Other People's Kids

So, I have been invited to join Perpetua as she and other bloggers take on some of the more controversial issues of parenting in Controversundays. I have always been more apt to shy away from conflict rather than stepping up to the plate, even when I feel strongly about something. This is because I am a very delicate flower. But, becoming a mother has emboldened me, forced me to come to terms with my flaws, and try to become a better person. You could argue that I shouldn't have needed to give birth to a child before trying to become a better person, but DON'T! Lest I wilt. Remember? Delicate flower. Get it? Okay, moving on.

This week's topic is on other people's children. She left it pretty open, so I'm going to focus on discipline. What is our role? Do we discipline them? If so, where is the line? I love this topic because, as someone who has extensive experience caring for other people's children, it has come up A LOT.

I got a job at a private school as a teacher's aide when I was eighteen. I had always dreamed of working with kids, especially little kids, so I was really excited. I had visions of running reading groups, passing out snack (because in elementary school, you eat "snack". Not "snacks" or even "a snack". Just "snack"). These dreams would eventually come true. But, part of my job description also included yard duty. And, as soon as they handed me that walkie-talkie and whistle? I was TOTALLY drunk with power. Oh, how I loved bossing those kids around! I became a total hard-ass, and it was not uncommon to find at least half a dozen timed-out kids pouting and scowling in my general direction when you visited the playground under my jurisdiction. Don't, however, assume that I was some kind of nursery school nazi. The kids loved me. I played with them, made silly jokes, fixed their ponytails, and held their little hands on the way to the nurse's office for Band-Aids. But, when they misbehaved, I was a force to be reckoned with.

I've always been a bit of a stickler for rules. I rarely break them myself, (a personality trait which has earned me much scorn and derision from my friends)so it is not surprising that I have always had pretty strong opinions about how kids should be disciplined. And worse, I was also sure that if I were in charge, those kids screaming in the toy store or throwing food at the restaurant would be in check so fast, it would make their bratty heads spin. And, even though I'm not there yet, having Charlotte has definitely made me more sympathetic. She may not be old enough to talk back or defy me, but I know it's coming. There were so many opinions I had about parenting that I recanted upon becoming a parent myself, and I think that has made me more cautious about judging. Of course, there are exceptions: there are many things I see that are just WRONG, and although I have never been the variety of person who actually approaches people, it is difficult to refrain when I see parents with an utter disregard for the safety and health of their children (and others).

Having said all that, I do think there is something to be said for what I will call "community parenting". Did I make that up? Or is that a thing? What I mean by this is that if I send Charlotte to play at a friend's house, I want her to fear that child's mother as much as she fears me. Did I say "fear"? LOVE! I meant "love"! I want her to respect other adults and to know that there are consequences for her behavior WHEREVER she goes. So, that means Grandma can and should put her in a time out. Her aunts and babysitters should feel free to take a toy away from her if she isn't sharing it, and so on. Sure, there is a limit to what I expect others to enforce. After all, it is mine and Chris's job to discipline her, primarily. But, I am also a big believer that anyone who is a part of her life will influence her, and I want it to be for the good. It won't always be easy to see others be stern with her; I have already been known to bristle at the suggestion that Charlotte "needs to learn" this or that. I know as much as I want to guide her with a firm hand, I also LOVE to indulge her. And so will everyone else. Just as long as she doesn't become a tyrant the second she leaves our house, I'll be happy.

I think maybe we all get carried away with the not judging, not butting in thing, and are too scared to speak up when other people's kids are terrorizing our homes, our kids, our pets, our sanity. When I was child-free, I adored parents who were conscious of what their kids touched, said, or asked for, and gently reminded them to behave, and it was even more refreshing when they didn't mind me chiming in with an admonition for their kids if something escaped their radar. Watching my nieces has always been a pleasure because they are delightful girls (most of the time), but also because my brother and sister-in-law encourage the adults in their children's lives to aid in the discipline. And so when my middle niece was in her terrible two's and heaving herself onto the floor amidst shrieking and violent kicking because I would not let her "make dishes" (a term she used to describe her version of washing all the plastic dishes in the sink) for another five minutes, I had recourse to put her in her room until she calmed down, rather than feeling pressured to indulge her when she looked seriously into my eyes and said through sobs, "I. WANT. TO. MAKE. DISHES!". And, I truly believe these girls are as polite and respectful as they are because of this shrewd move on their parents' part.

