Livin’ That Mom Life

“Morning time! It’s morning time,” my toddler announces repeatedly from crackly baby monitor feed, through hallway, and directly into my face as I sleep on the very edge of the mattress. My husband is still snoring from the center of the bed because years of marriage and cohabitation haven’t broken him of the habit. The baby is stirring, by which I mean flailing, in her bassinet.

“Les go downstayahs?” the boy asks.

“You wanna go play in your room for a few minutes?” I suggest instead.

“Yeah! Me wanna play in my room wit you!”

“OR, do you want to play in your room by yourself and then we’ll go downstairs in a few minutes?” I try again.

He laughs. Loudly. Maniacally. And he runs back into the hallway to rattle the baby gate at the top of the stairs. “Les go, Mom! It’s morning time! Les go downstayahs.”

My husband chuckles, “so that failed.”

“He’s too smart, man. I hope it serves him well some day because it kinda sucks for me right now.”

Smother Love for Smad Boys

What is it about surly teens in crisis that makes my heart go pitter-pat, that makes me want to smother them with mommy love and make the bad things go away? Is that a universal thing for nurturing types or is it somehow built into our culture as another privilege for emotionally stunted males? Hard to say.

My heart went out to Harry Potter in Order of the Phoenix when he was “ANGRY… all the TIME,” and messed up Dumbledore’s office to let off some steam. Of the many times I cried during that series, that was one of the more intense bouts. And that was before I was an actual mom with way too much experience calming a tantruming child.

Last night’s episode of Riverdale left me with that same feeling. That damn kid from the wrong side of the tracks all filled with rage and watching everyone screw him over is cry-bait for me fer sure. From Toni dismissing him as a love interest (*sad face* “why does no one love me?”) to Archie pulling the plug/e-brake to lose the race and his homies’ territory (*mad face* “why does my best friend keep effing everything up for me?”), I just couldn’t help but want to hug the hurt right out of that weird little nugget.

I settled instead for snuggling my own little weirdo who arrived home late after falling asleep in the car and couldn’t make sense of waking up after dark in his pjs and winter coat.

“Oh Jughead,” I said, patting his little noggin, “I love you even if no one else (but Betty) does.”

I… didn’t really do that. I convinced him to take off his coat and go to bed. It didn’t work and we were up until 11 playing Darth Vader and Batman can’t find their families. My kind has a penchant for pathos. I have a feeling that his teen years are going to be pretty rough on him. Might as well buy him a crown beanie and leather jacket now so we’re fully prepared.

Give Me Riverdale or Let Me Go

My husband is mocking my excitement for tonight’s new episode of Riverdale and I’m over here like, listen… the most excitement I get is diaper blowouts and televised drama so BACK OFF. Like he’s not going to watch too. Like he’s not gonna enjoy every damn second.

I’m of the opinion that real life drama is best experienced in intervals, preferably few and far between. I had a baby 7 weeks ago. I’m good. That was sufficiently dramatic, what with the race to the hospital and ushering new life into the world and whatnot. I don’t really need anything else happening in my life to upend it or create more emotion than I’m already experiencing as the pregnancy hormones wreak havoc on their way out of my system.

But I’m also bored out of my mind being home all day.

The solution: entertainment.

Televised, published, streaming; you name it and I will consume it. I will chew up other people’s drama and swallow it with satisfaction because it is tasty delicious and I didn’t have to cook it myself.

So let me have my excitement over Riverdale. Let me watch those beautiful kids fight and solve mysteries and make out and wear nice clothes in messy situations. Because I probably won’t leave the house for two more days and my kids don’t solve mysteries. Not even of the “OK, who pooped now?” variety. No, that’s all on me to figure out and it is not as mysterious as it may seem. Because the answer is inevitably Both Of Them.

Motherhood is Glorious

My husband and my toddler are out on this beautiful Fall day picking apples and eating apple cider donuts, taking iPhone pictures that make my son look like a gorgeous baby model in light that Instagram filters try to emulate.

I am home in the dark house, shades drawn to protect my neighbors from the sight of my giant monster milk jugs as I switch between nursing and changing diaper, nursing and changing diapers. My daughter has so far puked AND pooped on every article of clothing that both she and I have attempted to wear today. And even though I have changed ALL of my clothes several times and washed my hands more thoroughly than a surgeon, all I can smell is the sweet sticky stank of dried regurgitated breast milk and chunky yellow baby poop.

