Whoever coined the term "the terrible twos" clearly was not yet the owner of a three year old. I'm here to tell ya that three is kicking my ass. All the way to next Tuesday. It smarts. A lot. My sweet, clever, mild-ish mannered Boy-o has been stolen away and in his place is a vehemently oppositional child (though admittedly still clever and sometimes, if he really wants to be, still sweet).
Everything is a battle of wills. Toothbrushing. Who gets to go up/down the stairs first, or in/out the door first. Whose job it is to empty the potty. Getting in the bath. Getting out of the bath. Getting dressed. Getting undressed. Coming to the table. Staying at the table. Not throwing food at the table. Getting in the carseat. Getting out of the carseat. You get the picture. Aside from being oh-so-super-fun-to-deal-with, after a particularly bad day, a girl can get to worrying that her child is a bit more combatative than, you know, normal. (As in, maybe I am raising an angry-oppositional-teenage-runaway-high-school-drop-out-drug-dealing-serial- killer-who-BLAMES-ME-FOR-EVERYTHING).
So, I did what everyone does when they have major, unsettling, life questions. I turned to Google. And this is what I discovered. My wildly oppositional child is normal. Totally, oppositionally, exhaustingly, maddeningly, completely fucking normal. He's just, like, growing up is all.
The smart peeps who study smalls call this super-fun phase oppositional or negativistic behaviour. It generally reaches its height at 3.5 - 4 years and can (but usually doesn''t) last until age 6 (SWEET JESUS!). Said period is characterized by refusal of even the most reasonable parental requests (this sounds about right). This stems from the differentiation of self from other, and a growing realization that they have a will of their own with which they can refuse the will of others (even very sage others like their normally reasonable parents). This stage is all about assertion of their growing independence. And "it is a normal and crucial aspect of child development." * BUGGER. BUGGER. BUGGER. BUGGERBUGGERBUGGER. (I mean, it's nice that my kids' normal and asserting his independence and growing up and all. But does it REALLY have to be in a manner that makes me want to take up the questionable hobby of noon-hour drinking?)
Okay then. Deep cleansing breath. I also learned that I am doing the things I am supposed to be doing to optimize positive behaviours, like giving lots of warning about impending requests, presenting him with choices (but not too many!), giving him time and space to chill out (without punishing) when he gets overwhelmed or really emotional. Check. Check. And Check. And lest you think I'm a parent with super-powers, I should also let you know that I'm also losing my shit with alarming frequency, because none of the aforementioned loveliness seems to be working. (And then, naturally, feeling like a crap, crap parent. Because my little dude who was previously staunchly defying, grumping, bossing or otherwise terrorizing me, will have eyes welling with tears and be reaching up into my arms for a hug like the sweetest little bub ever.)
I guess the overview of the situation comes down to this - I'm doing most of the right things (and some of the wrong things). Boy-o is also apparently also doing most of the right things (and some of the wrong things). Somehow, we both just need to chill the bleep out. Easier said than done, I know. But nobody ever said this shit was gonna be easy.
So for now, I'll just have to hang on tight to the perfect moments in between the tough spots; when everything fits, when he laughs easily, when his smile lights up the room, his joy is infectious, and cuddles come freely. And try to content myself with the knowledge that apparently defiance is healthy for both of us (even though, like wheatgerm, this is the teensiest bit hard to swallow). That, and I love the little booger, even in all his oppositional-negativistic-glory (and let me tell you folks - it is some glory)... so I guess I'd better keep him.
*Haswell, Hock and Wenar. "Oppositional Bahviour of Preschool Children: Theory and Interventions." Family Relations: Interdisciplinary Journal of Applied family Studies, July 1981.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
This day...
I don't know how it happened. It wasn't slotted to be a good day. What, with Girlio up seven or more times last night, and the fact that Boy-o has been a walking emotional hurricane for days, I was stealing myself for another day of clutching desparately to whatever shreds of patience I could find in the cupboards (being totally without any myself).
And out of nowhere, beyond any logic or reason, I find myself in the midst of the most perfect and delightful morning with my children. It is probably the sort of morning people imagine when they picture the life of a stay-at-home mom...but truthfully, of course, they are a rarer bird than that.
There have been no power struggles, no tantrums, no shrieking. In its place has been only games of "airport," watching Girlio trying to crawl and bum scootch across the house, and Boy-o making me endless variations of dubiously edible concoctions of food in his play kitchen. I have been peppered in smooches and snuggles and flying leaps of gangly-legged preschooler love (okay, a little warning that the flying leaps were coming might have been useful, but beggars can't be choosers here folks).
Boy-o wanted to bake for real and we scraped together the most delightful version of "kitchen sink" muffins with carrots and apples and lightly toasted remnants of trailmix and oats - during which he laughed and followed instructions (mostly). We watched them bake in the oven and they turned out beautifully - healthy enough to be relatively guilt-free, but not enough to be, you know, inedible. And just because even though this goes against all the rules - we ate them for lunch (and Boy-o had two).
Then Girlio fell asleep so sweetly, with her mouth curved into a smile around my nipple, still dedicatedly trying to eating in her sleep, but hindered both by sleeping and grinning. And then Boy-o contentedly had 40 minutes of quiet time listening to Jamie Lee Curtis stories on cd.
There are so many things that need to be done. Groceries to buy, cleaning to finish, dinner to make. But I am not a foolish woman. Mornings like these don't come around every day; they are not to be squandered with "shoulds" and "ought to's". After days of darkness and being pushed to the limits, I will not let this collective good mood go to waste. So now we are off on an adventure to the the museum, and wherever else this gift of a day takes us.
And out of nowhere, beyond any logic or reason, I find myself in the midst of the most perfect and delightful morning with my children. It is probably the sort of morning people imagine when they picture the life of a stay-at-home mom...but truthfully, of course, they are a rarer bird than that.
There have been no power struggles, no tantrums, no shrieking. In its place has been only games of "airport," watching Girlio trying to crawl and bum scootch across the house, and Boy-o making me endless variations of dubiously edible concoctions of food in his play kitchen. I have been peppered in smooches and snuggles and flying leaps of gangly-legged preschooler love (okay, a little warning that the flying leaps were coming might have been useful, but beggars can't be choosers here folks).
Boy-o wanted to bake for real and we scraped together the most delightful version of "kitchen sink" muffins with carrots and apples and lightly toasted remnants of trailmix and oats - during which he laughed and followed instructions (mostly). We watched them bake in the oven and they turned out beautifully - healthy enough to be relatively guilt-free, but not enough to be, you know, inedible. And just because even though this goes against all the rules - we ate them for lunch (and Boy-o had two).
Then Girlio fell asleep so sweetly, with her mouth curved into a smile around my nipple, still dedicatedly trying to eating in her sleep, but hindered both by sleeping and grinning. And then Boy-o contentedly had 40 minutes of quiet time listening to Jamie Lee Curtis stories on cd.
There are so many things that need to be done. Groceries to buy, cleaning to finish, dinner to make. But I am not a foolish woman. Mornings like these don't come around every day; they are not to be squandered with "shoulds" and "ought to's". After days of darkness and being pushed to the limits, I will not let this collective good mood go to waste. So now we are off on an adventure to the the museum, and wherever else this gift of a day takes us.
Friday, March 19, 2010
quiet time
My boy-o is nearly three and a half, and lately, it's been a real struggle to get him to fall asleep at a normal time of the evening (ie. before 9 p.m.!). So, I've been struggling and wrestling and wrestling and struggling with the idea of stopping the midday nap. Because I LOVE the midday nap. It is my only me-time. I guard it selfishly, refusing to use it to tidy or do laundry or dishes or anything else resembling work. It is the only time in the day that is mine and mine alone. L. leaves for work at 7:15 a.m.-ish every morning. She gets home at 5:45 p.m.-ish everyday. It is then time for supper and dishes and bathtime and storytime and cuddle time etc., until about 9 p.m.-ish. Then I talk to L. about her day and vice versa. Then I drop to sleep by about 10 p.m.-ish, and will wake with one kid or the other up an average of 3 or 4 times per night. So you see - I NEED that time. NEED it. Really, really NEED it. Without it I might shrivel up and die. Or get arrested for homicide. You get the picture.
