You're never ready

When we were home for Christmas, DH, BG and I went out to breakfast with some (childless) friends. They fussed over BG, and she hammed it up, of course.

Then my friend's wife turned to me and asked me, "How did you know you wanted a baby?"

I took a sip of my decaf coffee to give myself the pause I needed to think of an answer. This woman had been making kissies at my child 5 minutes earlier. Last summer, at another friend's wedding, she had offered to hold the baby and then *disappeared* with her for ten minutes to "give me a break." I was surprised by the question, to say the least.

"Do you mean at all or now?"

"Well, either."

"Oh. Well, I've always pretty much known I wanted to be a mom. I mean, I was actually kind of afraid of babies because I'd never spent much time with any, but something told me that being a mom was what I was meant to do."

My friends and my husband laughed. "Yeah. We knew that when she was 15."

She looked at me and nodded. "Okay. But how did you know you were ready?"

"Oh. You're never ready."

She startled. "No?"

"Well, how could you be, really? I mean, until you do it you have no idea. I guess at some point, you just have to take a leap of faith."

"...That's really terrifying, do you know that?"

"Oh. Well, no, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, well, you figure it out as you go. You know?"

"But...doesn't it completely change your life?"

How do you begin to describe motherhood, or parenthood in general? How do you tell someone how wonderful and magical and horrifying it is? How do you explain that it is the hardest thing you've ever done in your life in a way that makes it seem attractive and appealing? How do you make someone understand that yes, it changes your life, and yes, it changes you but at the same time it doesn't stop you from *being* you? How do you reassure someone that it is possible to find ways to do what matters to you, but that what matters to you will probably drastically change? How do you say, "Hey, it's okay to be scared, but don't be scared"?

So, instead, I just said, "Well, umm, yes. But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

What if?

What if instead of making resolutions we couldn't possibly keep, we just focused on making every day the best day it could be?

What if instead of trying to lose weight or declutter the house or take a million photographs we just tried to be happy and to make those around us happy?

What if instead of worrying about the end of the holiday season and the beginning of the New Year, we just decided today would be an ordinary day, but that every ordinary day would be extraordinary?

What if instead of setting goals based on numbers or outcomes, we just strove to make positive progress towards the good, and to do that with every step we take?

What if instead of starting the New Year by pointing out all of our own flaws, we started by celebrating ourselves for where we are right now?

What if we all decided to sleep more, to laugh more, to play more, to give more, but we also decided that on any given day it would be perfectly acceptable to do none of the above?

What kind of a world would that be?



I'm linking up with Just Be Enough for Be Enough Me. Wishing you all a happy New Year, one that is filled with love and winning and most of all with hope.

And I'm me again

So, my MOMS Club activity for today was coffee at Dunkin Donuts. I didn't RSVP because with all the craziness I just didn't know how much I'd have time to do. Everyone who had RSVP'd had said "maybe," so as far as I knew no one was even coming.

But the worst that could happen was I'd have coffee and a doughnut with Baby Girl, right? And at best I'd get to hang out with mamas and talk and get out of my funk.

Well, actually, maybe that wasn't the best.

No one was there when I got there, so I got my coffee, a bagel, and a doughnut (umm, yeah, I'd eaten breakfast already. What? Don't judge! Did I mention BG is nursing *every hour* again??), and pulled the stroller over to a corner table. We were there for a while just eating and making eyes at each other before anyone came in.

I saw her walk in with the carseat in her hand, and knew right away she must be the new member who had just joined. I'd seen her name on the list. If I hadn't been there, she would have shown up to her first event and been all by herself.

For the next half hour, we talked (and ate). Her entire face lit up, and I could tell she had been in a place I had been not so long ago. She felt isolated. She felt trapped in her house.

She felt like suddenly someone had turned a light on and she had realized there were other people like her.

We talked about naps (even though, yeah, her 3 month old is a better sleeper than my 13 month old. Sigh), tummy time, sign language. We talked about story time at the library. I told her how glad I was that she had joined, how important it was to get out and see other people. She nodded.

She looked like she could suddenly breathe again. I knew that feeling. I knew it particularly because at that moment I realized I could breathe again. I remembered who I am, what I love, what I believe in.

Peace and purpose? May already be within my grasp.

Book Review: Purple Leaves, Red Cherries

Remember when I wrote my PR letter? Well I was mostly kidding, but that day I got an email from Tania Elfersy asking if I could review her book Purple Leaves, Red Cherries. And I'm so grateful.

