It's Just "The Curse" Once Again

Just as I was extolling the virtue of my period as a harbinger of hormonal normalcy, I am reminded of why I've hated it for so long. PMS. Yes, even before I went on my hormone-fueled sugar bender I had already gained a pound. And, we all know from previous posts and general knowledge of women how much fun that is. Now that I've wolfed down all of the candy that I've been hiding from my children, I fear the scale even more than normal. Better get to bed before the sugar crash hits. If only it weren't afternoon and I could do so........... Will my hormones ever make me happy?

Ta, Ta Titty Time

Well, I stopped breast feeding a couple of weeks ago and seven pounds dried away - what a relief. I almost fit into my fat jeans. It may not be pretty, but hey, it is progress.

Of course, I feel guilty. Motherhood equals guilt. I look at the űbermoms - working, juggling several kids, thin - really thin - with envy but hey, all of us have to accept our limitations. And, breast feeding was making me crazy - the hormones, the scheduling, the kid on the tit constantly. It was stifling - I was a food source for another human being!

I'm already claustrophobic and having to schedule how long I could be away from the baby was making me even nuttier. And, those pesky hormones. They were making me a wee bit crazy! I had post-partum bitchy-ness -- and I was not pleasant to be around as my husband would trepidacously hint to me. It took all of my energy not to yell which left me with precious little to expend on being a wife and mother to my older children not to mention that pesky work thing. I have never been so happy to get my period... well, except for when I was single and not ready for parenthood. Let me rephrase; I haven't been so happy to get my period in years... maybe even decades.

While it is one of the miracles of being a female of any species - the ability to turn body fluids into life-sustaining titty juice it is not fun. Miracles are exhausting! I was raised on formula - in the sixties breast feeding was viewed as passé, a disadvantage to your child in the modern age of formula - but now, nature is viewed as best and my retro reliance on formula is no longer cutting edge.

In addition to the guilt there is fear. The fear that I am not only failing as a mother (the shade of guilt that I am not doing enough - vs. doing too much, etc.) but that I am putting another human being at risk mentally (intelligence) and physically (obesity, various diseases). There seems to be a study a week which extols the virtues of breast feeding -- and various other parenting techniques which I either fail at or don't even attempt at all. Have I failed as a parent already? It's scary.

Looking Thinner, Thin-ish......

The fastest way to look thinner;
-wear black
-suck in your stomach
-stop eating
-give birth

My second child is now four months old. The past week, people have been telling me that I look thinner. I gave birth to a monster - he was 11.2 pounds at birth! No, I didn't have gestational diabetes, I just have big babies; my daughter was 9.11 pounds. Being sick throughout my entire pregnancy - I kid you not, I threw up a couple of days before giving birth - helped me not gain too much weight. But, with such a big kid, really, it would've been impossible for me to have gotten any bigger. I was huge. My husband would see me naked and just start laughing. I couldn't get angry, I just had to laugh with him.

-I wear black - season aside, I've never been thin so this has always been one of my fashion staples.
-I can't suck in my stomach - those muscles just don't come back easily! The only exercise they got for nine months was retching, which I think counts as at least a crunch or two depending how violent the puking.
-If I had enough discipline not to eat I wouldn't have a weight problem in the first place. I am trying to be like one of those "LA moms" - those uberfit, fashionable and actually-hands-on-moms - who make me green with envy but I'm hungry!
-So, I gave birth and now, while I'm not small, I do look thinner!

There is no perfect parent

All of us will screw up our kids – no matter what we vow, or how hard we pray, there is no perfect mother and no perfect kid no matter what your insecurities tell you about the other mothers you see. The goal of motherhood is twofold; don’t drive yourself nuts striving for unattainable perfection, screw up our kids – and you will in some way - in ways that are different from your own nuttyness. If my kid is talking about the same issues that I have on the couch then I have failed as a parent – I have merely served as a conduit for past generations’ neuroses. If my child is bemoaning a different sort of angst while crying to a trained professional, then at least I have left a legacy all my own, having jumbled their psyche in novel and hopefully interesting ways that might even get a shrink published.

