Some Days You’re the Rock

…and some days you’re the rock star. Most days, I’m the rock. I don’t do much but weigh things down. Or break windows. Or knock people unconscious. You get the drift.

Calling a mother a “working mother” is kind of like calling a vodka martini “an alcohol infused vodka martini.” It goes without saying that it’s redundant. A mother is always working. A vodka martini is always alcohol infused. That’s why the working mother loves the vodka martini. I digress.  However, when you love your job and feel a responsibility to it, being a mother and being a worker become more or less synonymous.

Teaching and parenting are rather similar. Both are incredible responsibilities. Both require that the individual care less about herself than about those to whom she owes the responsibility. The best educators are those who put their own wants – be they time or interest – behind the needs of their students. Most of the time, being an educator is part teaching and part den mother. I would say parent, but I don’t go quite that far. You have to understand when to give the tough love and when to give the leeway. Educating well requires the same attempt at making a connection that parents of teens work on day in and day out through the high school years. As an educator, some days are pound your head on a wall depressing. The days where the students ask you a question you’ve repeated the answer to for weeks. The days where only 5 students out of 20 hand in an assignment that’s been on the syllabus since day one because, “you didn’t remind us!” The days where you try to walk the student through something for forty-five minutes only to realize that the student will never understand, even if you contort your explanation like a Cirque du Soleil member to show all manners of understanding.

Being a parent requires much of the same. It requires that kind of unconditional love not just of the person, but of the job. Parenting is a job. It’s unpaid, kind of like a volunteer position. Only, you get to go home after a day at the soup kitchen. When you’re a parent, you’re always home. You’re always working. There are the days when you want to scream, run, hide. You want to find a beach and sit on it with frosty frozen drinks and little umbrellas. Only, you’re afraid that if you do that, you’ll use the little umbrella to poke your brain out slowly through your eyes. There is the incessant crying. There is the feeding and the sleeplessness.  There are the days where you leave the house to run an errand because you just can’t be in that tiny little box anymore with the ear splitting screaming, only to lock your keys in your car. You contort yourself and sense of self the way you would contort an explanation to a student.

Those are the days where I feel like the rock. The days where I feel useless and pointless. Those are the days where, no matter how hard I try, I can barely find the road most taken, forget about the one less taken. I start to wonder why I care about either job. I start to wonder if the students or child will even care. There’s a hopelessness that goes along with both.

Then, there are the days where you’re the rock star. You read through papers and find that the students did understand you. You see the light bulbs go off on their faces. They ask questions, and your answer makes enough sense that they say, “That’s why an outline is important!” You see a paper that a few weeks earlier you felt was hopeless and realize that you made a difference. You read a paper and have an uncontrollable urge to email the student to congratulate him/her. Those are the moments when you are more than a den mother, more than a coraller of cats. You are an educator. An honest-to-goodness, life changing educator.

Motherhood is the same. There are the days when the baby wakes up smiling.  There are moments wherein he gazes at you as though you are the most important person in the world. There are the days when he snuggles into your shoulder, and you realize that even if he doesn’t know what love is, he does love you. You get to watch him learn and get frustrated and problem solve. You get to watch him hold up his arms for you because even though he’s been with you all day, he just wants you to hold him. You get laundry done and get dinner made and have playtime and make a baby happy.

At the outset, both of these jobs feel overwhelming. They feel in conflict. You don’t want to ignore one for the other. You don’t want to trade off. You don’t want one to feel abandoned or feel underappreciated or feel unimportant. The two jobs seem so all-consuming that it is difficult to find the time in one day to be able to do both. Those are the times when it becomes frighteningly overwhelming and questioning, “What did I DO?!” becomes the mantra. How can I love both of these jobs so overwhelmingly much and yet so differently?

That is when the rock star days make everything worthwhile. A day like today, where I can read nine student papers including making comments on them, play with the baby, and take care of the household. There are the days like today where I feel in control – of my work, my life, my everything. There are days where I feel like Superwoman. Those are the days that I blog about. I blog them so that I can look back and say, “Yes, that day was real. That day was not a dream. It is possible to be the me that I want to be, even if it’s not all the time.” I don’t have to meet my self-expectations every day. I just have to meet them one day. I have to be able to look back on that day and know that it is possible to be educator, mother, and self.

Because, you know, then there are the days when the Diaper Genie eats your hand and leaves a bruise. True story.

Age Analogies

The Stock Market Crash of 1929 is to people in their 70’s

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Pearl Harbor is to people in their 60’s

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Segregated schools are to people in their 50’s

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JFK’s assassination is to people in their 40’s

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The Fall of Saigon is to people in their 30’s

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The outbreak of AIDS is to people in their 20’s

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The Fall of the Berlin Wall is to people in their teens

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9/11/02 is to kids born today

Section of Misfit Fans

Nothing entertains more than people watching. Nothing is more entertainng than people watching at a rock concert. Last night, Mr. A and I hit the Bruce Springsteen concert. Our fair little city of Hartford looked as though New Jersey circa 1984 threw up. Fascinating. Everything from the female mullet to the bad 1980’s cropped leather jacket replete with shoulder epaulets could be seen. First, the rules of concert going need to be discussed.

1) You do not, ever, wear the tshirt of the band to the concert you are attending. Even worse? Do not wear one from 8 years ago. It is possible to wear your new one while at the concert if you fear leaving it under your seat. However, I promise you, your favorite rock musician is not going to recognize you from the 2003 concert you saw on his/her 2003 tour of multiple cities.

2) The posters. You are not 12. There is no need to make a poster if you have the nosebleed seats. In fact, handmade posters are rarely, if ever, acceptable. I’m sorry. It’s just the way it is. However, if you do see fit to make one of these signs? Try to at least get the writing to be straight across and not at some weird diagonal that makes it difficult to read when the sign is held up. It’s called a ruler. My mom made me use them for poster projects in elementary school.

