1. It is of no help to your wife if you take the trash out and fail to replace the bag liner in the can. Probably less help than if you don’t take it out at all. And you will invoke a string of “shit, fuck, damns” when your wife has a handful of wet chicken packaging that she is attempting to throw in there (around the baby proofing lock) and she finds no liner.

2. It is of no help to your country if you continue to investigate steroids (and now perjury) in Major League Baseball. Not sure when someone is going to ask them what the hell they are trying to accomplish in a time of war, terrorism, a health care system that our own government projects will require us to spend $1 of our every $5 on it within 10 years, the sub-prime mortgage crisis, inflation, recession (but we aren’t allowed to call it that), melting polar ice caps, a food infrastructure that is beyond broken and recalling millions of pounds of ground beef, chemicals bombarding us from every direction causing things all the way from asthma and lower IQ’s among urban children (pollution) to breast cancer in men (parabens? EMFs?), the huge increase in children’s food allergies, lead chew toys for our kids… Do I need to continue? For crying out loud, Free Roger Clemens!

3. It is not equitable to think that you need a poker club if your wife has a book club. First, I’ve never even seen any of you play poker — and at least I know how to read (actually I’m quite proficient). And B, when you stay home with two young children for day upon day cleaning up throw up/diarrhea, attempting to put snow clothes on a one year old, making dinner while said one year old wedges his standing self into your crotch area, all the while attempting to listen and watch a 6 year old at all times (because if a six year old jumps really high and then jumps and throws a ball and then catches that ball at the same time, if this all happens and a Mommy isn’t watching, has it ever really occurred? Absolutely not. “Mommy, watch! Mommy, listen! No, Mommy your eyes weren’t really watching!”) When you can do that for one week solid (and we’ll go to work in your place), that’s when you deserve a poker club.

4. It is not helpful to sweep the kitchen floor into a little pile and then not clean up the pile — as if you are leaving evidence of your helpfulness. (I should add that this has never happened to me, but it has been reported to me that one man I know does this. Strange.)

5. It is never OK to complain about what’s for dinner. Unless, of course, you are cooking the dinner. Just don’t do it. Or do it with extreme caution.

6. It is helpful to actually communicate with the person on the other end. For example, if your old high school friend calls and tells you he and his wife had a baby — find out the sex, the name, and how much the kid weighs. However funny it may seem to you, we are not interested in hearing you rehash the details of the time at Chucky’s bachelor party when someone punched that dude — especially if the conversation yields no information that we can wrap our female minds around.

7. It should be clear that when she says “she doesn’t feel like giving the kids a bath tonight,” that she is not looking for you to respond by telling her to skip bathing the dirt-crusted children. She wants you to offer to give them a bath.

8. It is not advisable to question or second guess your wife on pretty much anything. She knows the complicated details behind why you need a new high chair, why that stroller doesn’t work for this situation, why she needs to go to the drug store before the grocery store — and definitely before she picks up her daughter at school (what, are you that stupid?), and why you always dust before you vacuum. Don’t second guess, that is, unless you want to hear about the complicated 28 point matrix of why she is doing what she is doing. Please, just trust her. You really don’t want to know all the details she is managing in her head.

When I started this blog, it was for me. A virtual place to quiet the voices in my head, if you will. Clearly, anyone who blogs doesn’t want total anonymity though. From my perspective, when I write and I know others are reading (even if it is just a couple handfuls of people), I feel validated. A virtual talk therapy session, if you will (again). And my most commented on posts are generally always those where I talk about real things, real emotions, and what is really happening in my stay-at-home mommy mind.

Unfortunately, however, as people start to read your blog, you start to become hemmed in by who’s reading. Hi Mom! Hi husband! Hi husband’s co-workers! Hi mother-in-law! Hi friends! Hi neighbors! Hi Nana! Hi parent’s of little lady schoolmates! Hi lurkers — who I know from my stats are out there! And hi to my regular readers! I wouldn’t have to be hemmed in by you all if I didn’t care, but I do. It becomes a lot harder to be transparent, to be real, when you imagine your virtual audience reading each post — and potentially analyzing each statement or wondering why you didn’t tell them this face to face. Or harder yet, wondering if you are not being honest with them and your emotions. So, I keep a lot of what I want to write inside — in my virtual hamster wheel of a brain, constantly processing and reprocessing worries, concerns, and life events (if you will).

And that pretty much defeats the damn purpose. And makes this blog a place for product reviews and recipes — and that pretty much sucks.

So, I am going to get real. And I don’t want sympathy or worry or annoyance. This is my blog, beeatches. After all that, you might think I have some sort of bombshell, but I don’t: I am just having a really hard time with this stay at home mommy stuff. Major revelation, huh?