To be honest? At first I was a little intimidated by the book. It's big, about 170 pages, and have I mentioned that it now takes me 9 weeks to read a novel? So, like most things I'm afraid of, I put it off. Then life got a little crazy, and I couldn't get to it.

Finally, I sat down, opened up the book, and read the intro, and I came across this:

We spent any spare reading time educating ourselves about child development and the impact of mothering on our children – on their self-esteem, their learning, their relationships, their ability to become well-adjusted adults. Yet we read very little about the impact of mothering on our self-esteem, our careers, our relationships and our ability to remain well-adjusted adults. (11)

And I was immediately in love.

Purple Leaves, Red Cherries is full of stories from real moms trying to tackle this motherhood thing. It is calming and comforting; it reminds you that you are not alone; it does everything that I want my blog and life to do.

The individual vignettes are short and sweet, which makes it the perfect book for moms who only have a few short moments of reading time to snatch at during the day. I read it quickly, hopping from one story to the next easily. It can also be read slowly, though, with careful reflection, and I hope to do that many times over.

The vignettes are divided into sections on such topics as "Beginnings" and "Relationships," and each section ends with space to journal your own experiences. My favorite section, titled "(In)sanity" contains such gems as these:

There was always hope that the next day he might cry a little less;
that I might cry a little less.(58)

When the most sophisticated thing I've done all week is eat dark chocolate; when piles of dirty laundry and unfolded clean laundry have become sites of volcanic activity; when once again I can't find anything to wear because even though it's winter outside, it's all four seasons in my closet; when the puzzle pieces are really missing; when I realize the only book I've finished in the last six months is one with 32 pages: When all this happens, I might just get lucky and capture a sight of all three of my children laughing and playing together. (59)

This book is one that is sorely needed by the mothering community. It would make a lovely gift to a friend, or to yourself. I'm so grateful to have been given the chance to read it.

I have also just found out that the the Kindle edition (which contains all the stories and connectivity to our online forum - ideal for moms of all ages and book clubs) is currently on special offer from Amazon.com now $0.99. Special prices for limited period only.

Disclaimer: I was given a PDF copy of this book to facilitate my review. No further compensation was given, and I will not be compensated if you buy it. But I think you should.

I don't give parenting advice. I give hugs.

I saw a post the other day for freelance articles about parenting. Part of me (the part that wants to do this writing thing in a professional capacity) wanted to jump at it. Then I thought about it for a second and realized I didn't have anything to say about parenting.

Wait, what?

Part of my goal for this blog is to help new moms who feel like they are all alone. If that's you and you're reading this, I want to give you a big hug. You're not alone. None of us are. The truth is, some moms have more skills than others. Some babies eat better or sleep better than others. None of this is your fault, and you aren't doing a thing wrong. And I'm so glad you found your way here, and I so want you to be part of the conversation.

But if you are looking for answers to your questions? I'm very sorry. I can't tell you how to get your child to behave, or eat, or sleep. Honestly, your guess is as good as mine. Better probably.

I've spent enough time searching the Internet for answers to know that there really aren't any out there. Or maybe there are some answers, for some people, but lemme tell you, I don't have any of them.

And the more I think about it, the more I start to understand who I am, and who I want to be. Yesterday I wrote about how I felt like I wasn't doing anything. Like my house was a mess and I didn't have a thing to show for it. Like I wasn't good at a single thing in the world.

But I am. I'm good at this. I'm good at comforting people. (...Right...?) My place in the world, my gift, my calling all have to do with hearing people and with helping them to see what is good in them. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has the ability to bring me back from the brink the way helping someone does.

The thing that I know, the thing that I am good at, the thing that absolutely fuels me, is my love and compassion. So, if I've ever helped you? Thank *you.* You're what keeps me going.

That delicate balance

I love being a mom more than anything in the world. I love that I am able to stay at home and to be with my daughter all the time.

But I love teaching too. A teacher is always a teacher. Sometimes the fact that I am not teaching makes me insanely sad.

From the time, Baby Girl was about 3 months old until the beginning of the summer, I was tutoring one or two hours a week for a test prep company. I’ve been working for them forever, so I know the materials inside out. I loved working with teenagers again. I felt smart and competent. Hubby got time to bond one on one with the baby, I got out of the house, and we got some extra money to have some fun with pay off our student loans.

Win, win, win.

