. To know that they are worthy of the kind of happiness that fills their lives up.

I want to be able to balance these lessons as their mother, to stay connected and not feel this pull do force them away from me. Sometimes I wish I could be guided, that there were clear rights and wrongs. That when mistakes are made they don't come back to haunt you years later, which of course they do.

All I hope for is that my girls, and my boy, will know I did the best I could, and that I was always interested in doing better. I wanted to learn more about how to make things different for them than they were for me. And that above all, I've loved them, every agonizing step of the way.

Say What?!

So, wanna hear a regular conversation I continue to have with people? All people. People I know but haven't seen for a while, people who are complete strangers to me, people I'm related to and have known me since before I had pubic hair? 

This isn't a topic I choose to discuss, and honestly, would rather not hear people's deeply held convictions about, but telling the cashier at Safeway or the preschool teacher or my aunt to shut the f@#* up, and mind their own damn business tends to create difficulties in my daily life--like bad service or having the dogs set on me. So I do what other good, polite Canadian girls do. I smile, nod my head, and at the soonest possible moment, I change the subject. 

So, what, you ask, is this mystery topic? Well, for anyone who has more than 2.5 kids, this is going to sound familiar, but for the rest of you, listen up, and listen good: 

"Oh. Are these all you children?! All of them. I mean, your actual children?" Now, as a point of fact they are my biological children--meaning I did squeeze them out of my body, every single one of the little termites, and I have the saggy vagina to show for it--but does it never occur to these vapid dunces that even if I'd adopted every single one of them they'd still be my actual children!

I nod my head as my eyes glaze, "Yes, they're my children. Mmmhmmm, all 5 of them." Then, it comes. The real kicker (and there's always a good chance that the next person who says this to me is going to be the kickee!), "You do know what causes it, don't you?! Tee hee hee!" 

Now, how do I adequately answer this inane question? 

• "Yes. Yes I do know what causes it. Thanks for inquiring."
  
• "Ummm, actually, just between you and me, I've never figured it out. Why? Can you tell me? Why does it happen? Why do I have so many, and is there a way to stop having more?!"
  
• "Yes I do. Would you like me to explain it to you?"
  
• "Well, what happens is this: when sexually aroused, a man's penis engorges with blood causing an erection. When erect, a penis can enter a woman's vagina, preferably lubricated. Then through a series of thrusts and parries, often accompanied by grunting, the man ejaculates semen, a viscose liquid, which carries sperm, into his female partner. At which point....." 
  

I'm tired of this. I'm really tired of it. Whether they were all planned or all accidents, whether they have five different fathers or one father is nobodies business. I don't want to hear the political argument that it's someone's business because they pay school tax or medical premiums which support my kids, or the social argument that the world is overpopulated and I'm being reckless. Really? Really? What can you say to that? Detail the list of things that we all pay taxes for? Point out who'll be the tax payers when these nosy bastard are decrepit? Ask for a detailed account of what they own, what they drive, what they smoke, where they go and how they get there? Honestly, hypocrisy is not only sad, it's rather funny. Poor little meddling pea-brains. 

What is it about becoming a mother that makes you public property? It starts when we're pregnant. As soon as a woman is showing, everyone, Everyone, starts to touch. Poking and prodding and patting, like your a bloody loaf of bread. With the touching, comes a sense of ownership that gives these interlopers the self-proclaimed permission to counsel, advise, and just plain boss.

Now, I can grasp that in this day and age, 5 kids seems outrageous, maybe selfish, or maybe selfless, but unless we give each other the permission to invade each other's personal lives and space about everything--"Oh, are you going to eat both those cheeseburgers? or "Gee, you have tiny little breasts," pat, pat, pat or "Oh my God, you stink of B.O. do you know what deodorant is?" or "You do know you're stupid, don't you? Tee hee hee!"--people should just tuck their lower lips around their tiny little heads, and leave me, my kids, and my uncontrollable libido alone!

Or, they could be honest, and say what they're really thinking, "What are you, crazy?" At least, then, we'd agree on something!

When Motherhood was Pretty

Oh, I remember so well when motherhood was pretty. In fact, pretty is an inadequate adjective to describe the radiant beauty I felt in being a mother. I virtually shone with inner light. When I was with my children, my hair glistened, my smile glowed, and my joyous, heart-felt laugh rang like a chorus of bells. I wrapped myself in my children and we were breathtaking.