So, that's my take on it. Don't go grabbing candy bars out of a stranger's hand just as they are about to appease their bratty child with it. Don't yell at a mom who is choosing to ignore her child's screaming so as not to give in to his whim (Yes, it is a public place. But if she buys him that toy, he'll be encouraged to do even worse next time, so suck it up and be glad she is at least TRYING not to raise a future delinquent). But, if your friend's kids are walking on your couch, tell them to get off! And if their mom doesn't like it, too bad. It's your house. Your rules.

What do you guys think?

Who are You, Really?

In a few, short weeks, I will be a free woman.

Last month, I resumed working at the tutoring center at my school and began attending my most recent grad class. Granted, the class is a lot of work, but you would think a person could handle fifteen hours of work and one, measly class, right?

Wrong.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I am a lazy individual. One of the only things I enjoyed about pregnancy was that I had an excuse to sit on the couch and request that things be brought to me. I will forgo an extra cookie if it means I have to get up and get it myself. I am a master procrastinator, especially when it comes to my school work. And, I hate getting up early for work; I have been known to whine all through a work day about how tired I am. Superwoman, I am not. However, if something in my life needs to be done, I get it done. I might be kicking and screaming the whole way, but I do what I need to do, and I have successfully held down a full-time job and gotten A's in many grad classes at the same time.

So, why am I having such a hard time this quarter? The answer to that question is at home with her daddy, eating animal crackers and pushing all the buttons on the DVD player.

I never thought I would become one of THOSE moms. The ones who can't be separated from their kids for more than a few minutes without totally losing it. And, really, I don't think that I am. I am in the process of trying to convince my mother-in-law to keep Charlotte overnight so Chris and I can drink and stay out late at my mom's St. Patty's day party. I've gone to concerts without her. I like to get out of the house to write. Sure, I always miss her while I'm away. But, it never stops me from going away to do the things I care about.

And there it is. The reason I am so resentful about being out of the house for fifteen hours a week has less to do with the fact that I am away from the baby and more to do with the fact that it isn't worth it. I want my Master's degree, sure. And, I will get it. But now is not the time. Right now I want to write. If I'm going to be away from Charlotte, it had better be for something I am passionate about. So, I'm taking a break from school and concentrating on pursuing a career doing what I love to do. I am very fortunate that I am able to do so at this time.

I've always been a big believer in maintaining an identity that is separate from your identity as a mother. Even though I now realize how much motherhood permeates all the facets of my life, how it has changed me from the inside out, I still believe that it is crucial to not lose sight of who you were before having children. I think we all need to have something we are passionate about, besides our kids. For some people, that thing is their job. And, hey, that's awesome! If you can get paid to do what you love, I say that's a win-win. Unfortunately, some people hate their jobs. Their very necessary jobs. And that, well, to put it eloquently, blows.

And then there's me. Like I said, I am very fortunate that, at the moment, we are able to stay afloat on Chris's income so that I can be a stay-at-home mom. I want to soak up every second of Charlotte. I want to feed her every meal, put her down for every nap, change every diaper...

Ha! Kidding. Can you imagine?

Truthfully, I want to be with her most of the time. I really enjoy the day-to-day responsibilities of taking care of my family. But, as much as I enjoy folding laundry in the company of a good television show, I wouldn't exactly call it fulfilling. And as much as I adore making my baby laugh, I wouldn't call it intellectually stimulating. I, and we all, I would argue, need something else. A creative outlet. Something that's just for us.

I started this blog a few months ago, and since then, I have grown to love writing. I am having fun doing it, and I want to make this my career. I have a book I want to write. I'd like to spruce up this blog and see it take off. I would like to do freelance writing. For the first time in my adult life, I have a career goal that I am legitimately excited about, something I am motivated to work hard to achieve. And that feels really good.