I know that other parents of non-nappers have instituted what's known as the midday "quiet time," where their wee beloveds are deposited in their rooms to quietly occupy theirselves. I have my reservations about the feasibility of this option for my wee beloved, given his disdain for all things involving quiet and self-occupation - but I decide to try it anyways.
The following is a play-by-play of today's "quiet time":
12:30 p.m. - I deposit Oliver in his room with a load of books and small toys and let him know that I am going to put his sister down for a nap and then come back to check on him. I let him know that he needs to be resting and playing quietly.
12:33 p.m. - I've finished feeding Lucy and am rocking her to sleep. "Mama!" "Mama!" "Mama!" Oliver shouts to me from his bedroom. "Mama!" "Are you done yet?!" I try ignoring him and hoping he'll go away. I should know better. The little voice gets less and less little as the minutes drag by.
12:35 p.m. Since Lucy is clearly not going to sleep in the midst of her brother's cacophony, I put her down in the crib (wailing commences) and run to tend to her brother. I let him know that it is not time to chat with Mama, nor will I be coming back to check on him again. "It is time to play quietly, ON YOUR OWN." I tell him sternly.
12:38 p.m. Lucy wails herself to sleep in my arms and I put her down in her crib. Walking past Oliver's room, I hear: "Mama? Is quiet time over yet?" I sit down at the kitchen table with my netbook (which I am currently typing to you all on), and let him know that I'm done talking with him and that I will come and get him when quiet time is over.
12:40 p.m. "Mama!" "Mama!" "MAMA!!!!" "I'm ALL ALONE!" His voice is starting to sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. How can I get it to stop?
12:43 p.m. "Mama?" The voice is little and mournful now. "Mama - Can I come out now?"
12:45 p.m. "Mama? I have to pee!"
12:47 p.m. (post pee break) "All done quiet time?"
12:50 p.m. "Mama!" "Mama!" "I need SNUGGLE PUPPY!"
12:51 p.m. "MAMA! SNUGGLE PUPPY! I NEED MR. SNUGGLE PUPPY!"
12:55 p.m. "Mama. I'm very quiet. Let's stop being quiet now!"
12:59 p.m. The bedroom door starts swinging open and shut, my wee beloved hanging off of the knob. I finally lose what was left of my frayed and tattered patience and use my homicidal voice.
1:05 p.m. Clearly, my homicidal voice does not appropriately convey the depth of my murderousness. The bedroom door starts swinging open and shut once again, my little dude now making silly faces and noises at me. I have to laugh because if I didn't, I would be knee-deep in a puddle of frustrated tears. Laugh so hard I feel like I'm going to throw up.
1:07 p.m. "Mama - I don't like being alone."
1:09 p.m. "Pssst!" "Pssst!" "Mama - I'm making the cat go away." "Psssssssssssttt!" I mentally make plans to buy an absurdly large bottle of wine later.
1:10 p.m. "Mama! Mama! I found a cookbook! I know. I've got a great idea. Let's COOK SOMETHING!"
1: 11 p.m. - "Can I come out now?!"
1:14 p.m. I can't do quiet time anymore. Quiet time is yucky, homicidal, badness. Spring the child, while mentally counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until L. returns home from work. Utter a small prayer to the gods of patience that I do not off the little sucker (aka my wee beloved).
Oh naptime. Why have you forsaken me?
I know that other parents of non-nappers have instituted what's known as the midday "quiet time," where their wee beloveds are deposited in their rooms to quietly occupy theirselves. I have my reservations about the feasibility of this option for my wee beloved, given his disdain for all things involving quiet and self-occupation - but I decide to try it anyways.
The following is a play-by-play of today's "quiet time":
12:30 p.m. - I deposit Oliver in his room with a load of books and small toys and let him know that I am going to put his sister down for a nap and then come back to check on him. I let him know that he needs to be resting and playing quietly.
12:33 p.m. - I've finished feeding Lucy and am rocking her to sleep. "Mama!" "Mama!" "Mama!" Oliver shouts to me from his bedroom. "Mama!" "Are you done yet?!" I try ignoring him and hoping he'll go away. I should know better. The little voice gets less and less little as the minutes drag by.
12:35 p.m. Since Lucy is clearly not going to sleep in the midst of her brother's cacophony, I put her down in the crib (wailing commences) and run to tend to her brother. I let him know that it is not time to chat with Mama, nor will I be coming back to check on him again. "It is time to play quietly, ON YOUR OWN." I tell him sternly.
12:38 p.m. Lucy wails herself to sleep in my arms and I put her down in her crib. Walking past Oliver's room, I hear: "Mama? Is quiet time over yet?" I sit down at the kitchen table with my netbook (which I am currently typing to you all on), and let him know that I'm done talking with him and that I will come and get him when quiet time is over.
12:40 p.m. "Mama!" "Mama!" "MAMA!!!!" "I'm ALL ALONE!" His voice is starting to sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. How can I get it to stop?
12:43 p.m. "Mama?" The voice is little and mournful now. "Mama - Can I come out now?"
12:45 p.m. "Mama? I have to pee!"
12:47 p.m. (post pee break) "All done quiet time?"
12:50 p.m. "Mama!" "Mama!" "I need SNUGGLE PUPPY!"
12:51 p.m. "MAMA! SNUGGLE PUPPY! I NEED MR. SNUGGLE PUPPY!"
12:55 p.m. "Mama. I'm very quiet. Let's stop being quiet now!"
12:59 p.m. The bedroom door starts swinging open and shut, my wee beloved hanging off of the knob. I finally lose what was left of my frayed and tattered patience and use my homicidal voice.
1:05 p.m. Clearly, my homicidal voice does not appropriately convey the depth of my murderousness. The bedroom door starts swinging open and shut once again, my little dude now making silly faces and noises at me. I have to laugh because if I didn't, I would be knee-deep in a puddle of frustrated tears. Laugh so hard I feel like I'm going to throw up.
1:07 p.m. "Mama - I don't like being alone."
1:09 p.m. "Pssst!" "Pssst!" "Mama - I'm making the cat go away." "Psssssssssssttt!" I mentally make plans to buy an absurdly large bottle of wine later.
1:10 p.m. "Mama! Mama! I found a cookbook! I know. I've got a great idea. Let's COOK SOMETHING!"
1: 11 p.m. - "Can I come out now?!"
1:14 p.m. I can't do quiet time anymore. Quiet time is yucky, homicidal, badness. Spring the child, while mentally counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until L. returns home from work. Utter a small prayer to the gods of patience that I do not off the little sucker (aka my wee beloved).
Oh naptime. Why have you forsaken me?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
MamaLit Book Review #2 - Sleep is for the Weak
Warning:
1. Do not read this book, until after you pee, if like me, your post-baby bladder is less than, um, reliable.
2. Do not read this book with beverages of any kind in your mouth.
3. Do not read this book with a sleeping baby in your lap.
I ask you, what better way to start a book review than to announce to the world that said book made you pee yourself, send an entire mouthful of coffee spraying in all directions and that your body was quaking so hard from silent laughter that it caused a premature end to your daughter's nap? If that doesn't grab ya, nothing will!
Rita Arens, mama and blogger author of Surrender Dorothy, has pulled together a collection of blogs about parenthood that range from heartbreaking - to thought provoking - to uproariously funny. The titles alone are enough to make me groan or crack a smile. ("Visiting My House? Bring Your Own Autoclave," "Vacationing with Childless People," and "Mama, Who Invented the Speculum?" come to mind here).
The collection is full of bite-sized goodies that you can read on the go, (or on the john, or before you drop dead of exhaustion at night) - a perfect fit for those of us with anklebiters who would much prefer we spend our time reading them The Very Hungry Caterpillar again and again (and again!), than spending any time with reading of the grown-up variety.