Oh, I remember well how beautiful my children were. We walked down the beach, with our jeans rolled up. We skittered up the sand as the waves broke over our feet. They giggled and squealed. My heart nearly burst of love. I would stop, overwhelmed that my heart could hold as much love as this. How could it not burst?

Oh, I remember their first violin lessons. When they held the tiny instruments in their small hands. Running their fingers carefully over the polished wood. The little start of glee I saw start in their eyes and then creep down to their lips the first time they drew the bow across the strings. Even the squeaking and squawking practice couldn't diminish their joy, or mine, in seeing them so happy.

Oh, I remember how perfect and frail my children looked when they were sick. Wrapped tight in a blanket of fleece, and my love. Flushed from fever. Their soft hair brushing warm cheeks. Crying soft, nearly silent tears. All of us. Them from the pain, and me from the pain of watching them suffer. 

Oh, I remember. I remember the transcendent, quiet beauty of being a mother. 

Then, I remember, that this all happened in my tiny little pea-brain years before I ever actually had kids. Then.....I went and had them. 

Then, oh, my hair glistened all right. It glistened from the natural oils your scalp produces when you can't spare 5 minutes in 5 days to take a shower. And that bell like laugh, was in fact, more of a going-to-snap cackle that turned my husband's hair white (it has incredible power, that laugh. I've seen it melt popsicles at the same time it creates bloodsicles of arteries).

And, oh, they were beautiful. They were gorgeous. When they were sleeping. But when they were awake, and strolling down the beach, it was a chorus of whining about damp pants and sniveling about sand between their toes. And the skittering? That was actually galloping away from me as I chased them down the beach threatening to bonk them with a conch shell.

Then, oh, ohhh, ooohhhhh that first violin lesson! When I wondered what on Earth possessed me to place a one-child-torture device in the hands of a three year old! It's like asking a pyromaniac to hold on to your matches for you. Certain disaster is sure to follow! Believe me, it's not pretty to see a harried woman chew her way through a miniature bow. Not attractive. At all. And damn, it's tough to get horse hair out of your teeth.

And, oh, oh my. How frail they were when they were sick. Weak, except for their voices, bellowing in my ear, after they'd just thrown up down the back of my neck as I was bent over the toilet being sick myself. And wrapped in the fleece? Me. Strictly to protect my facial orifices from the next bout of projectile vomit sure to be aimed at my head.

Oh, I remember when motherhood was pretty. Way back, way back, at the back of my imagination. Motherhood was pretty when I was pretty damn green (inexperienced, not naseous). The beauty of motherhood kinda matches my belly--the before and after. Before kids, it was glorious. Flat, smooth and sweet. After kids, it's lumpy, creased and sad. 

Ah, the innocence of youth....mine, not my kids. 

My advice? Stick with the imagination kids. They're cute, clean, cuddly, and sweet. And they will never, ever wipe snot on your best blouse. 

I'm Afraid

I''m afraid I am losing them. They seem to be slipping away, like memories I try desperately to hang onto. There are times when I want nothing more, but for them to be away from me, so I can breathe, have space to feel alive like I once did. But then there are these desperate, terrifying moments that tell me they've moved too far to come back. I'm swimming in a dark cold pond, only my face is above the water, I can only hear murmurs, voices I used to recognize are changing.

My husband tells me it's normal, they are just growing up. Inside, I know this is true, but it doesn't take the sting away. I have so little time. It is usually chopped up into small bundles I try to share with everyone, but I always seem to run out. Their baby sister takes so much from them, and they lover her all the same. It used to be just the three of us, and they had me all to themselves. Do they miss me, us? I know they are happy. This is more about me, my fears at what I'm missing, losing, or what I've already lost.

I watch them getting taller, their bodies changing everyday. They are people now, where they used to be kids. They no longer need everything from me, for which I am deliriously happy. But sometimes I want time to slow, to take in the moments I've rushed through.

I want to tell them how proud I am to be their mother, and how hard it has been to be their mother. How to be a mother, you wish away so much, and after it passes you want a do-over, maybe to get it right the next time. I'm just afraid I guess, afraid of what's to come.

Guilt by Motherhood

I don't know how, or if I will ever come to terms with the difference of parenting between men and women. I am not sure how to adequately describe to my husband how it feels to be the "primary", the one who always must be there for the kids. And if somehow I am not there I spent endless amounts of time arranging, rearranging and organizing so things run smoothly. Then when I am gone I still fret about how he's coping or how the kids are doing. Did I do this, did I do that....God it is painful.

Yes, I have been a single parent, and am lucky enough to share parenting with a very loving committed man. This however, doesn't completely alter the way I feel about the responsibility that is either placed on me by myself or by society in general, in regards to what my job as a mother is.