Only not. Baby Girl started getting fussier in the evenings. Her separation anxiety dipped and then peaked again. DH started having to work longer hours. I started to feel overwhelmed by everything I had to do, and resenting that I “had” to work also.

The last night I tutored before the June SAT was a perfect storm. DH was late getting home from work, so we didn’t get to eat dinner together. I practically threw the baby at him and ran out the door, frazzled. I got stuck in traffic and showed up late, making me even more frazzled, only to find my student was even later. And hadn’t done his homework. And was drastically unprepared for his test because of it. Then I got home to a screamy baby, a messy kitchen, and a grouchy husband, and I declared, “ENOUGH!”

So I said no to the next two students they offered me. And then they stopped offering. And oh, man, did I miss it.

So, now, we’re coming up on the fall test season. I have two students lined up, and a weekend class once they’re done. I’m excited, and I’m also scared. I know it’s only a few hours a week, but what it’s too much? What if I get overwhelmed again? What if I can’t take it?

But I have to. Because I think if I’m not teaching at all, I’ll always be missing part of my heart.

You're all cheering for me, right?

In which I get myself some cake

I’ve always been better at taking care of other people than of myself. It isn’t the worst thing in the world. I really do enjoy taking care of other people. It makes me feel happy, and that’s the kind of self care I can get behind.

What I don’t enjoy is being a martyr.

I have a habit, a long running habit, of waiting for other people to take care of me. Of expecting them to jump in and offer to help me even if I didn’t ask. Of being disappointed when people don’t see exactly what I need, even when I’ve made every effort to hide it from them.

If you aren’t sure yet whether I’m completely ridiculous, let me share a story with you.

A few months ago, my husband and I were at a little market near our house. We were there to look at plants for our garden, but they also had the most beautiful display of baked goods.

If you don’t know this about me already? I like cake. A lot.

As we walked by it, I eyed up the cake. I slowed my walking, paused even, looking at it out of the corner of my eye. I stood there, waiting for my husband to say “Do you want anything?” or “Let me get you a treat” or “You know what you totally deserve? Cake.”

He didn’t. Of course.

So we left without cake. And I tell you that this happened a few MONTHS ago, so you realize that I still think about it. About that cake that no one got for me.
See? Ridiculous.

So, this past week I went to the Farmer’s Market for some lettuce. I went fully knowing there was a girl there who sold homemade cupcakes. And I bought myself some cake.

When my husband asked me what I got, I told him, “Oh, lettuce and melons and peaches. Oh and a cupcake.”

He got a puzzled look on his face, “Why did you get a cupcake?”

“Because I wanted one.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Huh.

Things I like about me

I’ve been trying to write this for days. It’s so hard for me, for so many reasons. There are days when I really don’t like myself so much, but even then I do know I have strengths. More importantly, I was taught (and not just by my parents, really, but by the world) to always be humble and demure and sweet and selfless. So to brag on myself? Unthinkable.

There’s more to it though. What if I woman up and write the list, and I’m WRONG? What if people read it and say, “uh, if you say so”? What if I make a total fool of myself because people don’t see me the way I see me?

Or what if they read it and don’t like me?

But I promised I’d do it, and here we are down to the wire, so here goes. I really had to resist deflecting each of these with a self deprecating joke.

I am kind. I try to treat all people with gentleness and respect.

I am compassionate. I genuinely care about the problems of others and do the best that I can to help them.

I am smart. I make jokes about being a nerd all the time, but I find it very hard to genuinely own and be proud of my own intelligence. I was a National Merit Scholar. I had a 3.9 GPA in college. I can solve puzzles, pick out themes in movies, do math in my head. I am smart and a woman. I am a smart woman. (This one was awfully hard for me to say, folks.)

I am not fussy about the way that I look. Truth? I don't care about things like clothes, makeup, and hair AT ALL. Sometimes I think that I should, that I need to be more of a girl, but really I'm glad that I don't.

I love. I love like it’s nobody’s business. Not just my husband and daughter (although I love them like Whoa), but so many people who have come into my life: family, friends, former students, random strangers..wait, what?

I am a good teacher. It seems strange to say because I’m not teaching now, but I know I still am a teacher in my heart. I can explain (almost) anything to anyone, but more importantly, I can really hear students and know what they need.

I can write. This is probably the hardest one of all of them for me. I don’t want to say it out loud, but I know that I’m a good writer. This is so much a part of my identity, and has helped me so much in my life. And now I’m even prouder of my writing because it sometimes has meaning for other people and so can help them too.