I would describe this read as 'bloggy goodness.' All of the entries are informally written and deeply personal, but because these writers are all really talented bloggers, you never feel like a voyeur here. The book is infinitely relatable. If you have children (hell, even if ya don't) I guarantee that you will find yourself giggling and groaning and maybe even getting a little teary whilst perusing this collection.
There are far too many good ones to mention, so I'll just mention my top 5 here:
1. The one that made me pee my pants - (in my defense - it was only a little, and I really had to pee and I was pushing it because I figured if I moved, one or the other of my children would arise from their slumber and steal away my "me-time". Turns out I shoulda taken that chance. And ironically, this essay is about PEE! Anyhoo...). "Visiting My House? Your Own Autoclave" by Sheryl Naimark, author of blog Paper Napkin. Naimark's exploration of her daughter's ability of outpee any diaper or pull-up is freaking hilarious (Though maybe only because potty humour seems to have made a come-back on my humour radar since becoming a mama! I'll be interested to know what other readers think.)
2. The one that made me spit out my coffee: "Vacationing with Childless People" by editor Rita Arens. This is a witty look at expectations of childless vs. children people whilst vacationing. And it's just good.
3. The one that made me wake my baby because I was a big ball of barely held-in laughter: "Are You There, God? It's Me, Risa," by Risa Green of Mommy Track'd. I loved this one. This essay coulda been written by me. I don't mean to imply that I'm that good of a writer. What I mean is, I felt like Green could have been channeling my innermost thoughts and then twisting them to mould them into something adorably charming and witty.
4. Sweetney blogger Tracey Gaughran-Perez' "Notes for Amelioration" made me cry. It's a tiny snippet of a blog about the experience of one's child telling you that they don't love you (which, if you have ever endured said trauma, you will know that this is the emotional equivalent of being stabbed in the heart with a fork. I have been stabbed with said fork, and I cried then too). Gaughran-Perez documents this experience with excruciating honesty - bless her poor fork-stabbed heart.
5. Susan Wagner's (Friday Playdate) entry "Be Careful What You Wish For" is an insightful and thought-provoking look at ability, disability and the practice of comparing our children to other children. The message that we need to love, respect and honour our kids for who they are and where they are at is loud and clear.
The only real criticism I can level at this book is that of the 54 blog entries featured, there are only 24 writers. Though to be sure, this is a wonderful collection, I can't quite believe that there are only 24 mommy-bloggers out there whose work is stellar enough to be featured in such an edition. A good excuse for a second volume, I suppose! The book still gets a solid A from me, so I can't be that annoyed about it.
I regret that I took this book out of the library instead of buying it. (And not just because of the giant coffee stains on pages 11-13). I'm going to rectify the situation by going out and buying myself a copy. Because I might need to read it again. And again. And again. Look out Very Hungry Caterpillar - you've got competition.
And the added bonus of reading this book? The ability to find and follow your new favourite mommy bloggers. Read this one. I'm quite sure you won't regret it.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The stay-at-homer uniform
I think us stay-at-homers need a uniform.
Now hear me out on this - I'm not advocating for a death of individualism a la fashion expression. I like fashion (at least I liked fashion back when I could afford it, and had a hope in hell of keeping it semi-clean for more than 50 seconds at a time).
You might be protesting - my clothes say something about who I am as a person. Sure they do, in your off time. But the clothes we wear to work more likely say something about the work we do than the person we are. For instance, you might be a free-lovin', artist/hippy type who happens to also be a lawyer. You still gotta rock the stuffy suits for court - even though you hate 'em. Case closed.
No matter who I am in my off-time (whatever that is), my work involves a lot of jam, peanut butter, paint, dirt and snot. I'd like to have something to wear (without feeling like a total loser for wearing the sweats...again) that allows for stainage, wear and tear, grimey fingers, baby barf and toddler nose rubs.
I also think the uniform might serve a purpose in the quest for respect for the working lives of stay-at-homers. People with uniforms have jobs. You know, work-y sort of jobs. Jobs and work that their uniforms help make recognizable. Perhaps having a uniform will make the jobs of stay-at-homers somehow more visible as actual work.
The third purpose of the uniform is, of course, as an equalizer among stay-at-homers, thus allowing us to avoid the judgement that can come of who is wearing what clothes, what brand, how much it cost and how many days in a row it's been worn, and so on and so forth. We can be united through what we have in common (namely jobs that leave us full of snot, kiddie tears, bubble bath and paint stains), instead of divided by our income levels and fashion sense (or lack therof).
Still not convinced? Wait 'til you hear my prototype:
Heres my pitch for the stay-at-homer uniform:
I'm picturing kind of like a mechanics uniform... except, well, less baggy, shapeless and far, far less navy blue. A hot pink jumpsuit (for the pink-collar-ghetto**baby!) that will repel stains (even blood, snot and breast milk) and do a good job of concealing the ones that can't be repelled.
And like the lovely jeans in the Sisterhood of Travelling Pants (you can feel free to pretend you didn't watch it, but I know better), our hot pink jumpsuit will make magically make everyone's butt look fabulous, no matter the size, shape or gender of the wearer. (I'm negotiable on the pink for the butch or male stay-at-homers who may not feel like rockin' their inner pink... I just really like the witty link to the pink-collar-ghetto, and, well, I happen to look smokin' in hot pink).
Like a mechanic, we will have a name patch on the left chest, but instead of reading "Larry" or "Joe," our patch will display our working names, in my case: "Oliver and Lucy's Mama" - thus staving off the necessity of repeating daily, "Hi, I'm Oliver and Lucy's mom," or "Yes, I'm Oliver and Lucy's mama" etc. etc. etc.
Lest we feel like we are losing our identity, as you know, people, our very own names will be displayed on the jumpsuit's back, jersey style. (Because motherhood is a contact sport as well as an occupation and labour of love). Maybe we should consider using numbers too, and then when a particularly awesome stay-at-homer goes back to the paid workforce, we can retire their jumpsuit with a jumpsuit raising ceremony at the local playground or community centre. We wouldn't do this for everyone, mind you - just the great ones.
The uniform will also come equipped with several pockets (for kleenex, wipes, and band-aids) and a tool belt with room for personalized tricks of the trade. Mine would hold a cell phone, spare soothers, teething rings, tylenol, Mr. Snuggle Puppy, Ms. Bunny, a flashlight and some kind of contraption that magically drowned out the sound of thunder. A set of housekeys might be good too. And a flask. And possibly a nice mild sedative (for me - not the children, folks).And a whomping stick. (For the children, not me, folks). These tools are dependent upon the needs and neediness of the employer(s), naturally.
Feel free to add your ideas below - what is our uniform missing??
**The pink collar ghetto is used to describe the fact that women repeatedly and historically have been concentrated into low wage, underpaid jobs.
Now hear me out on this - I'm not advocating for a death of individualism a la fashion expression. I like fashion (at least I liked fashion back when I could afford it, and had a hope in hell of keeping it semi-clean for more than 50 seconds at a time).
You might be protesting - my clothes say something about who I am as a person. Sure they do, in your off time. But the clothes we wear to work more likely say something about the work we do than the person we are. For instance, you might be a free-lovin', artist/hippy type who happens to also be a lawyer. You still gotta rock the stuffy suits for court - even though you hate 'em. Case closed.
No matter who I am in my off-time (whatever that is), my work involves a lot of jam, peanut butter, paint, dirt and snot. I'd like to have something to wear (without feeling like a total loser for wearing the sweats...again) that allows for stainage, wear and tear, grimey fingers, baby barf and toddler nose rubs.
I also think the uniform might serve a purpose in the quest for respect for the working lives of stay-at-homers. People with uniforms have jobs. You know, work-y sort of jobs. Jobs and work that their uniforms help make recognizable. Perhaps having a uniform will make the jobs of stay-at-homers somehow more visible as actual work.