I have to preface this with the fact that I don’t want it any other way. I want to be here with my kids. I know I can’t do the part-time thing because I’ve tried it and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown trying to make everything work (at the level at which I want everything to work — the best and most close to perfect). But the part-time thing also didn’t work because I was essentially working for my husband (we worked in the same unit and he was in charge).

And this is a place I feel I am still in. He is the breadwinner. And I just eat the fucking bread. A constant suck on HIS resources. The person who wastes all the money. The person who has the nerve to buy dishsoap and diapers and clothing, and yes, farm shares and pool passes and family photographs. And I do waste my fair share of money — I will be the first to admit it. But so does he. It’s not like one of us is entirely frugal and one spends all the money. We both spend too much.

But he has a license to spend. And I don’t. And when I have expectations of him as a father and a fellow family member in this household, I feel like the major undercurrent is that, this shit? All this shit within the walls of our house (the kids, the cleaning, the appointments, the garage, servicing my car — basically everything except mowing the lawn and building fires in the fireplace)? It’s not his job. Because he does his job. And he earns his money. And he spends his money when and if he wants to. Me, though? I need to ask permission (or feel awful when I don’t). I need to endure the snide comments when one of my needs or values doesn’t sync with his (read: farm share, piano, pool pass — basically anything he doesn’t feel the need to have or deal with).

But let me tell you how wonderful he is. He is loving, an amazing provider, a tremendously creative and hard worker, and he loves his children fiercely. So, I don’t mean this to be a dump session on him — because I don’t think I’m alone in my feelings from the wifely perspective. This is about me. This is about how awful I feel when I hear things like “when she was working.” Because apparently now I don’t. Or comments that infer that someone we know who used to be a nurse is no longer one because she is staying home with her children.

It is about feeling invisible. Like you have no value, even though you know in your heart that what you are doing is the most important thing you could ever do. Like you are screaming out and trying to make him understand that you do have value. That you do have a license to spend. That quitting your job was the right decision for our family. That while you need to be responsible, you don’t need to be accountable. That you should be trusted to know what’s best for the family. That you should be helped (because your job doesn’t have a quitting time). And that every argument can probably be traced back to these feelings (and the fact that you stew on these emotions daily and are ready to pounce when a comment strikes one of these nerves).

Invisible. No financial value. Not deserving of help. Not “working.”

It’s how I feel.

Real enough for you?

Let the gossip and pity begin.

Here’s a bit of advice if you are both an avid shoe shopper, and a hypochondriac. Don’t type “nord” and wait for your browser to autofill “nordstrom.com”. Because when you hit return too quickly, “nord” takes you to the National Organization of Rare Disorders.

Must get off this website quickly. Must get off this website quickly. Look at pretty shoes. Look at pretty shoes. Need no further information in my brain (to be easily retrieved when I exhibit some random symptom) about possible rare diseases.

Oh yes, women’s, special occasion, color? brown… oh yes, now that feels better.

Forget the mommy bounce or the mommy sway, you are a mother if:

• You know how to lie lightly on top of a baby for a brief second in order to put them down while asleep, thus tricking them into thinking you are still holding them.
• You then know how to remove each piece of your body in a slow, methodical order, one arm, one hand, one finger at a time so they don’t wake up and realize you are not there.
• You know how to slowly tiptoe backwards out of a bedroom, your legs and arms wide so you make no possible noise as you are leaving their room.
• You know how to close a door and make no discernable noise with the door handle by turning it all the way open, holding it, closing the door, and slowly releasing the handle until the door latches.
• You have ever cleaned the toilet paper lint off the toilet paper roll holder while going to the bathroom.  Beyond that, you have ever cleaned reachable parts (floors, sinks) of the bathroom while using the bathroom yourself.
• You multi-task during ever moment.  For example, right now, I am eating breakfast, writing a blog post, and rocking the little man asleep in his bouncy seat, while watching the Today Show waiting for the “new and improved” spot on mothers who imbibe while on playdates.  You dust while you are on the phone and clean the  corners of the floors with your socks while you are getting a baby to sleep.
• And the ultimate multi-tasking:  you can breastfeed a baby while you are asleep and you wake up with to-do lists in your head.
• You, the person who failed gym class because you couldn’t shoot free throws (which I actually did once — I mean they are “free,” how can you miss so many?), have the reaction time and ability to catch your child’s falling sandwich and plate pushed off the table while you are looking in the opposite direction — without breaking a plate or losing the sandwich to the floor filth.
• You know the lines to almost all the shows and songs on Noggin or Playhouse Disney, yet you have never looked directly at the characters and have little idea who any of them are or what they look like (Who knew Wonderpets actually had real, “animated” animals?)
• You can read a magazine, have a glass of wine, make dinner, and play a game of “Pretend my name is Emily and you are my mommy and we just got home from the zoo and I didn’t like the lions and you have another baby who is the banana grower at the zoo and I don’t like the banana grower and you tell him he has to be nicer to Emily because she is a nice girl, but then your sister comes and her name is Ellie and there is a thunderstorm and you tell Ellie that she has to get a blanket for Emily because she is afraid of thunderstorms.  OK, Mommy, are you ready?”  Huh?