And truthfully? As much as I really do want to be liked, as much as I want people to approve of me and tell me I'm doing okay, right now I know, without anyone else telling me, that I can sit down and do something like this. And maybe that's Enough.

I also make a mean macaroni and cheese and some darn good pancakes, if you're asking.

Swimming lessons

Two weeks ago, I took Baby Girl to Swim Babies class for the first time. I had the highest of hopes and expectations, and when we got in the pool, she seemed to live up to all of them. She smiled, she laughed, she splashed at the water.

Then halfway through class, she had a meltdown.

A real, honest to goodness, if-we-do-this-for-another-30-seconds-we'll-both-explode meltdown. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, tears running down her face. I practically sprinted out of the pool. I walked the deck. I took her in the locker room and nursed her. She calmed down a little, but as soon as we got back near the pool, she started crying.

She was still crying when, in the locker room after class, I was trying to get us both dressed. How to get dressed while holding a wet, squirmy, screaming baby? If anyone knows, please share.

She was still crying when we walked out of the locker room.

"It happens," said the instructor. "She's doing fine. You just keep trying."

Thankfully, as soon as we got in the car she fell asleep. She slept the whole way home, and when we got here, I brought her upstairs in her carseat and let her sleep in the kitchen while I emptied out our pool bag. I threw the towels in the wash, and was about to wash our suits out in the sink when I realized her suit was gone.

Her very first bathing suit, which she'd only worn once, and which I had no pictures in. Then I had a meltdown.

First, I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried. Then I did something very unlike me. I sprang to action. I threw my sleeping baby in the car and drove the 20 minutes back to the pool, not sure I'd even be able to get back in, let alone find the suit. I drove faster than I should have, balancing my panic about losing the suit with the caution my sleeping baby girl provided. I held my breath at every red light.

But it was there. On the bench where I'd fought to get a diaper on her. It was such a relief I couldn't even describe it.

That day was such an adrenaline nightmare for me, I haven't been able to write about it until today.

Today, we went back for our second swimming lesson. I was filled with dread, certain it would be miserable. As I eased into the water, Baby Girl started to whimper. This time, she wasn't nearly so sure. She clung to me. She whined a little. I hugged her tight, and just went slow.

Then about 10 minutes into class, we learned the back stroke. I put her head on my shoulder and my arm under her back, and I held my breath.

Baby Girl looked around at the other babies. She kicked her feet. And she stopped fussing.

And at the end of class, as I lifted her up and down from the water, she looked me in the eye and smiled softly at me, as if to say, "I understand, mom. It's fun, really. I'm going to be okay."

Me too, Baby Girl. Me too.

My tiny guest blogger

Baby Girl wanted to write something today, and seeing as I never say no to her, the blog is all hers. Give her a warm welcome, okay? ;)

Dear Daddy,

I don't know if you read this, since you always tell mommy you think blogging is silly, but just in case I wanted to thank you.

Thank you for working so hard for so long so that mommy and I can be together all the time.

Thank you for giving me everything I could ever ask for, even when I have no idea what that is.

Thank you for kissing and hugging me every morning before you go to work.

Thank you for always letting me use you as a teething ring, even now that I have a tooth.

Thank you for tickling me and for blowing raspberries on my tummy. It's hilarious.

And thank you for taking care of mommy sometimes. I try, but I am only 9 months old.

Mostly, thank you for being my daddy.

Love,

Baby Girl

P.S. Don't tell mommy I can type in complete sentences. In fact, huiofheioprnqp;. There, that should throw her off.

12 cures for the pouty pouts

Some days I just feel pouty. This is not the same as feeling sad. It's not a deep, overwhelming grief. It's just that "I feel cranky and it's so ridiculous that even I'm sick of myself" kind of feeling. I'm pretty sure every human feels this way some time, so I put together a quick list of remedies that work for me, just in case I forget later.

1. Twitter and the #ppdchat mamas
2. Cranking up the music (I'm partial to TMBG. What? I like to learn.)
3. Dancing with my baby
4. Email or text from my best friend
5. Sitting in the sunlight (Yes, that's me sitting on my driveway with the baby on my hip.)
6. A fresh peach from the farmers market
7. Cats and kittens
8. Getting the heck out of my house (library? park? Target? WHO CARES?)
9. Doing something nice for someone else
10. Chocolate (Always chocolate)
11. Listening to podcasts/audiobooks (that have NOTHING TO DO WITH BABIES)
12. Blog comments :)

Anyone have any suggestions to add?

