Motherhood Uncensored

I'd Rather See a Big Old Booby Than Smell Your Nasty Stench

Apparently you can fart it up, blow out the bathroom, clear gobs of mucus from your throat, smell like you accidentally drank four bottles of Eau De Drakkar, blast your stupid-ass whatever music out your ipod, and let your baby/toddler scream into my ear on a flight.

But God forbid you breastfeed.

In the back. By the window. Next to your husband.

Because they'll throw you off a plane.

Sign the petition against Delta here.

*And here's the best take on all this that I've read.

There's No "ME" in BABY

I vowed to never be the mom whose life became entrenched in that of her child. You know. "We're eating solid foods now!" or "We're having big girl poopies!" or "We have no life because our tiny baby has taken away any semblance of coolness!"

Um. Yeah. No thanks.

And then I had a kid. A needy one. Who wouldn't sleep, or take a bottle (thumb, pacifier, sock, hehe). And a husband who was working a lot, not so helpful, and just plain ignorant at times. And no family or friends or anyone really.

Just my dogs. And they were about as much help as my husband.

And so I lost myself.

Even still working part-time outside of the home for the first year of her life, I was deeply enmeshed with my child. I ran back from teaching a class to breastfeed her. I barely had time to plan my classes because I was busy trying to figure out the perfect outfit for her to wear in the bizarrely heated and cooled administration building where I taught. And while students gave presentations, I wondered how long I could last on that damn Thanksgiving diet.

I became resentful, not so much towards my child, but towards my husband and the world. Why did he still get to go to the gym? And eat regular foods. And sleep. I thought this was supposed to be glorious, happy, and enlightening.

So I decided that mothering was not fun.

Yes. I'm a genius with amazingly original realizations, eh?

I tried finding a hobby. And I knitted... booties and a sweater for my kid. I read books... about how to be a better parent.

So much for "fun non-mom related cool thing..."

And the lines between my child and I became blurred - not so much because I wanted to lose myself, but in a way, I felt like I had no choice.

Oddly enough, however, I never really felt like a mom. She cried and I went to her. She fussed and I picked her up. She smiled and I kissed and hugged her. And people called me her mom. But she never did. I was just... well... everything. Everything to her and nothing to me.

It really wasn't until I started blogging that I felt like a mother separate from my old personhood and my daughter. I got to share how much I thought mothering was hard, and stressful, and painful, and confusing. I started laughing again - even if it was at my own jokes. And I started having something to do that didn't really have anything to do with my kid; sure I was writing about her, but I was writing about mothering from MY perspective - the sarcastic, sometimes humorous perspective that had been sucked out of me.

Granted, it helped that she was mobile, talking, and forming her own separate identity from me. In a way, she allowed me some space in her own growth. When she became her own person, I got the freedom back as well. And we grew apart together - and in an odd way, that brought us closer as mother and daughter.

This post was written by request for reader Katie, mom of a 5-month old sweet girl but still in need of some reassurance that it does get better and that it's okay to think this whole mothering thing sucks sometimes.

So help her out people. What about you? When did you find comfort in your identity as "mother" or "parent?" And how do you find time for your own self separate from your child? Tell her it's okay to think it's not all peaches, cream, and poop smudges!

I'm Just Not Sure if I'm Going to Make It

I've been walking a very fine line of "just about to lose slight control on the grips of my sanity" and "convulsing on the floor in a Tony Soprano x 12 panic attack."

If you haven't figured it out yet, I have pretty decent coping skills.

But they are waning.

And I am slowly fading.

Putting her down for naps everyday and bedtime every night. Reading the same three Maisy stories two times a day. Feeding her almost every meal - or at least preparing it so they can attempt to do it for me. Struggling for a good 30 seconds to get my large pregnant body off the bathroom floor after her bath. Having to sit and put my large swollen lower legs up after only 1-2 hours of being on them.

And them. Yeah. Those people.

I'm just about to lose it.

But just when I thought I might climb out the window and attempt to hide on the roof, my daughter, my sweet sweet daughter FINALLY (for the first time EVER) decided that she did not need me to lay with her for 20-30 minutes while she fell asleep to take her nap.

No crying. No pleading. No throwing things at the door. No screaming bloody murder.

Just her in there reading alone for 2 hours until I finally offered her a big enough piece of candy post nap for her just to lay her little head down without mine next to it.

