He Is Me, and I'm Sorry

The only thing worse for a parent than watching your sick child suffer is watching your sick child who is suffering because of your genetic contribution.

My son has come down with a nasty cold, possibly even the flu, but it's made much worse because his postnasal drip is upsetting his stomach and making him nauseous to the point of vomiting. Which is 100% my genetic contribution. Which means not only am I responsible for causing it, but also that I know exactly how miserable it is, because I go through the same thing every time I get a bad cold. His feeling horrible makes me feel even more horrible.

There's a special circle of parental hell for those of us who passed on any kind of genetic weakness. In my (and my son's) case, it's a sensitive stomach. It means that he gets carsick on a regular basis, that he suffers from sympathetic vomiting, and that any degree of stuffiness results in an upset stomach and - yet again - vomiting. Basically, every time my kid throws up, I feel guilty and responsible.

I suppose the advantages are that a) I take his complaints very seriously, and b) I know what works for me, so I know some good solutions to try, from Alka Seltzer Cold to frozen ginger ale to keeping a tiny bit of food in my/his stomach to (as my mom always said) "blow, don't snuff!!". But it doesn't make me feel any less guilty.

What I remember most about being sick as a kid includes three things: 1) lying on the couch watching terrible daytime TV, including The Price Is Right and Days of Our Lives, 2) scraping bits of frozen ginger ale out of my dad's hammered silver baby cup, and 3) my dad telling me, "I wish I was sick instead of you." I never really understood #3 until I had kids of my own, but now I do. I would give anything to be able to take my kids' sickness away, even to the point of being sick myself. My heart absolutely breaks watching my children be miserable, and I would take on that sickness for them in a heartbeat. But I can't do that. The best I can do is to bring them frozen ginger ale and toast, to rub their backs, to rub their foreheads with cool washcloths, and to dose them with ibuprofen or cough & cold medicine or whatever they can tolerate. And then I can just sit with them and sympathize.

But if my memory of my own childhood is correct, having a sympathetic adult sit with you is incredibly comforting. So I sit with my son, re-filling his ice water, wiping his forehead with a cool, damp washcloth, rubbing his back or his forehead, reading him stories or playing him music, feeling helpless but doing whatever I can, and mostly, just being there. Because him knowing that I'm there, trying to help, caring, loving him, makes a difference.

It may not make his body better, but it will touch his heart and his soul, and that is what moms do.

Back to the Grind

Some of my regular readers may have noticed that I haven’t blogged much recently. The holidays were a bit overwhelming this year, for some reason. Perhaps it’s because I’m homeschooling for the first time; perhaps it’s the stress of having an unemployed husband at home; perhaps it’s just the “ebb” phase of the normal ebb and flow of creativity. Whatever the reason, it’s well past time for me to get my act together and write. About something. Anything.

I’ve always found that the most difficult part of writing, for me, is coming up with a subject. Once I have a topic, I can nearly always find something to say about it. (Sometimes it’s even an interesting something!) My writing ebbs are nearly always due to a lack of inspiration of subject rather than an inability to get the words I want onto paper (or, to be more technically accurate, onto screen). For that reason, breaking through my personal kind of writers’ block is best solved by finding a list of topics and forcing myself to attack one every single day.

You know what that means, don’t you? If you’re a regular reader, I bet you do: It’s Photo a Day time! For those of you unfamiliar with the Photo a Day challenge, the one I prefer to use is posted monthly by an Australian mom who blogs under the (fabulous) name of FatMumSlim. I’m not sure how long she’s been publishing Photo a Day lists, but I’ve been using them periodically for a number of years. Here’s the January 2016 list of subjects:

1 – Black + white
2 – What I did today
3 – Water
4 – Circle
5 – Leaves
6 – Something blue
7 – Reading
8 – Landscape
9 - Shoes
10 – Lucky
11 – Outdoors
12 – Something I wore
13 – Three of a kind
14 – Close-up
15 – Mail
16 – Chair
17 – Faceless
18 – White
19 – In the hand
20 – Patterns
21 – Morning
22 – Night
23 – Play
24 – Window
25 – Numbers
26 – Simplicity
27 – Telephone
28 – Smile
29 – Home
30 – Flat lay
31 – Me

I’m not a great photographer by any means, so the point is not so much the photograph itself, but rather the explanation or the discussion of it. I try to find images that relate to my life, or my ideas about the concept, or memories that come to mind when I see a particular image.

Obviously, since I’m starting this on the 6^th day of the month, I have a few images to catch up with. So today I’m combining the first 6 images into one discussion. In fact, I’m going to attempt to work them all into a single concept, so stay with me here. 