3) You do not need to dress from the era of the band. Grunge had lousy clothes. The 80’s had lousy clothes. As did the 60’s and 70’s. Bringing back those tight black jeans that you wore in high school with that cropped leather jacket and the teased hair is not going to magically make you 18 again. It just makes you look like you’re older than you really are. Even if you’re seeing The Boss? You will not be able to relive your Glory Days. Just dress your age and yourself and get over it. You’re old. Deal.

Now, as to our actual seats, they were high up but pretty good. The concert itself was fantastic. While I’m not a Springsteen fan, in fact I probably only know about five songs, I can recognize his musical and socio-political significance in American popular culture. In a world where music revolves around the amount of money that can be made and the glitz and glamour of the dance crew, watching old school rock and roll concerts is a treat. The older musicians bring a life to the stage that is based on the music, not on the dance party. With Springsteen, as with Billy Joel and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, the glitz comes from the music not the stage pyrotechnics. There’s something energizing about a concert that focuses on the music and the love of sound instead of on glitzy dance routines and light shows. When it’s the music that energizes the crowd, the crowd comes together as one large entity, regardless of age, race or creed.

Speaking of the crowd, let me introduce you to all of the various fans that sat in the Section of Misfit Fans. As great as the concert itself was, the people surrounding me were the greatest entertainment possible.

First, we had Superfan. Superfan was “that guy.” Y’know, the one who stood up through the whole concert, sang every word to every song (even the ones that the singer likes and the crowd hates which allows everyone to go for a bathroom break), and pumped his fist at the exact moment that the cymbals would go off. Superfan seemed to think that he was, indeed, the star of the show. All hail Superfan!

Next, we had the guy that Mr. A called “Human Statue.” I have to admit, Human Statue sat next to us and astounded me. I have never seen someone sit through a concert without moving. This man sat, hands folded in his lap, knees together, not even grooving to the beat of the music. Five times he moved, not including his bathroom break before the concert started. His idea of a fist pump of excitement was more like a limp fish of mediocre motion.

Thirdly, I have to mention “Air Guitar Guy.” This dude came to the concert in the band tshirt. That should have tipped us off immediately. However, oh no. He was a classic fan. Balding, nearly 50. Normally, I would have just ignored him. However, for about three quarters of the concert the guy stood up, playing one mean air guitar.  Not only did he do the rock arm swing of his imaginary strings, but he also had the fret finger action working hard. The man was a master of the air guitar.

Finally, we had the diametrically opposed “Hundred Year Old Lady” and the “Bored ‘Tweens Whose Parents Owe Them a Jonas Brothers Concert”. In front of us, about fifteen minutes into the concert, came an elderly woman and, presumably, her son. The poor older lady had trudged up the three flights of stairs on crutches. I give her a lot of credit. To come out like that, at her obvious age, made her one incredibly devoted fan. It must be wonderful to inspire that kind of devotion from people. It’s a testament to the music that someone would be so into the music that even though she was obviously finding it difficult to get to the seat, she still came to see the music. Of course, then across the aisle, sat the ‘tweens. These three kids looked beyond bored. One girl half-heartedly clapped to some of the music. The two boys looked as though having their brains scooped out with a melon-baller would have been preferable to suffering from the old fogie music. It’s great that mom and dad try to teach their children about what makes excellent rock and roll. Unfortunately, these poor kids were either overtired by 10:30pm or were just bored out of their minds.

Finally, there were the fans like Mr. A and I. We’re the ones who looked around at everyone and thought how old everyone was. Then, we looked at each other and realized, “Dear lord, if they’re old, we’re old.” We weren’t trying to relive anything. We weren’t trying to go back in time to a happier, simpler time. We were just there to enjoy some good rock and roll, in a concert where the average age had to be something along the lines of 40. 45 if you count the older lady sitting in front of us. Good times, good music, good fans. Is there anything better in life?

Suppressing the Depressing Depression

Some blog posts are vainglorious. They are intended to show off my life or my thoughts. Some blog posts are all about me. Some posts are meant to be used for my own memory book. However, after reading It Sucked and Then I Cried, I realized that not everyone is as lucky as I am or as that author is. This post is not for my friends, although you’re welcome to read it. This post is not for me, as I don’t think I’ll forget this time. This post is for the woman sitting out there googling “pregnancy”, “depression”, “postpartum” and who feels alone because she has no support system. This Bud’s for you, girl. You’re not alone. We’re in this together.

I’ve never hidden my depression or my anxiety. Am I proud of them? No. Do I wear them like a red badge of courage? No. Do I hide them and pretend they don’t exist? No. Friends and family are aware of them. When people ask how I lost weight, I note that it’s because I went off my antidepressants. My depression, originally, was situational. As anyone who’s been in law school would know, that’s a situation that can cause even the most lighthearted to want to jump, screaming, off the nearest cliff. When I sat on the floor of a bathroom in the middle of the night screaming that I wasn’t good enough for my husband? I realized I needed to do something. So, I did. It’s not like I trot this out at parties, “Hey everybody! I’ve been depressed! I’ve been on meds! Let’s dance to Vanilla Ice!” However, I don’t hide it if the conversation warrants it. I went off the anti-depressants about a year after law school ended. Situation concluded.

When we started trying to conceive, we had some problems. Again, nothing of which I’m ashamed but not exactly a way to introduce yourself to someone new. I ruminated greatly over why I wanted a baby and whether I would be able to live without having one. I had terms to come to and did. Therefore, as expected, when those two little pink lines showed themselves? I danced. I jumped. I screamed. Then? I freaked out. All normal. So far. However, then I started to feel The Beast. The Beast is big and black. A cross between a bear and the smoke monster from LOST. It’s all consuming. I began worrying about weight gain, focusing on looking horrible, and feeling as though I did not want to be pregnant anymore. For someone who worked awfully hard at getting pregnant, this was not normal. I knew that. My husband was worried. My therapist was worried. Then, week 13 came and POOF! I was me again. Obviously, the pregnancy hormones made me go all wonky. Note to self.

