The Gambler

I walk the line between wearing my heart on my sleeve and keeping things close to the vest. I’m sure I’m not alone on that line. One of the things that I’ve had on my heart lately is babies. And I’ve been keeping very much to myself about it.

I have always wanted a bigger family, at least more than 2 kids. My brother and I are 4+ years apart and were never very close. Sure, we had our childhoods together, but at some point it felt like we were two only children whose paths sometimes crossed, usually at our shared bathroom in the morning. And growing up Catholic, I saw enough bigger families than mine and the grass over there looked a little greener to me.

So I had it all planned out: meet Mr. Right (no later than college, of course), get married young, have lots of babies, live happily ever after.

God had a good laugh at my plan!

So when Fella and I started getting serious and making our plans for the future (God wasn’t laughing as much this time,) we settled on more than one (Fella is an only child and he didn’t want any of that for his kids), but no more than three.

It took awhile after the Mayor was born to get back on the more babies bandwagon. There were times that I would have been totally OK if he had been the Only. Even if the Mayor himself was telling me that he wanted me to have 15 (or was it 20?) more babies (that kid LOVES him some babies!) But Fella being the only of an only child, he didn’t want the Mayor bearing that burden.

So along comes wonder of wonders: Miss Thang. And everyone thinks it’s perfect: two—that is, one of each. So you’re done, of course…right?

When I was pregnant with the Mayor, I dreamed about having two boys. Maybe that was just another funny thing my brain was doing while the rest of me was sleeping. Regardless, pretty soon after Miss Thang, I still felt like there was still another person to add to our family.

However, I’ve been crunching some numbers. OK, maybe not exactly numbers, but time. There’s too much going on in the near future that I would rather be not pregnant for. And besides that, there’s the whole being host to another human being for 9 months (although I do love being pregnant. Mostly). Then the next year/+ on this side of the womb before they can eat real food and walk on their own. Hell, MT just hit two and she’s like the toddler version of a Stage 5 Clinger.

You know, autonomy is a really, really nice thing.

I didn’t think I’d be thinking about this much before MT turned two. But certain events accelerated the process a little bit and here I am, elbow deep in wondering if I still have it in me to have another baby. Not only have another baby, but to have three kids! I mean, that’s just crazytown! There is just no way. And as soon as I think I’ve decided that I’m done--enter crisis mode. 

So we know about the quarter-life- and the trusty ol’ mid-life crises. But this is something different. I focused so much energy in my life on getting to the part where I would have kids, the prospect of not continuing to have more kids is...it’s an existential crisis all of its own.

Let’s call it: the Post-Reproductive Crisis.

I mean, what is my purpose in life if not making more tiny humans? Yeah, yeah, I’ve still got those two other little people I’ve already breathed life into to tend to. But their childhood is finite. As is the family planning stage of life, I keenly realize. But to still be in my child-bearing years, looking my lady parts dead in the ovaries, and giving them the finger? I just. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???

So that’s where I’m at right now: between the proverbial know-when-to-hold-‘em and know-when-to-fold-‘em.

Meanwhile (in heaven)…God holds the cards and laughs heartily.

Two AND a Centennial?

We celebrated Miss Thang (some more) with family and friends this weekend. I try to make things low maintenance (by Pinterest standards, anyway.) Inevitably, some little detail seems to get overlooked. Not that anyone but me really knows better.

I admitted to my fellow moms that the older my kids get, the less I worry about so many of the details. And that the details were definitely more elaborate when I was still working outside of the home. Working Mommy’s Guilt? Perhaps. A testament to having more time to think, plan, and shop online while being a desk jockey? Absolutely.

Last week also marked my Gramma’s 98^th birthday. She and Miss Thang were born on the same day 96 years apart! Upon hearing their ages, a friend of my dad’s remarked that they have 100 years between them. Crazy!

On the Eve of a Second Birthday

You’re speaking more and more clearly these days. I keep thinking how much I will miss hearing you work your way through words. Like how you still say "ssshicken” instead of kitchen (and chicken, for that matter), or “ogurt” when you want yogurt, among others that I fear I’m already forgetting.

I feel a sense of guilt both when I correct you and when I don’t.

And I can’t quite tell the difference when you’re asking to go potty or go party. The past few days it’s definitely been the latter, though you refuse to be pigeonholed as a party girl. Already making good choices!

