SOC Sunday: I don't understand

I don’t understand how some people think it’s easy to make connections.

People with full social calendars who meet someone at a grocery store and immediately know everything about them, including their phone number and the best time to plan a playdate.

I don’t understand people who think it’s easy to go out, to pick up the phone, to get on G+ and pour their hearts out to strangers face to face.

I don’t understand vlogging.

(And I don't understand why the "h" key on my keyboard keeps sticking, but that's really beside the point.)

I am confident in my choices, in the power of the written word, in what I’m doing here and in my own comfort level with sharing and connecting.

So I don’t understand why I feel jealous when I see other people doing it differently.

I don’t understand this feeling in my gut of shame, that I’ll never be good enough or real enough or loved enough unless I can put myself out there the way other people do, the way I’ve accepted is something I’m just not interested in.

I don’t understand why this hurts today, why I’m so afraid of being left behind, where exactly it is I’d rather be than here.

On blogging and belonging

When I first discovered blogs and blogging I was all alone.  I didn't know a lot of moms in real life, and I was sure I didn't know anyone who felt like I did.  And then suddenly I did.

I read these blogs - mid level blogs, I guess you'd call them, not tiny like me but I never once read Dooce or the Blogesss - and I fell in love.  I wanted to read all their words, leave them meaningful comments, join their lively conversations on twitter.

I wanted to be their friends.

The Internet is a strange place.  It makes you think you know people when you really don't.

Some of them were extremely sweet and patiently answered my emails and tweets.  But not all of them.  And even the ones who did, I quickly realized, were being polite and didn't really care that much what I had to say.

I was crushed.  I was humiliated. I was angry.  I was heart broken that they didn't like me as much as I liked them.  I thought for sure it was because I wasn't good enough, wasn't big enough, was a crazy annoying stalker, didn't deserve their friendship.

But I see now that isn't what it was at all.

You never really know what's going on with someone.  You don't know how busy or overwhelmed she is, how much pain she is, what her limitations are when it comes to socializing and communicating.

And people flock to who and what they know, especially when they're struggling.  You can't fault a person for talking to her best friend instead of to a stranger.

And over time I built up my own community on twitter.  People who I consider some of my best friends in the world.  And I still follow and read and admire some of those bigger bloggers.  But they aren't the first place I look anymore.

But I worry.  I still remember that feeling, of just wanting a place to belong.  I see people who think I'm "big,"  who leave me comments and tweets because there's something they're looking for too.  And I wonder how it is that I come across, whether I make anyone feel more alone than when they started.

I dont' want to let everyone down.  I want to spread kindness to everyone.  And I'm trying, even when I'm struggling, even when I'm overwhelmed.

But the Internet, it really is a tricky thing, isn't it?

Not that kind of mom

A few weeks ago, I was at a playgroup and all the moms started talking about the Easter baskets they'd already put together for their toddlers. They were so excited and giddy as they discussed and compared notes.

I? Hadn't even thought to make one for Baby Girl.

When it comes to teaching kindness and empathy? I'm a rockstar. Sign language and language development? I own that. And as for my love? Well, nothing is greater.

But birthday parties, scrapbooks, art projects? Not so much.

Which isn't to say I don't try.

In the past two weeks, I've bought finger paint. I made window painting bags. I made homemade playdough. I made a freaking sensory bin, even though I still don't really get the point.

And every time, her response was the same. "Mmm, no thanks." Or at least that's what I imagine she's saying as she wanders off to scrub my windows with a baby wipe.

I really want these projects to work, for a lot of reasons. The day at home is really long, and I need ways to fill the time. I love the idea of teaching her to be artistic, of helping her develop multiple intelligences. But most of all? It's because they look fun.

You know, in theory.

In reality? I just don't get it. I hate doing it. I resent it. And then when she doesn't even like it, I get angry. I'm just not the right kind of mom for those things.

And that's okay.

But it doesn't always feel okay. Sometimes I feel like I must be missing a gene. Other stay at home moms do such great things with their kids, and I just can't. And it's not so much an issue of my baby missing out. She's fine. Happy as a clam.

It's me. I want to get excited about things the way the Pinterest mamas do. I want to enjoy being with my daughter. And when I don't, it makes me sad.

But I know in my heart that more projects I hate aren't the answer. I know that all I can do is be the mom I am, no matter how much I wish I could be that kind of mom. Does that mean I won't ever look again? No, I'm not that fast a learner.

But.