We cannot hold ourselves to an inhuman standard this will not make us strive to be better mothers; it just gives us more practice at self-flagellation. There is no perfect mother. Not one. No matter what “they” say or write or how many “I told you so’s you have to endure, this is your child and your motherhood so do it your way. There is no one right way to mother – there are a lot of wrong ways but sadly, no one, magic formula that will assure us of self confidence and kids who grow up to be people we consider good.

Now, this is not a license to foist all of your insecurities on the little tyke – this is your shot to save someone from those horrors and in the process hopefully save yourself too. Let your child know that they are loved beyond what you thought your heart was capable of, no matter how many times they say “I hate you” and in so doing, learn to love yourself and your capacity to do this. Of course a child’s angry remark hurts – but the ability to rise above that pain and love your offspring just the same is what makes a one a real parent.

Love them but do not smother them. Know that they have to reject us in order to become themselves and that holding us at arm’s length is part of the nasty individuation process. Odds are, they do not really hate us, they are simply trying not to be us which is a necessary evil on their way to becoming the ungrateful little snots that they will individuate into.

My little grunter – teenage boys go through this stage where they never utter a full sentence, thus his nick name – refuses all demonstrations of love which is frustrating because despite the mess of his room, the lack of full sentences I really do love the bugger. Eventhough he tests the depths of this love, I find it bottomless even when I am trying to speak rationally about an irrational proposition which involves him being entitled to: a. the car keys, b. more allowance c. less chores d. all of the above.

When my toddler refuses my hand and insists on tackling the stair case herself she is not rejecting me – she is challenging herself and, if I don’t want to be stuck wiping her butt when she is twenty I better let her wobble down the stairs herself – without ever leaving her side.

Both the toddler and the adolescent want the same thing – independence with strings attached. In a lot of ways, the goal of parenting is to make your job obsolete – although this is never so because the love of or approval from a mother is a blessing at any age – unless your kids really do hate you.

Remember, the only difference between a good parent and a bad one is that good parents only think of killing their children – bad parents actually do harm unto their kids. It’s alright to fantasize about sitting on their chests and covering their rotten mouths with electrical tape it is just bad to actual do it.

Breathe.. now, breathe again…. You are not crazy for loving and loathing this creature at the same time – you are simply a mom or a dad - contradictions are now a permanent part of your life.

Pregnancy Sucks!

Does it make me a bad person because even though my pregnancies were planned and our children very wanted that I felt like the belly which had been mine alone was a mistake? Did my loathing of the lumps make me a bad person? Am I doomed to be a bad mother who will undermine my children's self esteem because I hated the process of creating them? No. No. No. I repeat to myself and all my pregnant friends and acquaintances. It just means that we are now privy to the dirty little secret of procreation – pregnancy is a bitch!

The ideal of pregnancy is far better than the experience itself. There's morning sickness, a swelling body, the reflux – ugh, the list really does go on. I have met women who claim to have enjoyed their pregnancy – they seem normal but all of them have children who are in their teens which makes me think that their memory has edited out the vile changes that toke over my being. Even if there are some women out there who did revel the experience, I am not one of them and I am okay with that – most of the time.

Stop Reading!

Don’t listen to me or anyone else who tells you what to do or how to feel about pregnancy. Pregnancy is a universally unique experience; billions of us have gone through it for millions of years each in our own way. Just as there is no book or no statistic that will make any of us good mothers there is no right way to handle this invading body snatcher or miracle of life – depending on your perspective. We just have to get through the nine months or forty weeks or two hundred and eight days or there about as best we can.

The goal of the whole exercise is to welcome a little creature into the world thus fulfilling our biological imperative and garnering a bit of immortality. I feel a need to remind myself of this as I stare at a body which I can only see parts of and within which my former comfort is merely a memory. There are nights when no position is comfortable and sleep seems like yet another forfeited dream of youth. On these nights I look at the mountain that used to be my stomach and then at my husband and think “demon seed”. Sometimes, pregnancy just sucks. However, in the morning after one of those awful nights there exists a flutter of life in the pit of my being that used to only forewarn of doom and I am sustained for another day of gestation.

