Last spring my life changed drastically enough that if I wasn’t on social media (and a horrible liar) I could have told a believable story about entering a witness protection program. I went from being a city loving, Designer label obsessed, full time working career woman, to moving to a town 3 hours away from the nearest Trader Joe’s and staying home nearly 24/7 to sing nursery rhymes and read 5-paged board books. Turns out you can shed your caterpillar skin for butterfly wings more than once in your life. I view this big life change as Part Deux of what we’ll call my Mom Metamorphosis.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Saturday, November 1, 2014
I follow a parenting blog that annoys the hell out of me. I completely agree with the philosophy, and find much of the information presented helpful, so I’ve always wondered what it is that rubs me the wrong way. I figured it out one day. An article was posted along the lines of “Your baby isn’t the asshole, you are,” and it targeted the evil parents who use words like asshole to describe their children for behaving like children. I read the humorless, angry article and my initial thought was “maybe you’re the asshole, lady.” Was I feeling defensive or ashamed because I have admittedly used the term when writing or talking about my children? I spent a few minutes contemplating how much of an asshole I am. I could fill a large bucket with ways I do indeed qualify as an asshole, but tweeting that “I can’t tell if my baby is teething or just an asshole” isn’t really one of them. What bothered me wasn't just the need to defend the use of profanity in reference to my children, it was that this lady was attacking my right to take parenting lightly.
|You're not an asshole, but your behavior is reminiscent of the way an asshole might behave in this situation.|
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
I made squash for the first time today. It didn’t go as I’d hoped. Now I will pause while you compose yourself from the eruption of laughter that ensued upon connecting the title of this post with the content.
The kitchen is not my natural habitat. My natural habitat is a trendy downtown loft apartment, lounging on a blue velvet sofa drinking sparkling wine bought off an eye level shelf in the grocery store. If I’d remained childless my diet would probably still consist of the two major food groups: thai take out and styrofoam cupped pasta with powdered food-alternative flavoring. I was totally cool with not being very domestic, it was an important piece in my arsenal of adorable idiosyncrasies, along with watching boring old Audrey Hepburn movies and talking about how repulsive I found any activity where heels weren’t appropriate. You know, cool, modern, downtown girl stuff. Very Carrie Bradshaw.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Being a full-time mommy at home puts you into a strange time vortex. I still remember what it felt like to work full time with a baby, and I frequently find myself marveling at how busy I feel as a stay-at-homer. The vortex feels especially pronounced and indescribable when people ask what you've been up to lately, and time stops while you have a conversation with yourself in your head,
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Ah, the Facebook birthday message - the new way for family, friends, past co-workers and people who never talked to you in High School to make you feel special. As someone who recently had a birthday IRL and on FB, I’d like to share the following insights:
1. When someone writes “happy birthday” and nothing else it is basically the Facebook birthday version of the middle finger.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
I turned 28 on Monday. I spent a lovely day with my kids and my darling mother who traveled all the way from civilization to see me and make my birthday special. She brought me sweet gifts she knew I’d love, helped me to celebrate, not feel too lonely, and showered my children with treats, toys and love like only a grandma can. I should just stop writing now, but that’s not my style, and neither is having perfectly enjoyable birthdays. Instead, my birthday is a cautionary tale about high expectations.
Most of the time I’m pretty content not being the most important person alive,
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
I woke up in a bad mood today. Despite going to bed at 9:00 last night, I hardly slept. Sometime overnight my usually comfy (albeit crowded) bed morphed into a lumpy sac of potatoes and my pillow into lava rock. Co-sleeping with my 6’2” husband, 3 year old and 8 month old doesn’t help. The baby had one of those nights where she needed to breastfeed not several times a night, but actually sleep attached to me, preventing any movement on my part lest I move her and elicit a window rattling howl. This night was heavy on the tossing and turning for everyone (imagine our bed as a rock tumbler with 4 rocks ranging from 20 to 210 pounds), and even included some sudden Rottweiler-like jaw clamps mid-nursing from 2 needle-like baby teeth. The moment the ethereal morning sunshine peered through my curtains, I heard the birds sing and longed to stretch my arms over my head and savor the magic of being alive, but instead I buried my face in my pillow and thought “Ah, %&$!.”
|No worries, I hate personal space anyway.|
Saturday, August 23, 2014
I was never meant to be a regular mom. If I even had kids, I would be different. I’d be cool, because it’s not healthy to make your whole identity about someone else, especially someone who eats their boogers in the checkout aisle at the grocery store. Flash forward 3 years and there I was, pregnant with my 2nd, unshowered wearing yoga pants tucked into my knock-off Uggs, pushing a stroller to Starbucks immersed in a conversation about home pureed baby food as my former self rolled over in her grave, careful not to smear Chanel mascara on her silk-lined coffin.
Really, I think I preserved my cool pretty well after my first was born. I went back to work after 12 weeks and was forced to presume the identity of someone who had a life beyond spit-up drenched machine-washables. Things started to deteriorate during my 2nd pregnancy, then got serious when we relocated to Walla Walla where I have the tremendous blessing of staying home with my kids and am relieved of the pressure to impress anyone. I know no one, and my only friends are my devastatingly cool nieces and sister-in-law who are forced to hang out with me at our weekly family night. I’ve lost myself in a wilderness of crusty sippy cups, slobbery baby kisses and the involuntary but perpetual question “why bother?” Why make the bed when we’re just going to sleep in it later? Why change out of pajamas when no one will see me anyway? Why wash my hair when it’s just going to stay in this ugly messy bun? If you’re feeling as clinically depressed as I am after reading that I think the answer is clear…we bother because not bothering means taking up residence right around the corner from a high-dose Zoloft prescription.
In an effort to restore some dignity and keep some dollars out of Pfizer’s pocket I’m publicly resolving to the following efforts:
Monday, August 18, 2014
In the ocean of opinions swimming through the internet, there have been waves of voices condemning parents for their smartphone use. I’m stepping forward as the mom staring at her iPhone in public while my kid pulls at my arm for attention. Yeah, I read your Facebook status proposing my kids should be taken away and given to someone who cares about them.