1 – Black + White

2 – What I Did Today

3 – Water

4 – Circle

5 – Leaves

6 – Something Blue

What could these six disparate photographs possibly have in common (other than that they were all taken inside my house)? How could I possibly pull all these images into a single concept?

It’s actually a lot easier than you might think. My life, like that of many other mothers of young children, particularly those of us who don’t work outside the home, revolves around my children. And all of these images evoke something about my daily life as a stay-at-home mom, some aspect of how I see my role as a parent.

The image of the angel and the star of Bethlehem reminds me that I am not alone in the daunting task of watching over my children. I believe that God and His angels are constantly guarding my children, and guiding me as I watch over them. There is a shadow behind the angel, as there are always shadows of fear and danger in my children’s lives. My daughter nearly lost her life at age 2, and I will always see that shadow over her head. But I will also always see the angel that is between her and that shadow. And just as God sent a warning to those who followed that star, which protected the Child who was born under it from harm, I know that God will help me to protect my children from harm.

The second image, “What I Did Today,” is a perfect illustration of the end of my average day. I collapse, exhausted, onto the stained carpet, surrounded by a wardrobe’s worth of discarded clothing and broken furniture. But the destruction is a sign of great fun, much hilarity and lack of inhibition, creative play, crazy games, and love and laughter and learning. It may require some work to get everything back the way it was, but every minute of memory is worth it.

The water is symbolic of how quickly the time passes in my life. For good or for ill, the water splashes down in beautiful patterns, but it doesn’t linger. It vanishes down the drain so quickly that the beauty is a memory before it even registers. That’s what days are like with my children: I get caught up in the swirl and have to force myself to take the time to see the beauty in each moment before it disappears.

The circle is also symbolic; in this case, symbolic of the circle of life. My children are the age I was at my own earliest memories. The interactions and discussions I have with them are the same ones I remember having with my own mother. And I remember my mother talking about having them with her mother. My children remind me that I am a link in a chain of motherhood that goes back to the beginning of humanity, and that will extend forward for many generations to come. It is a thought that is at once humbling and exalting.

Photo 5, the leaves, remind me of the care that children need. This poinsettia has been somewhat finicky. Its leaves wilt, begging for water, but when I give it that water, it overflows. I often need to ignore its pleas and give it only what I know it needs, not what it dramatically begs for. Like my children, what it thinks it needs is not always what it actually needs. I need to balance my compassion with my wisdom, and trust that I know its needs better than it does itself. I need to offer tough love, and when I do, the result is invariably healthy growth.

And finally, my “Something Blue” is the uniform of one of the Nutcracker soldiers marching across my mantel. Like the angel, he stands guard, proud, prepared, and ready to sacrifice his own life for those he has been charged with protecting. I am a soldier – no, I am a warrior – for my children. I will teach them, I will protect them, and I will give my life for them.

This is my motherhood: angels, joy amidst destruction, transient beauty, a link in a chain, trusting my own wisdom and instincts, and protecting what is most precious to me. 

Mom Cocktails

I’m not a heavy drinker by any means, but I do enjoy a good cocktail now and then, especially when I have something to celebrate. And as a parent, I find that there are a number of small (and not-so-small) parenting milestones that can – and should - be celebrated. So I put together this list of cocktail recipes for some of those parenting celebrations. I’ve tried to stick with fairly basic ingredients that are already in the average home bar, because after all, with children (of any age) in the house, who has time (or money) to run to the liquor store for all that fancy stuff?

The Big Sleep

The first time that your little one sleeps through the night (defined by this particular mixologist as 6 hours in a row), you’ve earned yourself the right to a little celebration. This cocktail is a variation on an old classic aptly called the Suffering Bastard. Pour one ounce each of bourbon, gin, and lemon juice, plus a dash or two of bitters, into an ice-filled old-fashioned glass, then top with chilled 7-Up. Garnish with a mint sprig. One of these and you’ll be sleeping through the night, too.

Mother’s Milk

Some milestones are more bittersweet than others, and any mother who has nursed then weaned a child knows that weaning is often more bitter than sweet. However, enjoying a nice cocktail after many months of abstinence can help bring out the sweetness. First, make some honey syrup by mixing equal parts honey and hot water, stirring till dissolved (extra may be stored in the fridge). Fill a cocktail shaker with ice and gin, then add a generous splash of honey syrup and fresh lemon juice, shake hard, and strain into a champagne glass (which, as legend has it, was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s perfect breasts). 

The Potty Trainer

This cocktail can be used to celebrate both the beginning and the end of potty training. Hopefully those two celebrations are very close together, but if they’re not, mix yourself a double the second time. Maybe even a triple. Shake 3 parts vanilla vodka (or regular vodka plus a shot of Tuaca, or even a few drops of vanilla extract) and 1 part each Chambord and crème de cacao over ice. Strain and serve in a martini glass. Garnish with chocolate shavings or jimmies.

