Game Plan

"And everybody has to stand on a lemur, and then you hold the ball like a cannon,
and then you say 'Frickin' me,' and then you fall." -Finn James McCauley

Got it team? Let's DO this!

Jumpstart Mom

It's happening especially frequently and intensely the last few days. Pete stomps on the floor, and I gasp as all my skin and muscles contract, turning me into a tiny, fiery ball of raw nerve endings. Finn knocks over a glass and the same thing happens, even though the glass is empty.

I don't know if it was having a preemie or just having any kind of baby, but my startle reflex is turned up to 11. Loud noises, quick movements, anything remotely unexpected, and I practically leap out of my skin. It's completely bizarre and uniformly annoying. Sometimes, I even know something is coming, and I'll jump.

Pete thinks he has PTSD from our whole preemie experience; I think that's patently ridiculous and self-indulgent. We had a preemie, who is now a perfectly healthy four-year-old. It's not like we were the victims of an IED in Afghanistan or sniper fire in Iraq or solitary confinement and torture. I get that PTSD can result from "less terrifying" experiences, and I totally understand that rape survivors, abuse survivors, and other survivors of grievous personal trauma can and do suffer from it (hence the quotes around "less terrifying." It's relative.), but I just don't feel that our situation--white, middle class, insured--qualifies. Certainly, it was unexpected and rather scary at times, but now, four years later, our normal, interesting, infuriating, adorable, and smart boy is just that: normal (interesting, infuriating, adorable, smart). I can look at videos and pictures from the hospital and feel a sense of gratitude and even nostalgia, not fear.

I think I am sleep deprived, four years older, 15 pounds overweight, and lacking in purpose, as well as jumpier, but I don't think that's PTSD, nor is it related specifically to having a preemie, though the first, third, and fifth are probably related to having any kind of baby.

B President! Not so much...

(Cross-posted from kittywhumpus, where I keep most of my politics and controversy.)

 

Stands on her own! Literally!

I see what you're trying to do here, Mattel. I really do. But why did you have to go all Fox News, Million Mom on it? What's wrong with a smart pantsuit in a vibrant blue? Or a sassy, shorter cut?*









A sensible pair of flats and a casual cardi?

I know. It's Barbie. She started out as a fashion model, and now, she can B President, right? That's progress! She has B-liefs! She can B Aggressive! B B Aggressive!

And you, little (white) girl, playing with Barbie, can B anything!

I know you can't make everything in a version that looks like everyone, but instead of white brunette President Barbie AND a white blonde President Barbie (such diversity!), how about black President Barbie? And I know pink is your signature color, and certainly the women pictured above have appeared in it, but for President Barbie of the B-certainly-does-not-stand-for-Bitch Party, couldn't you have knocked down the Studio 54 disco-ball glitter just a tad?

At the very least, you are not teaching the art of smart campaigning, as no one, male or female, is going to win the presidency with a sunglasses-wearing micro dog in their purse and cutesy not-spelling and supremely weird phrases on their campaign literature.

I think the elections of 2008 & 2012 showed us what happens when certain parties don't choose serious people to run for higher office, and I will not be expecting "Lastly, I have to thank Barbie" in Paris Hilton's 2050 acceptance speech.

But I do think we can do better than this for our girls.

 *Think of the awesome that would follow if you modeled a President Barbie after Hillary. She would come with transcripts of speeches, giant checks written to her SuperPAC, copies of her legislation as a Senator, diplomatic credentials from her time as Secretary of State, and then there's The Ken-First Gentleman doll. The accessories create themselves.

Potty

We don't baby talk to Finn. We generally try to use a normal tone of voice and real words, not cutesy claptrap in a squeaky voice. That sort of things makes me nuts. But, there are "regular" words that sneak in and should only be used with your child. Words like "potty."



Due to my current status as a moocher, freeloader, person-who-does-not-take-responsibility-for-herself, Obama voter, possible member of the 47% (Sorry. Had to.), I had the time to attend three Irish Festivals with Pete and the rest of the band. It was great. I was not worried about deadlines; I was not filled to the brim with stress; Finn was in good hands with family; I could mostly sit back and enjoy myself.

