February 5, 2009
Life in Sepia
I often experience memories from childhood that are utterly unremarkable. I’ll be driving my car or eating at a restaurant when I’ll suddenly flashback to some hazy memory of being in a waiting room with my parents, playing in the pool with my brothers, searching the kitchen cupboard for cereal, or some other such mundane scene. It’s odd that the triggers for these recollections are often completely unrelated – it’s like they’re just lurking in my subconscious waiting to bubble up to the surface for no particular reason.
Now that I’m so closely witnessing the early stages of a new life, I feel as if I’m consciously storing away new images – scenes that already seem indelible even as I’m actively experiencing them. It’s as if I want Donovan and I to have a shared collection of memories from his early years in this world. And I want those memories to be good ones.
I also realize that I’m clinging to each moment as a defense against the relentless march of time. Just this evening I was reading bedtime stories to Donovan when I stopped and just stared out at his bedroom – the alphabet quilt hanging on the wall and the wooden toy box on the floor below, the green blanket patterned with elephants hanging over the side of his crib. This vision already feels like a memory because I’m hyper-aware of how quickly Donovan’s childhood is passing. He’s not even two and I’m already wistful for his toddler years. As boring as my day-to-day life as a mother may feel at times, I have an acute sense for how I’ll later yearn for the days when Donovan was my constant companion and it felt fully within my power to keep him safe from the perils of the outside world and shape him into a compassionate, intelligent, loving and likable person.
I think this is one aspect of motherhood that I’ll never fully adjust to – the simultaneous feeling of euphoria and helplessness that I feel as I see my son growing and changing, it seems, with each passing hour.
January 8, 2009
Imperfect is the New Perfect
I’ve noticed a pattern among my parent friends. Those with more than one child are so much more laid back about everything. I realize this is hardly a revelation. Once a person manages to keep their first offspring alive through the first year of life and beyond, it naturally inspires confidence in their ability to do it again. Toys with small parts for babies and toddlers: No biggie – their first kid choked half a dozen times and they popped the offending objects out of his/her gullet, no problem. TV before the age of two: How else do you expect me to get anything done? Peanut butter before the age of one: Hey, it’s a cheap source of protein and it’s easy. Fast food for dinner: Fuck it – I’m too tired to cook.
Those parents – and when I say parents, I mean mothers – who are still on their first kid tend to be much more anal. Only wholesome, organic foods may pass through their children’s lips. Was that toy car made in China? Holy shit, get it away from my son – he’ll die of lead poisoning! Plastic is the devil’s invention; babies put to bed on their tummies die of SIDS; playground sand is akin to a petri dish, and so on, and so on.
This fear-induced approach is only reinforced by most publications for brand-new parents. All the carefully studied literature provided by the hospital focuses on the seemingly endless risks posed to your infant’s safety and wellbeing. You’re constantly reminded of how helpless this fragile creature is, how utterly dependent on you for survival. You meticulously log the baby’s pissing, shitting, sleeping and eating patterns. You’re vigilant against life-threatening fevers or any other sign of illness. Once you’ve trained yourself to be obsessed with caring for your infant child, it’s hard to break the habit, even after the kid has successfully transitioned to rough-and-tumble toddlerhood.
Of course, all but the most hopelessly Type A parents manage to free themselves of this pattern eventually. We have to because it’s fucking exhausting. And again, the changing attitude is reflected in (or perhaps influenced by) parenting magazines. Now that I have nearly two years of parenting under my belt, I have a deep appreciation for the wry humor and resigned attitude of many mainstream parenting magazine writers. These stalwart editors reinforce my belief in these unassailable truths:
-All family meals should be fast and easy to prepare. (And going to bed hungry never killed anyone, particularly not picky eaters.)
-Every mom needs and deserves a spa day. Even if she went yesterday.
-God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.
-It’s OK to not love being a parent 100 percent of the time…or even 50 percent of the time. (Cuz it doesn’t mean you don’t love your kids.)
-Most husbands don’t get it. (Sorry, honey.)
Sure, there’s that part of me that wants to resist joining the ranks of proudly imperfect parents represented by Parenting magazine and somehow present my own thoroughly fresh and unique take on the subject. But I don’t always have the energy to be unique. And there’s strength in numbers.
December 12, 2008
I May Not Be Glamorous, But At Least I’m Clean
I’ve been reading a collection of essays by Moms (call it research) and a common theme seems to be wistful recollections of how much more glamorous these women were before they had children.
I like to fancy myself to be in the same situation. My ultra-low-maintenance “look” of jeans, t-shirts and sneakers? What do you expect? I’m a Mom. Can’t very well be chasing after a toddler in high heels or sullying expensive fabrics with spaghetti sauce and grape juice now, can I?
But who am I kidding? I was decidedly unglamorous long before I ever had a kid. Really, when you’re working a desk job at a casual dot-com without any serious corporate ladder-climbing (or romance-seeking) intentions, how are you supposed to dress? T-shirts and denim (designer, but still) has been my uniform for years now. Sure, I’d occasionally mix things up with high-heeled boots or a cute sweater, but that was about as exciting as things got. And the hair? Ponytail, more often than not. I hardly needed motherhood as an excuse to streamline my beauty routine.
I do pride myself on one thing, however. During the “dark days” when Donovan was a newborn, I managed to take a shower pretty much every day. I had read in some parenting book or magazine that daily showering was one of the things that brand-new mothers should assign to the “unimportant” column, being edged out by more urgent needs like sleeping (“whenever the baby sleeps” – what a joke) and eating (never had a problem with that one).
I have a different take on the topic. My advice to new mothers: Find a way to get your daily scrub-and-steam. A shower is one of life’s few pleasures that is completely innocuous (unlike, say, alcohol, bacon cheeseburgers and cheesecake), and it can be completed in a relatively short amount of time. No matter how shell-shocked he/she may be, your partner can manage a screaming infant on their own while you take a 15-minute break. We all feel better when we’re clean (and everyone around us tends to appreciate it as well).