(And yes, I did give very serious thought to making this one a variation on a lemon drop martini. But I decided to take the high road.)

The School Daze

It’s probably not a good idea to enjoy this cocktail immediately after delivering your child to his or her first day of kindergarten, but after picking your child up at the END of the first day and then no doubt listening to a long and very excited commentary about everything that happened that first day, by the time you put your newly-minted kindergartener to bed, you will be more than ready to knock back something stronger than chocolate milk. In a rocks glass with ice, stir together a healthy dollop of real maple syrup, a splash of lemon juice, and a couple dashes of bitters, then top with bourbon, stir well, add ice, and finish off with a splash of seltzer. Garnish with lemon peel.

The Biker Chick/Dude

When your child is learning to ride a bike, you spend a lot of time hunched over, hanging on to the back of their bike seat. When you’re finally able to take off the training wheels and let your kid sail free, your back may be paying the price even while you’re cheering. So the Biker Chick (in honor of your daughter) or the Biker Dude (in honor of your son) is practically medicinal. To a tall glass filled with ice, add equal parts whiskey and Chambord; top with lemonade for a Biker Chick and Sprite for a Biker Dude. Garnish with a lemon wedge.

The Freedom Rider

When your kid finally gets his or her driver’s license and you are free from having to drive him or her EVERYWHERE, the Freedom Rider is the drink for you. When it’s your youngest kid, have two or three. Just be sure that before you drink it, you make your kid the designated driver. In a shot glass, combine equal parts Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniel’s (or any other combination of scotch, bourbon, and whiskey).

The First Date

There may be no moment that makes you more aware that your son or daughter is growing up than seeing your no-longer-a-child off on his or her first date. Since you know you’ll be waiting up until they come home, it seems appropriate that the First Date would be a coffee-based drink. Brew yourself up a mug of strong coffee, add in a healthy slug of Baileys and a splash of Grand Marnier, and top with whipped cream. After a couple of these, you’ll be pretty forgiving if they don’t make it home until a few minutes after curfew.

The Gold Rush

My father-in-law once said that when his last child graduated from college, it was like getting a $30,000 a year raise. These days, it’s more like getting a $100,000 a year raise. So to celebrate your child’s college graduation, I recommend one of my personal favorite cocktails, the Gold Rush. Shake 3 parts Domaine de Canton, 2 parts bourbon, and 1 part lemon juice over ice. Strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with a lemon twist.

The Mother of the Bride

When you are ready to celebrate your child’s wedding, naturally champagne must be involved. And since white is obviously the color for weddings, cream must also be involved. Voila, the Mother of The Bride: Blend an egg white, a splash of simple syrup, a shot of cognac, a generous splash of Cointreau, and a shot of cream over ice in a shaker. Strain into a champagne flute rimmed with gold sugar and top with champagne. Garnish with a sprinkle of nutmeg or cinnamon.

And when your children are all grown and gone, don’t forget to remind them of this every now and then.

Photo A Day, Day 21: Close

The word “close” can be pronounced two ways, with correspondingly different meanings. Said with a soft, hissing “s” at the end, it is an adjective meaning “near” or “intimate” or “secretive.” But pronounced with a hard “s,” a buzzing “z” sound at the end, it is a verb meaning “shut” or “obstructed” or “inaccessible.” There are many moments during an average day when I could illustrate the former meaning: snuggling in bed with my kids when they come in to greet me in the morning, hugging my husband when he gets home after a long day of work, wrestling on the couch with the kids before bedtime. But one of the most wonderful parts of my day refers to the latter meaning: it happens when I put the kids to bed and close the door to their bedroom.

That simple word “close” represents such freedom. Close the door to having to be on alert at all times. Close the door to concentrating on someone else instead of myself. Close the door to wearing the “mom” hat. Close the door to making sure that everyone has eaten and used the bathroom and read the proper books and found the right toys.

Don’t get me wrong; I love being a mom. I love being on alert, on concentrating on others, and wearing the “mom” hat. I even love making sure that everyone has eaten and used the bathroom and read a book and enjoyed a toy. But I also love that moment when I can close off that part of me and just be me. The me which has a part that’s a mom, but also a part that’s a wife, and a part that’s a singer, and a part that’s a writer, and a part that’s a seamstress, and a part that’s a bookworm. There are many parts of me on the other side of that door, and all I have to do to find them is to close it.

