How the other half lives

There's this new parenting magazine, Cookie, that's so over the top it's not even threatening. Here's a link to a sneak peek of their charter issue, where they offer their recommendations for your kid's first birthday party. Petit fours, candied chestnuts, or truffled goose foie gras, my sweet little punkin? Sheesh. Makes Chuck E. Cheese look like a reasonable option after all.

I promise that tomorrow I won't be such a sourpuss. This big ol' glass of red wine and a bowl of Ben and Jerry's coming up are going to do me right.

My Ex sux. Again.

I just picked up Sister from school after spending my afternoon volunteering at the school book fair, only to have her tell me despondently that she was supposed to be picked up by her dad for his birthday. This was news to me. It's in our custody agreement that Sister can spend her parents' birthdays with the respective parent, but Ex has only done this about half the time in the past. The other half he's chosen instead to go have adult fun with friends, which I certainly don't blame him for doing. It's not something I assumed he would be doing, in other words, since he hadn't mentioned it. I tried mightily to be soothing to Sister and only narrowly avoided her really bursting into tears while all the other volunteering mamas pretended not to be listening in.

I got home to a message on the answering machine and expected it to be my Ex clearing things up. It was my Ex alright, calling only minutes before, but merely to ask me how much he owed me for Sister's insurance premium. No mention of the pick-up mix-up.

So I called his mommy to try and figure things out. He answered, insisted that he had asked me about having her on his birthday. When I reminded him that he had merely mentioned he was having a birthday and wanted to get married, he hedged. But then covered any feelings of responsibility for his error by yelling at me about how difficult it was to communicate with me. I'll have you know that while my hands were shaking and my voice catching with the adrenalin rush that shot through my bloodstream, I remained perfectly calm on the phone--even conciliatory!--and did not yell in front of Sister.

She's gone now, whisked off by her dad and his mom to his birthday party at his parents' house. Bean is sleeping. Husband isn't coming home til late tonight because of a blogging conference. And I'm just here alone, trying to come down off the adrenalin kick. It's times like these when I could use a good, stiff cocktail containing gin, breastfeeding and afternoon hour be damned.

Another reason to feel like shit if you're a divorced mama

A few days ago, in order not to run out of things to write about on this blog, I signed up to receive news alerts from Google. Among other things, one of the topics I signed up for was divorce. This was very, very stupid of me as a divorced mama. There was an article on divorce's effects on children published in the Washington Post about a week ago that's generating lots of heated commentary. The author, Elizabeth Marquardt, is affiliated with the Institue for American Values, which I know next to nothing about except that from their website they appear to be some kind of conservative organization backing research on the glories of (hetero- only!) marriage and how much you suck if you divorce your spouse. I am not generally in the habit of taking what right-wing pundits say to heart. Nevertheless, it's hard not to feel like a complete asshole mommy once again for having left Sister's father and apparently doing her irreparable harm.

I suspect my angst is going to generate a flurry of comforting comments, which would not be unwelcome, but the reason why this article bothers me so much is that some of it really rings true. Marquardt cites a study where children of divorce complain that they become different people depending on whether they're at mom's or dad's house. Sister totally does this already, at 7 years old. At our house, she is generally well-behaved and polite, has chores that she does, uses table manners, that sort of thing. But I've witnessed her in her dad's care acting...perhaps "chaotically" is the right word. There's this element to her behaviour that is kind of wide-open, skating the edge between ebullience and out-of-control. I beat myself up sometimes thinking that she's going to hate me when she's a little older and I'm the disciplinarian, the one who enforces the rules. I know, I know, kids need structure, they feel more secure with rules, yada yada. But I worry sometimes that I'm overcompensating and being too strict. I dread the day that she tells me she'd rather live with her dad and grandparents than with me.