As I am writing this I am imagining my husband reading, wondering what it is he could do to make me feel less like this. That is the point I guess, I don't even know. All I want is to have the same ability to walk out the door to do what I need to do and not spend hours preparing for my departure, or feeling guilty enough not to go in the first place. I want what is granted to most fathers, comfort in the knowledge that their children are cared for, no matter what. That someone will be there for the doctors appointments, the orthodontist appointments, the early morning trips to school and the late pick-ups. That in the end, they don't really have to put too much thought into how these things happen.

I know, I am bitching even though I am lucky enough to be a stay-at-home mom. This was a choice our family made, that worked for us. I am not ignoring the fact that there are plenty of families out there that don't have the chance to have one parent stay home with their children full time. Unfortunately there are still those families, where both parents work, yet it is still, for the most part left up to mom to ensure much of the children's care is organized (Dr.'s, ortho, lessons and such).

Is it the unwritten rule that women bare the larger load of domestic duties? I am certain there are exceptions to this, and there are those families who are able to equally disperse the responsibility of the everyday. Again here, my husband will cringe. I am not suggesting he is not as willing or does not try do as much as he can, it is just very different.

I am also lucky enough to share child rearing with an ex-spouse. This is a challenge on it's own. Resentment skyrockets with ever increasing speed, as the kids get older and require more juggling. Their father tends to become less and less available (depending on how convenient it is at any given moment), or he lives his life and thoughts of what the kids might need becomes secondary. I don't recall anyone asking me if it will work for me to drive (carting three or more children), to school before 8am, in rush hour traffic, with a vomiting toddler.

I know I am their mother, I don't have a moment to forget that, ever. Should I? Well no of course not, but what I want is for the other parent to feel the same pull I feel when it comes to the kids. What I want is a fair shake. What I want, is not to get phone calls two days after the children's father arrives, telling me he just needed a couple of days to do things before he sees them. I can't friggin' imagine being available to see my children, whom live with my ex-wife, and not do everything in my power to be there when I can.

As moms we are all too often made to believe that it is our duty to make sure every bit of care is overlooked by us. That without our go ahead, our family's world would fall apart. I know sometimes what I am driven most by is guilt. Guilt that the kids will somehow miss out, that they won't get what they need if I am not there for everything. Guilt that I should be able to do it all and more, and do it with a smile on my face to boot.

I am not sure I can live up to it all, that I am enough.

Go Forth and Fail Miserably

I always worry about my kids. What I lie. I sometimes (on a fairly sporadic basis) worry about my kids. Honestly, I'm not a worrier. Okay, here's my secret shame. Don't tell anyone. Promise? When my teenagers go out at night....I don't wait up. I work, or blog, or watch TV, or drink scotch (actually, there's no "or" about the scotch, I pretty much always do that), brush my teeth, and go to bed. I don't lie awake listening for the door, or toss and turn wondering if they're going to miss curfew (not giving them a curfew has actually made policing that little problem rather easy), or sit in a darkened room, in my house coat, tapping my fuzzy slippers. 

Nope. I cuddle up, and go straight to sleep (and let me here, again, extol the virtues of scotch). 

But there are times, even for a lackadaisical parent like me, when I worry sick. Will she pass the driver's test? Will (no, when) will Lauren (or Larry, we're an equal-opportunity family) break my son's heart? Will they get into the university they want to attend? Will they get hired? Will they get fired? Will they fall down drunk on the front step after a party and destroy $6000.00 of orthodontia? 

So, I think I do what most other semi-intelligent, moderately interested parents do....I press the secret button every parent has on the underside of the minivan dash and convert the family vehicle (which I never seem able to rid of the hamster-smell, what is that smell anyway?) into a save-my-kids command centre. 

From this post, I manage, juggle and herd the problem in to a little corner. I then pounce fiercely, capture the beastie, and slay the bastard. Virtually saving my darlings from pain and anguish. Oh, I'm amazing. You should  see me. It's stunning. 

But only recently, my bright and blazing super-mom emblem is starting to slip (and it has nothing to do with one boob being bigger than the other either, thankyouverymuch!) As they get older, and are more and more in the world without me, I'm becoming aware that they're scared. Not scared of people, or taking the bus, or even walking at night. They're scared of something much, much worse. They're scared of failure. 