My Kids Make Me a Better Housekeeper

Confession time: I am a slob. An unrepentant (mostly), inveterate, habitual slob. I'm not dirty, but I am messy. I like having my clothes in piles instead of in drawers or on hangers. I need my shoes out where I can see them, not tucked into cubbies or dangling from a shoe tree. I see no reason to keep my toothbrush anywhere other than right on the sink where I can grab it with soap in my eyes and my glasses off. And towels dry just as quickly when thrown haphazardly over the curtain rod as they do when folded neatly on a towel rack. I'm a slob, and I don't care who knows it.

When I got married to a neat and tidy husband, I learned to curb my messy tendencies. Somewhat. OK, a little bit. Okay, okay, a TEEENY TINY bit. I have a shoe tree that most of my shoes are on. Some of my clothes land in the closet even though others still live on the couch. I hang the towels neatly on the towel rod in my husband's bathroom all the time and even in my own bathroom when we have company.

But what really made me rein in my inner slob was having kids. Most parents get a little germaphobic when their first child is born, but I'm not talking cleanliness, just messiness. When you have a baby, the amount of stuff in your house expands exponentially. The crib, the car seats, the swing, the diaper pail, the high chair, the piles of diapers and wipes and medicines, the socks and the onesies and the cute little hats, the blankets and the stuffed animals and the rattles and the light-up toys, the binkies and the bottles...it just never ends. You learn to be neat so your house doesn't implode from its own weight. But let's be honest: you also learn to be neat so you're never hunting for a binkie at 3am with an infant screeching in your ear. You learn to be neat so you know if you're about to dirty the last clean bottle and you need to run the dishwasher NOW before you're faced with a hungry child and a stack of unwashed bottles. You learn to be neat so an unexpected poopsplosion doesn't suddenly reveal that you're out of diapers/baby wipes/onesies.

And once your children become mobile, the need for neatness is even greater. Any item left on the floor will promptly be popped into a curious mouth, whether it be a stale Cheerio, a petrified raisin, a dead bug, a penny, or a small Lego piece. And speaking of small Lego pieces, the mobile child is not the only one whose tender toes are in imminent danger of being impaled by small toys left on the floor. What parent among us has not endured the agony of stepping on a Lego or a Barbie shoe or an abandoned Monopoly figurine with a bare foot in the middle of the night?

Being neat is a survival tactic.

Yes, motherhood has curbed some of my worst messy tendencies. But it more than makes up for it by allowing me to enjoy other types of messy fun: hands covered in sidewalk chalk dust, gluey pieces of macaroni sliding slimily across a piece of construction paper, licking the frosting off a chocolate cupcake, fingers squelching though mud in search of earthworms, cutting tissue paper into confetti, jumping in puddles. Motherhood is a wonderful balance between neat and messy!

You Know You're a Mom When...

Every once in a while, I do, say, or see something that makes me think, “Oy, I am SUCH a mom.” There are certain telltale signs that belong to no-one else except a mom. Here is a list of a few of the things that help me to never forget that I’m a mom. Even when I really, REALLY want to forget.

1.          There are nose and lip prints on every shiny vertical surface in your house about 3 feet up from the floor.

The sliding glass doors, the refrigerator, the dishwasher, the stove, the full-length mirrors. You can make circuits around the house with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels and there will still be fresh prints on every surface by the time you finish a circuit. In my house, these are made by the 3-year-old, who a) is curious as to what’s outside, which makes the prints on the sliding glass doors, and b) likes to make his mother crazy by licking random surfaces, which makes the prints on everything else; and by the one-year-old, who forgets to watch where she’s going and crashes into things. She crashes into every vertical surface, not just the shiny ones; it’s just that only the shiny ones manage to retain the prints.

2.            Your purse contains more items belonging to your children than to you.

My kids are old enough that I don’t need a full diaper bag for short outings like going out to dinner or to the grocery store. But I do need a stash of a few necessary items in case of emergency. So my purse contains my wallet, my cell phone, my keys, and possibly a tube of lipstick, but it also contains two different sizes of diapers, a pack of baby wipes, several Matchbox cars, a small plastic tiger and giraffe, a Ziploc baggie of somewhat crumbled Cheez-its, a small plastic fork and spoon, and a juice box. Yes, my purse is nearly as big as a diaper bag. But it looks slightly classier. At least, it does until I start pulling out all the items mentioned above.

See? I was not exaggerating. This is really what’s in my purse. There is a wallet in there somewhere. I hope.

And I know it’s not just me, because I was recently on a flight with my children and my one-year-old was fussing. The mom in the aisle behind us reached into her purse and wordlessly handed me a slightly sticky board book, and as our eyes met, I could feel her silently telling me, “Courage, sister.”