It wasn't an easy decision to leave the Ex 6 years ago. Sister was only a year old, still nursing even. The Ex and I had actually decided that Sister and I would move out for just a few months to see if that would help alleviate our very stressed marriage. I was discussing this on the phone with a good friend who asked me did I really think this would help or did I just need to decide to leave permanently. A good question--I realized in an instant that this leaving was for keeps. I wanted out. The Ex's mother sent me a letter pleading for me to stay and go to marriage counselling instead, that I was going to scar Sister for life, that she would never be happy. Ugh. A study had just come out then, too, concluding that children of unhappy marriages are still happier and healthier than children of divorced parents. I agonized over that, but ultimately decided that I just couldn't do it. The Ex wasn't abusive or anything, but I just couldn't stay with him in a miserable marriage, no matter who it was going to hurt. I told myself that it wasn't doing Sister any good to witness her parents being so unhappy, that she really needed more positive models, etc. But really I knew that it was an entirely selfish decision.

So here I am now. My life is great with a new baby and a marriage that shows no signs of wear at all, to a husband I adore. But it feels like Sister is only half a part of it since she's gone nearly half the time. Scratch the surface and my life is odd and tense. I hope desperately that Sister will be o.k., that somehow we'll do this the right way and she'll grow up not feeling the 2 halves of her life as that awfully separate.

In the meantime, I'm going to stop receiving news alerts about divorce.

Blog shorts

I got my hair cut over the weekend and as always wasn't quite sure how I liked it.

Me: So does this haircut look even more like a mom haircut than my previous one?
Husband: (loyally) No!
Sister: (shouting) Yes!

I dropped Sister off at her dad's house last night. Since my last email to him in which I told him he absolutely would not be taking any of my holiday time with Sister away, I haven't heard from him. We chatted about this a bit and then he, master of the non sequitur, came out with: "I turn 38 on Tuesday."

Me: Yeah, almost 40, huh?
Ex: Oh, no! I need to get married!
Me: (non-commitally) Hmmm.
Ex: I need to get someone to set me up. Maybe I should talk to your Husband.
Me: (at a complete loss as to what to say. Consider suggesting not staying with his parents every frickin' weekend and perhaps, I don't know, getting a job. But if he doesn't know this by now then me telling him won't help. Bless his heart.)

I have once again volunteered to be the troop cookie manager for Sister's Brownie troop. This after performing the role last year and insisting to myself that I would never do it again. For one thing, one of the parents spent the proceeds of her daughter's sales--about $700--and ended up having to get her parents to write a check to cover the amount at, literally, the last minute before I had to turn over the cash to the Girl Scouts head honchos. (Those ladies DO NOT fuck around, just to warn any future Brownie/Girl Scout parents.) Another set of parents bought many boxes themselves just so that their daughter could have a special badge over and above the regular badge that the rest of the troop got. And then spent the last month of the sale trying to get me to buy them all back with the troop's money. On the flip side, the troop's co-leaders dedicate so much of their time that I feel guilty not doing what I can. Throw a little guilt my way and I'm a complete sucker.

Weekend musings

I hope this post will end up making sense by the time I'm through. I composed the outline while nursing Bean at 2:00 a.m., and am now trying to flesh it out to the sounds of Jimmy Neutron in the not-so-far-away background. I usually like having a house on the small side, but the office in the same room with the only t.v. in the house means that I keep getting distracted by stupid Bratz commercials and Barbie pony fairy snack oven thingies being advertised to Sister. She's only allowed to watch cartoons on weekends, I swear.

Sister's last soccer game of the season was yesterday, I'm happy to say. Husband and I spent it on the sidelines chatting with one of the other moms, who also happens to be Sister's Brownie troop co-leader. I really like her a lot. She's also a stay-at-home mom-- she has triplets!--and is a former nurse. She and her husband, an emergency room doctor, make far more money than we do, live in a much bigger house in a much swanker neighborhood. I thought about being intimidated by this when we first met, but really she's so unassuming and fun to talk to and not at all caught up in the trappings of their life that it's a non-issue.