"Oh gosssh," you say and shake your head from side to side.

Just two days shy of your birthday, you really pulled out the big guns with the first “love you, Mama!” Here, have ALL the presents. Don’t think for a minute I didn’t notice you working on your dad with a “love you” at bedtime tonight.

That hair!

Those eyes!

She’s so smart!

Not a day goes by that we don’t hear these things lauded about you. Based on this alone I could say you’re a triple threat, lest I be forgetting that you are already quite a songstress (that little ditty you made up about your shoes today? Grammy worthy!) And whether it’s Toddler Tunes or Party Favorites that we’re listening to, you always keep the beat (perhaps a Tony in your future?)

ETA: We've definitely hit this milestone right here:

I’ve lost track, but last I checked you were spontaneously counting to 15+ the other day. Funny, no one remembers teaching you so many numbers! Colors, on the other hand…well, we’ll work on those, along with the last 2/3 of the alphabet. Don’t worry girl, you got this.

I’m guessing you picked most of these things up from the Mayor. It helps in the learning department to have a big brother. I can still remember spontaneously learning the state capitals when I still shared a room with your uncle. And play the piano. I’m sure he thought I was a snotty little show-off when I’d sit and play by ear what he’d just been toiling over in an hour of practice.

Don’t let that deter you, though.

Sassy Pants. Lady Lu. Missy Mae.

My girl…TWO!

As Real As It May Seem

I had the funniest dream last night. 

A boy I'd known since about the Sixth Grade was in it. Except we were in high school. We earnestly expressed our mutual "like" for each other. The following day we would meet an alumni-sponsored event for Chico State. We both knew we weren't remotely interested in going to college there, but we would go anyway, if for no other reason now than to have a sanctioned event at which to see each other (as if our puppy love were somehow forbidden? Possibly. You got me.)

When I arrived the next day, the boy was already there, politely sitting on the couch, waiting for things to get underway. Instead of nervously avoiding the boy out of insecurity (which would have been a classic me move IRL) I sat down next to him. He sweetly held my hand without reservation.

More people started to arrive, including one of my besties from law school, who sat in the empty spot on the couch next to me. Apparently California had quite the effect on her: the blushing brunette southern belle was a radiant golden blonde in my dream. We joked about it, but actually, it looked pretty fantastic on her (in case you were considering it any time soon).

Of course she was the only person to notice the hand-holding. She gave me a knowing look, but saved her goodnatured teasing for another time and place.

Though a handsome and nice kid, I don't recall ever having an actual crush on the boy (which is surprising because I am was pretty boy crazy). He came across as shy, but he also had this quiet assurance about him. As if he knew what his future had in store for him and he was merely biding his time in that forsaken place we call high school.

This dream highlighted things I wish most for my kids: may they always have treasured friends (the gold and silver kind), the quiet confidence to pursue their heart's desire, and faith in what their future holds.

It's True You Can't Fight It

I used to be one of those people who would bemoan that her children were growing up. You know, saying things to them like: “where did my baby go?” and “when did you get so big?” I read somewhere that this can sometimes make kids feel guilty about doing something that they are supposed to do (and isn’t in their control anyway): grow up.

Then it occurred to me, that no one ever really helped me figure out how to become a woman. I mean, sure, there’s the inherent womanness of being female, but no one wanted me to be anything but a girl. My parents didn’t want me to grow up “too fast,” which I, of course, rebelled against. So, I would take my allowance to the Longs Drugs down the street to buy the teen magazines that became my user manuals and age-appropriate makeup (thank you, Debbie Gibson and Revlon!) 

It always felt like I was sneaking around, though, probably because I was. I might have had the makeup, but I was certainly not allowed to wear it. I had already mastered the art of wearing my headgear as little as possible in the Fourth grade, so how hard could a little makeup be in middle school? (See also: #latchkeykidproblems)

And once high school and my first job came around, it was a breeze hiding clothes (hello striped bodysuit and spandex skirt from Contempo Casuals) and, um, other recreational activities to come from my parents. And I seemed drawn to people whom my folks’ would likely refer to as “the fast crowd;” my peers who were allowed to wear makeup and somehow knew how to flirt with boys whereas I hadn’t the first clue.