3.            You narrate yourself all day long.

My 3-year-old son is very verbal and loves to learn new words, so I talk to him a lot. And I explain new, relatively complex words to him on a regular basis. When we go to the grocery store, we talk about the different kinds of fruits and how they grow and why they’re good for you. We discuss why the lobsters in the tank have rubber bands on their claws. We talk about why we have to close the refrigerator and freezer doors right away after we get what we need. We talk about how we have to pay for what we’re buying before we can open it up and eat it (this is a crucial – and difficult - lesson whenever we buy cookies). We learn words like “patience” and “preservatives” and “dozen.” I didn’t realize how automatic this was for me until the whole family was in the car the other day and my husband suddenly burst out laughing because I was explaining to my son some concept like “asphalt” or “curb.” [NB: While I was writing this paragraph, I had to take a break to check on my son and I kid you not, I explained to him the words “outrank” and “trebuchet.” Yes, there was a logical context. No, I am not going to attempt to explain it here.]

4.            You find yourself translating from “child” to “English” whenever someone else is in the room.

My 1-year-old doesn’t speak much yet (her vocabulary consists of “Mama,” “uh-oh,” “wow,” “ow,”and “quack”), but she does have a few sounds that mean something to us although they aren’t actual words. When she points to something, she makes a sound that we have decided means, “What’s that?” so whenever she says it, I repeat, “What’s that?” so anyone listening will know what she means. She also has begun saying “k” to mean both cup and book, so I repeat the appropriate word both to teach her and to fill in anyone nearby.

And although my 3-year-old speaks quite clearly and is generally understandable to strangers, his speech often requires context clues to make any sense. For example, the other day he put on his police helmet with the green visor and informed me, “Mama, you look like a big green potato!” This comes off as a pretty bizarre statement in and of itself, until I ask him, “Oh, just like Quack the duck looked like a big green potato when his friend Chirp the bird looked at him through a green glass bottle?” Strangers probably still think he’s crazy, but at least they know he gets it from his mother.

5.            You can identify the specific object causing a crashing noise from the next room.

Any mother of a toddler can tell you that you very quickly develop a sense of knowing which crashes are ordinary, harmless play and which require motherly intervention and/or medical attention. Dull plastic thwacks are generally toy trucks and do not need to be checked out; sharper wooden clunks could be furniture being damaged and require a quick peek; resounding metallic clangs or the sound of shattering glass are definite immediate response indicators. If the latter category is followed by the sound of a small body hitting the floor and then silence, 9-1-1 should be dialed on the way to the scene.

Obviously, this list is a mere sampling of the signs of motherhood. These are only a few of the more common and recognizable signs. Although I suspect the most common and recognizable is that haggard, exhausted, vaguely unkempt look and vacant expression that is so universal among moms of tots.

Motherhood Skills I Didn't Know I'd Need to Know

When I was expecting my first child, I thought a lot about the various skills I’d need as a parent. I figured I’d need to know how to sing some lullabies. I figured I’d need to know how to mix formula one-handed. I figured I’d need to know how to have a pretend tea party or build a pretend railroad. I figured I’d eventually have to be able to give a passable rendition of a few dozen fairy tales and nursery rhymes. I even figured that I’d have to learn to drive a minivan. But after nearly three years of hands-on parenting, there are a lot of skills I’ve picked up along the way that I never expected to need to know. Let me give you some examples.

I never knew I’d need to be able to dress and undress a recalcitrant, sticky, poop-covered octopus. The first time I had to change an uncooperative 8-month-old baby in July following a poopsplosion, I realized there were skills involved that I had never even imagined. I had to somehow have enough of my own appendages to hold all of his appendages away from the poop and still have a couple left over to peel his clothes and his diaper away from his sweaty, wriggling little body, plus at least one more to grab the clean diaper before any escaped baby appendages beat me to it.

I never knew I’d have to learn how to make everyday food into something entertaining enough that a two-year-old will eat it without question. I had no idea that the expression “plating,” in reference to a toddler, would mean creating everything from a pancake shaped like Mickey Mouse to a peanut butter sandwich shaped like a pinwheel to a pile of scrambled eggs with a face made from pretzel sticks, Cinnamon Life cereal, and M&Ms. Fortunately, I also discovered that in a pinch, I can just cut everything into chunks and stick a few frilled toothpicks in them.

I never knew I’d have to be able to create toys from nothing but the detritus in the passenger seat of my car, while driving. Who knew that an empty plastic water bottle, an oversized Dunkin Donuts straw, the lid of a yogurt tub, and a piece of tinfoil that was once wrapped around a gas station hotdog could occupy a small child for enough time to get to a reasonably hygienic highway rest stop with a child-friendly restaurant and changing table? Not to mention the fact that I also had to develop the power and accuracy in my throwing arm to get said detritus into the hands of the child in the back seat, using only the rearview mirror to aim. If I ever decide to make baseball pitching or dentistry my next career, I’ll be well ahead of the game.