If we are to make it through this we must find some joy and laughter in the experience – even when leaning over a toilet or bleary-eyed from an ornery baby. I hope that the perspective I share on this blog about my meandering road to motherhood has helped you to find the lighter side of these often long nine months. There is humor in this even while we run to the bathroom looking for answers in the oodles of platitudes hurled at us as well-intentioned advise. This pregnancy thing keeps the species on the planet so it can’t be all that bad. Try to find joy in the mess of it, this is good practice for the joyful and messy roller coaster of parenthood.

Compare and Contrast

Statistics about my pregnancy and the child I will bear bombard me via television, friends, radio, the internet – and of course, my mother. Acquaintances quote their child’s developmental measurements and what they did in utero to insure these stellar results. Isn’t it amazing that all of the children whose statistics I know are at the top of whatever category is being quoted? “My child is in the seventh percentile of intellectual development for six-month olds”. Wow! I am impressed by, (and slightly skeptical of) the mere fact that science can even discern an infant’s intelligence. But, just in case this information is accurate, I dash to the car and program all of the classical stations in the hope that the “Mozart effect” can start now.

In the pit of my stomach, there lies a deep dark well of fear that my actions or lack thereof have already put my kid behind even before she pops into the world. It is from this wellspring that I pluck my credit card and buy the multitude of products and services just in case whatever it is might help – or at least not hurt. “Just in case” a phrase that has launched a thousand businesses….

As I stare at the pile of developmental products and receipts from several appointments, I have to wonder if I am in fact better prepared for the roller coaster ride on which I will embark. Maybe it’s my hormones or the reality of writing a check but I just don’t think so. I think that the oft quoted measurements are intended to give parents ammunition against our ever-present fears of inadequacy. We must quote a lot of good things about our kids to quell that voice inside each of us that says we can never do or be enough. Well, in truth, we can never do enough so let’s just give up that pipe dream right here and now. Our kids will surpass some tykes in areas, fall behind in others and not much of this will be a direct effect of all of the theories and toys that we purchase. Regardless of how many times we repeat the mantra that our children are separate beings from us we will still be blamed for their every failing and denied the congratulatory satisfaction of credit for their success. I stare at my credit card bill with renewed anger. Now, what items will I actually schlep to the stores to return…..

You Can Make More Out of ‘Em

My daughter will turn two years old next month – and yet I have already researching primary schools for her. Yup, that’s right even though she has barely discovered crayons and the mono syllabic book characters I may be too late to get her into “the right” kindergarten. I don’t even know what type of learner this little evolving human is and yet I am already seeking to categorize her. Am I expanding her horizons – or limiting her potential? Am I nuts or just another mother on the Westside of Los Angeles? I think that it is “D” all of the above.

I want to do all that I can to help my little one be all that she can be – but what is that and how will I know that I am creating an environment suitable to her individual potential? I can’t. And yet even my skeptical self is subject to the sales pitches and advice that are hurled at all of us starting in pregnancy. I doubt that it ever ends, even after a kid graduates super-cum laude from a top university. Does all of this developmental knowledge actually make us better parents? Does it make our children better learners, citizens, more sentient beings? Or, do we know just enough to be dangerous to ourselves and our families?

Children are born adventurers and scientists until we “because I said so” it out of them. Ever since I filled out her birth certificate, I’ve been narrowing the definition of who my child is. She is a female named C – the rest is really up to the genes we contributed and our ability not to screw up her innate talents. Hopefully, we can create environments where they can explore who they are and where they fit in the world in relative safety. But remember, no matter what we do, our kids are separate beings and so our control over who they become is limited. If we are lucky they will develop in ways that we only dared to dream of and in the process teach us about ourselves. And if we aren’t lucky, we will have stretch marks, dark circles under our eyes and credit card debt for nothing so we better find the good in ‘em.