I am a mother first, sure. Charlotte and any future children I may have will be my priority. But as much as I don't want to miss a second of my children's lives, the reality is that I might HAVE to. And that's okay. Mommy guilt is a potent and powerful thing. It whispers lies into your ear, lies about not being good enough, making bad choices, and letting your kids down. Our children need us. No question. And in a way, they might always need us. But, isn't our job to teach them to grow, to be independent, and to ultimately take care of themselves? And, if we haven't been taking care of OURSELVES in the meantime, nourishing OUR dreams and goals, where will we be then? We'll be more in need of our kids than they are of us.

Please understand that I am not knocking being a stay-at-home parent. I'm just saying, make sure you are taking care of yourself. It can be so overwhelming, being a woman today. We are in a constant state of maintaining a very tricky balancing act. My husband told me last night that for him, it is so simple. He goes to work, comes home, helps with the baby, and sleeps (soundly). He told me that he appreciates how much more complex my life is. I take care of all appointments (social and otherwise), I keep the house clean, I do the shopping, I do all the packing and organizing for schlepping the baby, I try to go to the gym, I try to plan meals, and I go to work and school. I constantly have about a million things on my mind, including, now, my career. For more on balancing motherhood and a budding writing career, check out this post by Brooke, of Mommy In Chief. It rang so true for me, as I'm sure it will for any woman who struggles with maintaining more than one title.

No one said this was going to be easy. But, I am having a blast figuring it all out.

Murder, Monsters, Mamma Mia, and Motherhood

There is a reason I try not to say things like, "You'll understand when you have kids", other than the fact that it's obnoxious My motivation in avoiding such clichés is that now that I'm a mother, I don't always feel a sense of being let into an exclusive society and finally having access to their secrets, like I thought I would. In fact, in my experience, some of the old standards put pressure on me to feel things that I just...didn't.

For example, that tried and true cliché about looking into your newborn's face for the first time and "feeling a love you never thought was possible" did a fine job of triggering paroxysms of guilt and panic when, in place of that all-consuming love I was meant to feel, was an overwhelming sense of confusion. Maybe it was the drugs, but my foggy head was so busy trying to piece the puzzle together, it didn't really have time to bask in my daughter's glory. In the midst of the "Wait. This is MY baby. It's over? Placenta, what? You're putting stitches WHERE? Oh, right. I have a baby. I should be feeding her. With my boob? Huh?" madness, I had an unsettling revelation:

Love! I'm supposed to be loving her. It's supposed to be core-shaking! Earth-shattering! Where's all the love?

And I didn't cry. I thought I would cry.

In the days that followed, I was so preoccupied with making sure Charlotte was breathing at all times by employing a regimented schedule of staring at her and arranging for someone else to stare at her while I napped, I didn't have time to feel the love! And then there was the jaundice to consider. Not to mention changing the ice packs stuffed down my hospital-issued-granny-panties.

It wasn't until much later and after talking to others about their experiences that I realized I was normal. A friend of mine told me that when they handed her her first son in the hospital, she looked at him, then at the nurse, and said, "What do I do now?". I think that's how we all feel the first time around. And it's normal. And all that fear and anxiety and watching our babies breathe with our hearts in our throats, IS the love.

I digress. My point is that I don't tell people how they will feel or what they will or will not understand when they have kids, because I honestly have no clue. They might greet their new baby with a deluge of love and groovy vibes, and anxiety will be nowhere to be found. Or maybe they will, unlike me, find breastfeeding to be the magical bonding experience of their fantasies. Maybe they won't want to have sex with their husbands for a year, or maybe they'll be marking off with a big, red pen each day on the calendar that stands between them and the six-week green light. Maybe they will co-sleep, or maybe they, like me and Chris, will be at their wit's end and Ferberize the hell out of their kid. There is just no way of knowing.

But, there is one thing that I have found to be a constant amongst the mommies and daddies I know, and that is a marked difference in how one views music, movies, and other media upon becoming a parent. When I was pregnant with Charlotte, I was out with a friend. We had just dropped her kids off at her parents' house where they would be spending the weekend. On the way home, we listened to the Mamma Mia! soundtrack, and when the song Meryl Streep sings about her daughter and how quickly she's grown came on, my friend's finger was already on the skip button. She told me she had a hard time listening to that song, especially when she wasn't with her daughter. I must have nodded and said "Oh" or something equally profound. But on the inside, I was rolling my eyes. Cut to me this afternoon as I hear two notes of the song and promptly change it because I don't want to be forced to think about the day my daughter will grow up and get married, and I REALLY don't want to think about the fact that it will be here before I know it.