So maybe it should be no wonder that I often feel very much girl in a good many situations: I faked my way into womanhood. And it was a journey that I felt I had to hide from the most important people in my life, as if it was something shameful, when it is actually just what nascent beings do.

Now, don’t misunderstand; I, too, don’t want my kids to grow up too fast. But the fact is, growers gonna grow (grow, grow, grow, grow) and who am I to stand in their ways? So someone please remind me, when the day arrives that Miss Thang wants to shave her legs, wear makeup, and dress like the latest pop star, that I will take her for a makeover and shopping spree, no questions asked.

In the meantime, I will praise my kids for doing that which they do involuntarily and I will be their champion. Like just the other day, when one of the Mayor’s preschool teachers expressed sorrow in seeing how big both kids are getting. I turned it on its head (the comment, not the teacher) saying, “I know, isn’t it great?! They’re just so good at it!”

Take a Look at Yourself

I love watching my kids study themselves in our mirrored closet doors. But I startled myself the other day when I caught a glimpse of the joy on my face as I watched the song-and-dance Miss Thang was putting on for herself. Then all too quickly I started wondering:

When will this end for her? When will she stop liking what she sees in the mirror? When will she… become like me?

I haven’t liked to look at myself in the mirror for a very long time. Sure, I use it every day to put on my face and complete basic hygiene. Sometimes I even use it to make sure I don’t look like a complete hobo when I leave the house. But mostly the mirror is a place where I see all of my flaws: the dark spots on my face from too much sun and neglect; the stretch marks from a lifetime of yo-yo dieting; rounded shoulders from loathing not appreciating my tallness over the years; among many (so many!) others.

This especially plagued me as an aspiring dancer in high school. For someone who didn’t like looking at herself, I spent a lot of time in a room whose walls were covered with mirrors, looking somewhere just past myself. I looked at everyone else, but good heavens not me. So I never really knew what I looked like executing the steps and movements. I would only correct when I was told by the instructor, taking the quickest of glances possible at my form. Never would I actually study myself of my own volition. Thank goodness for muscle memory.

I’m not saying I want my kids to fall down some rabbit hole where they are all-consumed by vanity. I just want them to be as comfortable with who they are on the outside as the inside. So I suppose it’s time to, as they say, put up or shut up for their benefit, so that I am a positive role model, rather than a cautionary tale.

I have long resided in the fake-it-‘til-you-make it camp in all matters of confidence. What are some ways that you keep your self-esteem healthy?

This is the end...

So I’m here. I made it this time. The end.

I got to have brunch this morning with a few girl friends from high school. We didn’t really run in the same crowd back then, but our common bond was choir. Last year we hooked up at a choir reunion, had some beers and fun times afterward, and promised to do it again. And yesterday, the stars aligned to actually keep that promise.

I didn’t get out of the house sans drama. And I didn’t return to a fairytale. But it did get me thinking about that trite advice one receives as a young mother: make sure to take time for you!

I think that I don’t take a lot of time for myself, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I feel as though I don’t because I don’t get to run off for a spa day or mani/pedi on a whim, mostly for financial reasons than time. And I take time to volunteer, which is just as much for me as it is for the actual greater good. Let’s not forget the gym time which is at worst 4 hours a week with the children being minded and my mind on nothing but myself. Add in the time I waste spend on the internets…well, it’s a wonder how my kids get clean and fed at all.

So why do I still feel like I don’t get any me time? Am I just that selfish? Or is my job so emotionally demanding that I need twice the amount of rebound time than, say, Fella? Am I just a complete asshole?

Maybe I need to seek solace in more activities that replenish rather than deplete; or maybe I just need to spend more time in quiet contemplation. But for now, I’ll take a Bloody Mary, a four-hour brunch with old girlfriends, and lots of laughs on the side.

And I'll see you back around these parts, just not every.single.day. Thanks NaBloPoMo.

Drowning

Right now I feel like I'm drowning. In a sea of failure. Complete maternal breakdown.

Yeah, yeah...

Picture found and used from
http://wehaveaars.com/mom-whos-pretty-sure-shes-screwing-it-all-up/

But seriously. There wasn't one peaceful meal time. If it wasn't Miss Thang (and it mostly was) signing and wailing for "more" after she's already eaten the lion's share, it was the Mayor begging and pleading and also wailing for more of the chocolate turkey his great grammy brought him on Thanksgiving. Not to mention feeding my kids = emotional trigger. As in, I'm afraid to make my kids fat.