Your Friendly Mirror

Sometimes, when I see my reflection, I am not quite sure who is staring back at me. Could there be another woman whose black tunic is covered in saltine crumbs? Where is the mirror that used to be my friend?

The left and right sides of my “fat pants” are as likely to get together as the Israelis and the Palestinians. PMS for nine months – and they call this bloating a blessing? Everyone tells me to enjoy this special time of my life. I feel a heck of a lot more spatial than special.

As I approach week thirty-seven of gestation and Thanksgiving, I worry that my family may try to carve me instead of the turkey – the looks of concern on the face of my husband make me uneasy about the amount of truth in this humor. Mirror, mirror on the wall -- go to hell.

Everyone promises me that the best of my husband and me will manifest itself in our offspring. They lie. Bad Reflections – they will be there in her eyes just like they are in the mirror, which I have now covered in cloth.

When we look at our child, it will be like looking in the mirror of our individual selves and our union. The little combo will embody the worst of both of us. Thankfully, the reverse is also true, I hope. If we are blessed to behold the little miracle in the right light, all of us will be able to see the best of our partners and ourselves and behold all that we still might be.

Pee Pee

Once I decide to have a child, I never really left the bathroom. Pee pee you see is a very important part of procreation, pregnancy and life with children.

First, you pee on a stick to find out if you’re ovulating. Then, you pee on another stick to find out if you got the coital timing right. And, if you are into that sort of thing, pee-pee may actually be a part of conception.

Once pregnant, pee-pee will remain a big part of life. My friends and family didn’t think it was possible for me to excuse myself more often but surprise, it is. I am told that the number of bathroom trips will only increase as ‘it’ goes from zygote to embryo to fetus leaving less room for my parts and more for her growing self. Well, at least it’s exercise.

Given that the only exercise my exhausted, gestational self has had the strength for are the aforementioned bathroom trips I guess it’s not so bad. Stumbling to the bathroom qualifies as low impact aerobics, doesn’t it?

People will prepare us to talk to our child-to-be in that silly voice so get used to words like “pee-pee.” For some odd reason, it is presumed that when the kid makes a mess at some awful hour during our post partum sleep-deprived haze that we will have the where-with-all for “cute-isms”. I pray that I will find this promised levity although at the moment, I don’t care what I say to him or her, I just hope that I don’t injure the tyke during my groggy, maternal learning curve.

Kids are inconvenient, so all of these bathroom trips are good practice – we can’t control when our bladders will call and we won’t be able to control when our kid needs us.

Urine – get used to it. Because after the tykes are older and it is time for them to learn to urinate on their own one’s use of the word “pee pee” skyrockets. In fact, when my daughter was 2.5 years old and the thought of her not starting preschool on time because she was still in diapers dawned upon us, we learned the true value of M&Ms and bribery as this was the only incentive that seemed to motive her to stop “having accidents” and start using one of the multitude of potties that decorated our home.

After the joys of pregnancy have passed and the kids are able to pee on their there is the specter of one’s own accidents that awaits us in the future. Yup, one of the many lasting joys of pregnancy is the promise of incontinence. So, keep doing those Kegel exercises and pray that your pelvic floor doesn’t fail you into Depends.

In the beginning

I had been on many job interviews - often referred to as dates.

At thirty-five, I heard the faint tick tock of my biological clock and decided that it was time to breed. After a ten-year relationship - four living in sin, five married and one hellish year of divorce - I embarked on dating again as a fully formed adult in search of the father of my children. While prepared to procreate on my own - sperm donors whether anonymous, willing or inadvertent are bountiful - I thought it best to try to f ind a suitable partner with whom to raise the long-imagined child/children.

It started with sushi - bad sushi as it turned out. I ended up throwing up but only after a wonderful a date with the man I would later marry. Our first child was produced without much trouble - a couple of months, a couple of bottles of wine and then voila, our beautiful and blessedly healthy baby girl. Our pursuit of a sibling proved more daunting but after three years of medically assisted help we now have a huge and healthy baby boy.

And so, dear reader, here is my tale of two pregnancies.