I mentioned this phenomena to that same friend after we watched a movie wherein the main character loses her mother as a small child. I found myself fighting tears while watching her clutch her mother's possessions to her heart and other such maudlin gestures, because the thought of not being there for my little girl killed me. My friend told me that she experienced a similar breakdown while watching Titanic. While I was caught up in the Kate and Leo teenage hysteria, my friend had just given birth to her first son, and the image of watching a mother tuck her children into beds on a sinking ship was more than she could handle. I read in a fellow mommy's blog once, that she had sympathy for the Cloverfield monster, once she learned that it was just a baby monster who was looking for his mother.

And then there is my mother, who says that she had to stop reading her beloved True Crime books when she had me. Reading about deceit, lies, and homicide was exhilarating for her. But, as a mommy, every victim in every book became her daughter, and she had to quit cold turkey.

Maybe this is one things all parents can agree on. But, probably not. I'm sure for every person that sees their child's face on the screen of every horror movie, there are five who can easily separate their real life from the lives of those they read about in books or hear about in songs. And, that's just fine.

But, I'm curious as to what you guys think about this topic. If you have kids, did your perceptions change? What surprised you? If you don't have kids, what expectations do you have, and what are you excited/terrified about?

Speak up!

Ode on a Mexican Husband

Today, Chris and I have been married for six years.

I met Chris through our friend, Valeri, over eleven years ago. He was older than me and unlike any guy I had ever met. He wore black eyeliner and a fishing hat with patches and pins advertising his love for bands like The Cure and Pink Floyd. His cut-off thrift store slacks grazed the top of his beat-up combat boots. There was something very striking about his physical appearance, too. Chris’s face was, and still is, perfectly outlined by his jet-black goatee and naturally arched eyebrows. He has beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes and longer lashes than any man should be allowed to have.

I was instantly attracted to him, and by the end of the night, my crush was out of control. We spent the evening with our mutual friends, but, at least for me, they faded into the background as I tried to impress him with my proficiency for the Kevin Bacon game and watched him drink coffee, holding his mug with fingers adorned with chipped, black nail polish. One of the things that struck me about him was his unabashed confidence and propensity to speak his mind, no matter how unpopular the contents of that mind may make him. To this day, it is one of the most inspiring and wonderful things about him (even when his irreverent humor sometimes embarrasses the hell out of me).

Chris and I became friends at first, the difference in our ages being an obstacle to becoming anything more. I tried to convince him, first by merciless flirting, later with outright begging (I know. Sexy, right?) that we should be together. And even though he rejected me, began to see someone else, we remained friends. We had an unmistakable bond that began the night we met, sitting across from one another in that crappy coffee shop, and it continued to grow over the months. We had late-night conversations in the car, hastily pulled over just blocks away from our friends’ houses, knowing that we would not be able to talk so freely and intimately once we were in their company.

The months leading up to the day he finally kissed me sitting on the green couch in my mother’s house were heart-wrenching for me. They were filled with longing, mixed signals, compliments, presents, and rejection. The fact is that we were falling in love, but being six years my senior, Chris tried to do the right thing by pushing me away. And when he finally gave in, there were many obstacles. There was the day he angrily stormed out of his mother’s house when she tried to convince him to break up with me. As he drove away, she yelled after him, “She can’t even get into a rated R movie!”. That was a bad day. There was the day my mom had to defend her decision to let me date a boy who could buy alcohol to my relatives. She was exhausted after a day of explaining what a good kid he was, how mature I was for my age, before ultimately throwing up her hands and letting them think what they wanted. That was a rough day, too. Mostly for her, I imagine. And then there were the many periods of doubt on my end. I had the damned bad luck to fall in love with my perfect match far too early, and I had to wrestle with the urges to experiment, to date other people, while the person I wanted (No, NEEDED) to be with gave me his blessing, letting go of my hand patiently and lovingly, telling me to do what I needed to do. If you love something, set it free.