The Mayor. He's taken a huge emotional u-turn lately. And is attempting to use emotional blackmail. As in "if you don't give me what I want, I'll cry" or hit you or whatever. We have done everything to nip this in the bud, but I think he sees Miss Thang communicating with us in a way that can be perceived as what he's doing. And then she sees him doing it and it's an endless circle. And maddening.

Even after 90 minutes away from them for "me time" at the gym, which usually buys me a little dose of extra patience, I was still deflated. And finally after the Mayor argued with us over something he didn't hear someone say (but was most definitely said) I lost it. Kissed him goodnight, took Miss Thang to the rocking chair and could not suppress the sobbing before breaking into our regularly scheduled bedtime tunes.

I realize I can't say yes to everything, but maybe I say no too much? I mean, I can't let them have hollow chocolate animals for breakfast every morning, but should I just let them eat the whole damn turkey in one sitting so it's out of our lives for fucking ever?! I mean, these are matter of life and death, right?

THE SUGAR! 

THE ENSUING MAYHEM AND MELTDOWNS! 

THE EMOTIONAL TRIGGERS!!!

I'M ONLY PROJECTING MY PRECONCEIVED NOTION OF THEIR FUTURE HAPPINESS!

Get a grip lady.

Sometimes I think I'm too lazy to be a parent. But really it's that I'm too lazy to be the parent I want to be, which is really my biggest character flaw. Too lazy to live up to my potential (oh how many times was that word tossed around on report cards and in parent-teacher conferences! Oh how I loathe that concept!) And why am I not more concerned that I am likely passing this on to any number of my children? Such that maybe I might want to, you know, change?! (GASP!)

Well, I'm not going to solve anything prattling on here, at least not in this moment. But I'm glad I was able to post something more than ohmygodwhenisNaBlPoMogoingtoend?!?!

High Anxiety

Today, we attended a birthday party for the sweet three year old sister of a boy in the Mayor’s class. The small affair was held at a local nursery rhyme/fairytale themed park. I was excited to take the kids there for the first time.

It’s no new thing for me to fly solo with both kids at birthday parties. I’ve even done it at similar types of parks, easy peasy. But for some reason today the odds which I thought were favorable, stacked to high heaven against me. And while I’ve been in more stressful situations, I would have done something morally reprehensible for an adult beverage. Or a Xanax. Or both.

I sometimes get paranoid calling out my kids’ names in public places like this (even the neighborhood park sometimes). Who knows what kind of weirdos are skulking about. And when there’s a second kid with the same name, don’t even get me started about having to use our last name! (Yep, like today).

The two are conspiring against me, I’m sure of it. While I thought Miss Thang was sleeping, they were actually telepathically devising a strategy to drive Mom over a cliff. Maybe it’s because both are exerting a greater sense of agency, one ran off in a different direction from the other.

Places to go, amusement park to see.

Thankfully the other parents there understood the situation and gracefully tailed behind the pack of boys off in one direction, as I chased after the speed demon “toddler” o’ mine in the other. But that in itself brought about an entirely different worry: will the Mayor be good for someone else’s mom? This mom in particular was not a complete stranger (her boy also went to the Mayor’s preschool until this year) but not someone the Mayor was terribly familiar with, either. He’s pretty independent, that one. And stubborn. And impulsive. And temperamental. (He get it from his mama). He’s all five.

And maybe it’s because I felt like I was placing a burden on other people by not being able to wrangle both of my kids into doing the same thing at the same time. Like I was an unfit mother. But I have to remind myself that motherhood is another type of sisterhood. Our kids have free will and next-to-no impulse control. And that it’s OK to ask for help (even without asking) because my sisters in motherhood are up for it, just as I would be if the tables were turned.

I’m not sure I’d say I’ve always been a worrier, but I have devoted an awful lot of my adult life to its futility. And now that I have kids, it’s 100 fold. (Maybe more!) Worrying about their safety and well being; if I could only know that they are going to make it out of childhood relatively unscathed, maybe I wouldn’t worry quite as much. I worry that it gets in the way of actually enjoying their childhood.