This morning in her high chair, my Baby Girl signed "bunny."

"Where's the bunny?"

She pointed at the window, so I walked over and looked out. And she started laughing hysterically.

I turned around slowly, with one hand on my hip. With a twinkle in her eye, my tiny comedienne patted her leg, said "Do(g)!" and pointed at the window again, busting a gut as I turned to look again.

This game? I could play all day.

Those mean ol' library moms

The first activity BG and I ever went to was Baby Book Nook at our local library. She was about 8 months old, and I thought it was a Godsend.  Every Wednesday morning, a 20 minute story time targeted directly at 0-2 year olds?  She would be stimulated, entertained, and educated; I might even make friends.   Ahem.

The first time I went, I was kind of disappointed.  The librarian did a nice job, but most of the kids were older. BG didn't care about it much.  But the worst thing?  The moms were cliquey.  No one talked to me.

I was sure it was just because I had never been there before.  They just needed time to get used to me.  So I started going every week.  I got upset when I missed one because I thought that would set me back.  Even when we started swimming lessons on Wednesday mornings, I tried to go to both.  Over time, they started to nod at me when I came in.  I thought my heart would explode with joy.

Then I found my MOM's Club.  I liked them.  I went to playgroups, and sometimes that meant I missed story time.  Then we started traveling.  I missed more. Soon I hadn't gone to story time in months.

This morning, I looked at my calendar and decided to go to the library.  The way I remembered it, it was lovely.  It was another place I belonged.

Except when I walked in the door, those mommies looked at me like they'd never seen me before.   It hadn't been that long.  I remembered them.

BG sat on the floor like the good girl she is.  She stared blankly while we sang "If you're happy and you know it."  She only half smiled when I tickled her.

Then, during free play time at the end, she stood up and walked straight out the door of the meeting room.  She paused to see the fish, checked the bookshelves, then walked to the elevator. 

I hear you, sweetie.

I'm afraid

Just in case you were starting to think that everything was bright and beautiful in mommyland around here, I want to tell you. I’m having a bad day. I know it’s just a bad day, I know it’s just a bad mood, but in this moment it feels like everything is crashing down. It feels like my progress isn’t real. It feels like I’m all alone. And I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that people don’t like me as much as I like them.
I’m afraid that I’ll make a fool of myself.
I’m afraid that I’m a bad mother.
I’m afraid that I’m a bad wife.
I’m afraid that I’m a bad friend.
I’m afraid that I’m a bad writer.
I’m afraid that I’ll look like I’m trying too hard.
I’m afraid that the things that I do won’t matter.
I’m afraid that I’m wrong to think they *could* matter.
I’m afraid that if I’m honest, people will not like me.
I’m afraid that if I’m not honest, they’ll see right through me.
I’m afraid that this will never get better.
I’m afraid that all that’s left to be wrong is me.
I’m afraid that I complain too much.
I’m afraid that I lie to myself.
I’m afraid that I care too much about being liked.
I’m afraid that means I’m not a “person of substance.”
I’m afraid I will never fit in.
I’m afraid that I shouldn’t want to fit in.
I’m afraid this will sound like I’m fishing for compliments or desperately seeking approval.
I’m afraid that I am.
I’m afraid that I won’t get it.
I’m afraid that the wrong things matter to me.
I’m afraid that it’s my fault.

And right now? It doesn't matter if any of this is true, if any of it is real. It feels real. It feels true. And I'm struggling.

And? It might be okay that I'm struggling.

Before I was a mom

It has been brought to my attention that a good 29.5 years of my life occurred prior to the birth of my daughter. (I know. It came as a surprise to me too. Hasn’t she always been here?) So, I thought it might be fun to share with you some vignettes from that other, foggy part of my distant past so that you can get to know that part of me too. I don’t know how regular a series it will be, but whenever I think of them I’ll share. I’m beginning in roughly reverse chronological order, mostly because that’s all I can remember.

I.
I started a long term sub job when I was already 10 weeks pregnant. By the end of my 3rd week of teaching, one of the senior girls asked her teacher-mom if I was pregnant.

“Why would you say that?” asked the mom, genuinely confused because I certainly wasn’t showing.

“Because she’s wearing those elastic pants, and her boobs are huge.”

Oh. Well then.

II.
My last year teaching full time, I told my freshmen that my two biggest pet peeves are when people use “literally” and “ironically” incorrectly. For the rest of the year, every single thing I said to them was “literally ironic.” Well done, freshmen. Well done.