Surely I have missed many other super-human moves, do you have any to add?

So, most of us have been following the riveting debate about whether moms are allowed to have a cocktail or a glass of wine while interacting with their children and other moms. The Today show did a piece that featured both Stefanie from Baby on Bored and Melissa from Suburban Bliss. I thought the videotaped piece with Stefanie was pretty fair, but I do agree that the live piece with Melissa was a little “sacrificial lambish.” I mean, who can compete with some doctor from Columbia who is also a mom of four (I think). Of course, no one should get drunk around their kids. And yes, women should find other ways to relax. And no, we wouldn’t want our babysitters drinking. (But can I add to this part of the debate… I am the child’s mother and I have their best interests in mind at all times. And I am never sure whether a babysitter does. I hope, but I can’t be sure. So, if I had a babysitter who I trusted implicitly like my sister or my mother — would I care if they had a glass of wine while taking care of my child? No. Not in the least. Some college kid that I don’t know in the least? Yes, I would care.)

It seems like this is not only a judgement of mothers, but also just of the fact that a person consumes alcohol. Some people don’t agree with that. I do. In my life, I like to relax with a glass of wine. If you don’t, fine. Move forward in life and leave me alone. Beyond, no one is doing a feature on men who consume a beer with their friends while their kids throw a football around the backyard. And even more beyond, it seems that our attempts to “professionalize” motherhood (and rightly so, it is the hardest job one may ever undertake) have come back to haunt us because now everyone judges our every move along this continuum of professionalism and not realism. As a mother, I am not always a robot doing a job. I am an imperfect being, who is also a human — and as such gets stressed, worried, and comes undone on many a late afternoon after taking care of young kids all day. So, yes, in my life I have a glass of wine around my kids. And you know what, and maybe sadly so, sometimes it makes me a better mother at 5:00 PM. I don’t yell as much. I have more patience. I laugh more. Those are good things sometimes.

Seriously, I don’t get drunk around my kids and drop them off at Chucky Cheese. OK? So, beyond that? Leave me alone and end the debate. But in the spirit of talking about the myriad of ways mothers are setting poor examples for their children, I thought I would go first and list the ways in which I am not perfect for my kids. Here you go. Get the nails out, cut the wood for my stake, and schedule my kid’s first therapy sessions. But really, if you want me to be really judgmental, I am going to bet my kids end up in therapy less than yours. So there.

The Ways In Which I Am Not Perfect, And Thus Setting a Poor Example for My Children

1. I have a drink of alcohol (to which I am legally allowed) around my children. (Result: My children will abuse alcohol and will not know how to have fun without it — much like the rest of my family and friends.)

2. I sometimes throw away recycleable goods. And sometimes I collect all the plastic grocery bags with the best intentions of taking them back to the grocery store and leave them in the back of my car for six weeks. And then I throw them away. (Result: My children will think Al Gore is an idiot who should go back into his “lock box” and they will pollute the environment for the fun of it.)

3. I sometimes eat too much. And sometimes when we bake cookies, I eat like four or five cookies and make myself feel like I might vomit. (Result: My children will think food is their only friend and will eat to make the pain of their awful childhood go away.)

4. I sometimes see people in the grocery store and look intently at the ingredients of the “Flax Power Waffles” until they pass and I am safe to not have to speak to them. (Result: My children will be anti-social freaks and will look at their shoes for most of their adult lives.)

5. I hate cleaning my house and am torn between cleaning because I am disgusted by my own filth, and giving up and living like the people who are discovered with 47 cats and back issues of Tiger Beat piled up on the floor until they cannot see the windows anymore. (Result: My children will live in filth and have no appreciation for a freshly steam cleaned tile floor.)

6. I used to like to watch TV and I allow them to consume “screen media” when I need a break. (Result: My children will be unable to read, think, or speak and will simply stare at a screen for the rest of their sad, dark lives.)

7. I secretly don’t really like to do art projects or play Polly Pockets. (Result: My children will realize their entire childhoods were based on a lie and will discover that I was, in fact, a human being with interests and desires of my own.)

8. I pretend to like some fish, asparagus, yogurt, and goat cheese and in all reality, many times might just prefer to have Chicken McNuggets. (Result: My children will feel deprived because I made them eat all this healthy food and at one point, will revolt and eat nothing but spaghettios — which I secretly enjoy quite a lot).