But yeah, motherhood is beautiful… or whatever.

Neologenius!

My son said to me the other day, “Mom, whobody’s outside?”

“I don’t think there’s anybody outside, bud,” I said.

“Somebody out dare, Mom. Whobody is it?”

 

I know it’s part of the process to let kids discover words and then gently correct them when they mispronounce, no matter how cute they are. I reluctantly repeat the words “video” instead of “boodoo” and “computer” instead of “puku” but whobody? Whobody makes sense.

I propose we add “whobody” to the English lexicon and anyone who disagrees will be forced to watch a boodoo on my puku of my son adorably asking “Whobody’s dare?” over and over until ya’ll see the genuis of it.

 

*not my child. 

 

P.S. Just a couple more days of fun summer lovin’ LGBT novel discounted to $.99 before my new workplace drama about ghosts and self-care launches. Buy some stuff, eh? I got another kid on the way.

Camp Comes Last

I’d like to say I took a few days off and now I’m back with a vengeance but it’s probably more accurate to say I’m back with a short-lived, half-hearted grudge. I haven’t written anything other than work-related emails in several days and it’s not looking like I’m going to get much done today either.

But sometimes when you have two jobs, a toddler, are selling your house, buying another and are pregnant, you have to prioritize doctor’s appointments and three hours of signing legal paperwork over your hobbies.

The good news is that, at least in my own head, I’ve resolved the central conflict of my WIP and all I have to do now is make sure that makes it onto the page in a satisfactory way. Then maybe write an epilogue. Then start the editing process which I will inevitably half-ass (what with all the doctor’s appointments, vendor meetings, and house-related shenanigans) before throwing that sucker up on Amazon before kid number two takes over my life. Which is September. So I have until September to completely finish and let go of this story.

You know, as soon as I get three seconds between meetings and appointments to like, breath.

The Path of Moderate Resistance

I believe that taking the path of least resistance–while very Tao, maaan, VERY Tao–is usually the lazy path, the indecisive path, the path of fear and trepidation and the path least likely to lead to change or measurable results.

I also believe that taking the path of most resistance–of choosing to do something difficult for the sake of doing it or because it’s the accepted thing to do, or somebody bullied you into it–is pointlessly messing with the natural flow of life and will probably lead to failure, pain, fear, and loss.

By the way, this is not a political post. I feel like I always have to clarify that these days.

My son had a doctor’s appointment recently and when his snarky condescending doctor asked about his sleep habits, I told her (some of) the truth: he still wakes up at night but less often. Sometimes he goes back to sleep on his own, sometimes he calls for me and I have to lie down with him to get him back to sleep.

She didn’t say anything, but she did give me the wicked side eye. She’s a proponent of sleep training, you see. She has three children and she’s a doctor so she knows everything there is to know about children and sleep habits. Except for children who hate sleeping, of course, which is my child.

I know that if I had asked (and belieeeeeve me, I learned not to ask for her advice or opinion a long time ago), she would have chided me for not reading the 6 books she recommended to me forever ago and told me that I’m a horrible mother for helping my child fall asleep. She also once told me that if I rock my infant son, he’ll still be 13 years old and expecting me to rock him. I’m absolutely positive that’s true. All 13-year-old boys who were rocked to sleep demand their mothers rock them every night. That’s common knowledge, right?

But my son’s like me: busy minded. And it’s hard for us to fall asleep. So I lie down with him. We watch a couple of videos on my phone (also a no-no according to everyone who can sleep without help). We talk about what we did that day or about his toys or about the video we just watched. And I let him snuggle up to me and pull my head toward his for kisses until he falls asleep.

I don’t think I’m taking the path of least resistance. I don’t co-sleep (unless I fall asleep there which… happens but it’s not a parenting philosophy so much as a pitfall). I don’t succumb to every pre-bed time request (more water, more videos, more play time).

But I refuse to take the path of most resistance because of the damage I know it’ll do. He’s still a young toddler and I don’t see anything wrong with helping him get to sleep. I do all the things with him that I do on my own to help me fall asleep. When he gets a little older, I’ll teach him that he can do all of those things by himself. But I’m not going to leave him crying or screaming or helpless to get his body to rest when I know what the problem is and how to solve it. That’s just cruel.