III.
I advised the Honor Society. My seniors were sitting around one day talking about torturing their calculus teacher.

“Guys,” I said, “that’s just not okay. You need to learn how to behave like adults. I mean, there are people I don’t like, but I act professional about it.”

“Wait,” they said, “there are people you don’t like??”


IV.
When my husband was writing his dissertation, I proofread it practically constantly. I read the dense engineering text probably 100 times. As such, in his acknowledgements, he thanked me for my careful proofreading.

Except, technically it said “I would like to thank to thank my wife for her endless hours of proofreading.” Oops.

Blogging despair

I blog because I have things in my head that I need to get out.

I blog because I like to write. It is probably the hobby that I enjoy the most.

I blog because I love making connections with other bloggers and being part of a community.

I blog because I hope that sometimes the things I say might help other people.

There is a voice in my head, though, that asks me, Is it enough?

I mean, it’s certainly enough of a reason to spend 15 minutes writing a few days a week. And whether I blog or not, I am likely to continue reading and commenting and interacting on twitter because those are things that bring me a lot of joy.

When all the cool kids were at BlogHer? I may have joked a bit on twitter about how jealous I was, but it really didn’t bother me. That wasn’t something that was for me. I don’t care about the parties, and the swag, and while I would like to meet people? Most of the people who were there seemed to me to be in a class above me. (And I know, I know, you’re going to tell me that’s not true. That I can run with the cool kids. You’re sweet. But no.)

But then I started reading people’s BlogHer recap posts. Or mostly not reading them. Because the more I read, the more resentful I started to feel.

And then I read Robin’s, and I was so happy for her. Truly. But I realized that I want to find a purpose like she did. I want to know how to do this thing that my heart is telling me to do. I want to make this something that matters.

And then I read Diana’s, and my heart broke for her. Because I understood, so deeply in my heart what she was struggling with. And if someone as amazing as Diana could feel like she wasn’t doing anything when her blog reaches so many people every day, then what the heck was I doing?

And then I found out that Robin was going to speak at Bloggy Boot Camp next year. I don’t think there’s anything I have wanted more in a long time than to hear Robin speak at Bloggy Boot Camp. And I wanted to tell her to come to the city closest to me. But then I realized that even if she did, there would be no way I could go. There’s no way I could justify it. We don’t have the money, I don’t have the time. The people in my life, including my husband would think it was silly and frivolous.

I would think it was silly and frivolous.

And I start to feel like, what’s the point? I know it’s not about the money, and I don’t want it to be about money. But at the same time, if this blog could make a little money, it would be so much easier for me to take it seriously. To take myself seriously.

Even without money, if I could feel like I had a purpose here, like I was genuinely making a difference, I’d feel better about pouring my energy into it.

But right now? What am I doing here? Am I just playing? Am I begging for attention? I am stuck in this awful loop where it doesn’t matter because I don’t make it worthwhile, and I don’t make it worthwhile because it doesn’t matter.

A Tale of Two Mommies

At my mom's club meeting last week, there were two moms with 6 week old babies. Their boys were even born on the same day.

I mean, really, they were just asking to be a metaphor. Seriously.

The first came in and looked around awkwardly. She was nervous, both about meeting all these new people and about going out with her tiny baby. She kept checking him in the stroller, apologized for his crying every time he whimpered (which honestly I couldn't even hear), and picked at the food on her plate. She confessed that he had his days and nights confused still, and that she has only slept 2 hours the night before. She confided to me that she wanted to go back to work but had checked daycares and couldn't bring herself to leave him anywhere. She looked shaken, scared, confused, and tired.

The other mom was completely comfortable in her own skin. She introduced herself to everyone, shared her (hilarious) birth story immediately, played with other people's children. Her little 8 pound boy was draped casually over her arm, not making a sound, but she was still able to eat, take notes, and gesticulate wildly. She told us that he slept 11 hours a night and fell asleep completly on his own, soothing himself by rubbing his face on a burpcloth. She had an answer for everything, seemed so competent and confident that I, the mother of a 9 month old, was cowed in comparison.

That b****.

Kidding. Mostly.

It's clearly no secret which mom I feel for. At 6 weeks, I was a wreck. I was up ALL night (as opposed to MOST of the night, like I am again now). I had no idea how to be a mom. I didn't take Baby Girl anywhere by myself. I look back on myself then with a certain kind of fondness, wanting to tell her she was doing just fine.