Anyhow, we all sat around talking and intermittently cheering on the girls. The topic was the vast amount of suffering in the world--children starving, tsunamis wiping out whole cities, earthquakes killing thousands--and how overwhelming it can be to consider it all. Triplets' Mom was saying they'd just gotten a new puppy for the kids and she'd gone to the local yuppie dog supply store and just felt embarrassed when confronted by thousands of dollars worth of doggie treat inventory. It is pretty warped when you really step outside of yourself to see it, isn't it? I mean, as much as we all love our doggies...? Husband told a story about when he was growing up in Atlanta, there was an older man in his neighborhood who had adopted a patch of no-man's-land at the top of the block. It was just a roughly 10 X 12-foot piece of land that would otherwise not be taken care of. This man would wheel his lawn mower up the street and mow the patch, weed it, and generally tidy it up. Husband later realized it was perhaps the sanest response possible to all the craziness out there. He imagined the man thinking something like: "I don't care what happens out there. This patch WILL BE MOWED AND WEEDED AND CLEANED UP." Triplets' Mom added, "Yeah, and no genocide on THIS patch! Not on MY watch!" We laughed a little, but it was something to think about.

You can't throw money towards every tragedy that comes up on the news--or at least we can't. And it really can put you into numbing emotional overload to really consider all there is out there wrong with the world. We middle-class Americans have got it damn good, so what do we do when confronted with famine, with homelessness, with a deteriorating ozone layer? Sell everything and join the Peace Corps? Become a missionary? Another Mother Theresa? Most of us aren't going to go to those extremes, let's face it, but there's a middle ground between those options and just shutting down and doing nothing. Maybe it really is best to pick one small thing and focus on it. Acquire a sort of tunnel vision even, and do that one thing as best you can. The idea appeals to me and I'm going to spend some time trying to figure out that one thing I can do well. Knowing me, it will probably be something close to home, something in my community. But human suffering is human suffering no matter where you find it. It's crystal clear to me these days that I've got so much. For once in my life, I've also got some time on my hands to do something to help.

Our little suburban paradise

The walk to school this morning was just pure delight. This day in Chapel Hill, NC is one of those famously perfect fall days--about 60 degrees, clear blue skies, and a strong breeze blowing the colored leaves in great clouds from the trees in our neighborhood. It rained last night so everything is a little dewy and the air feels fresh. I had Bean in the backpack and Sister by my side. Sister was already ecstatic at being able to scuff through our neighbor's drifts of red leaves when the first breeze hit us. We looked up to a huge cloud of willow oak leaves spinning somehow slowly above us, landing by the hundreds at out feet. This sent Sister over the edge, and she laughed out loud from her little belly. Bean cackled and squealed because Sister was doing it, which made Sister laugh even harder. Wet leaves smacked us on the cheeks, leaves stuck themselves in our hair, other neighbor girls on their way to school caught up with us, running and squealing. It was so sweet.

We live in a small neighborhood built in the late 1960's a pleasant half-mile's walk partly through the woods to the elementary school. I never thought I'd live in a brick ranch house, but the neighborhood is teeming with children and regular, liberal folks--plus it was one of the few houses we could afford in Chapel Hill's rather inflated real estate market. I really love our little house, and I love that we live in this almost ridiculously sweet, friendly neighborhood. This morning, just like every other morning, I passed the same middle school kids on their way to the bus stop at nearly the same spots on the street that I always do. On my way home I saw the same parents with their same kids running a little later than I do on their way to school. I saw the same cars with the same neighbors on their way to work at the same time. They have movies where they make fun of this, don't they? I've laughed at them before, too, but really it feels good that we fit into this life, that there is this order humming around us. And I suspect that that human order is observable even in big cities if you're out somewhere at the same time everyday and are looking for it. I find it comforting and comfortable and I feel fortunate on a daily basis to have this life as it is right now.

So it's into the kitchen soon to warm things up and scent the house with a big pot of split pea soup. I'm going to make it a little thin this time--not porridge-y--with small diced potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions, plus a little pancetta. We'll have that plus Irish pork bangers, hot crusty bread, good cheeses, and a green salad for dinner. I feel like making our dinner a feast tonight.

My Ex sux!

Man, are my nerves ever jangling this morning. I've got no chance of a nap in this state, that's for sure. Any of you out there have an ex-husband with whom you have to negotiate a young'un's schedule? I've got a doozy, and he's really been jerking my chain for the last 48 hours.