I never knew that I’d have to learn how to make up stories on the spur of the moment based on subjects like, “the camera on my ceiling,” “a bulldozer,” “a smokestack and a silo,” and “my wall.” (All of these are actual story topics requested by my son within the past few months. And yes, I managed to come up with a story that had not only a coherent plot but also some kind of useful message for each one.) This particular skill happens to come in very handy when I’m blogging, as it gives me plenty of practice in having to expand a very simple or even vague idea into an entertaining story with a useful point.  

Wanna hear the one about the bulldozer that pushed over the smokestack and the silo which then knocked over the wall while being recorded by the camera on my ceiling and thus learned how to be gentle when playing with his toys?

Who Am I, Anyway?

There’s a poignant line from a song in the musical “A Chorus Line” in which the characters ask themselves, “Who am I, anyway? Am I my resume?” I think that line has been echoed by countless people through the ages, as they try to define themselves. Am I my job? Does what I do (or what I’ve done) define who I am? Since my current occupation is “stay at home mom”, it’s definitely a question that I struggle with.

Before I was married, I defined myself by what I did as a profession and what I did as an avocation. I was a technical project coordinator and a musical theater performer. It’s what I did, it’s who I was, and it’s where I got my validation and satisfaction. I was a valued employee and a valued cast member, and that made me feel good about myself. And when I got married, I layered being Herb’s wife on top of that. I work hard at being a good wife and a good partner, and Herb appreciates that.

But when I got laid off, I lost one of those layers. I didn’t have a paycheck or a performance review to make me feel like I was accomplishing something. And then I got pregnant with Ryan, and there was definitely a feeling of accomplishment there! But when he was born and I got into the cycle of early motherhood where it seemed like all I ever got done was feeding the baby, changing the baby, and putting the baby (and occasionally, myself) to bed, I lost that feeling of accomplishment.

Being a mom is an amazing and wonderful thing. But it’s all too easy to feel like you’re not really DOING anything. Which is kind of silly, because you’re molding an entire human being! You’re helping him learn about the world around him, keeping him safe as he explores, encouraging him to develop new skills. But that work has a definite tendency to take over everything else. I spend less time alone with my husband, because we’re both spending time with Ryan. I spend less time doing things for my husband, because I’m wrapped up in taking care of Ryan. My musical theater career has fallen by the wayside, because I would need to find someone to watch Ryan while I’m at rehearsals and performances, plus I’d need to find time to learn my lines, songs, blocking, and choreography - not easy to do with a busy baby in my lap! Even my time with friends is curtailed because it’s just not the same when I’m hauling a baby around with me, not to mention that my “free” time is now during the day instead of evenings and late nights.

So sometimes I need a bit of a reality check to remind myself that what I do is worthwhile. What I do is admirable. What I do is HARD. What I do is part – but not all – of who I am. But I think it’s still one of the very best parts.

Hi, my name is Sandy and I’m a MOM!

Why I Love Being a Mom

Yesterday was my first Mother’s Day as a mother, and it was just wonderful. It reminded me how much I love being a mom. There are so many fabulous things about parenthood (and motherhood especially) that I never really understood until I became a parent myself.

There’s nothing else in the world like seeing a baby turn to you and light up with a smile.

Not because you’re bringing him a toy or a bottle, not because he needs a diaper change, not because he’s bored and wants someone to play with, but just because you’re his mom and he loves you. Nothing in life compares to that feeling.

There’s nothing else in the world that feels as peaceful as having a small, warm body snuggling close to you.

Having another human being feel so completely safe and secure in your arms that he relaxes every fiber of his body, content in the knowledge that nothing bad will happen to him while he’s in mommy’s arms. It’s an awesome feeling in the most literal sense of the word.

There’s nothing like watching your baby learn new skills and new ideas.

Seeing a baby grow and learn each day as he studies the world and makes connections and develops an undertanding of things as basic as distance and gravity and hand-eye coordination gives you a new appreciation for the complexity of the human body and brain.

There’s nothing like standing in the dark listening to the calm, relaxed breathing of a peacefully sleeping baby.

(Especially if there was weeping and wailing and screaming prior to the peaceful sleep.) Looking at the quiet perfection of a human being who was created inside your own body is unlike any other experience in life.

And best of all, there’s nothing like imagining the person that this baby will grow up to be, and knowing that everything you do will have a hand in forming that person. It’s a weighty responsibility, but also an incredibly exciting one. After all, this is a child who could become a doctor or researcher who cures a disease, a writer or poet whose words bring comfort, a dancer or actor who entertains people, the CEO of a company whose product or actions affect millions around the world, even the president of the United States. And most importantly, he might someday become a father, raising children of his own – and modeling his parenting after yours. Now there’s a weighty responsibility.