I watch these smart, savvy, talented, attractive people that my children have become (I mean, just look at the gene pool!) stand on the sidelines. They're careful and cautious. They don't or won't risk anything. They conform, for the most part (wait, here is my other secret shame--well really I have approximately 79 secret shames, but let's just keep on message, shall we--from the time they were born I lived in fear that they'd grow up to be investment bankers or police officers or dentists. In short, I worried they'd grow up to be "The Man." Tattoos, piercings, and purple hair were cool with me, but the more I encouraged, the more they rebelled. It's all nice hair cuts, oxford shirts, and manners! Little buggers really know how to push my buttons! I know, you're thrilled!! Now you know how to raise your kids to be well-groomed, pierce only their ears, and only one time in each lobe, and restrict tattooing to tagging their Five-Star binders with washable markers). 

But why?! Why were these kids, my kids, who had nearly every advantage I could afford--a comfortable life, a good education, and parents who loved and encouraged their dreams, be afraid to fail, and thus, finally, afraid to try? 

Because of me. Because I was the lion-tamer, the trapeze net, the big, fat mat to cushion their falls. I never let them hit hard. I never let them feel the truth of their pain. I never let them experience their mistakes. I never let them fail. 

And in doing so, I've failed them. I've raised people afraid of pain. People who won't risk themselves because they've never learned that, though it's painful, they'll live through their failures. I saved them from themselves and have short-changed them. Now I have to step back and watch them wobble. As young adults facing a new life, they have to learn the lessons I should have allowed them to learn when they were four. It's not fair and I'm ashamed of myself (and they're angry at me for not doing what they've come to expect me to do). 

I thought I was doing my best for them. As a parent, watching your child suffer is possibly one of the hardest things we have to do. My solution was to prevent or soften that suffering, as much for them as for myself.  And I was wrong. We owe it to our children to allow them to experience the reality of their actions and their pain. How else can they become people aware of their potential, aware of what they can overcome, and what they can achieve? 

So, I've retired my super-mom outfit for good. No more saving them. No more slaying the beast. I have to give them the simple human dignity of truth. They can and will handle it. And they'll be stronger people for it. They'll be better people for it. 

I have a new motto now--Try stuff. Fail faster.

I know there are going to be bumps in the road, but frankly, I  think they'd rather live through those bumps than ever have to see my bumpy thighs in my spandex super-mom outfit again! For that, at least, they'll thank me, and, I suspect, so will our neighbors!

Out of Body Experience

We've all been there at one time or another. Walking behind our children, sitting laughing with them, kissing their new, ever growing, gigantic faces goodnight, and we have do a second take at how much they have changed. Holy hell, we ask ourselves, "when did this happen, when did they change, and grow up so fast?" Sometimes it is endless and never seems to move quite fast enough, but there are those rare moments...

I had one of those the other day, shopping of all places. All three of them laughing and playing together. The two big kids taking care of their little sister, chasing her around the store keeping her amused, the best they could.

As we left the store, my older daughter was carrying her baby sister and my son was chasing them, while his baby sister screamed with delight.

I watched them, laughing, playing and enjoying each other. It struck me that I had carried each of these people inside my body, grew them until they were able to join the real world. Wow! Sometimes I still feel like I am 18 and shouldn't have a daughter with boobs, a boy with zits and a toddler running around screaming her fool head off, but alas I do.

I am often tired, I complain a whole lot, but at the end of the day I am so glad I have them to share my life with. To stand outside myself here and there and marvel at what life has become, is truly unbelievable.

Can't write.....too tired.....zzzzzzz

I wanted to write about the frightening disconnection we parents have with our intuition. The teeth-chattering, knee-knocking fear we feel if we don't validate our parenting decisions, thoughts, feelings, bumblings, and triumphs with an expert. It could be our parents, or friends, or siblings, but mostly we don't feel secure unless we validate our choices with the Oprah's and Dr. Phils and Dr. Spocks. 

Sad. 

Millions of years of parenting evolution, so we can trust the talking heads. Maybe it's just me, but mostly, I can't help seeing their bulging eyes and listening to their stern warnings without imagining them surrounded by Wizard of Oz-type green fire. I just know, one day, some one's little dog is going to run out of Oprah's audience, pull back a curtain, and there will be a sad, chubby, lonely little man pulling her strings.

Just creeps me out.

So, yup, I was going to write a doozy of a post. With references, links, erudite dialog, jaw-dropping insights, and spectacular grammar. 

But, too tired. My four year old spent a sick Saturday night draining my will to live. If they were casting for a new zombie flick, possibly entitled, Day of the Sleepless Dead, I'd get the lead roll. There'd be no contest.  