The third purpose of the uniform is, of course, as an equalizer among stay-at-homers, thus allowing us to avoid the judgement that can come of who is wearing what clothes, what brand, how much it cost and how many days in a row it's been worn, and so on and so forth. We can be united through what we have in common (namely jobs that leave us full of snot, kiddie tears, bubble bath and paint stains), instead of divided by our income levels and fashion sense (or lack therof).
Still not convinced? Wait 'til you hear my prototype:
Heres my pitch for the stay-at-homer uniform:
I'm picturing kind of like a mechanics uniform... except, well, less baggy, shapeless and far, far less navy blue. A hot pink jumpsuit (for the pink-collar-ghetto**baby!) that will repel stains (even blood, snot and breast milk) and do a good job of concealing the ones that can't be repelled.
And like the lovely jeans in the Sisterhood of Travelling Pants (you can feel free to pretend you didn't watch it, but I know better), our hot pink jumpsuit will make magically make everyone's butt look fabulous, no matter the size, shape or gender of the wearer. (I'm negotiable on the pink for the butch or male stay-at-homers who may not feel like rockin' their inner pink... I just really like the witty link to the pink-collar-ghetto, and, well, I happen to look smokin' in hot pink).
Like a mechanic, we will have a name patch on the left chest, but instead of reading "Larry" or "Joe," our patch will display our working names, in my case: "Oliver and Lucy's Mama" - thus staving off the necessity of repeating daily, "Hi, I'm Oliver and Lucy's mom," or "Yes, I'm Oliver and Lucy's mama" etc. etc. etc.
Lest we feel like we are losing our identity, as you know, people, our very own names will be displayed on the jumpsuit's back, jersey style. (Because motherhood is a contact sport as well as an occupation and labour of love). Maybe we should consider using numbers too, and then when a particularly awesome stay-at-homer goes back to the paid workforce, we can retire their jumpsuit with a jumpsuit raising ceremony at the local playground or community centre. We wouldn't do this for everyone, mind you - just the great ones.
The uniform will also come equipped with several pockets (for kleenex, wipes, and band-aids) and a tool belt with room for personalized tricks of the trade. Mine would hold a cell phone, spare soothers, teething rings, tylenol, Mr. Snuggle Puppy, Ms. Bunny, a flashlight and some kind of contraption that magically drowned out the sound of thunder. A set of housekeys might be good too. And a flask. And possibly a nice mild sedative (for me - not the children, folks).
Feel free to add your ideas below - what is our uniform missing??
**The pink collar ghetto is used to describe the fact that women repeatedly and historically have been concentrated into low wage, underpaid jobs.
Friday, March 5, 2010
mama book review # 1 - Finding Your Inner Mama
Steinberg, Eden. (Ed). Finding Your Inner Mama: Women Reflect on the Challenges and Rewards of Motherhood. Shambhala Publications: New York, 2007.
I seem to have developed a bit of an addiction. Mama lit. I love it. Devour it. Can't get enough of it. I don't mean advice books, or how-to-be-a-better-mama books, which can be found in an annoying abundance in any bookstore. I have no desire whatsoever to read these, which will only tell me (yet again) that I am not good enough, not loving enough or too loving, or that my-children-will-turn-out-badly-if-I don't-subscribe-to-some-theory-of-parenting. Meh to them. I mean books that talk, in some kind of real way about the good, the bad and the ugly of parenting, and of mothering in particular.
Currently on the bedside table is Finding Your Inner Mama, an collection of essays put together by Eden Steinberg. I got it from my own mama this year for Christmas, and had actually avoided picking it up for a few months because of the emphasis of one of the sections of the book on religion, spirituality and parenting (most notably Buddhism - the book is put out by a Buddhist publisher - but other avenues of spirituality are also touched upon). This bent is, well, not my gig. You will have to trust me when I tell you that I am the least zen-like person you will ever meet; and titles like "Children as Spiritual Teachers," "Parenting with Mindful Awareness," "The Sacred Chaos of Parenthood" and "Recognizing our Hidden Wounds" make me want to, well, hurl. A litte bit of earnest I can deal with. A little bit of earnest is even good every now and again. A lot a bit of earnest? Hidden wounds and mindful awareness? Not really my cuppa tea. (I think this may be a remnant of being raised by hippy social workers ;-)
Urge to toss my cookies notwithstanding, I did pick up the book and start reading. It was the right choice. I was nodding and amen-ing by the time I read Steinberg's well-crafted introduction. Here's one example: "I realized that if I was going to survive this thing, I was going to have to grow and change. . . I also saw that I was ultimately going to have to let go of my very self-concept, my idea of motherhood, and my expectations of my child. All of it had to go. . . . I thought that as a mother I would carefully mold and shape my children. If I did my job right, my children would turn out to be well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting people. As it turns out, motherhood is molding and shaping me. At the end of all this, I am the one who could end up well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting." (Steinberg, xv). Indeed.
Amoung the stand-outs for me was poet Lousie Erdich's "Writings from a Birth Year," the collection's very first essay. Erdich's writing is so lyrical and yet not overly sentimental. She made me cry, and this is no small feat. I'm not generally a weepy Hallmark commercial kind of girl. It is at once celebratory and gut wrenching - she has deftly woven snippets of being a mother and of being a daughter in an immediate, visceral way. I particularly enjoyed Erdich's description of the necessity of community with other mothers: "In talking to other mothers over years, I begin to absorb them somehow, as if we're all permeable. Some days I'm made up of a thousand mothers who have given one ironic look, one laugh at the right moment, one exasperated wave, one acknowledgement. Mothering is a subtle art, whose rhythm we collect and learn, as much from one another as by instinct" (9). This part reminded me how important communities like Offbeat Mama are, how important parenting communities in general are, how amazing it is to be able to tell the truth about our realities with those around us who are able and willing to listen.
Ariel Gore's "The Way I Dreamed It" relays the drama-dy of a feminist, savvy (and dare I say 'hip') mama who envisaged her daughter's teenage years far differently than they occured. She writes: "I taught her my politics, my values, my fashion sense. . . We went to protests together. We travelled the world. We thought the same things were beautiful, the same things were scary. I was a zine-ster, she was a zine-ster. I was a writer, she was an artist. I wore black, she wore black. . . . And then one day she woke up, put on a pink shirt, and announced her plan to try out for the cheerleading team" (Gore, 44). I laughed and cringed all the way along with Gore, as she very wittily described her experiences with her teenager; bursting my bubble about what teenage years with laid-back, open-minded, sex-positive parents will be like with each passing paragraph. It was a great read about growing up, moving along, and learning to change along with your kids and I loved it (even though it sort of dashed my own hopes of being able to retain some vestiges of parental cool-ness!)
"The New Momism" excerpted from The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How it Undermines Women by Susan J. Douglas and Meredith W. Michaels (Free Press, 2004), is a funny and insicive critique of cultural imagery and expectations of mothers. The authors write: "If you're like us - mothers with an attitude problem - you may already be getting increasingly irritable about this chasm between the ridiculous, honey-hued ideals of perfect motherhood in the mass media and the reality of mothers' everyday lives. And you may also be worn down by the media images that suggest that however much you do for and love your kids, it is never enough (Douglas and Michaels, 159). Attitude problem? (Who, ME?), irritated? Worn down by impossible to achieve ideals? Um, check, check and check. I haven't read the authors' aforementioned book yet, but you can be sure that after reading this essay, it's on my ever-growing to-read list!
A few other standouts picks include: Andrea Buchanon's "Giving Birth to Ambivalence" - a brave and raw look at the dark side of becoming a mother, complete with post-partum baby resentment and some despair thrown in for good measure; Muffy Mead-Ferraro's critique of motherhood and consumerism in "Goodbye Herd"; and Anne Roiphe's aptly titled "Guilt -- What it does to us."