At least someone knows what I need.

Thank you sweetie. Thank you.

*We're trying bedtime too. Apparently, I have to talk to Santa and tell him she wants two dollhouses (that would be two more than I'd like in my home, however...). And a ghost marshmallow candy. Except it's now almost 11pm. And while she's not crying, she is reading books in the dark. Still. And playing with the fancy baby monitor that plays music.

That she knows how to work apparently.

Guess we'll have to start bedtime at around 6pm so she's asleep by 8pm.

I can handle that.

Progress. Thank God for progress.

And candy.

I've Looked at Parenting From Both Sides Now

I've been trying to put the "co-" in front of parenting for the last 2.5 years. I often wonder if my choosing to stay home and relinquish my status as a financially contributing member of the family sent the notion of co-parenting into total exile.

We could all list the reasons for what I've come to call "the great divide." Perhaps it's the importance of a job as it pertains to societal status. Or the lack of respect that mothering garners these days.  Or maybe, just maybe it's this "mother knows best" idea that we continue to perpetuate.

And so I have to ask myself, do I really want the "co" part of parenting? Or is there something inherently satisfying about "sole" parenting?

They call us when they cry. They cling to us when they are afraid. We know them best, we tell ourselves. THEY NEED US MOST. And without the "employee of the week you done good here's a raise and a nice dinner" award that many of our spouses might earn for their small or large achievements in "the office," it's how we pat ourselves on the back.

I AM THE BEST PARENT. YEAH!

But then what becomes of the other parent? Do we start to diminish their role? Do we roll our eyes at them with they suggest something pertaining to a parenting decision or want to try something a different way?

Is that really fair?

Chances are they feel just as insecure as anxious as we do, if not more, particularly when they're away a lot. The fear of being forgotten, or dismissed has to be horribly painful. But don't they love our kids just as much as we do?

Maybe they just need a chance.

Like when my husband told me that Q was hungry as she started screaming for her favorite CD in a rage that I had not seen in awhile.

"Maybe she needs a snack," he said.

"No," I replied, brushing him off. "She just ate lunch an hour ago."

Then I backpedaled as she devoured a full bag of crackers, chattering sweetly and fully returned to her former self.

Damn.

Or when she cried hysterically as we dropped him off at the airport (for the last time), screaming for him out the back window.

"Maybe she needs a nap," he said to me.

"No. She had a nap," I replied, sighing loudly.

Then she slept the whole way home.

So, maybe he's still got his inadequacies, and in some ways, he's got a long way to go. But perhaps it's not that he doesn't want to co-parent, but that I'm holding onto that "co" pretty damn tightly these days.

Am I so seeped in my identity as a mother now that I can't fathom her father stepping in and knowing our daughter just as well?

Maybe it's time to let it go a little bit.

Because she's got enough love for both of us. And our love, while different, is way better for her when it's combined.

*Thanks to Mom-101 for providing a perspective from the "other side."

An Open Letter to the 18 Year Old Receptionist at the Spa

Dear Miss:

Let me preface this by saying I'm pregnant. I don't get out much. And I'm living with my in-laws.

I know you don't know what any of those things are yet, I hope, and let me tell you, you shouldn't. Continue to enjoy what seems to be your obsession with post-Justin pre-baby Britney Spears. Because really, it's all downhill from there.

And clearly, that's saying something.

I realize that it must have seemed a bit odd, me waving you off as I decided to test what turned out to be overpriced room sprays...

ON MY WRISTS.

But let me assure you. I'm really not that uncultured or stupid.

Much to my horror, I had just been awakened from my 60-minute facial by some woman named Elizabeth claiming to be an aesthetician. Clearly, I had seen Johnny Depp rubbing my face. Smelling of clove cigarettes. And raw passionate sex.

In a nutshell, I was discombobulated and clearly out of sorts.

So, I thank you, with every pregnant breath I have, for not pointing out that I was indeed leaving the spa doused in "Summer Fresh" and "Lavendar Escape," your new line of aromatherapy room sprays, and for checking me out with an absolutely straight face - not even one eye roll or chuckle to be seen.

I'm not sure I would have had as much willpower. And for that, I admire you. You go with your blonde streaked hair, and brown-lined lipped self.

You won't hear any complaints from me.

Ever.

Sincerely,

That Pregnant Woman