I married the man who would turn out to be Sister's father 9 years ago while I was still young and dumb and in my bohemian princess phase. After leaving him I found out that ALL MY FRIENDS plus my mother thought it would never work, could see the end coming even before the beginning had happened yet. Wanna know something funny? We had an outdoor wedding at his parents' place in the country. There were buzzards circling during the whole ceremony. I kid you not.

Anyhow, no surprise to anyone (except me) that this marriage lasted not quite 2 years. What I'd thought was garden-variety eccentricity and an artistic temperament was in fact actual brain damage from a car wreck several years previously that rendered my chosen quite incapable of holding down a regular job, doing any household task other than the dishes if I asked him to, and even remembering what it was we'd fought about and agreed to change in any given week previously. Oy vey. The man is sweet, but I pity the woman who fools herself about him next time. My friends are very kind not to remind me what a moron I was.

But he is Sister's father. With whom I have a legal custody agreement. It's not something I'm perfectly happy with, but on the other hand it's been working for the last 5 years. Now that I'm a stay-at-home mom with a second child, however, things have changed. He seems to think that since I have another baby I should give up some time with Sister. That somehow I have an unfair allotment of kid-time and he should have more, though of course Bean is not his child. It's driving me nuts. Ladies, this man is a freak! May I list the ways in which he sucks? Thank you, I believe I will. And I bet that mommygoth will back me up here.

• He used to take Sister to bars when she was 2-years old.
• He has epileptic seizures but has always denied that this was an issue in his caring for Sister. She was 3-months old when he was wearing her in her front pack one day, had a seizure, and dropped her on the sidewalk next to a busy street.
  
• The man NEVER says please when making requests for extra time. He says merely, "I need to pick her up early on such and such a day."
• People in town--and not just my good friends--STILL tell me how he has no clue where Sister is or what she's doing when she's with him. She is permitted to get out of her seat at restaurants and go chat up the other tables while he's talking to his buddies, as an example. And Sister is 7, not 2 when it might be cute for a couple of minutes.
• This is a man who has taught my daughter to announce loudly to people like my mother that she doesn't believe in God. Okay, I don't go to church either, but there's something sad about turning a child into an atheist and a cynic at age 4.
• My Ex isn't even the one who cares for Sister when she's with him. He simply isn't able to take care of practical details like dinner or bedtime. Instead, he goes to his parents' house when he's with her. His mother brushes her teeth, cooks dinner, packs her lunch, helps her with her homework, puts her to bed, gets her ready in the mornings, EVERYTHING. I mean, why does he want extra time with Sister when he can't even make it out bed before 10:00?!
  
• This man is almost 40 now and is STILL unemployed. His parents support him, and Sister when she's with him.
  

Alright, I think I am cleansed. I believe that Phantom Scribbler sponsors a weekly bitch-fest for those who need it. Maybe I should think about a weekly Ex bashing for mamas in similar situations...

Drumroll, please!

Ohmigod! I don't know how or when it happened exactly but, ladies, I can now fit into The Jeans. I know you know which Jeans I mean. Have I said how much I love breastfeeding? I love breastfeeding.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

It's been a busy day so far. I spent Bean's morning naptime planting the dozen shrubs that have been languishing in their pots in my sideyard for a month now. Felt quite pleased with myself both to have gotten that item crossed off my to-do list and to have gotten a little exercise in. I'm a member of the real-activity-as-exercise camp, much preferring to rev up my heart rate and work up a sweat with raking or digging in heavy clay soil or the like over using one of those treadmill/ski machine thingies for some uninspired portion of an hour.

I also went on a huge grocery shopping trip today since the fridge was void of fresh food altogether and I wanted to avoid another dinner gem such as we had last night--corn and cheddar cheese chowder thawed from the freezer, broccoli with left-over cheese sauce, toasted bagels also thawed from the freezer, and gin gimlets. Husband enjoys a squishily comfortingly cheesy meal and so didn't mind. I enjoy gin and didn't have to cook--what could be better on returning home from a weekend away? (For all you militant La Leche League mamas out there, the baby was already asleep and, don't worry, did NOT have a breastmilk-and-gin version of my cocktail.)