Must go. Fingers tired. Eyes drooping. Drool pooling.......

Where Have I Gone?

I'm disappearing. In fact, I'm nearly invisible now. 

There was a time when I was smart and beautiful and funny and charming and brave. But now, I'm not. Now, I'm someone's mom. Now, I'm a driver, a cleaner, a cook, a moderator, an occasional friend, and an absolute oppressor. 

How strange and sad it is to try to see myself through my children's eyes. To me, I'm still the wild-haired girl who danced all night, flirted mercilessly, drank gin, read, talked passionately about politics, laughed long and loud, loved sex, and chased dreams. They don't see that girl though. They laugh and blush at the idea she ever existed, and beg me not to tell their friends. They're reject her. And when they allow that, possibly, she was, they're ashamed. 

So, where have I gone? How long ago did I leave? 

The Golden Age of Parenting

Oh good grief. Sometimes I just want to flee. Do you ever feel like you just want to slip out a side door and make a break for Mexico? Or maybe, in that dark, creepy corner of your basement, where the kids are too scared to venture, secretly develop the first angst-propelled jet pack? Better yet, harness the power of the teenage-eye-roll as an alternative combustible, fill the tank, and pull a Thelma and Louise?

I thought, ya know, I really thought, I was doing it right. I could justify, argue, and defend my parenting choices 'til large men wept (from boredom mostly). The backbone of my belief: treat people, especially children, with respect and dignity, and they will grow to be respectful, dignified people.

I abhorred and tossed my hair at the notion that a family should be anything other than a democracy. What kind of people, I would ask, would subjugate someone just because they could. That kind of abuse of power was reprehensible. I'm a modern, enlightened mother. I talk to my kids. I share with my kids. Their thoughts and feelings have as much value as mine. I thought. 

Well, some of my children are grown now. Big people. In fact, my oldest is the same age I was when he was born. And guess what? My utopian parenting didn't work. 

My kids aren't bad--though I hate that word. It's so filled with judgment. They are, for the most part, thoughtful, intelligent people. But our relationship isn't what I imagined. All those years of telling them that they had a say. All those years of allowing them to share in the decision making--from where to eat to which house to buy. All those years of discussing chore-sharing, and living expenses (which in our house is a pseudonym for allowance), and giving them a voice when they felt they were being oppressed. All those years, and all those things, backfired. 

What I thought, truly believed, would become mutual appreciation and respect, has turned into reverse discrimination. Now they feel they have the power to subjugate me. They demand and demean, and feel fully within their rights to do so. And when I attempt to put my feeble foot down, I get the heavy sighs, the "yeah, whatever's," and the near seizure-inducing eye rolls.  

I thought giving them a voice would empower them. I just didn't suspect that that voice I fought so hard to allow them would be used against me. 

It's probably too late to reverse my parenting style. I wonder if I could temporarily inhabit the body of a 1950s parent, and see what a swift kick in the ass might do. Probably not much for them, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.

Cry

I remember the intense fear I felt the first time I saw my mother cry. I'm sure it wasn't the first time she had ever shed tears in front of us, it was just that I was old enough to really understand what that meant. The helplessness that ran through me, seeing the one person I thought was afraid of nothing, standing there looking so weak and defeated.

I don't see my mother anymore, it's been almost two years. Aside from one short sliver of time I had to see her. My aunt had just passed away, and my older sister was left to take care of everything else. It was guilt that made me go. I knew I would have to face my mother, looking haggard, tiny and old. It was that moment that made me think of the first time I remember seeing her cry.

This time, seeing her afraid and weakened it made me understand how human we are as moms and women. How must it have made her feel crying before us as small children. We are given the impossible task of trying to be the bravest, the strongest, in our children's eyes. We want nothing more, than for them to feel protected and safe through us. It is bloody terrifying to think that we are asked, expected to, by others and ourselves, to be brave and strong at all cost.

Now, I remember the first time my children saw me cry. The look of sadness and fear in their eyes, still makes my throat thick. I didn't want to make them feel helpless or sad, but they did. It wasn't my intention to let them see my weakness and fear, but they did.

I don't think I ever asked them how it made them feel. Maybe I'm just projecting what I felt as a child onto them, I don't know. I know my mother never asked. It's hard, but I don't think I want to know.

The one thing I do know is that I am sometimes weak, scared and sometimes I even feel defeated. In all of this I am slowly starting to accept that they can see this, they need to see it. My rawness, the reality of who I am. I am flawed, I am human and I make mistakes, it is scary, but it is the truth.