In the end, I never left. I couldn’t. And now? Now the woman who once wanted to save her son from me and my wily, under aged ways, she loves me, I think. And I love her. And we drink wine together. I watch her play with her granddaughter, my daughter, and I can’t believe how far we’ve come. Now, Chris, once a sexual deviant preying on an innocent young girl, is the golden boy in my family. They love him for the way he takes care of me, his daughter, all of us. They love him because he’s polite, but sarcastic ( a must in my family), and because he makes them laugh and takes the garbage out.

For the past six years, I have not doubted, not once, that I was with the right person. I get to wake up every day, supremely confident that I made the right choice and grateful that he did, too. In the past six years we have partied together, laughed together, fought with one another, lost grandparents together, a baby. We have watched hours upon hours of television, laughing at the jokes before they happen because we’ve seen this episode so many times. We’ve moved away, gone to college, went to fancy restaurants, museums, gone hiking, and spent the day in our pajamas.

We had a baby together.

Nothing has made me more sure that my marriage is anything less than fate ( a concept I don’t even believe in) than the experience of bringing Charlotte into this world with my husband. It has been the most stressful time of our lives. The lack of sleep, the compromised sex life, the hormones (Oh, the hormones!), the body image issues, the doubt, the frustration, it has all taken its toll. But, getting through all that, supporting each other, stepping up to the plate when the other has just been clobbered by the bat, these things test us, but ultimately make us stronger. And the moments of darkness are no match for the sheer elation at watching our perfect little girl tearing around the house, giggling as she knocks over cups of water, pulls books off the shelf, and eats Cheerios she finds on the floor. Of all the things we have done together, my favorite is racing each other down the hall to be the first to rescue Charlotte from her crib when she wakes up.

Last night my mom and her fiancé watched Charlotte so we could go out to dinner. We drank martinis and talked for hours. It was the first time in a while that we were able to be away from the baby, away from the T.V., buzzing on gin and enjoying each other’s company. It was wonderful. And even though we spent half the time talking about the baby, even though we missed her when we got home and she was asleep, we needed that. We stayed up long after we got home, long after the baby went to bed, talking some more and drinking champagne. And this morning, we played peekaboo with our daughter. The perfect mixture of the old us and the new us.

Happy anniversary, Chris. I love you.

The Politics of Parenting

So!

This latest post has been a long time coming. I've been pretty busy with school and the part-time job I have resumed, BUT I assure you, I have been doing my research for this latest topic.

The methods by which I complete my school work are extremely effective and studious. I start by going on Facebook, then Twitter, then I check my gmail, before rounding the whole thing off with five minutes of reading Yeats or an article on post-colonial criticism. At this point I will reward myself with a snack or fresh cup of coffee and then begin the process all over again. See? SMART.

During my mind numbing perusing of random Twitter pages, I came across what I consider to be one of the more prominent subcultures of parenting. I don't exactly know what to call them; I guess they refer to themselves as "crunchy", which some little part of my brain, the part that was supposed to remember the endings to all the movies I somehow forget, THAT part tells me that maybe this has something to do with granola? Because hippies eat granola, and granola is crunchy? I don't know, but now I've lost my train of thought, and I want some granola.

Anyway, so this group of mothers send thousands of tweets to one another all day regarding the benefits of breastfeeding, co-sleeping, babywearing, and cloth diapers. They rally around one another when one of them is having latching issues or problems with their organic cotton diapers not fitting properly. And, I think this is great. The internet has become a veritable haven for parents (first time or seasoned), to vent, seek information, and make friends with one another.

The problem lies in the human tendency to put ourselves into groups, decide that our group is the best group, the only group that knows anything about the world, and that every other group is wrong, wrong, wrong. You know, like you decide you're a Democrat, and then all of a sudden, everything Republicans do is stupid. And evil. And wrong. And it works both ways.

This is why, in life, as well as in politics, I choose not to associate myself with any one group. I'm not a Democrat. I'm not a Republican. And, I'm not a "crunchy" mom. I'm a mom who breastfeeds, but sees nothing wrong with supplementing with formula. I'm a mom who tried co-sleeping, but didn't like getting smacked in the face all night so taught her daughter to sleep in her crib. I'm a mom who occasionally wears her baby in a front carrier, but usually opts for the stroller because, hello? A BabyBjorn does not have a cup holder for my latte! I'm also the mother who wrote about her tendency to judge other parents and her dedication to knocking that shit off because she knows how it feels to be unfairly judged.