Second trimester was fine, mostly. Although, it was noted by my happy legal-drug providing doctor, that normal people do not leave their houses then drive back to them two or more times to ensure that the garage door did indeed close and did not reopen itself. In my defense? It does this. About once a year. And you can get into our house if the garage door is open. It’s a safety issue, man. A total safety issue. Of course, the compulsion to do this multiple times in a row? Ok, admittedly, not the most of the normal. Fine. I kept myself on notice that if the third trimester was similar to the first? I would go on anti-depressants. I met with the psychiatrist. We talked about it. He gave me the best advice I’ve ever received – “A happy mama is a healthy mama and a healthy mama is good for the baby.”

Third trimester. Where do I begin with the third trimester? As pregnancy goes, it totally blows. People told me I didn’t look that large, but man, I felt like a Weeble. Only problem was, while Weebles don’t fall down? I couldn’t get up – from a sitting position, from a squatting to pick something up position, from a lying down position. I hated it. I was hungry but then nauseous. My anxiety, however, started becoming out of control. I’d check the garage door multiple times or try to tell myself, “you’re being a moron – you saw it go down and stay down. You don’t need to turn around.” I’d go back multiple times to check things like the baby gate that keeps the dogs in, the house doors being locked, the location of my engagement ring at night. I would do these two and three times. In a row. In the span of five to ten minutes. People started asking, “aren’t you excited?” In all honesty? No. I wasn’t. I was scared. I’d be up at night thinking about how my life was going to change. I would try to work, and all I could think about was how nervous I was about everything. I’d lie to people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Yup, excited. Yup, it’s wonderful. Yup, it’s just the best thing ever.

Of course, the more I lied to people, the more anxious I became about not being excited. Shouldn’t I be excited? Everyone else was. I didn’t want to be a mother anymore. I didn’t want to have a baby anymore. There was no going back at this point. Shouldn’t I have thought about this before now? Like, 9 months before now? Why aren’t I excited? Aren’t all new-moms-to-be excited? Should I be more excited? I’m too anxious to get excited. I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to do it, don’t know why I chose this path. How could I have done something like this? I had already filled my prescription for antidepressants. I knew that I would go on them two weeks before my due date. I almost made it that long. The final straw was the morning that I sat down on the floor of the bathtub and cried while the warm shower water washed over me. I cried because I wanted to be excited but could only feel anxious. I cried in the shower because my husband was home, and I didn’t want to freak him out. I thought the sound of the water could cover my crying. Apparently not. Although, I give him credit, he let me bring up the breakdown. Knowing that sitting on the tub floor while showering is not a normal, rational behavior, I bit the bullet – or the little white happy pill, if you will. I started it at the half dose. I was supposed to up from the half to the full dose after a week. I decided to wait until after giving birth to go up to the full dose. Note: the hospital wouldn’t give me the antidepressant until the second day. I should have snuck the pill in since they told me I shouldn’t take anything they didn’t give me. I needed that pill that first night.

I sat awake for hours. I’d had the nurses take the baby to the nursery. I missed him. I worried about him. I walked down to the nusery to look in on him before going to sleep. Sleep that refused to come until 4am the next morning when I finally had them bring him back in. The following night, I asked for a sleeping pill. I managed all of six hours of sleep before the anxiety of him not being in the room woke me up again. I got home and promptly took my full dose of the antidepressant.

I knew that going on medication would mean that I couldn’t breastfeed. I was ok with that. In fact, one decision that I’ve made for my family that I’ve been most comfortable with was not breastfeeding. If it works for your family? That’s fantastic. It wasn’t for me. I knew that from before I got pregnant. I’m not nature mama. The idea of a child attached to my boob was not for me. The idea of sharing my body longer than I had to for pregnancy was not for me. I really wanted wine. And beer. And wine. I also knew that I wanted antidepressants.I wanted the antidepressant that I knew worked because I didn’t want to take any chances. That particular drug is one not around long enough for the effects to be clear. Therefore, I wouldn’t be breastfeeding. Hey, at least I had an excuse that the breastfeeding Nazis could understand, even if they didn’t like it. It was a great excuse. I’m not going to lie to you.

The first week home I don’t think would have been as happy as it was if I hadn’t made the decision to go on medication. I was happy. I enjoyed my son. I enjoyed changing his diapers and even partly enjoyed getting up in the middle of the night to hold his small body while I fed him from his bottle. Sure, I had a few breakdowns. That first day home, the dog yowled for five hours straight. I knew that the adjustment would be difficult. However, as every new mother must have, I had my visions of what being home, on my couch, with my family would be like. When the dog yowled and barked for five hours straight? I cried. I screamed. I hid in the bedroom. A few weeks later when we had another issue with the dog (which has since been resolved), I called my husband at work. I screamed. I cried hysterically for an hour and a half. I couldn’t take it. All of this while I was on medication. I cannot begin to even imagine the tantrum I would have thrown otherwise. Are medications magic pills? No. Do they solve all your problems? No. Do they erase any and all anxiety? Hell no. Do they, however, allow me to cope in a way that is mostly normal without my husband wanting to push me off the nearest cliff? Yes. If that is what they can do, then I’m all for them. I won’t say that I love being on them. I will say that I love the mother I can be because I was willing to take them.

