Mommy Metamorphis

     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. 

Can Kids Be A-Holes Too?

     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.

     Do I think my baby is an asshole? Do I think any baby or child is even capable of being an asshole?

Autonomy for Moms in 30 Minutes or Less

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,

The Problem with My 28th Birthday

     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,

They can't all be good days.

     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.

 

Cool Mom Resolutions

  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:

Mom Guilt in the Age of Technology - Defending My iPhone

 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.

Planning my 1st Baby's 1st Birthday

     I do not excel in girly etiquette-requiring activities. I frequently invent elaborate stories/lies about why the thank you card (which I definitely never wrote) didn't arrive. I make a list of people I want to send Holiday cards to sometime in October, but haven't mailed one in at least 3 years. I show up to birthdays with a six pack I picked up at a convenient store on my way as a present. I was a bridesmaid for the first time last year and I didn't even bring a wedding gift (really sorry about that Tasha and Sean....who needs a new toaster oven when you have a lifetime of happiness though, am I right? But seriously, I'm deeply ashamed, that's terrible.) In highschool my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend baked him cookies every football game and wore ribbons in her hair with his jersey number painted on in puff paint. If I ever baked cookies they were inevitably  every shape except round and unintentionally crunchy, and I was more likely to be inhaling puff paint than using it for crafts. My point is that I suck at this stuff.

Might as well face it, you're addicted to baby love.

If you thought it was cool when I called my baby an asshole a couple posts back, this post probably isn't for you.

You know the feeling you get when you're falling in love? You feel so good that it actually makes you feel nauseous most of the day. "Walking on clouds" is a nice way to say you feel like you just ate 3 Taco Bell menu items while on an upside down roller coaster. You could puke anytime, but there's something magical about it. The object of your affection becomes your only topic of conversation. You're telling anyone who will listen how your new boyfriend folds his socks, then you laugh maniacally like it's the funniest, most interesting story ever told.

Or maybe you haven't been in love but you have made some poor decisions in your life (or at least watched an Intervention marathon). When you're in the midst of your addictive cycle nothing matters but getting your fix. If you even manage to make it to work it's only to get more money to pour into your addiction. Where there used to be a life brimming with hobbies, interests, meaningful relationships and ambition, there is now only your addiction.

The thing about falling in love, or being seriously addicted to drugs is that part of you is fully aware that your behavior is irrational. And so it is with loving your child. A few times a day a voice of reason breaks through the murky cloud of obsession fogging up your mind and says "What has this baby done for me lately?" (For me, this voice is Janet Jackson, obviously.) This baby scratches, bites, throws up on me, pees on me, refuses to wipe his own butt, throws the food I prepare for him all over the kitchen, wakes me up at 6:00am by hitting my face and then rasberry-ing my eye socket, and more. No matter how bad he treats me I keep coming back for more. I am OBSESSED with him. If my theme song is "What Have You Done For Me Lately?" then Holden's is "Why You So Obsessed With Me?" (I promise that is the last pop song reference in this post.)

I've recently returned to work after 5 weeks off. It's been a bit of a transition, but not so bad. The hardest part was the anticipation. After a bit of struggle the first week staying home I got in a real lady-of-relative-leisure groove and couldn't bear the thought of leaving my sweet angel baby. I have a career that I love, but it requires me to leave my house for about 10 hours 5 times each week. While on leave I convinced myself this would no longer be possible. I needed access to my fix throughout the day. I spent most days brainstorming internet businesses and other work-at-home mom schemes. Wanting to leave a great job you love, this is how irrational having a baby makes you. You know the term "rock bottom?" Keep reading to hear about mine...

There's a strip club pretty much across the street from our home (gotta love Portland) and during my desperate search for a career with flexible hours an insane thought crossed my mind. "Hmmm, I guess I could start exercising and maybe get drunk enough to just be a stripper however many nights it takes to pay my rent, then my days would be free  to spend at home obsessing over my baby." If you know me IRL you know how laughably absurd the idea of me being a stripper is. In addition to the morals/dignity territory that would make this a difficult profession, I'm a terrible faker. If someone annoys me I can't even sustain eye contact, let alone naked-body-lap-dance-contact. Plus looking and/or dancing sexy isn't exactly my forte. Nowadays "looking hot" means taking the time to put on mascara. When would I possibly find time to get fake nails, wax every inch of my body, spray tan, put a weave in, buy about 10 times the amount of makeup I currently own, and roll around in enough glitter to detract from my c-section scar? My point is that loving a baby has made me SO IRRATIONAL that for about 24 hours I was seriously considering embarking upon a seedy career as Melody the Night Mistress, or some other dorky contrived alias. (Disclaimer: I'm exaggerating for entertainment value, Mom.)