So I'm fully home now and glad to be here. The laundry is all done and hanging in the sun outside, the fridge is full, my baby is asleep. Sister returns home from her dad's tomorrow and I can't wait to see her. I hope she's not too sad this week. I get the feeling that she's really bothered by her dual-household life lately. And I have to admit that it's hard for me to go from lavishing love on Bean alone while Sister is gone to dividing my attentions between them when Sister is back. Maybe more on that tomorrow.

In the meantime, Asheville was lovely with the mountain leaves at their red and gold peak. We all 3 walked around downtown and enjoyed people-watching young lesbians, unwashed and hairy back-to-the-earthers, young neo-hippie guys who knit, etc. I saw someone with whom I had a brief and ugly fling through the window at the restaurant where I used to pastry-chef it. I felt a brief moment of "Yikes! Ick!" and then we were past and I don't think Husband noticed. As much as I love Asheville, I'm still glad to have left it behind me and made it back here to Chapel Hill. My life is fine indeed right now.

And this sort of lazy, grateful mood reminds me that I have a good friend, a Nice Jewish Girl who has proclaimed herself such a luddite that she can't figure out how to comment on this blog. She did email me, though, and I wanted to include something she wrote to me. Here goes:

So first of all.................... going back to what you first said.... Hey! I'm as feministic as it gets. I have been to girl vigils and protests and marches on the lawn and i've been fired from rallying women at the work place for higher wages and sware, belch, spit, talk pussy. I'm sexually assertive and i'm sexy...with HEELS of course. And you are too, all of this. Thats why you and i clinked our pinkies together rather quickly. We know who the cools ones are workin it---right?! But i too want to be a stay at home mom! Fuck. I dont even have a kid to stay at home for and i still want to be a housewife. So how do ya like them apples? AND, AND.... i am righteous about it too. I dont care what it means to anyone else. That's just the way it is and i sure as hell am no less of a feminist. So there. Shit. Now i can't remember all the other things that you have sparked in me to respond. I guess that's one good reason to post right in that blog thing hmmm.

Wow. I want to be more like Nice Jewish Girl, don't you?

Prelude to a road trip

I woke up in a shitty mood this morning for absolutely no good reason. Bean only woke up once last night, so you'd think I'd be bouncing off the walls with good cheer, given that her habit of late has been to wake MANY times. Sister had a great day at school yesterday, rated 2 smiley faces on the behaviour chart her teacher has taken to keeping. I even got to bed at a reasonable hour. So what the hell is wrong with me?

We're going to the gorgeous mountain city of Asheville, North Carolina after lunch today. Husband, Bean and I are all driving up together. (Sister is with her dad for the weekend, as she is most weekends. I'll post about my Ex sometime...) I love Asheville, having separated from the Ex up there--a fiercely happy, vivid, and, it must be admitted, kinda slutty year for me, though hopefully Sister never finds that out. (Husband has some inkling since he was a part of it.) I'm looking forward to being there again and walking down those old streets among the still intact Art Deco buildings, bookstores, and coffee shops, hiking with Bean, viewing the leaves turning colors on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I lived there 5 years ago, and haven't really been back since except for a stop for lunch once on another trip. It really is a wonderful town.

I guess it's the prospect of driving 4 hours with a baby who hates car rides that's got me down. God knows how many hours longer this usually manageable trip will be extended because of stops for nursing, diaper changes, baby exercise, etc. That prospect plus the feeling that I'm nothing more than a maid and housewife these days is what's making me so pissy. By the time Bean and I are left to our own devices everyday, after Husband's gone to work and Sister's in school for the day, I'm facing the aftermath of the morning. The bathroom floor has puddles of standing water, there are coffee grounds all over the kitchen counters, beds are unmade, little droplets of spit-up have crusted over on the floor throughout, and there's sugar all over the kitchen sink. (Why the hell is there that much sugar all over the goddamn sink?)

"Stay-at-home mom" sounds like there's some fun, or at least a darling baby, to it. "Housewife" just reeks.