I'm not going to lie and say that the book was my favourite ever. As with any collection of essays, some were stellar and lots were on the banal, irritating and/or annoying side. And the whole of Part 2: The Inner Work of Motherhood is probably best skipped if you, like me, aren't so much into the spiritual life bit. Because I'm an academic at heart, I'm going to give the book a grade - let's say it's a solid B, even a B+. Due to the fact that I only really loved about 1/3 of the book in it's entirety, I wouldn't recommend rushing out and buy it from the bookstore (even though on my rather limited budget I'm still the kinda girl who sees book-buying as a necessity of life). I certainly would say the good bits are worth putting a hold on it at your local library and then settling in for a nice wine drinking, essay reading bath night.
I seem to have developed a bit of an addiction. Mama lit. I love it. Devour it. Can't get enough of it. I don't mean advice books, or how-to-be-a-better-mama books, which can be found in an annoying abundance in any bookstore. I have no desire whatsoever to read these, which will only tell me (yet again) that I am not good enough, not loving enough or too loving, or that my-children-will-turn-out-badly-if-I don't-subscribe-to-some-theory-of-parenting. Meh to them. I mean books that talk, in some kind of real way about the good, the bad and the ugly of parenting, and of mothering in particular. Currently on the bedside table is Finding Your Inner Mama, an collection of essays put together by Eden Steinberg. I got it from my own mama this year for Christmas, and had actually avoided picking it up for a few months because of the emphasis of one of the sections of the book on religion, spirituality and parenting (most notably Buddhism - the book is put out by a Buddhist publisher - but other avenues of spirituality are also touched upon). This bent is, well, not my gig. You will have to trust me when I tell you that I am the least zen-like person you will ever meet; and titles like "Children as Spiritual Teachers," "Parenting with Mindful Awareness," "The Sacred Chaos of Parenthood" and "Recognizing our Hidden Wounds" make me want to, well, hurl. A litte bit of earnest I can deal with. A little bit of earnest is even good every now and again. A lot a bit of earnest? Hidden wounds and mindful awareness? Not really my cuppa tea. (I think this may be a remnant of being raised by hippy social workers ;-)
Urge to toss my cookies notwithstanding, I did pick up the book and start reading. It was the right choice. I was nodding and amen-ing by the time I read Steinberg's well-crafted introduction. Here's one example: "I realized that if I was going to survive this thing, I was going to have to grow and change. . . I also saw that I was ultimately going to have to let go of my very self-concept, my idea of motherhood, and my expectations of my child. All of it had to go. . . . I thought that as a mother I would carefully mold and shape my children. If I did my job right, my children would turn out to be well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting people. As it turns out, motherhood is molding and shaping me. At the end of all this, I am the one who could end up well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting." (Steinberg, xv). Indeed.
Amoung the stand-outs for me was poet Lousie Erdich's "Writings from a Birth Year," the collection's very first essay. Erdich's writing is so lyrical and yet not overly sentimental. She made me cry, and this is no small feat. I'm not generally a weepy Hallmark commercial kind of girl. It is at once celebratory and gut wrenching - she has deftly woven snippets of being a mother and of being a daughter in an immediate, visceral way. I particularly enjoyed Erdich's description of the necessity of community with other mothers: "In talking to other mothers over years, I begin to absorb them somehow, as if we're all permeable. Some days I'm made up of a thousand mothers who have given one ironic look, one laugh at the right moment, one exasperated wave, one acknowledgement. Mothering is a subtle art, whose rhythm we collect and learn, as much from one another as by instinct" (9). This part reminded me how important communities like Offbeat Mama are, how important parenting communities in general are, how amazing it is to be able to tell the truth about our realities with those around us who are able and willing to listen.
Ariel Gore's "The Way I Dreamed It" relays the drama-dy of a feminist, savvy (and dare I say 'hip') mama who envisaged her daughter's teenage years far differently than they occured. She writes: "I taught her my politics, my values, my fashion sense. . . We went to protests together. We travelled the world. We thought the same things were beautiful, the same things were scary. I was a zine-ster, she was a zine-ster. I was a writer, she was an artist. I wore black, she wore black. . . . And then one day she woke up, put on a pink shirt, and announced her plan to try out for the cheerleading team" (Gore, 44). I laughed and cringed all the way along with Gore, as she very wittily described her experiences with her teenager; bursting my bubble about what teenage years with laid-back, open-minded, sex-positive parents will be like with each passing paragraph. It was a great read about growing up, moving along, and learning to change along with your kids and I loved it (even though it sort of dashed my own hopes of being able to retain some vestiges of parental cool-ness!)
"The New Momism" excerpted from The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How it Undermines Women by Susan J. Douglas and Meredith W. Michaels (Free Press, 2004), is a funny and insicive critique of cultural imagery and expectations of mothers. The authors write: "If you're like us - mothers with an attitude problem - you may already be getting increasingly irritable about this chasm between the ridiculous, honey-hued ideals of perfect motherhood in the mass media and the reality of mothers' everyday lives. And you may also be worn down by the media images that suggest that however much you do for and love your kids, it is never enough (Douglas and Michaels, 159). Attitude problem? (Who, ME?), irritated? Worn down by impossible to achieve ideals? Um, check, check and check. I haven't read the authors' aforementioned book yet, but you can be sure that after reading this essay, it's on my ever-growing to-read list!
A few other standouts picks include: Andrea Buchanon's "Giving Birth to Ambivalence" - a brave and raw look at the dark side of becoming a mother, complete with post-partum baby resentment and some despair thrown in for good measure; Muffy Mead-Ferraro's critique of motherhood and consumerism in "Goodbye Herd"; and Anne Roiphe's aptly titled "Guilt -- What it does to us."
I'm not going to lie and say that the book was my favourite ever. As with any collection of essays, some were stellar and lots were on the banal, irritating and/or annoying side. And the whole of Part 2: The Inner Work of Motherhood is probably best skipped if you, like me, aren't so much into the spiritual life bit. Because I'm an academic at heart, I'm going to give the book a grade - let's say it's a solid B, even a B+. Due to the fact that I only really loved about 1/3 of the book in it's entirety, I wouldn't recommend rushing out and buy it from the bookstore (even though on my rather limited budget I'm still the kinda girl who sees book-buying as a necessity of life). I certainly would say the good bits are worth putting a hold on it at your local library and then settling in for a nice wine drinking, essay reading bath night.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Stepford Moms
You know the ones I mean here. They stand in the corner with their other mom friends, all wearing some perfectly coordinated outfit, usually designer jeans or yoga wear, with nary a hair out of place. They always look relaxed and well-rested. They totally had time to shower before coming to, well, where ever we are. And you can also be reasonably certain that they remembered to put on deodarent before they left the house. And make-up, of course. And their kids are happily playing together in perfectly matched outfits, probably Baby Gap or Mexx or something reasonably posh. Their children's hair is combed and slicked and barretted and be-ribboned. And when it's snack-time, they will pull out their very expensive snack-time bento boxes, filled with carefully prepared organic fruits and vegetables, which their children will somehow munch on without complaint (and none of it will get on their faces or clothes). Their children do not look like the wild children from Borneo that I arrived with, now shrieking gleefully and running amok in their not-so-artfully mismatched second hand outfits, bedhead sticking up in so many directions it almost looks like starbursts. Their children do not look like they are still wearing their breakfast on their face, or on their clothes. (How these feats of together-ness is achieved, I do not know - but I will guess that lots of money, some nannies, and some housekeepers might assist in this process).
What I do know is that sooner or later, I will get "the look": that pitious glance or eyebrow raise or whispered snicker that says something along the lines of: "that one really needs to get her shit together," or "another mom who let herself go," or "she must have given her nanny the day off" or something equally dismissive.