The Universality of Motherhood

As Ryan was playing in his exersaucer this morning, I was idly flipping through the channels and I came across an episode of “Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood”. It’s a reality show chronicling the life of Tori Spelling, her husband Dean McDermott, and their two kids, Stella and Liam. Tori is the daughter of the late uberproducer Aaron Spelling, creator of such 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s TV gems as The Mod Squad, Charlie’s Angels, Fantasy Island, The Love Boat, T.J. Hooker, Charmed, 7th Heaven, and Beverly Hills 90210, the latter of which starred a teenaged Tori as part of the ensemble cast. So her claim to fame is basically growing up as Beverly Hills royalty, becoming a teen television star and then moving on to a series of Lifetime movies. I’d always seen her as a bit of an airhead – sweet, but pretty vacuous and superficial. So it was interesting to see her as a mom.

I have to admit, even after the first few minutes of watching I felt a kind of a kinship with her. She and her husband were planning a cross-country RV trip to visit a friend who was recovering from surgery, and although I wouldn’t be able to rent a giant RV and take off across the country on two days’ notice, I can certainly relate to packing up the family for a long camping vacation. Her kids may live in a mansion, but they still throw their toys and cry for no ascertainable reason and refuse to go to bed. Her husband may be a recognizable actor but she still scolds his driving habits and rolls her eyes at him occasionally and disagrees with him sometimes. She may be a bit of a dingbat, but it’s obvious that she loves her family and is devoted to her children, and she, like me, strives to be the best mom to them that she can be.

There’s something universal about motherhood. It doesn’t matter whether a mom is a millionaire, or a working stiff, or living in a homeless shelter. There are moms from all walks of life who love their kids, who sacrifice for them, who worry about them, who do everything they can think of to take care of them and give them a good life. And the kids don’t care if they live in a mansion or a hut, they just want to be loved and played with. And I can identify with that. So if you’ll excuse me, there’s a munchkin waking up upstairs who needs to be played with.

The Field Marks of Motherhood

In the well-known birders' handbook, Peterson's "Field Guide to the Birds", the illustrations clearly point out each bird's "field marks" - that is, distinctive identifiers that indicate, beyond a doubt, the identity of that bird as a member of a particular species. For example, the black-capped chickadee's distinctive - you guessed it - black cap:

Or the ruby-throated hummingbird's - you guessed it again - ruby throat:

Recently, I have begun to discover that it's not just birds who have those distinctive markings that make them so easy to identify in the field. Mothers, particularly new mothers, have a few "tells" that are unmistakable. One that I find I frequently bear myself is the decided dual scents of spit-up and formula, often with a background bouquet of just the slightest whiff of wet diaper. I was in the laundry room recently, moving a load from the washer to the dryer, when I leaned over my left (spit-up-stained) shoulder and suddenly realized: I smell like a mom!

There are many other tells as well as simple aroma. The dark circles under the eyes from midnight feedings, the constant bouncing motion that continues even when someone else is holding the baby, the tendency to lick a finger to clean someone's face or un-muss their hair, the still-unbrushed teeth at 2pm, the reflexive outstretched arm when coming to a quick stop in a car...these are all field marks that clearly identify the species Materna Americana.

With most birds and with most animals as well, the field marks serve to identify prospective mates, or to recognize territorial competitors, but with human mothers, they serve a very different purpose. They allow us to seek out others of our kind who can assure us that we are not alone, to pass along hints that are part of the great oral tradition of motherhood ("psst, it won't kill him to give him a dose of Benadryl every now and then so you can get some sleep!"), and to just give us a chance to whisper to each other knowingly, "Courage, sister!"

Tempus Fugit

I've often looked back on my life and marveled at how much has changed in a short period of time. In high school, I looked at how much I'd matured since elementary school. In college, I looked at how independent I'd become since high school. As a young adult, I looked at how self-sufficient I'd become since college. As an older adult, I looked at how my relationships and responsibilities had changed since I was younger. But as huge as those changes seem, they pale in comparison to how much in my life has changed over the past three months.

Three months ago today, I woke up at 2 in the morning and knew that my life was about to take a huge, dramatic turn. I even lay awake for a few hours before telling Herb I was in labor, just to give myself time to absorb the reality that in the next few hours, I would be holding our baby. And less than ten hours later, I was. Even after being pregnant for nine months, being aware of everything I ate and exposed myself to and how it would affect the baby, the reality of having a human being in my arms who is dependent on me for everything he needs was astounding.