At the third of the Irish Fairs, I walked up to a security guard, intending to ask where the Ladies' was. Instead, I said,

"Can you tell me where the potty is?"

Nice.

Good morning. Can I get you a beverage?

Yesterday at day care*, a friend told me that he has made a discovery that changed his life: breakfast wine. I am super A-OK with drinking in the morning (the orange juice is really only an excuse, making it socially acceptable), so I looked it up. It's a thing. Wine in the morning without orange juice or guilt.

Of course, my child has a different idea: breakfast whine. He came staggering in at 5:30 this morning, in full whine. Sparkly hand, hair in his mouth, thirsty; a crumply, floppy mess of whinging.

I thought: this is why we need breakfast wine.

*No, unemployment has not led to me needing looking after during the day while Pete is at work. I just don't feel like clarifying. Nor has it led me to drinking in the morning, at home, alone. See yesterday: don't freak out.

Made of Mom*

*Important note for family members who still read this blog: don't freak out. Just let me write.

Pete and I are having issues. He lives a life with multiple identities; husband, father, videographer, musician, entertainer, all of which fit into "Pete" and make him a busy, interesting person. That's not to say that he is entirely fulfilled or doesn't feel lacking in some way, but he has a spectrum of identity that, from my perspective, allows for greater freedom and self-satisfaction. Heck, he even regularly receives enthusiastic praise from hundreds of people.

I am wife and mom. I don't even have my lame work identity to fall back on anymore.

I love my kid. He is smart, sweet, weird, caring, and funny. I chose to become a mother, and I would not take it back. But I am not Made of Mom. I don't find it so fulfilling that all else pales in comparison. It's not enough. In most ways, in fact, I feel motherhood has reduced me. Life has become a process of getting by, getting everyday over with, and adding twelve more items to the "Later List." When you add the guilt that comes with such feelings, you have a recipe for an existential crisis casserole complete with a crunchy topping of crushed, salty melancholy. Too bad my oven is still broken. That could be delicious served up with a side of shame and a tall, cool glass of iced rage.

We've had arguments about this before, and it seemed to come down to this for my spouse: it's either that I am not grateful that nothing terrible has happened to me and am just a purely privileged person, that I don't want to be a wife and mother, or I am so sleep deprived that I have lost all perspective.

I acknowledge that I am a privileged person and that I am sleep deprived. It is not being a wife that has made me dissatisfied. It is being a mother. Or is it? It's how motherhood has altered my life, and it has clearly altered my life in a way that has not made me happier overall. It has sucked more Me away, rather than creating more Meaning. I love my boy, and I love being with him; I would be devastated if anything ever happened to him. But his presence has created an absence, reducing me while making me something more. Motherhood is a paradox for me, and it seems like fatherhood is mainly an unrelenting joy for my husband, marked only with annoying bumps in the road.

This fact only makes my ambivalence worse and brings up a sense of inadequacy and failure. I must not have given myself over to this, my perspective must be all wrong and my expectations unrealistic. The fact that I miss my life before the boy makes me a terrible person. The fact that the thirty minutes I sometimes had before they both came home from work/daycare (when I was working) was often the best part of my day made me a selfish troll. Even if I am cooking dinner while watching Victorian melodramas and having a Guinness, I am simultaneously dreading their arrival while wishing to see them.

I am purely awful.
And daddywhumpus is a wonderful father.

Or maybe I don't want to be Just a wife and mother.

Only one of us can have a Big Fat Life, and while Pete is out and about getting approval and accolades for doing what he loves to do, I am failing and flailing, getting no accolades or approval for anything. I am keeping us going, which no one cheers about.

While society has accepted women in workplaces, much of the underlying consciousness has not changed. The idea of gender roles and expectations has not changed or is changing much more slowly. So women work out of the home as much as men and twice as much in the home. We are still the main provider of childcare and domestic chores, while men "babysit" and "help out around the house." Unemployment for me has actually improved our lives in many ways. I am on top of those domestic chores and I am significantly less stress-out and filled with twitchy self-loathing. It helps that babywhumpus is still in day care.

It Starts...

Pete pulls money out of wallet. Finn says, "What is that?"

"It's money we got payed for playing last night. See, Finn, if you learn to play an instrument, people will pay you."

Finn leaves room; comes back...