Attention, please

It appears that Sister may have "attention issues," according to her second grade teacher. She's not sure yet, wants to give it til the holidays, but those words have been uttered. Naturally, this has me in mental and emotional turmoil. When I first became aware of ADD in my pre-childbirth years, my first reaction was something along the lines of, "What?! They want to drug kids so that they'll conform to the Man's public school brainwashing program?!?" Or maybe that was the reaction of my loony ex-husband who saw a conspiracy behind everything that wasn't free love, communism, and art for all. But my reaction wasn't too far off.

Now I'm not sure what to believe, or even what I'd like to believe. That first reaction is still there a little. Maybe more than a little since it's MY kid we're talking about now. But on the other hand, what if her definitely disruptive behavior was out of her control and could be cured by a little pharmaceutical magic? Would she be happier with herself? Would our time after school be less stressful if there weren't scoldings and reprimands to be administered so frequently? Could I really let her be drugged just to do better in school? Or would the latent rebel in me yank her out of the clutches of the Man to be home-schooled? (Jesus, what am I saying...?!)

I have no idea what the answers are just now. Any of you out there had to deal with this in your own kids? What did you decide? I'm all ears.

What's a mama to wear?

The Bean is better today. She's down for her first nap of the day, Sister is successfully, if perhaps a little sadly, off to another day of second grade. And it's mama-time! I was up at 6:15 today and actually got a shower! I'm wearing make-up and have had breakfast ! This day is already a success as far as I'm concerned.

But lest I get too gleeful, I should remember that the errand for the day is shopping for pants. Now that the cold weather is here to stay I've got to find something other than capris to wear, and I'm sorry to say that 7 months post-childbirth I still don't fit into enough of my long pants. The whole not-exercising, home-alone-with-the-baby-and-the-fridge thing is not the way to go if I really cared about losing the last of the pounds. Do I care? Y'know, I guess I really don't, which is sort of surprising.

The truth is I used to care a lot about how I looked and the things I put on my body. I still have a closet full of gorgeous vintage dresses that I used to wear along with matching hats, stockings, costume jewelry, the works! Dressing everyday was fun when with that stuff to work with and that much time on your hands in the mornings. But now I'm a nursing mother. I have to strap the baby in her backpack most mornings in order to walk Sister to school. Vintage dresses and late-model backpack? With stockings? I don't think so. So along with my closets stuffed with vintage frocks, I find myself with drawers full of nursable black v-neck t-shirts, baggy jeans, cheap capris, and yes, khakis. Something in me hates khakis, even though the particular pair I'm thinking of happens to be about the most flattering article of clothing I can fit into at the moment. And my mom gave them to me, okay?

Still, though, my previous uniform is history for the time being. I wonder, too, how many moms at Sister's elementary school have done the same. Maybe none of them. Maybe they've always dressed the khakis and sneakers way and have never been the vain clotheshorse that I am. Or maybe they've made the same sacrifices to practicality and are waiting for the day when they can plausibly slip on that '40's era crepe dress that evokes Mommie Dearest (heh-heh), that silk flapper-style butterfly print number, those gabardine pants and rayon blouse with delicate glass buttons. God, do I miss wearing that stuff sometimes! One of these days, when I don't need to have accessible breasts and don't leak milk, when my kids can walk themselves to school, when I can go out again for some social occasion rather than errands to Target and the grocery store and the mega-mall, you'll find me in purple crepe with jet beading, in tiny printed rayon, in green rhinestones, in navy blue silk...

In the meantime, it's to Marshall's and T.J. Maxx for cotton twill. But not in khaki.

How to get through a day

Husband brings our sweet, wide-awake baby in to me, still sleeping, at 6:45. He's off for his morning run, as is his habit. I could be resentful of this routine of his, but it actually allows me to feel beneficient, self-sacrificing. I, too, will get up early so that he can have this. Still, I've got to get through this day somehow on very little sleep. Our Baby Bean is sick with a cold and teething at the same time, and on top of all that has figured out how to roll onto her belly in her crib but not back the other way. She requires us to turn her several times a night, ply her with various medications.