Parenthood is excruciating – excruciatingly beautiful, excruciatingly hard, excruciatingly tiring, excruciatingly difficult, excruciatingly amazing. Life with a child is like seeing the world in hyper-color. Everything is more focused. Everything is more concentrated. Life is lived in two hour increments between sleeping, eating, diaper changing, and playing. Watching my child grow and discover is an amazing experience. Waking up in the middle of the night to feed him is a tiring experience. Walking him around for an hour while he screams his face off is a frustrating experience. I wait, some days, for the 8pm hour when he finally decides that he’s had enough of me. I count the minutes. I count the seconds. I put him in his crib and walk out, breathing a heaving sigh of relief that another day has passed. Then, about an hour later, I find myself looking at his pictures, wishing he was with me so I could snuggle him. I look forward to him waking up the next morning so that I can see his little toothless, old man smile. I know that after the first fifteen minutes or so the day will rapidly deteriorate to an endless cycle of feed, change, play, do chores. I also know that there are parts of the day, sitting with him while he sleeps on my lap, watching him find his feet, watching him stare up at me and look for me, that I wouldn’t trade for the world. By suppressing my tendencies, I have been able to chase away the racing thoughts and enjoy the times that are enjoyable. By suppressing the depression, I have been able to cope better with the times that cause me to want to run to the nearest hotel and never return. I know that I have a supportive husband, as well as family and friends. However, I also know that making decisions that benefit my family was difficult and that I will live with those decisions. My antidepressant medication doesn’t make me perfect. It makes me able to be me. The me that wanted to be a mom in the first place. The me that can look at my child’s poop-filled diaper after an hour of screaming because he’s been constipated, wipe his butt, and then tickle his tummy. Supressing my depression has allowed me to be the mom I’ve always wanted to be – one who tries her best whether I succeed or fail. I know that I have tried my best. And that’s the best that I can ask for.

And now, a gratuitous picture of said adorable child:

Sensing Censorship

Censorship. The word strikes fear into the hearts of Americans. In fact, the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States indeed indicates that to censor is to be unAmerican.The revered First Amendment states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

The definition of censorship is, essentially, “to censor.” According to dictionary.com, “censor” is defined as:

–noun

1.	an official who examines books, plays, news reports, motion pictures, radio and television programs, letters, cablegrams, etc., for the purpose of suppressing parts deemed objectionable on moral, political, military, or other grounds.

2.	any person who supervises the manners or morality of others.

3.	an adverse critic; faultfinder.

4.	(in the ancient Roman republic) either of two officials who kept the register or census of the citizens, awarded public contracts, and supervised manners and morals.

5.	(in early Freudian dream theory) the force that represses ideas, impulses, and feelings, and prevents them from entering consciousness in their original, undisguised forms.

–verb (used with object)

6.	to examine and act upon as a censor.

7.	to delete (a word or passage of text) in one’s capacity as a censor.

Censorship implies one of the most frightening abridgments of freedom – the removal of free thought. However, the question that must be determined is where the line between free thought and cruelty or disrespect blurs to such a degree that it can no longer be distinguished.

In looking at the definitions of “censor”, only one of the seven definitions discussed text and words. Censorship, in its most insidious incarnation, is the quashing of ideas and thoughts. This type of censorship creates a Borg-like mentality that stifles creativity and individualism. However, the censorship of ideas is not the same as the editing of language.

When ideas are expressed in a hateful or inappropriate manner, then these ideas are about something other than the individuals’ thoughts. These words are no longer about ideas but about emotions that may or may not be appropriate in a given forum.  To use language that maligns individuals or groups undermines the thoughts that the speaker or writer wishes to express.

Political pundits, and even the general public, seem to forget that freedom of expression does not mean freedom to spew cruelty, rudeness, and, in some cases, hatred. Politicians inflame people with this language as well. Neither side is innocent in this war of the words. However, while the thoughts may help the process, the words used to express them often hinder the process.

For example, Iowa Senator Charles Grassley, recently said, in respect to AIG executives,”But I would suggest the first thing that would make me feel a little bit better toward them if they’d follow the Japanese example and come before the American people and take that deep bow and say, I’m sorry, and then either do one of two things: resign or go commit suicide. And in the case of the Japanese, they usually commit suicide before they make any apology.” In addition, Robert Gibbs made the following statement at a White house press conference recently, “Well, I guess Rush Limbaugh was busy, so they trotted out the next most popular member of the Republican cabal,” Gibbs said, sarcastically linking Cheney to the conservative radio talk-show host.” Perhaps these statements were made to entertain or amuse. Perhaps they were made in all seriousness. The thoughts behind them are not necessarily incorrect or deserving of being edited. However, the words chosen detract from these ideas. The language of hatred – be it suggesting ritual suicide or implying a group of individuals were plotting against the government – undermines the legitimacy of both speakers’ points.

Watching the language a person uses is not censorship. Requesting that people argue their causes on merits instead of through the use of hyperbolic language is not censorship. Requiring a certain level of decorum in discussion is not censorship. These things are common sense. Censorship involves undermining thoughts. Civility in the expression of these thoughts and expecting said civility or regulating said civility is not censorship. Requiring that people treat those with differing opinions with respect is not censorship. These are the manners that parents have taught their children for years. These are the general rules of a civilized society.

This overblown use of language does nothing more than anger and incite. It is not productive. It does nothing to promote thought or encourage discussion of the ideas underlying the language. It creates division amongst beliefs. It creates derision between individuals. It harms society more than the freedom to share ideas helps society because it stimulates anger and hatred between differing ideologies. In a truly free society, individuals can express their opinions without fear of derision. In order to be free, people should not be asked to censor themselves but should have the common sense on their own to censor thewords they use in order to bring about productive debate.

Passage of a New LAW

On Friday, February 20th, 2009, at 4:49pm, a new LAW was entered into the books. This LAW received only local recognition, with no ties to any political party. However, it is the most important, most controlling law of my life – my son. (Yes, his initials accidentally ended up being “law” and yes, we are attorneys, and yes, we realize the irony…)

My doubts melted away in a manner of instants. Wholly unprepared for this, I entered a small room with a bed, table, rocking chair, recliner chair, and many medical gizmos. I cried, screamed, and desperately begged for an epidural. I focused on ejecting this little alien from my body. Brief moments afterward, I found myself launched into a whole new world. Emotions I didn’t think could exist flowed through me. Meanwhile, I still couldn’t feel my feet. God bless drugs.