So, I tend to gravitate toward people who share my enthusiasm for the middle ground. It's nice here! Make yourself at home. Would you care for some nonchalant tea and an unimpassioned cookie or two?

Still, I have respect for anyone who is devoted to a cause, and I am fascinated by subcultures, so I was spending a lot of time being a creepy voyeur and reading the conversations these moms were having with one another. I was even identifying with some of the causes they were so up-in-arms about. I loved reading about their empowering views on nursing in public. One of the reasons I think I was so stressed out about nursing and was subsequently unable to enjoy it as much as I had hoped, was my fear of getting dirty looks when I needed to feed Charlotte while we were out. And when she started rejecting the cover, rather than simply nursing her without a cover, I panicked, tried to force feed her bottles, and stopped going out as much. These women were telling me that it was okay to feed my daughter anywhere I wanted. Anywhere that it was acceptable to feed a baby a bottle, it was kosher to breastfeed. It makes so much sense. Maybe I CAN relate to these mothers. It was so uplifting!

Until they pulled a 3 A.M. Charlotte maneuver and smacked me in the face. Turns out they would sing my praises for pulling my boob out in the Olive Garden, but I was "inhumane" for letting my baby cry herself to sleep. I was "cruel" for kicking her out of my bed and teaching her to get the sleep that she wasn't getting cradled in my arms. It also turns out that the formula I gave her for her jaundice was the fourth in line of suitable options for infant food. If I really loved her, I would have forked over some serious bucks for another woman's breastmilk. Only then would I not be poisoning her.

Call me crazy, but some of these accusations really hurt my feelings. Here I thought I was doing a good job raising my daughter. But what do I know? I'm just an evil, bottle-wielding, stroller pushing, meanie who makes babies cry. I suddenly realized that what was an awesome support system for fellow crunchies, was a toxic environment for anyone not drinking their Kool-Aid.

Now, to be fair, I'm sure that they get their fair share of mockery and name-calling. I recently watched Sam Mendes's "Away We Go" and laughed heartily at the representation of the new agey mom portrayed by Maggie Gyllenhall, who breastfeeds her school-age child in tandem with her baby, scoffs at strollers, and alludes to lovemaking in the family bed so as not to "hide (her) sexuality from (her) children". I'm sure attachment parenting advocates around the world did not appreciate the joke. And I know they must receive just as many unenlightened and hateful comments as they dole out. But that doesn't make it right.

Last time I wrote about the Cry it Out issue, I said it wasn't for us. And, at the time, it wasn't. But I also said parents should do what is best for their families. I never looked down on anyone who used this method of sleep training. And when the time was right for us, we tried it. And it worked beautifully. With minimal crying, we got her sleeping (mostly) through the night. But, that doesn't mean it's for everyone. I'm not going to pretend that I am without my prejudices. For instance, I've always been uncomfortable with the idea of extended nursing. I have to admit that I cringe a little when I see or hear about a two-year-old who still nurses. But, that's an urge I need to fight. Who am I to say that a woman who kindly will heave her breasts in and out of her shirt for YEARS to satisfy her child, is not doing what's best for her family? Maybe she just has a dedication I don't have. Maybe she has a relationship with her child that is simply different than the one I have with Charlotte. Either way, I support her, even if what she does, isn't for me.

But, lest you think that there are no safe havens for mothers who don't fit neatly in a little package, check out this site: http://fearlessformulafeeder.blogspot.com. I stumbled on the blog of a woman who stands up for women who choose to formula feed their babies when breastfeeding fails or because formula makes the most sense for their family. She provides support for women who are mourning the loss of this supposed "natural gift" that all women are told they can and should be able to do. If you are a mom who has been made to feel ashamed for the way you chose to feed your baby, or if you are a person who celebrates open-mindedness, check out her site. It helped renew my confidence in the idea of mothers lifting one another out of the mire, not shoving each other's faces into it.

Hopefully, we can all take that message and practice it on a much larger scale. It's hard enough being a mom. Let's give each other a break, shall we?