I nurse Bean in bed, enduring her gripping of my breasts and neck skin--do I really have that much neck skin? Is it a wattle yet?--and her kicking of my belly. I imagine what it must feel like to be a cat with her litter or a big sow with 8 piglets, all of them doing exactly this. One baby isn't so bad.

Bean looks sleepy after nursing, so I take her into her room and put her in her crib again, feeling hopeful that she'll go to sleep. I brush my teeth and insert my contact lenses while I pretend to believe she'll stop fussing and snooze. Then I give up, put on my robe (not clothes) and retrieve her.

I make us breakfast--virtuous yogurt and fruit for me, pears and oatmeal for her. We are both fussy, but we eat. I don't have my first cup of tea since I'm holding out for a nap for the both of us.

We play a bit, but mostly she wants to be held so that she can wipe her runny nose on my robe. We are both still fussy. Finally, though, it is clear that she is genuinely sleepy. I change her one last time and put her in her crib and it's off to napland almost instantly. She makes one sound of objection, turns her head, and closes her eyes. I pad straight down the hall to our bedroom, click on the monitor, shed the robe, and crawl into the half-made bed. There is still a little residual warmth from earlier trapped under the down comforter. Mmmm....

I'll be alright in an hour.

Mamas unite!

I've been sitting on this empty blog for a couple of weeks now, trying to decide what the first post should be about. Seems momentous somehow, like I should provide some sort of introduction or prologue or some such. Husband says you're supposed to try for a tone, a voice. Historically, however, I'm a journal-writer and not a writer for public consumption so this seems hard. You don't have to sell yourself in a journal. It can be as awful, messy, and grievously self-centered as you want and there's no audience to concern yourself with. (Except, of course, for your adult children who will stumble on the tattered notebooks in a trunk in the attic one day and be horrified to read of your sex life and pettiness and daily annoyance with THEM. But then they'll realize how great a writer you were! What artifacts of culture these journals are! And they'll be published to much posthumous acclaim! But my fantasies distract me from the matter at hand.)

Which is supposed to be a post which will contain such clear TONE that if people stumble upon it they'll know instantly that this is a blog they'll want to keep up with (or not). Hmmm. Maybe I'll skip trying for tone just now and instead describe what prompted me to finally begin this today. There's a blog out there that I've been keeping up with lately. I won't link to it here because I actually know one of the bloggers. She's the wife of one of the Husband's closest college friends and it's very possible that we will see these people again. She's a journalist, is quite a good writer, in fact, and the blog is generally entertaining and a good way to pass the baby's naptime. I'm beginning to catch on, though, that this blog is preoccupied with dissing the stay-at-home mom. My sense is that it's because making the choice to stay at home with the kids rather than pursuing one's career indicates that you're one of those controlling, smothering types with no other ideas about what to do with your life. So this is where the women's movement has finally dumped us off, huh? I've got to go after SOME paying job in order not to be too smothering, too unhealthily concerned for my children's welfare?

Jeez, y'all, can't we can the bitchy judgments of what women have to do to make it work these days?! Don't find staying at home with your kids personally fulfilling? Don't worry, I understand exactly why you wouldn't. I applaud anyone's choice to pursue a career that they find gratifying and personally fulfilling. But listen, quality daycare is expensive, and so are private nannies. Before having this second baby, I was managing a bakery. I would say that it was locally famous and seemed to impress people when I answered the "What do you do?" question. But it was nevertheless pretty thankless work which didn't pay well and required a wretched schedule to boot. Some of us choose to stay at home because our jobs suck and it just doesn't make sense to work only to pay for daycare.

But really, aside from that, what the hell is wrong with liking hanging out with your kids, with not being so tired from work that you yell at the 7-year old for the smallest provocation, with cooking something for your family so that at the end of the day you can all convene around the dinner table to eat and re-connect? It's temporary for me, so I confess that I probably appreciate my situation more than I might otherwise. But I'm in no hurry to re-enter the rat race, ladies. Bring on the so-called domestic drudgery and the early morning wakings by a teething baby. I'll take that over getting up at 3:30 to bake you working bitches your low-fat muffins and scones any day!