Which was what I told this mom. And I invited her over for coffee. And a hug. Although she doesn't know that part yet.

But. But. Maybe I'm not being fair. Maybe super-cool-together mom needs a hug too. Did I look scared and shaky at 6 weeks? I mean, I know I was never cool and sociable and confident. But I think I seemed okay. I seemed to know what I was doing. I certainly wasn't confessing my failings.

And even if she really does have it together? I mean, that doesn't mean we can't be friends, right? (...Right....?) If I don't want people to judge me for being a mess, is it fair of me to judge other moms for not being a mess? Can't I just be happy for her that she is having such an easy time of it? Glad that he sleeps so well, that she knows what she wants, that she's so good at making friends?

In truth? I look back on those early sleepless days and there are moments of joy that I didn't expect to look back on fondly. I remember sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night and playing with the baby on the living room floor so we didn't wake my husband. I remember taking lovely naps in the middle of the day. I remember how much I genuinely enjoyed the 3 hours of sleep I got after my husband left for work - even when they were the only hours of sleep I got all day. And I remember how in awe I was of this precious little baby, how amazing it was for her to be in my life. And really? I wouldn't change a thing.

So, what do I have to be jealous of? I can forgive supermom her successes. You know, just this one time.

Excuse me while I disappear

Sometimes I feel like curling up into a ball on my living room floor and hiding.

I've told you before how terrible I am at making friends. I'm a pretty shy person, really, and generally not very open about my feelings. I don't know how to talk to people I don't know. I crave closeness but I hold myself back.

I went to a playgroup yesterday. I was so proud of myself for going, for opening myself up to that. I was prepared for disaster. When I got to the park, I didn't see anyone. My mind immediately want to dark places. No one showed up. I spent all morning psyching myself up and no one is here. And they didn't tell me. They knew I was coming, that's why they didn't show up. They hate me. How do they already know that? They haven't even met me yet. They must just have a sense for it.

Yeah, I'm that ridiculous.

Because then I realized the park had two playgrounds.

The playgroup was okay. I made it through just fine Everyone was very nice, but , but I felt like I was on the outside. I didn't talk much, and while the moms tried to talk to me, there wasn't all that much to talk about, so I mostly sat and listened to them talk. What if I say something and they don't like it? What if they think I'm weird because I'm not saying anything at all? I need to leave before they realize how uncool I am. I started trying to plan my exit. How could I leave without insulting them? Maybe if it started raining. Or my phone rang.

I had been waiting for this all week, been so nervous and excited, and I was sitting there hoping my phone would ring.

The Internet makes me brave, which subsequently makes me terrified. I write these posts, or say something on twitter, or leave a comment on a blog, and I am instantly terrified that people are going to hate me. Did I say something wrong? Did I overstep? Why hasn't anyone replied? What does that reply mean?

It's never quiet in my head, people.

Earlier this week, I read Yael's lovely post about popularity, and I instantly went on a quest for the scene she was talking about. I found it. Here it is. Watch. I'll wait.



Every time I watch, it makes me happy. I'm uncool. And when I hang with the cool people (probably a lot of you!) it does make me feel cool. But I'm not. And I need to stop trying to be cool, stop trying to fit into some mold, and just be the gushy, overprotective, random, girly, word-loving, coupon-clipping, nerdy, huggy, terrified woman that I am. I need to learn how to let that be enough.

Secret Mommyhood Confession: My barefoot baby

We were at baby story time the other day at the library, when I noticed it.

"Touch your toes!" said the librarian. "Where are your toes? That's right, they're inside your shoes!"

I looked down at Baby Girl's tiny (and delicious) toes then looked around the room. Every baby but her was wearing socks and sneakers.

Wait. Did I miss something? Do babies need to wear shoes? I mean, wait, this is the library. Maybe you need to wear shoes at the library? Was there a memo I didn't get somewhere?

This isn't the first time we've been different. A few months ago, I started grocery shopping on Friday mornings, when all the cool moms from the rich side of town shop. Every one of them had her impeccably dressed baby in a Moby Wrap, while Baby Girl sat in her carrier in the cart, playing with her toes.

Am I setting her up for a lifetime as a barefoot outcast? Am I always going Will her shoelessness sometime down the line come back to haunt her, as she is labeled the weird kid with the clueless mom?

Or maybe not. Maybe she'll grow up to be the cool rebel who refuses to be constrained by shoes or any other arbitrary rule of the establishment.

Either way, she does have some pretty great toes.