And equally inevitably, I will have run out of the house that morning, at break-neck speed, arms so full I could get a job as a professional juggler, determined not to be late (AGAIN!). I will be wearing my uniform (jeans and a hoodie), and I will not have noticed that my son gifted me with peanut-butter and jam handprints on my ass or that Lucy spit up on my shoulder or that breastmilk is starting to pool in my bra and leak through my shirt, or something equally undignified. I will not have had time to put on make-up, because Oliver wanted "just one more story" before we left, and even though I read it, he will have had a melt-down on the way to the car, because transitions are hard when you're 3. I will not have had time to prepare a delicious and nutritious snack in a bento-box that I can't afford anyways, so I will have grabbed a granola bar or some goldfish and juice box on the way out the door. It will probably be full of trans fats or some form of processed sugar, even though I have the best of intentions to avoid such things. Half of the snack will end up on them, and on me. And I will have forgotten to bring wipes to clean any of us up sufficiently, so I will now have to add juice stain to the breastmilk stained shirt, and to the steadily growing list of my egregious crimes to fashion and mom-manity.
I'm that mom, and I'm generally okay with that. I don't wear ballet flats and a pencil skirt to the park just because Clinton and Stacey say I should. (Moreover, I really think someone ought to force Clinton and Stacey to take children to the park wearing ballet flats and pencil skirts, so they can see the error of their ways). I own three pairs of jeans because we have to be broke if I want to stay at home with the kids. And I am pretty happy, though admittedly harried, with my jam-stained, dishevelled life. I don't have a designer nanny or a designer house-cleaner or designer clothes or designer lunch-boxes. I don't live a designer life. I live a messy, messy life, in a messy, messy house, with my messy, messy family. I'm never gonna make the cover of "Yummy Mummy." This down-to-earth, get-messy-on-the-floor-with-her-bed-head-sporting-kids really doesn't give a rat's ass. I've got all the matters - happy kids, a roof over our heads, good times, and a partner that thinks I'm smokin', even with peanut-butter and jam handprints on my ass. So, piss off Stepford Moms. Flash your tastefully medium-sized bling somewhere else, and save your pity for someone who needs it.
Oh - and one other thing:
Maybe you don't want to be best friends with that fashion-challenged, messy, stained mama in the corner with toddler-sized peanut butter and jam handprints on her ass. S'alright - if you haven't already guessed, I don't really want to be your friend, either. But if only by virtue of either had our children via one of four general ways (having pushing their comparatively huge bodies out of one's vagina/having it sliced from one's stomach during major surgery/having endured agonizingly invasive adoption proceedings - or like my partner, living with a cranky pregnant woman and getting your hands nearly squeezed off during two different labours); we mamas really ought to give each other the time of day, at the very least, and try to save the judging for when the other is safely out of eye and ear shot, alrighty?
What I do know is that sooner or later, I will get "the look": that pitious glance or eyebrow raise or whispered snicker that says something along the lines of: "that one really needs to get her shit together," or "another mom who let herself go," or "she must have given her nanny the day off" or something equally dismissive.
And equally inevitably, I will have run out of the house that morning, at break-neck speed, arms so full I could get a job as a professional juggler, determined not to be late (AGAIN!). I will be wearing my uniform (jeans and a hoodie), and I will not have noticed that my son gifted me with peanut-butter and jam handprints on my ass or that Lucy spit up on my shoulder or that breastmilk is starting to pool in my bra and leak through my shirt, or something equally undignified. I will not have had time to put on make-up, because Oliver wanted "just one more story" before we left, and even though I read it, he will have had a melt-down on the way to the car, because transitions are hard when you're 3. I will not have had time to prepare a delicious and nutritious snack in a bento-box that I can't afford anyways, so I will have grabbed a granola bar or some goldfish and juice box on the way out the door. It will probably be full of trans fats or some form of processed sugar, even though I have the best of intentions to avoid such things. Half of the snack will end up on them, and on me. And I will have forgotten to bring wipes to clean any of us up sufficiently, so I will now have to add juice stain to the breastmilk stained shirt, and to the steadily growing list of my egregious crimes to fashion and mom-manity.
I'm that mom, and I'm generally okay with that. I don't wear ballet flats and a pencil skirt to the park just because Clinton and Stacey say I should. (Moreover, I really think someone ought to force Clinton and Stacey to take children to the park wearing ballet flats and pencil skirts, so they can see the error of their ways). I own three pairs of jeans because we have to be broke if I want to stay at home with the kids. And I am pretty happy, though admittedly harried, with my jam-stained, dishevelled life. I don't have a designer nanny or a designer house-cleaner or designer clothes or designer lunch-boxes. I don't live a designer life. I live a messy, messy life, in a messy, messy house, with my messy, messy family. I'm never gonna make the cover of "Yummy Mummy." This down-to-earth, get-messy-on-the-floor-with-her-bed-head-sporting-kids really doesn't give a rat's ass. I've got all the matters - happy kids, a roof over our heads, good times, and a partner that thinks I'm smokin', even with peanut-butter and jam handprints on my ass. So, piss off Stepford Moms. Flash your tastefully medium-sized bling somewhere else, and save your pity for someone who needs it.
Oh - and one other thing:
Maybe you don't want to be best friends with that fashion-challenged, messy, stained mama in the corner with toddler-sized peanut butter and jam handprints on her ass. S'alright - if you haven't already guessed, I don't really want to be your friend, either. But if only by virtue of either had our children via one of four general ways (having pushing their comparatively huge bodies out of one's vagina/having it sliced from one's stomach during major surgery/having endured agonizingly invasive adoption proceedings - or like my partner, living with a cranky pregnant woman and getting your hands nearly squeezed off during two different labours); we mamas really ought to give each other the time of day, at the very least, and try to save the judging for when the other is safely out of eye and ear shot, alrighty?
Saturday, February 13, 2010
the gay-by boom
Supposedly there is one. A gay-by boom, I mean. But I fail to see evidence of said boom here in Edmonton.
When we arrived here, we were quite surprised that such a huge city lacked a queer parents group. So we tried to start our own through the local LGBT centre. It was an abyssmal failure. (Well, I can't say that exactly. We did meet one extra-special-fabulous-family through the group). But on the whole, not a lot of response.
I'm not sure why this is. It's not that there aren't queers with kids in Edmonton. I'm sure of it. I mean, we're like the vampires in a Stephenie Meyers book - everywhere - visible or not. (We don't actually want to suck your blood - but it does state very clearly in my copy of The Gay Agenda that we get a toaster oven for every straight we turn gay. Just putting that out there.)
So, if indeed Edmonton does have some queer families kicking around, maybe they all subscribe to the "we're just like them" attitude... which drives me right round the bend. Mainly because well, we're not. I'm not saying I don't like straight people. Hell - some of my best friends are straight!
But here's the thing - L. and I may look like Ward and June Cleaver, but it will just never be so. We are not the same as straight families. Period. Why? Because we and our kids have to deal with homophobia and heterosexism (that is, the pervasive assumption that everyone is straight), in big and little ways, throughout our daily lived experiences. It happens everywhere. All of the time. It happens when I asked about my children's father, or my husband in restaurants, grocery stores or in neighbourhood parks. It happens everytime I hear some teenage boys call each other fag or homo. Everytime I see homophobic graffiti or some asshole with an anti-gay sign at a Pride march. Every time some comedian or movie throws in a gay joke or stereotype (and if you listen carefully- this happens A LOT!). It will happen to my children at their schools, swimming lessons, soccer practices. It colours the way we see the world, the way we are allowed to live in the world, our sense of safety and our sense of our selves. Homophobia makes us different. We are different because we are made to be.
Sometimes I let my guard down, get complacent and hopeful. I start to think maybe things really have changed. Maybe, homophobia is getting better all of the time. Maybe my kids won't be ridiculed, judged. Maybe they won't have to be afraid that people will hate them just because of who their parents are. But reality always falls short of this hope. It could be as simple as a dirty look when I come out for the millionth time on the playground. Or, something bigger. A homophobic incident like the one that occured few weeks ago. Before I got pregnant with Oliver, I'd put out a call for essays and stories about queer fertility journeys on the internet, when I'd had the idea of putting together a book about the many creative ways our community chooses to build our families. The book didn't ever come to fruition, unfortunately, but that's besides the point). Then, years later, I get an email from some woman who saw the call for essays, and who feels the need to tell me that she hates queers like me so much that she hopes that I die. I'm pretty sure June Cleaver wouldn't get those kind of emails.