Even more astounding is how much he has already grown and learned in the three months that have gone by! He's gone from being a blob who couldn't control his own muscles to a curious person who looks intently at people, who smiles and laughs, who reaches for toys, who recognizes mommy and daddy, who interacts with people and things around him, who kicks and stretches and bounces and wriggles.

And because of him, I have learned so much in those same three months. I learned that I can function without sleep a lot better than I thought I could. I learned that letting a baby cry is not the end of the world. I learned that Daddy and Mommy don't always have the same ideas about parenting and that's not the end of the world, either. I learned that hormones, while useful, can also be terrible. I learned that losing the baby pooch is just as hard as everyone says it is, but much less important. I learned that sunrises are much more beautiful when shared with a nursing baby. I learned that almost anything that HAS to get done can be done one-handed. I learned that a lot of things I thought HAD to get done, don't really. I learned that a happy baby is more important than an immaculate house. I learned that with the right husband, you can have both. I learned that babies don't care if your hair is washed; they'll grab onto it anyway. I learned that a baby smiling into your face with recognition and delight is one of life's most breath-taking moments. I learned that having a baby who looks just like his daddy is an unexpected source of pride and joy.

I can only imagine all the wonderful things that both of us will be learning over the next three months...and the next three years...and the next three decades...

Welcome to my new blog site!

Although I've been a regular blogger for two years now, I've been blogging at two or three different locations. But I'm hoping to settle in for good here at Blogger! So "thank you" to those of you who followed me from elsewhere, and "welcome" to those of you who are new to my blog.

For the sake of any newbies, let me introduce myself. My name is Sandy, I live in the Boston area, I'm 41 years old, and I have a gorgeous 10-week old son and a gorgeous 47-year old husband, both of whom I adore. I was laid off from my job of 11 years as a technical project coordinator for an environmental engineering firm a year ago and am currently a stay at home mom. (The pay sucks but the benefits package ROCKS!) I also blog for the website http://www.shejustgotmarried.com/ (look for me as "An Older Bride"), and you can check out my past personal blog at http://ooliegirl.livejournal.com/. I've been married for less than 2 years so I'm still technically a newlywed by some definitions, but I intend on staying a newlywed forever by my own definition. I'm often accused of being a bit of a Pollyanna, but I believe that optimism is a self-fulfilling prophecy, so I'll be keeping my rose-colored glasses on, thank you very much. You can decide for yourself whether I'm delusional or whether I'm actually married to the most wonderful man in the world. Or possibly both. I do have the ultimate goal of writing for a living at some point, whether it's by finally getting my book published (with hopefully more books to follow) or by getting a paid blog or newspaper or magazine gig. So your comments and input are very much welcomed as I hone my craft!

So, now that we have the preliminaries out of the way, let the blogging commence! Since this blog is intended to focus primarily on motherhood, let me explain how motherhood is affecting me right at this moment. I am typing this with one hand because there is a soundly sleeping barnacle baby attached to my chest, who is being propped up with my other hand. It is also 1:30 in the afternoon and I am still in my bathrobe, having yet to shower, brush my teeth, or eat lunch. This is a pretty typical day. No doubt all the moms reading this are nodding and smiling. Slovenliness and sleep deprivation are pretty much universal to new moms. I'm actually luckier than many, since my little one is remarkably unfussy (Pollyanna again - but it's really true) and since we are supplementing breastfeeding with bottle feeding and my wonderful husband takes the 6am feeding so I get 5 to 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep every night. But every morning I marvel at moms who do this AND have a full-time job outside the home. I don't think I could manage to get myself and the boy up and dressed by 8 every morning, even if all I had to do was drive around the block and come back home. (Which isn't totally far-fetched; hubby and I actually considered getting me a paper route.) So getting ready and also being able to have coherent conversations with other adults about topics other than poop and the absurd sizing system for baby clothes? Not gonna happen.

I can't even imagine doing a lot of things that many other stay at home moms do, like new moms groups and baby yoga and going to the gym. Luckily, since my baby weighs 20 pounds at 10 weeks, he's kind of a built in home gym. Getting up from the couch while holding him is great for the glutes; when I have him in the front pack and I need something from the lower cabinet, it's better than doing squats; lifting him in the car seat will give me biceps worthy of Madonna. And he's much more fun as a training partner than even the hottest personal trainer could be. I might be a little motivated by a trainer yelling at me to "feel the burn" or "just do three more reps", but when Ryan grins at me when I swing his car seat like a carnival ride, THAT will make me do rep after rep without even counting. THAT is motivation.

Well, Barnacle Boy is stirring, so I'll wrap up this entry. I hope that you check back soon! Please share this link with anyone else you think might enjoy it, and feel free to post or link it to Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, Digg, other blogs, or anywhere else you can think of!