I find myself treading emotional water. The first night in the hospital, I had me some grand plans. I intended to have the baby taken to the nursery, and from there, I would sleep one of the last good sleeps for a while. We called family; they came, visited, cooed. Exhausted, I requested that he be taken to the nursery. Adrenaline flowing through me, I sat awake. I emailed from my phone. I contacted students to tell them that class would be going online for the coming weeks. I contacted people and responded to congratulations. I prepared for what I hoped would be a restful night after the physical and mental exertion of the day. I found myself wondering about my son. I waddled to the nursery, gazed through the window like a visitor, and waddled back to my room. I tried to sleep. I tossed. Turned. Emailed some more. Checked my Facebook. Finally, I dozed for a few hours. However, I couldn’t stay asleep. Around 5am, I finally called to have my son brought back to me. Confused, I realized that the reason I could not sleep lay in the fact that he was away from me.

Wholly unprepared, I tell you. I looked at him, afraid to pick him up. I watched him. I actually thought of asking the nurse if it was ok if I fed him when he looked hungry. Then I realized that they would just laugh at me. I fed my son for the first time. I put him in the bed with me and held him. Wholly unprepared.

Visitors came. Visitors went. I found myself keyed up. Paying attention to every movement of my son. Looking at him for any signs of discomfort. Astounded that this little person belonged to me. I wanted to touch him, hold him, hug him, kiss him. I couldn’t get enough of him. He was like a drug. Powerful. Controlling. Gut wrenching. Mind numbing. Wholly unprepared, I tell you.

Again, I had the nurse take him away. I accepted the proferred sleeping pill to help me fall asleep. That night I managed six hours before waking and calling to have him brought back to me. I took him out of the bassinet. I held him. Stared at him. Wondered at him. Suddenly, I found my mind wandering. Thirty years from now, he will be the one who is a father. I will be in the position of my mother and mother-in-law, watching as the next generation is born. I looked at him and realized that this emotion was love. Not romantic love. Not platonic love. This love is…weird. It is powerful yet almost insidious. I looked down at my son. I began to feel this obsession about him. Not the unhealthy, boil a bunny type of obsession. The type where you find yourself wholly focused on the object in front of you, fascinated yet frightened, amazed yet giddy, awed yet proud. I realized, staring at my son, less than thirty-six hours old, that he will break my heart. This pain is inevitable. He will outgrow me.  This intensity will never fade on my part. I realize this. I also realize that some day he will not need me, will not require me for things. This is and will be my goal as a parent. That does not make the reality less frightening in its own right.

Wholly unprepared, I look at myself. My vision of the mother I thought I would be and the mother that I find myself to be are not the same. This intensity is so great that I find that I am unsure as to who or what I am in some ways. I viewed myself as a certain type of mother. The cool mom. The kind of mom who, while obviously devoted to her child, also recognized her own independence. I find that while still myself, I am a newer version. A 2.0, if you will. I now fear that I will be too intense in my feelings for my child. I fear that instead of being independent, I will smother. I fear that in trying not to smother, I will be distant. These were never concerns I had. These were never thoughts that crossed my mind in all of the things I worried about prior to giving birth. Wholly unprepared, I tell you.

Thus, with this new rite of passage, I find myself surrounded, smothered, and liberated by emotions I did not know existed. I find myself conforming to this new LAW and thrilled to be ruled by him. I find myself happier, and more frightened, than I have ever been in my life. However, I look forward to following the rules of this LAW and am proud to say that I passed this new LAW into the world.

Appreciation Day

Birthdays are retrospectives. Every year, it’s a chance to look back on the previous year and think about how life can change and evolve. Last year, I decided that since I hit thirty, I no longer felt the urge to celebrate “birthdays”, as such, but to celebrate “Appreciation Day.” It’s not just about not celebrating age itself. Although at the time, this was a motivating factor. Originally, the purpose was to allow other people to celebrate just how much they appreciated me and my wonderfulness (note: tongue is firmly inserted in cheek at this point) with gifts obviously accepted as tokens of this appreciation. However, this year, I think that maybe it’s time for me to appreciate everything in my own life.

Sometimes, taking a step back to recognize the things that should be appreciated is difficult, particularly in the moment. Last year at this time, I was hanging out in NYC, enjoying an evening performance of Rent, after a long day of museum trekking and meandering around the city. This year, we quietly spent the day buying a new microwave and leaving my car at the dealership for its appointment tomorrow. Living on the edge, no?  However, even in these quieter, more mundane days, there are a lot of things to appreciate.

My husband. Yeah, he doesn’t like when I blog about him. However, without him, my life would not be full. I would be living a half life, one that lacked friendship and humor, even if sometimes the humor is apparently at my expense. Even after nine and a half years together, I still feel the same sense of excitement seeing him walk through the door as I did the first time he picked me up for a date at my first apartment. I know that when he’s around, I am happy. I couldn’t ask for much more than that out of life.

My family, both by blood and by marriage. I have two great parents who I know would do anything in their power to help me. They love me and always support my decisions. I have been lucky enough to add to them two parents-in-law who have accepted me into their family as though I’ve always been there. I have two sisters-in-law and a brother-in-law who treat me as they would treat someone to whom they are actually related and not just stuck with because of their brother’s choice in wife. I’ve also been lucky enough to add to that family my brother-in-law’s choice of partner who is a woman I respect, admire, and enjoy being around. Not too shabby for an only child, if you ask me.

My friends. They have become my extended family, whether they are people I have met in person or not. I learn from my friends. Some have taught me strength. Others have taught me empathy. Some have become my sounding board. Still others have taught me how to knit. Whether I see them regularly or not, whether they live nearby or far away, they are part of the glue that holds my life together. I know that I can turn to them when I need emotional support or a stupid favor. They have helped me get through difficult times, have helped fix my computer, and have watched my dogs. I have known some nearly my whole life and others for only a short time in comparison. However, all of them have enriched my life in some way.