My point? My point is that we have become too complacent. That there is still a real and pressing need for things like queer parent/family groups. For a place that us and our children can go to and not only not have to worry about bigotry and heterosexism(because of course we can do this with all of our wonderful and lovely friends), but more than this, where we do not have to explain the differences, the difficulties, the challenges, the fears. Where we can all just take our queerness and our family-ness for granted because it is a reality that we share.
So if there indeed has been a gay-by boom in Edmonton...
"Queer Edmonton parents, come out, come out where ever you are."
When we arrived here, we were quite surprised that such a huge city lacked a queer parents group. So we tried to start our own through the local LGBT centre. It was an abyssmal failure. (Well, I can't say that exactly. We did meet one extra-special-fabulous-family through the group). But on the whole, not a lot of response.
I'm not sure why this is. It's not that there aren't queers with kids in Edmonton. I'm sure of it. I mean, we're like the vampires in a Stephenie Meyers book - everywhere - visible or not. (We don't actually want to suck your blood - but it does state very clearly in my copy of The Gay Agenda that we get a toaster oven for every straight we turn gay. Just putting that out there.)
So, if indeed Edmonton does have some queer families kicking around, maybe they all subscribe to the "we're just like them" attitude... which drives me right round the bend. Mainly because well, we're not. I'm not saying I don't like straight people. Hell - some of my best friends are straight!
But here's the thing - L. and I may look like Ward and June Cleaver, but it will just never be so. We are not the same as straight families. Period. Why? Because we and our kids have to deal with homophobia and heterosexism (that is, the pervasive assumption that everyone is straight), in big and little ways, throughout our daily lived experiences. It happens everywhere. All of the time. It happens when I asked about my children's father, or my husband in restaurants, grocery stores or in neighbourhood parks. It happens everytime I hear some teenage boys call each other fag or homo. Everytime I see homophobic graffiti or some asshole with an anti-gay sign at a Pride march. Every time some comedian or movie throws in a gay joke or stereotype (and if you listen carefully- this happens A LOT!). It will happen to my children at their schools, swimming lessons, soccer practices. It colours the way we see the world, the way we are allowed to live in the world, our sense of safety and our sense of our selves. Homophobia makes us different. We are different because we are made to be.
Sometimes I let my guard down, get complacent and hopeful. I start to think maybe things really have changed. Maybe, homophobia is getting better all of the time. Maybe my kids won't be ridiculed, judged. Maybe they won't have to be afraid that people will hate them just because of who their parents are. But reality always falls short of this hope. It could be as simple as a dirty look when I come out for the millionth time on the playground. Or, something bigger. A homophobic incident like the one that occured few weeks ago. Before I got pregnant with Oliver, I'd put out a call for essays and stories about queer fertility journeys on the internet, when I'd had the idea of putting together a book about the many creative ways our community chooses to build our families. The book didn't ever come to fruition, unfortunately, but that's besides the point). Then, years later, I get an email from some woman who saw the call for essays, and who feels the need to tell me that she hates queers like me so much that she hopes that I die. I'm pretty sure June Cleaver wouldn't get those kind of emails.
My point? My point is that we have become too complacent. That there is still a real and pressing need for things like queer parent/family groups. For a place that us and our children can go to and not only not have to worry about bigotry and heterosexism(because of course we can do this with all of our wonderful and lovely friends), but more than this, where we do not have to explain the differences, the difficulties, the challenges, the fears. Where we can all just take our queerness and our family-ness for granted because it is a reality that we share.
So if there indeed has been a gay-by boom in Edmonton...
"Queer Edmonton parents, come out, come out where ever you are."
Thursday, February 4, 2010
2
I wasn't prepared for two. Let me clarify. Clearly, both of our children were very planned. "Us" people can't really do it any other way. What I mean is, I wasn't prepared for the "parent shock" of two.
Before Lucy was born, I worried that I would never be able to love another child with the fierceness and the depth that I love Oliver. I just couldn't imagine how I could possibly love another little creature in the same way. I needn't have worried on that front. When I met Lucy, my heart swelled and overflowed and grew to make room for her. It is as if she's been there with me, with us, all along. What an amazing thing.
But I was never worried that I wouldn't be able to "pull off" two. I'm not particularly naïve. I knew it would be hard, challenging, difficult. But what can prepare you for splitting yourself in half? There it is in a nutshell. The crux of my difficulties.
I thought mothering was challenging before Lucy came along. And it was. Oliver is an extremely bright, inquisitive and high energy child. Did I mention he was high energy? Kid has a LOT of energy. Oomph. Get up and go. Volume. Exhuberance. And so on and so forth. This energy is both one of the things I treasure about him, and well, my own personal cross to bear. But then Lucy came along, and I really had to reevaluate my perception of challenging.
Mostly, I feel like I never have enough time for either child; like I'm always behind on their kid-rent.
For example, Lucy is a terrible night sleeper and an even worse napper. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get her to fall asleep during the day. All of this time (and it is a lot of time) is time her brother ends up watching the television because this is the only and I mean only way to keep him quiet enough for Lucy to even consider the notion of sleep (and people have given me lots of suggestions on other ways to keep him occupied.... let me just assure you, I have tried them all and they have all ended up with him waking his sister just as she has finally, finally, finally freaking nodded off to sleep.) Some days, Oliver's needs get ignored in the hopes of Lucy sleeping. Other days, Lucy's sleep needs get ignored so Oliver can get better me time, or outings and other fun stuff).
That's just one example. I'm flummoxed. Swamped. In over my head. I'm walking a highwire and most days it's feeling pretty wobbly and teeter-y. Everything feels harder. Everything feels amplified. The joy, the frustration, the fatigue, the anger, the need for my own space, the feeling of being scattered, fragmented, split. All of it. And the work? The mess, the laundry, the snacks, diapers, the noses to be wiped - it's always looming, undone.
People often tell me I'm a great mom, which is super nice to hear. But lately, I mostly feel like a colossal disaster -- scattered, fractured, emotional, impatient, spread thin, ineffectual.
Each day is a delicate balance of negotiation and renegotiation. For instance, today I managed to clean the bathroom and do two loads of laundry. The toll for this however, is that I didn't manage to get anyone, including myself, out of pajamas and the rest of the house looks like a train hit it).
I know this will get easier. I know we will find our rhythm, hit our stride. Eventually the kids will engage each other, need a bit less of me. And I knew it would be hard. I guess I thought it would get easier faster.
For now, I try to measure my days in the small moments that feel like successes (instead of what really could be a large list of failures and undones and to-do's).
* A great hug from Oliver
* Lucy's toothless grin
* My kids learning a new skill (Oliver winked at me today, and Lucy just learned how to clap!)
*An outing without a meltdown
*A day without yelling or wanting to cry
* Listening to Oliver tell L. excitedly about his day at dinner time
* Managing to cobble together an edible dinner (by my standards, not Oliver's!)
*A sink full of dishes done out of the way
* A moment to blog about it all
* L. telling me she thinks I'm amazing
* The beauty of Lucy's babbling
* A successful nap (Lucy's not mine, although that would be nice too).
* A spontaneous "I duv you Mama"
These tiny moments are what pulls me back to that amazing feeling of the heart overflowing with love, and making room for two.
Before Lucy was born, I worried that I would never be able to love another child with the fierceness and the depth that I love Oliver. I just couldn't imagine how I could possibly love another little creature in the same way. I needn't have worried on that front. When I met Lucy, my heart swelled and overflowed and grew to make room for her. It is as if she's been there with me, with us, all along. What an amazing thing.
But I was never worried that I wouldn't be able to "pull off" two. I'm not particularly naïve. I knew it would be hard, challenging, difficult. But what can prepare you for splitting yourself in half? There it is in a nutshell. The crux of my difficulties.