Having a baby makes you crazy in every way imaginable. I spend hours a day wishing I could have 20 minutes to myself. I'm often near tears of frustration by the time I finally get the baby down for a nap. Then what do I do? I go downstairs and flip through pictures of him on my phone, wishing he'd wake up so I can hold him and play with him and smell his sweet baby smell.

Don't let this picture fool you, he has not mastered utensil usage.

Just like an addict I love the rituals surrounding the addiction. What I think of as chores: bathtime, bedtime, meals where more food ends up on the floor and in my hair than in the baby's mouth; those are also the most precious times. I complain about having to do it, but I won't go out with my friends for dinner even one night because I can't bear to miss it. Babies, can't live with them, can't live without them.

Step 1 is admitting you have a problem. Hello world, my name is Morgan and I'm ADDICTED to my baby. I'm sorry about all the events I've missed, the phone calls I've ignored, the times you've been talking and I haven't been listening. I'm sorry about talking for 2 hours about how over-developed my 11 month old's linguistic skills are because he points to the ball in his favorite book and says "baahh!" I'm sorry for telling detailed stories about baby poop. I'm sorry for bragging, for taking the time to review baby products on the internet, and for saying things like "they really call it a bundle of joy for a reason." I'm sorry for having a picture of my baby as my Facebook picture. I didn't plan to be this person, but I have a condition. I get high on baby love, and I don't plan on coming down anytime soon.

A hit of the good stuff.

5 Weeks of Leave (or To the Edge of Sanity and Back)

I'm currently on maternity leave. 10 months after my baby was born. Here I'll tell you a little about how I got here, and what it's been like.

    3 months before my baby was due I had to leave work on disability. I wasn't technically on bed-rest, but I couldn't drive, and I lived in Beaverton so obviously no one was going to come hang out with me. For 3 months I literally did nothing but eat icecream, talk to my dog, and freak the fuck out because somehow I would have to get this human out of my body and take care of it for the rest of my life. After said baby was removed from my stomach I spent 12 weeks the way I imagine most new mothers do: crying tears of joy, then crying tears of despair for no reason, trying on pre-maternity clothes and crying some more when they didn't fit, getting puked on, and the remaining 20 hours a day were spent staring at my sleeping baby in bewilderment. Even though I had 8 remaining weeks of leave, after 6 months away I was READY to go back in June.

    For a few months I was Supermom. I was kicking butt at work and wiping butt at home without skipping a beat.

4 Things Moms Need to Stop

Moms are bitches. I'm guilty of it too. A lot of people are bitches, but moms have their own brand of bitchiness that they dish out like sandwich triangles at snack time. Here are some things we Moms need to consider stopping:

1-Using "Sorry, it's the mom in me!" as an excuse to tell other people what to do. 

     I'm sure you've heard this. It may be your own mother after verifying that your seatbelt is buckled even though your 32. Maybe it's a co-worker telling you your lunch isn't very nutritious. It could be a waitress who tucks the tag into the back of your shirt. Your friend suggesting a one-drink minimum on your date tonight. Me, nagging my significant other for wearing his shoes in the house. I'm not a child, I don't need you trying to impose your well-intentioned will on me because X (insert your child's age) years and 9 months ago you drank a bottle of jagermeister at a Jon Butler concert (or however other people get pregnant).

thanks for making me feel old instagram

I finally put instagram on my phone today. Until now, I shit you not, I have been wondering how so many of my friends either afford fancy cameras or have massive amounts of time to spend photoshopping their photos into uber-hip, grainy, forcibly candid masterpieces. People without babies- this is what I think of you: I think you spend all of your time sitting at home photoshopping pictures you and your girlfriends took in the bathroom mirror of Blitz. Does photoshop even exist anymore? Is photoshop the atari of digital photo editing? Now that I know what instagram is, and that it’s appropriately named for its instantaneous nature, I wonder what the hell babyless people are filling their time with if it’s not photoshop.

I’m straining to remember what I did before I was pregnant. Ouch. Okay, here it is, let me create the visual for you…