My dogs. Oh yeah. Come on, you think a blog post about the things that I appreciate in my life would be complete without them? No matter how insane they drive me, I know that they will always be a source of entertainment and amusement. On the days when I feel down, they know. They give me their undivided attention, well, unless there is a sock hanging around to chew.  JD has always lived a blessed little life, having come to us straight from the breeder. However, even with her little princess attitude, she still wants to just curl up and snuggle at the end of a long day. Looking at Max, I realize just how far he’s come in the little over a year he’s been with us. He follows me – either physically or with his eyes – no matter where I go. He snuggles my pregnant belly and has obviously bonded with Monkey Man, even before the little guy has arrived. No matter what happens, I know that these two dogs have made an imprint on my life and made me a better person simply for caring for them.

My job. I love teaching. I get frustrated with students, and myself, sometimes. However, I count myself as lucky to be someone who gets paid for doing something that I not only take pleasure in but from which I take a sense of personal satisfaction. I love watching my students grow and learn. I love working with them. I love knowing that I am instrumental in helping them learn to write and think, at least, some of the time. Even if I only manage to reach one student each semester, it is for that student that I continue to come back, semester after semester. It is for that student that I plan my lessons and for that student, whoever he or she may be, that I make sure to give all of my students my all. While it probably sounds a little hokey, and it is a lot hokey, it’s true. I love my job, even when there are days that I kind of don’t so much love my job.

My baby. Right, because you seriously thought that there would be a retrospective post this close to the imminent arrival of Monkey Man that wouldn’t include him? Last year at this time, I wondered if there would be a possibility of a child in my life. I worried about letting myself and others down because of things out of my control.  I wondered if my life could be full without the dream of a chid that I had had my whole life. All of that being said, now that his arrival is imminent, I’ve begun to wonder if I somehow have gotten myself into something that I am incapable of handling. That is, until last night. Little Mr. Kickypants has decided, apparently, that 1am is a great time to play Dance Dance Revolution. I’m not going to lie, it kind of stinks since if he’s awake in there at that time? Word on the street has it he’ll be awake out here at that time. Last night though, something happened. I started to rub my stomach and cradle it a little. Since I look like I have a basketball under my shirt, basically, I was hugging the basketball. In doing so? He stopped kicking. He calmed down. I’m sure that it has nothing so much to do with me personally; most likely, the movement simply jiggled him enough to float around and feel all squishy happy, kind of like going on a car ride and falling asleep from the movement. However, the fact that he responded to me made me feel as though, for the first time, we’re truly connected. I turned to my husband, a giddy smile on my face, and said, “it calmed him down…I really managed to calm him down.” I realized for the first time that while yes, this will be the most difficult challenge of my life, perhaps I am up to the task.

As a retrospective, my life so far is good.  Maybe the key is not asking others to appreciate having me around but to appreciate everything around me more.

The Apron Ties that Bind

In a lot of ways, this probably is going to be an unpopular post. First, I need to point out that yes, I consider myself a feminist. However, my definition of feminism is probably different from that of a lot of other women. I’ll jump on the women’s empowerment bandwagon. I’ll admit that I was thrilled to see women prominently figured in national politics this year (regardless of how I feel about them politically). However, lately, I’ve begun to wonder about how the United States views men.

Now, before posting angry comments about how women still fight for their rights on a daily basis, read the rest of this post. There is no denying that, in a lot of ways, women can still be seen as being behind in the workforce, socially, economically, or in many other ways. However, the problem is that in many ways, this is emblematic of issues with how US society views men as well.

The most wonderful part of the last nine months has been watching Mr. A prepare to become a dad. He’s dedicated. He’s excited. He kind of glows every time he walks out of the children’s section of the bookstore with yet another book that his soon-to-be-born-son won’t be able to appreciate for another, oh, two to five years. However, it’s sweet. It’s nice to see.

Parenting, however, does tend to focus on mothers and not fathers. A few months ago, we went to the obligatory “labor and delivery” class. While I appreciate that Mr. A is not going to be shoving a watermelon out of a hole the size of a pea, I also recognize that he is far more integral to this process than simply being a sperm donor. The class focused entirely on the mother, negating the idea that maybe the dads are nervous, as well. Dads were taught to massage mom, help mom, and give mom support. These are important. Moms in labor are, well, laboring. As one about to go through it, I do not doubt that certain expletives and promises about future conjugal options will be shouted in a very loud voice. That being said, new dads are just as nervous, scared, anxious, worried, and emotional as moms in the delivery room. No focus was given at all to this. In many respects, this is nothing but a symbol of how our society treats men.

Even further, when the hospital discusses the importance of “skin to skin” touch, the focus seems entirely placed on the baby’s ability to bond with the mother. Bonding between mother and child is important. No one can doubt this. However, again, why does no one point out that the same bonding can occur between a father and his child as well? Apparently, to many people, a man’s purpose is to do nothing but watch his wife and child forge a bond without him. Even further, all discussions about breast feeding focus on how dad can support mom. This is important, again, no doubt. Many mothers struggle with breast feeding. Many mothers need encouragement and support in order to be able to follow through successfully on their family plan. (Note: This is not meant to indicate a personal judgment regarding breast feeding or formula feeding. That is a family’s decision, and each family needs to make that decision itself.) However, the question that can be asked s whether it is wrong for men to feel left out while watching mother and child bond in this most intimate of ways. Yes, it is important for dad to support mom and baby. Yes, there are ways for dad to be involved, if mom pumps or the family decides to supplement. However, while men cannot biollogically be involved in this process, it again shuts men out of the parenting process.  Once again, men are shifted to the backseat when it comes to childrearing. Even worse? If there’s a carseat back there, it’s an awfully cramped backseat.