Am I Still a Good Mother if No One's There to See?

I've been thinking a lot about images, the way we perceive one another. I am incredibly lucky to have a husband who will listen to me go on and on for hours as I talk through all the neuroses and nonsense floating around my head until I sort it all out. It was during one of these decidedly one-sided conversations that I discovered something sort of unsettling about myself. I care way too much about how others view me. It wasn't exactly a brand-new revelation, far from it. My need to be liked and accepted has been the root of many problems from adolescence and on. It's why I have always been a teacher's pet, why I didn't have any friends, and why I was constantly unhappy as a teenager. I didn't know how to be myself and like what I liked, because I was so busy pretending to like what everyone else did. I know I've just described over half the teenage population. I'm not saying this was a unique problem. And mercifully, most of us grow out of this phase and learn to just be ourselves, opinions of others be damned!

Or do we? Sure, I've come a long way from the girl who begged for an advance on her allowance to buy some hideous Looney Tunes t-shirt that she didn't even like, just so she wouldn't be the only one not wearing one at school. I no longer have to hide my all-consuming love for Emma Thompson and period British frock flicks from my middle school compatriots. But do I live my life only for me, or do I go out of my way to preserve some kind of image?

I think the truth is that I still have not learned to live my life like nobody is watching. One of my biggest concerns over this past year has been my identity as a mother. What kind of mother do I want to be? How do I want to be seen? Not as the overprotective and paranoid new mother, surely not. I want to be the relaxed, confident mom, ever-prepared, the one lending diapers to the frazzled, hand-wringing mom who forgot to pack extras. I want to be the wise mom whom others come to for advice.

And I don't think I'm alone. I think for every time we gracefully smile and nod at the clichéd words of wisdom spoken by more experienced mothers, we secretly scan the room looking for someone less experienced than we. Someone to fall victim to OUR "See what you have to look forward to?" and "Oh, that's nothing. Wait until she starts walking!" comments. No matter how together you think you are as a mom, there is always going to be someone with older kids or more kids to put you in your place. I even did it when I was pregnant. If you were less pregnant than me, I'd assault you with a, "You think you're big now? Just wait!". Or I'd come at you with a "Oh, back when I was ONLY four months pregnant, I thought I knew it all. But, now that I'm six months along, I really know what it's all about". I think it's some sort of weird, innate human desire to educate and maybe even help others. Maybe we need to feel needed, or maybe it strengthens our confidence as parents.

Or maybe we're all just fucking annoying.

It's harmless, really. Unless you are like me, and you take it too far. See, about a month ago, I was having a really rough time. I wrote once about how Charlotte stopped sleeping through the night and how she was coming to bed with me, but that I didn't mind. And it's true that I didn't mind her sleeping in bed with us. But the operative word there is sleep. Once she started waking up in the middle of the night and hitting us, talking to us, sitting up in bed, STANDING up in bed, we were done. None of us were getting any sleep. Chris and I started bickering about who got more sleep, who needed more sleep, who got smacked in the face less by the baby. You name it. But the worst part was that Charlotte was being a brat. I've joked about her being bad in the past, but this was out of this world. She had a meltdown every time anything-ever-happened-somewhere-in-the-world. She was always crying and throwing things and whining. I was totally at the end of my rope. Even though intellectually I knew she was acting that way due to a lack of sleep, I couldn't help but feel like A) My baby hated me. B)I didn't really like her either. And C)I was a horrible mother for both those reasons.

It was a time I needed some advice, some reassurance that I wasn't alone, some friends. But because I was ashamed of how out of control I felt, ashamed of not having it all figured out, ashamed of not being the Zen mom I wanted to be, I didn't say anything for a while. I figured I was just being a baby, not appreciating this wonderful gift I had waited so long for. I reasoned I could fix the problem in my head so I didn't have to expose myself as the aforementioned frazzled mom.

Luckily, I have some really awesome friends and family and a totally amazing husband who all make me feel secure enough to be honest. So, eventually I came out of the bad mommy closet and opened up. Now, with the support of those around me and the miracle that is "sleeping through the night", I am in a much better place.