I thought mothering was challenging before Lucy came along. And it was. Oliver is an extremely bright, inquisitive and high energy child. Did I mention he was high energy? Kid has a LOT of energy. Oomph. Get up and go. Volume. Exhuberance. And so on and so forth. This energy is both one of the things I treasure about him, and well, my own personal cross to bear. But then Lucy came along, and I really had to reevaluate my perception of challenging.
Mostly, I feel like I never have enough time for either child; like I'm always behind on their kid-rent.
For example, Lucy is a terrible night sleeper and an even worse napper. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get her to fall asleep during the day. All of this time (and it is a lot of time) is time her brother ends up watching the television because this is the only and I mean only way to keep him quiet enough for Lucy to even consider the notion of sleep (and people have given me lots of suggestions on other ways to keep him occupied.... let me just assure you, I have tried them all and they have all ended up with him waking his sister just as she has finally, finally, finally freaking nodded off to sleep.) Some days, Oliver's needs get ignored in the hopes of Lucy sleeping. Other days, Lucy's sleep needs get ignored so Oliver can get better me time, or outings and other fun stuff).
That's just one example. I'm flummoxed. Swamped. In over my head. I'm walking a highwire and most days it's feeling pretty wobbly and teeter-y. Everything feels harder. Everything feels amplified. The joy, the frustration, the fatigue, the anger, the need for my own space, the feeling of being scattered, fragmented, split. All of it. And the work? The mess, the laundry, the snacks, diapers, the noses to be wiped - it's always looming, undone.
People often tell me I'm a great mom, which is super nice to hear. But lately, I mostly feel like a colossal disaster -- scattered, fractured, emotional, impatient, spread thin, ineffectual.
Each day is a delicate balance of negotiation and renegotiation. For instance, today I managed to clean the bathroom and do two loads of laundry. The toll for this however, is that I didn't manage to get anyone, including myself, out of pajamas and the rest of the house looks like a train hit it).
I know this will get easier. I know we will find our rhythm, hit our stride. Eventually the kids will engage each other, need a bit less of me. And I knew it would be hard. I guess I thought it would get easier faster.
For now, I try to measure my days in the small moments that feel like successes (instead of what really could be a large list of failures and undones and to-do's).
* A great hug from Oliver
* Lucy's toothless grin
* My kids learning a new skill (Oliver winked at me today, and Lucy just learned how to clap!)
*An outing without a meltdown
*A day without yelling or wanting to cry
* Listening to Oliver tell L. excitedly about his day at dinner time
* Managing to cobble together an edible dinner (by my standards, not Oliver's!)
*A sink full of dishes done out of the way
* A moment to blog about it all
* L. telling me she thinks I'm amazing
* The beauty of Lucy's babbling
* A successful nap (Lucy's not mine, although that would be nice too).
* A spontaneous "I duv you Mama"
These tiny moments are what pulls me back to that amazing feeling of the heart overflowing with love, and making room for two.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The thing about kids...
A friend and I were out with our kids at a local - and purportedly kid friendly -attraction (ahem Muttart Conservatory), where we were glared at, told in no uncertain terms to keep our kids quiet, and instructed not to let them run by attraction staff. (Each of these things more ridiculous than the last, especially when you consider that at the front door of this attraction is a gift shop with a huge display of candy.) At first I was embarassed, and tried to shush and slow down my little guy (he is definitely a kid that veers towards the, um, enthusiastic side of things). But then I was really annoyed. I'm still really annoyed. They were just being, well, kids.
But here's the thing about kids. We don't actually like them. Now before you jump all over me, I don't mean I don't like them. I like 'em fine (most of the time!). I mean, our larger culture doesn't like them. Hear me out on this one. Sure, we're baby crazy. We watch faithfully for celebrity baby bump alerts and wonder which of our friends will get pregnant next. We delight in baby showers, baby names, baby things, and engage in all kinds of baby over-consumption. We read diligently read scads of baby books, but how many people do you know who actually do the same reading about child development?
We really don't value children. We see evidence of this on a larger scale, for example, our most developed nations have appallingly high rates of child poverty and we think nothing of the fact that those we task with taking care of our children make ridiculously low wages. On a smaller scale, we are vexed by children's endless energy; annoyed by their volume and exhuberance; inconvenienced over their predisposition to avoid things we think they should do, like sleep and eat vegetables; and we are most certainly ill-equipped to handle the hugeness and wildness of their constantly changing emotional development. (For instance, I recently learned that our dopamine levels - that's the happy chemical - are the lowest at the ages of 2 and 14. Really, this says SO much about the wildness and unpredictability of emotions that come out of our two year olds - and 14 year olds, obviously!)
We glare at parents whose children melt down in public. We shoot dirty looks at parents whose kids talk to loud, move to fast, or otherwise break social codes of civility. Why can't those darn kids behave, we wonder? Why can't they talk instead of shout, walk instead of run, sit still once in awhile, listen the first time, pay attention. Why do they stubbornly dig in their heels in defiance? Why do they tantrum?
But what we really mean is, why can't they be more like us? More, well, adult. We like to think we have an appreciation for childhood. But have you ever heard someone say, "Oh don't be so childish" to a child? I have. It says a lot, I think.
Children are imperfect, messy, impulsive, loud, whimsical, exhaustingly-always-on-the-go, accidents-waiting-to-happen. They say it like they see it and feel their feelings unabashedly and with gusto. They need room to move, freedom to explore, and space for their voices to be heard (however loud those voices may sometimes be). It's as often exhausting and frustrating as it is cute. But they only get to be kids once. Why are we all in such a hurry to train it out of them?
The fact that my friend and I were glared at and reprimanded at a public place designed to be an educational facility for folks like kids speaks to the lack of spaces in the world that kids can be themselves. If children were valued... if we actually liked children... we'd let them be kids from time to time.
But here's the thing about kids. We don't actually like them. Now before you jump all over me, I don't mean I don't like them. I like 'em fine (most of the time!). I mean, our larger culture doesn't like them. Hear me out on this one. Sure, we're baby crazy. We watch faithfully for celebrity baby bump alerts and wonder which of our friends will get pregnant next. We delight in baby showers, baby names, baby things, and engage in all kinds of baby over-consumption. We read diligently read scads of baby books, but how many people do you know who actually do the same reading about child development?
We really don't value children. We see evidence of this on a larger scale, for example, our most developed nations have appallingly high rates of child poverty and we think nothing of the fact that those we task with taking care of our children make ridiculously low wages. On a smaller scale, we are vexed by children's endless energy; annoyed by their volume and exhuberance; inconvenienced over their predisposition to avoid things we think they should do, like sleep and eat vegetables; and we are most certainly ill-equipped to handle the hugeness and wildness of their constantly changing emotional development. (For instance, I recently learned that our dopamine levels - that's the happy chemical - are the lowest at the ages of 2 and 14. Really, this says SO much about the wildness and unpredictability of emotions that come out of our two year olds - and 14 year olds, obviously!)
We glare at parents whose children melt down in public. We shoot dirty looks at parents whose kids talk to loud, move to fast, or otherwise break social codes of civility. Why can't those darn kids behave, we wonder? Why can't they talk instead of shout, walk instead of run, sit still once in awhile, listen the first time, pay attention. Why do they stubbornly dig in their heels in defiance? Why do they tantrum?
But what we really mean is, why can't they be more like us? More, well, adult. We like to think we have an appreciation for childhood. But have you ever heard someone say, "Oh don't be so childish" to a child? I have. It says a lot, I think.
Children are imperfect, messy, impulsive, loud, whimsical, exhaustingly-always-on-the-go, accidents-waiting-to-happen. They say it like they see it and feel their feelings unabashedly and with gusto. They need room to move, freedom to explore, and space for their voices to be heard (however loud those voices may sometimes be). It's as often exhausting and frustrating as it is cute. But they only get to be kids once. Why are we all in such a hurry to train it out of them?
The fact that my friend and I were glared at and reprimanded at a public place designed to be an educational facility for folks like kids speaks to the lack of spaces in the world that kids can be themselves. If children were valued... if we actually liked children... we'd let them be kids from time to time.
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