My super sweet lunch date

So, Hubby has off from work today, and he knows I have been feeling a little down, so he offers to take me out for a nice lunch. Baby Girl being the social butterfly she is, she is always well behaved in public, so a lunch date for three sounds perfectly reasonable, lovely even. So, I put some clean jeans on me a new dress on Baby Girl (because she is always better dressed than I am. Always), and we head out the door.

We are seated immediately at the restaurant, and all I can think is how lovely a day it is. We get to the table, I strap her into the high chair, and the waitress takes our drink orders (water for me, of course) and smiles at Baby Girl who promptly giggles and poses - does this kid know she's cute or what? Then I glance down at my shirt which feels wet, thinking oh man, did she spit up on me already? But it isn't spit up.

It's poop.

So, with only half a word to my husband, I grab Baby Girl and the diaper bag and jet to the bathroom. Now, this is the kind of restaurant where the bathrooms have pumps of scented soap. And a bottle of lotion. And hairspray. And mouthwash. You know, just in case.

And I'm in the biggest stall of the bathroom, with Baby Girl strapped to a changing table, prattling away to keep her from crying, and swabbing desperately at my shirt with a Shout Wipe. Only the poop isn't coming off, it's just kind of spreading. Now I have a giant beige wet spot on my shirt. And I have a change of clothes for the baby, but somehow she didn't get any poop on her clothes. Just mine. Thanks sweetie.

I go back to the table and quietly explain to hubby what happened. His eyes get wide and he asks if I want to leave, but I really don't, so I strap Baby Girl back into the high chair and look at my menu. The old ladies at the next table coo at her, and she hams it up. The waitress takes our order.

Then Baby Girl starts fussing. Hubby picks her up, but she just squirms. I try to hold her, but no luck. Finally I concede that she must be hungry.

Now, I'm a big breast feeding advocate, and I have no problem with nursing in public. I don't think it's offensive at all, and I am totally all for it.

Except, y'know, when it's my boob.

But I'm pretty handy with a receiving blanket, so I slide to the back of the booth and try to feed her. Only she won't latch. MY baby? Who would nurse every 20 minutes if given the options? Is this a pod baby? And just as the waitress comes back with our food, she throws the blanket off me in order to look up and see who's coming.

Once we get everything, ahem, covered again, she finally starts to eat and I realize that I can't eat a crabcake sandwich with one hand. Hubby tries to help. ("Should I feed you? Should I move your plate?") I sigh, and pick at some french fries, trying to secure the blanket and maintain an adult conversation.

Then, inexplicably, Baby Girl decides to scream at the top of her lungs.

And miraculously, hubby scoops her up. Walks outside with her. And I am sitting there, still collecting myself, when he comes back with an un-crying baby and slides into the booth next to me.

And, finally, I am able to eat my almost-warm crab cake and talk to my husband. I smile and look around and am so grateful to be there, in this lovely restaurant with the two loves of my life.

And, y'know, with poop on my shirt.

The good stuff

I was talking to a new, dear Twitter friend yesterday and had myself a mini-revelation. (Why does the advice come easier when it's to other people?)

I told her to try as much as she could to focus on the stuff she was enjoying so the bad stuff didn't get bigger than it deserved. And then I realized that all I've been thinking and talking about is the bad stuff. While it's okay to feel sad and frustrated and overwhelmed, and I don't want to pretend I don't feel that way, it's also important to remember and recognize that sometimes it feels great. I'm not just waiting for this stage to be over. I'm enjoying so many things. For example:

Instead of crying when she starts to get tired, she gets grabby. And sucks on everything. I can almost hear her say "mommy, I'm not tired. I just want to eat your face, mommy. Mommy, can I eat your face, mommy?"

She is a genius at blowing raspberries. Particularly on her daddy's face. Presumably because she knows how much he enjoys a good flatulence joke.

I can lie on the floor with a blanket over my head and say "Where's mommy?" and Baby Girl will crawl across the room, pull the blanket off and laugh hysterically. She totally loves me. And she's got that object permanence thing down. (I'm a nerd. A proud, proud nerd.)

And there are a million more things that I love and enjoy. That I enjoy even when I'm tired, even when I'm frustrated. When I feel bad, it's easy to think that I always feel bad, and that I always will feel bad, but it's just not true. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.