And I learned a valuable lesson. We are none of us perfect. We all have weak moments and flaws. I admire my friends who can be upfront with me about the trials and pitfalls of parenthood. If we were all that way, we could offer one another support and reassurance. And from now on, I will be taking a page from your book so I never feel so lonely again.

Baby Bomb

A couple months ago a friend of mine, whom I have not seen in a few years and whose biological clock is ticking like mad, was trying to get the real scoop on parenthood from me and Chris. She asked me if having a baby really does change your life as much as everyone says it does. I suppose she was hoping I would debunk the myth of the life-altering, bubble-bursting, dream-shattering baby. The baby that shows up, disrupts your sleep and your sex life, causes a third of your conversations to revolve around poop, and guarantees that you will never see a movie in a theater again.

I could have lied. I could have sugar coated it. But, I had to come clean with a resounding “Yes!”. Yes, a baby will knock your life upside down. Yes, everything you’ve heard is true. And yes, it will all be worth it because you will love that baby more than blah, blah, blah. I mean, you know the drill. It doesn’t matter what I tell her anyway because, as I now know, no words of wisdom can prepare you for what is in store for you as a new parent. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop people from trying.

But, it got me thinking about what has changed for me. And, I decided that the biggest change has been in my friendships. I never thought I’d be that mother who smugly proclaims, “I pretty much just hang out with my friends with kids these days”. And, I’m not. I try to make time for Charlotte-free activities whenever I can…ish. But, it’s true that since Charlotte was born I have become a lot closer to a couple of my mommy friends, and there has been a noticeable divide between me and my single and/or child-free friends.

Oh, how that last statement made me feel dirty! Add it to the long list of things I never thought I would do or say once I became a parent. And the worst part is that I can vividly remember what it was like to be on the other side of the stroller. I remember wanting nothing more than to catch up with a friend on the phone and feeling frustrated by the screaming children in the background and the constant interruptions as my friend scolded or comforted her kids, depending on the situation. I remember commiserating with a fellow childless buddy about how annoying it is when people use their kids as an excuse not to do anything. I remember swearing that I would be the kind of mom who would not let a baby slow me down, that I would be more than happy to dump the kids off at Grandma’s so I could run off to Vegas, the club, wherever.

I hated the accusation that people without kids just “didn’t get it”. I found it condescending and insulting. And it is. So, I’m not going to say that. All I can say is that I have learned to eat my words. I didn’t know that being away from my daughter would make me feel physically ill at first. And that even when it started to get easier, I could never completely be at ease until we were reunited, which means I would rarely agree to anything that took me away from her for more than a few hours. So much for Vegas!

I didn’t realize how much I would change as a person. My priorities, the things I worry about, the ways I chose to spend my time, all changed. And it stands to reason that it would be easy fun, fulfilling even, to surround myself with people who could relate to my experiences. People who wouldn’t judge me for letting my newborn take all her naps on my shoulder because they remembered what it was like to not want to let go. People who would find my stories about teething interesting and could give me advice about diaper rashes. I love my friends with kids. They reassure me, inspire confidence, listen to my banal stories about Charlotte, and go out of their way to be there for me and my daughter.

But, my friends without kids do all these things, too, sometimes even more so. So, the challenge is to not get hung up on the times when they are mad at me for not coming out or making fun of me for being overprotective, and try to remember what it was like to be in their shoes. I don’t want to alienate people who care about me because they don’t have kids, just like I would hate for my friends to give up on me because I have one.

So, I have set up certain ground rules for myself. I try not to talk exclusively about Charlotte in conversations (This is a good rule no matter who I am talking to). I try not to give people a play by play of what she is doing when I am talking on the phone, no matter how scintillating it seems to me. I NEVER put her on the phone. Seriously, please don’t put your infant or toddler on the phone with someone, unless it’s a grandparent or unless you are specifically requested to do so. PLEASE. I will always consider an offer to go out and will make a sincere effort to make time for my friends, even if it isn’t always easy to leave the baby behind.

I’m not perfect, and I may slip up and do something obnoxious. But, I will try to be a good friend. In return, I hope my friends will cut me some slack if we have to hang out at my house with the baby sometimes instead of going to a movie, or if I tell one too many “Charlotte did the cutest thing!” stories.

Luckily, I am privileged to have some of the most amazing people in my life. I think we’ll make it work.