Look, for example, at the idea of paternity leave . First of all, unlike many parenting discussions for women, this particular one is filed under (if you look at the URL itself) “Business, Career Management” as opposed to Health. The mere filing of this article under “Career Management” implies thhat for fathers, work must come first. They must remain breadwinners. They must be the ones to manage their careers. Even articles that focus oh the role of men in the family see that role in terms of how it applies to work. Men often have to take vacation time or personal time in order to be at home with their new child. Paternity leave in several other countries gives men equal time (or at least the option of equal time) to spend with their children. This difference between how men’s role in the family is viewed and how women’s role in the family is viewed once again exemplifies how far American society has not come.

As a society, support abounds for working moms. However, what about working dads? Working dads may be just as frustrated and upset about not spending time with their children. However, as a society, Americans do not seem to care. Yes, many articles are written for women about how to balance work and home . However, while the paternity leave was the third article under a search for “paternity leave”,  the suggestion that women be able to bring children to work was the fourth article under a search for “maternity leave.” Women are encouraged by society to integrate the two. If they are not encouraged, at least society views it as a potential opportunity someday down the line. Men, in this society, are viewed as ones who should still put career first and family second. Women are shown ways to attempt to have it all, if they can (which often they find they can’t).

Stay-at-home dads are treated, often, as second class citizens. Some women have complained about how others treat their husbands or significant others who choose, for whatever reason, to stay home with the baby. While women may pressure other women about whether to work or stay home, society, in many ways, gives women an opportunity to choose. Men, often, are not presented with this opportunity. Women are not rejected in society for choosing to stay home. Men often are. None of this is to say that women are not pressured, by themselves or others, to choose to stay home, even when it is not potentially the right decision for them. It is, however, to say that women have support networks readily available to them that men do not have.

This societal pressure on both genders inherently inhibits equality. As long as men are treated as the traditional breadwinners, women can never truly be equal. As long as society continues to view men’s role as subservient within the family structure, men will continue to be frustrated by what they cannot – be it physically or financially – do. If men are treated, socially as opposed to within the individual family unit, as second to mothers when it comes to child rearing, women will continue to face the uphill battle that they have been fighting for years. The key to true equality is to allow choices for both genders. Women should not have to fight alone for equality in the workplace, and men should not have to fight alone for equality in the home. Men and women need to understand that for either gender to be fully accepted as humans in their own right, they need to work together. Men and women need to fight for equality equally. Until that time, women will have a stigma attached to them in the workplace, and men will have a stigma attached to them at home. These are the apron ties that bind society to ideals of family and mother/fatherhood and keep it from growing and evolving.

Doubtfully Doubting

For the most part, this blog has remained a pregnancy-free zone. Why? For a lot of reasons. First of all, pregnancy is fairly boring. The nearest analogy I can make is that it’s like having a combined case of mono and the flu for nine months, with a twist of Sigourney Weaver in Alien thrown in. Second, and potentially more importantly, some people have a hard time reading about pregnancy if they are trying to conceive and it isn’t going well or if they have had problems in pregnancy. Since I hate to sneak attack on people, I didn’t want someone to have a bad experience coming here. Third, it mostly makes me cranky or whiny, neither of which make for fantastically readable posts. Some women revel in pregnancy. I am not one of those women. If you’re looking for a super glowing account of how intensely wonderful an experience being pregnant is, how it makes you feel connected to the universe, and how it was the best 9 months of your life? This probably ain’t the post for you.

Overall, pregnancy, for me, has been more like law school and taking the bar exam. The prize is being a mom. In order to get to the end result, I’ve endured the trials and tribulations in the in-between times. Pregnancy is the necessary evil preceding my (hopefully!) joys of motherhood.  However, this blog is partly my own diary for myself, so I feel the need to indulge a little bit. If you choose not to read this post, it isn’t going to hurt my feelings or make me feel bad. It’s more my final reflections as the end of days draws nearer.

First and second trimester were, to put it mildly, interesting. The first trimester is mostly what people say it is. You feel tired. You feel overwhelmed that something is growing inside of you. Half the time, you spend daydreaming about the baby to come. The other half of the time, you start thinking to yourself, “Ohmygod, what was I thinking!?!?” Labor and the sleepless nights preoccupy your mind on and off. For the most part, the first trimester is a time of anxious waiting. Any time during the first trimester all sorts of horrific things can occur. Every day, you wonder, “is this the day something is going to go wrong?” You go to the bathroom and wonder if you’re going to see the tell-tale signs of a miscarriage. You feel every cramp that comes with the stretching of everything inside of you and wonder if this is really going to “stick” or if something is going wrong. You question everything you eat and drink. It’s amazing what you find out kills babies. It’s even more amazing that mothers have had babies for years and years while eating blue cheese, drinking caffeine, and sucking down on sushi. You probably start to gain weight, just enough to not fit into your pants, but certainly not enough to begin to look pregnant to anyone but yourself. You wait impatiently for those monthly appointments so that you can hear the heartbeat, feeling nervous and barely able to sleep the night before. You don’t always hear the heartbeat at the first one and need an ultrasound. Those few minutes in between being told the little lima bean shaped cells are hiding and seeing them pulsate on the screen are some of the most frightening minutes I’ve ever experienced. It’s at this point, I realized that I was attached to these little dividing cells that looked more like a legume than a person.

The second trimester is a lot better. You’re not nearly as tired. You feel almost normal. If you’re in tune with your body, which I’m not, you’ll realize that those little bubbles you’re feeling aren’t gas but the baby moving. The day you hit that magical 13th week where the risk of miscarriage decreases exponentially, you breathe a short sigh of relief. Of course, this is only for a brief moment in time. You still have a lot of tests over the next three months that will make you want to vomit anxiouslywhen you think about them. There’s genetic testing, the big ultrasound, the glucose testing. With each test that passes, you feel comfortable for a few moments. Then the next one brings waves of anxiety again. You might find out the sex of the baby, as we did. I’m not sure that I’ll ever forget lying on that table for an hour, having to go to the bathroom like crazy, with the little guy swimming in there like a salmon trying to go home. I’ll also never forget the moment the technician told us we were having a boy. I fist-pumped the air so hard, I nearly fell off the exam table. Yes, I wanted a boy. I won’t lie to you. I’d have been thrilled with a girl. However, teenage girls scare me to death. I’d have spent the next thirteen years waiting for the other shoe to drop and waiting for her to scream at the top of her lungs, “I HATE YOU!”  I can’t lie. Not having to explain your daughter’s first period? Kind of one of the wonders of having a boy to me.