I get the feeling that a lot of the “training” activities the “experts” are so fond of are just excuses for adults to be selfish and force their children to be more convenient. Potty training at 16 months? It’s because you don’t want to change diapers anymore. Cry It Out? It’s because you want to get more sleep. I like convenience too but I also enjoy not screwing up my kid for the sake of my ME time.

Flip It, Baby

Within the last few weeks, a switch must have flipped in my son’s brain because suddenly, he is a word machine. Today, he learned how to say “cool” and “Oh, wow, cool!”

But my favorite is “down” because he pronounces it “dow-wan.”

 

Of course, this is the end of the silence. He never stops talking now. And I’m expected to understand everything he says or he gets upset. Luckily, his favorite subjects are Star Wars, cars, and his grandparents so all I really have to say is, “Does Kylo Ren drive Nonno’s car?” and he’ll go off on that subject for a while.

My Beeswax is Over Here

Today I went to a playgroup and it was not awful!

A neighboring town’s library holds a 45 minute playgroup every week and since my search for affordable day care has gone horribly… so so horribly*, I’m checking out free options for kid interaction instead.

*I should explain. Daycare would be helpful for work reasons but more than that, I want to socialize my shy kid. Turns out, part-time day care is more than I would make working extra hours. I could have a fleet of cars for the price of part-time day care. I could have a much bigger house. I could spend a weekend a month in Las Vegas for the amount they want me to pay for part-time day care. So… playgroups, here we come.

We went on An Adventure today! Our first trip to the library! Our first playgroup! Our first time spent with multiple children of the same age as my little guy! Very Exciting… for Mommy. The kid, not so much. I’m thinking it might take more than one visit for him to acclimate.

The reason I’ve avoided playgroups until now, and I really am starting to sound like I have some major beef with them, but honestly it was because of Scary Mommy. I’ve read so much anti-other mom bologna, so many The Five Awful Moms You’ll Meet At Playgroup-type articles, so very many “Hover Moms are Ruining Everything!” rants that I got stuck in an introvert fear bubble and assumed the very worst.

It really wasn’t that bad. There were hover moms and sit back & watch moms and grandmas and a grandpa. There were kids who cried, kids who stomped around, kids who spun and fell down, kids who tried to take all the toys, kids who attached themselves firmly to their mommy and refused to let go until the instruments came out (that would be my kid), and totally chill participating kids. It was normal. Totally normal! This is how kids are. This is how the people who care for them are. It’s really not that big a deal.

Yeah, one kid hopped on the back of the chair my kid was sitting on and tried to push him off. His mom came over and grabbed him and apologized. There was a kid wandering around yelling adorably at people. We all thought it was cute and didn’t care. There was a 2 year old the size of a 5 year old who ran around at the back of the room. It was fine. There was a kid who screamed at 10 minute intervals. Whatever.

Maybe some of the caretakers were cranky, maybe there were glares and glances and judgment but I didn’t notice. I just focused on my kid and the group leader and thought it was lovely. Maybe that’s the secret right there: mind your own beeswax and everything will be fine.

We’re going again next week. I might be the more excited of the two of us.

Do You Even GLOW the Second Time Around?

I am Facebook friends with a woman about to give birth and I almost envy her her naiveté. She’ll lose that soon enough. Today she posted the most beautiful picture of herself in full belly bloom standing in the forest, gazing upward toward a hazy, half-obscured sun. Absolutely gorgeous. Oh honey, enjoy it now because hell awaits you.

I’ve been reading on various mommy websites about second children and how very different the experience is while watching my husband’s cousin half-way through her second pregnancy. Things I’ve noticed/read: No one gives a shit about your second pregnancy like they did your first. Life is much less magical and full of hope and possibility. Homegirl does not have the energy for photo shoots and has zero interest in being beautifully pregnant and glowing (not that she glowed the first time either. Or ever. She’s not exactly the model of positive pregnancy here, just the only woman I currently know on her way to kid #2).

So when I think, “Yeah, it might be nice to have another,” I also remind myself that this isn’t a do-over of the first. This isn’t me taking naps and being waited on by my husband and registering for all the things and cooing over every little tiny sock. Well, wait… no, I might still coo. Those things are adorable. I just think it’s really important to remember that I have a Tasmanian Devil of a toddler and as magical as my first pregnancy may have felt, a second one might be more of a pain in the ass.

Those tiny socks, though!