However, in the third trimester, you’re approaching the finish line. You can see that plate of blue cheese or that beer or whatever you’ve been craving that you shouldn’t have while pregnant. You can almost taste it. You can see your body becoming your own again. Simultaneously, your body becomes less your own. Some women liken the feeling to being a beached whale. Personally? I feel more like a broken weeble – I weeble and I wobble, but I often can’t get up. Some people say you look huge, others say you don’t look pregnant still. You feel like you stuff a basketball up your shirt. The skin hurts. Your hips hurt. Your groin hurts. You start to notice that your stomach appears to have the ability to actually click the mouse clicker on your laptop and you find yourself accidentally flipping between screens on the computer. Stretch marks start to appear. Your shirt magically becomes wet sometimes. If you’re like me, it might kind of gross you out. I’m not good with bodily fluids. Like I said earlier, if you’re looking for a glowing report on the amazing joys of pregnancy? This isn’t the post for you.

This is the point at which all of those “Oh sh!t” moments from the first trimester come roaring back. This time, however, the thoughts are not just these vague abstractions. You’re feeling real kicks. You’re knowing that there’s definitely something in there. You can’t just explain it away as gas. Sometimes, it feels like someone wedged a tennis ball between your ribs. Sometimes it feels like some one is punching your spleen or liver or kidney as though it were a punching bag. Sometimes, it’s just a tiny hello tickle. You might find yourself talking to the baby, at times. You start to realize that in a few weeks’ time, this won’t be cute anymore. It’ll just be creepy because you’ll be talking to yourself.

Then come the doubts. If you’re prone to self-doubt, this might be a huge time of self-reflection. For me, the doubts come at the quietest, contentest moments. Sitting on the couch with the husband or dogs, I find myself thinking, “Ohmigod. Life is never going to be like this again. What was I thnking. I really like my life. I like having money to spend on the things I want when I want them. I like being quiet at night. I like sleeping in on a Saturday or Sunday. I like taking afternoon naps. What was I thinking?!?!” Other times, I find myself wondering, “Can I do this? I’m not a nice person when I’m sleep deprived. I yell, scream, have tantrums. How am I going to be able to deal with a small, crying, needy person? I can’t even pay attention to my dogs for more than 20 or 30 minutes at a stretch. How am I going to be able to handle having a tiny person who needs me constantly? How am I not going to lose my mind? My patience? My sense of self?” The doubts don’t roll through slowly or silently. They roar through like an oncoming train, and I’m tied to the train tracks, similar to those old silent films. However, who can come to save you from your own mind?

You have moments, too, when there’s a calm. When life is like a snow day, the silence falls over your mind and you imagine the baby in your arms. You start to see what your emerging family might look like. You realize that those feelings of your life being incomplete in some indefineable way are about to melt away. You can sense that there’s something more, that something is coming. This isn’t like waiting for a hurricane. It’s almost like waiting for Santa when you were a kid. You’re excited. You can’t sleep. You can daydream, but you aren’t entirely sure what you’re getting.  Other people have done this; you can, too. Other families seem content; you will be, too. Maybe, just maybe, all of those things that you thought were so important for so long really weren’t that important. You start getting the room ready. Maybe you paint (we didn’t). You put up pictures. You put together a crib. You move furniture. You start to wash (or think about washing) the tiny clothes that you pull out of bags. You take out bottles. You fold tiny hats, tiny shoes, tiny everything. You can imagine, to an extent, what is coming. You look around and realize that the room is not a spare room anymore. It’s increasingly ready for a small person to live there. The room may be ready, but are you? It’s not a false sense of security into which you fall. It’s a sense of calm. The moments where everything in life seems to move in slow motion. You look back on the past months. You look back on the past years. You look back on your life.

You may be doubting yourself. However, at the same time, you begin to doubt your own doubts about yourself. The third trimester is confusing because the unknown becomes more unknowable while also more real. The upside is that it’s final countdown to wearing real pants that have a waistband, button, and zipper again.

A Year to Remember

Every holiday season, memories of the past year wend their ways across the mind. Sometimes, they bring with them positive associations. Sometimes, negative associations come with them. Sitting on the couch on both Christmas and New Years’ Eves, I began reliving all the best and worst that the past year had to offer.

As the snow and freezing rained poured down upon the house this past Wednesday, I began to review this past year’s blogs a bit. Ironically, 2008 both opened and closed with that type of quiet snow that covers just enough of the dirt to make the world look clean again. Interestingly, last year the snow created a much needed new beginning.  A new year meant new possibilities and new hopes. This year, the snow brought an end to an era and covered up all the old frustrations in certain areas. It is fitting closure that the snow should both cleanse 2008 on its way in and cover up the past on the year’s end.

2008 included the knitting of my favorite scarf pattern, the beginning of a new decade with a trip to NYC, learning how to spin, weird encounters in bars, and an ode to Mr. Monkey. All in all, regardless of disappointments, the joys and thrills won out. 2008 is definitely a year to be remembered.

2009 will be a year of change and challenge, no doubt. Looking forward to the newest addition, a stew of arrangements, fears, joys, excitements, and anxieties simmers away.  I can only hope that we manage to meet these challenges with grace and aplomb, albeit most likely mixed in with a wee bit of neurosis and chaos. However, two years in a row that are worth remembering is the kind of wonderful experience not too many people are lucky enough to have. I realize this and await these memories to come with joy.

Of course, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

JD the Abominable Snowpuppy

Max the Abominable Snowpuppy