9. Once in a while, I don’t have the energy to brush my teeth before bed. And sometimes I “forget” to brush my children’s teeth before bed because I don’t have the energy to deal with my daughter gagging on the toothpaste and refusing to actually brush any of her teeth. (Result: Major dental problems, of course.)

10. I like to stay in my pajamas all day if possible and very rarely feel the need to go do much of anything on the weekend. (Result: My children will be just like that.)

So as you can see, my kids are probably screwed despite the fact that they are well-adjusted, confident, loving, funny, healthy, social, smart beings who get out of the house a lot, who have never had whiskey rubbed on their gums, and have no cavities. But, that glass of wine? That’s sending their future right down the toilet.

I don’t want a nap, I don’t want a massage, I don’t want to work more, I don’t want to work less, I don’t want to shop, I don’t want to work out, I don’t want to clean, I don’t want to cook, I don’t want to travel, I don’t want my nails done.

All of those things would be good. But what do I really want?

Focus.

Once in a while, I want the old days where I felt focused and able to solve a problem without being confronted with ten other problems to deal with first. I want to have issues that are solvable, not issues where there are no right answers, where there are no solutions, and no white areas, no black areas, and no gray areas — just ways to deal with them that hopefully won’t screw everyone up too much. I want to have a sense of calm, rather than a sense of frenzy. I want to have a “to do” list that would include actual tasks, rather than items like “raising a confident daughter” or “instilling values” — because none of us are sure how to do those things or how the hell we judge our success. I want a moment to think about what the heck I am going to write without having to look at a drawing according to the rules of a five year old.

“No, Mommy. Look at it.”

“I am looking at it.”

“No really look at it closely.”

“I am looking at it closely. I am staring at it. I am not looking at any other thing.”

“NO! Look at it longer.”

Focus. That’s all I ask for. But in the interim, the hot stone massage I got last week while we were away for the little lady’s latest round of allergy tests will do.

That’s why we write, according to Anna Quindlen.

There are many times we wonder why we continue to write, why we blog — what is the purpose of what we are all doing here?  We think about giving it up.  We think it seems self-involved.  We realize it’s not going to make us famous.  We know we are doing it mostly for ourselves.

Well, maybe, just maybe, this is why we blog (and interestingly enough she doesn’t mention the blogosphere at all in the piece).  We are doing it to make sense of ourselves.  “Writing can make pain tolerable, confusion clearer and the self stronger.”  Read her whole piece here.

So my latest BabyWeekly newsletter was in my inbox this morning with these little tidbits…

“Although your baby is sleeping longer at night, it may be a while before he or she stops waking at 6 in the morning…”

OK, so my last night schedule of the little man waking at 11:30, 1:30, 3:00, 4:30, 5:30, and 7:00 is not a normal feeding schedule? Shit, that seemed pretty normal to me — at two weeks old, maybe. Yes, and he was genuinely hungry and eating at each waking. This is the boy who had been sleeping from 7:30 PM to 4 AM. Can I mention he is four months old and I have yet to have a full night of sleep? Can I say regression? Can I say cereal? Can I say guilt because the current research says to delay solids until six months to help decrease food allergies (the little lady has severe ones)? But can I also say that the current research in medieval times probably told mothers to give a good blood letting to cure up a nasty case of eczema?

“At this age many babies begin to sleep less and play more during the day and are happy to take three or four naps of about an hour a piece.“

OK, so once again, I think we might be an outlier. Mine has been taking about three cat naps a day - one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the early evening. None of them last more than 30 minutes, and most are usually more like twenty minutes. These can occur with a full belly, half full belly, an empty belly, in the crib, in the bouncy seat, in my arms, in the Baby Bjorn. Nothing makes a shit of difference.

“If you don’t think your baby is getting enough rest, check with your doctor.”

Oh. Yeah, he or she will probably be a big help. “Umm, well, all babies are different. Maybe it’s a growth spurt.”

So, now I am off to my big accomplishment of the day: sitting here on day two of a kitchen sink/no hot water/plumber drama mini-series. Yesterday I waited at home with two kids corralled all day — just hanging out until they called or showed up. They finally came unannouced at 4:30 and couldn’t fix it then. Something about main valves and shut-offs and dipsticks degrading. Now they are back today with all the water in the house turned off (before coffee was made) and trying to give me a hard sell on a new hot water heater. Sounds like a great use of our Christmas money. If it weren’t for this beautiful little boy staring up at me with wide eyes and a wider smile, I think I would be cranky.

If I ever get out of here for my big trip into the city, I think I’m gonna buy me some Gerber Organic Rice Cereal. And then rather than a blood letting (that’s so passé), I think I might try a vodka infusion instead. BabyWeekly didn’t say that was appropriate for baby at Week 17, but they didn’t say jack squat about it not being appropriate for momma.

Date: September 6, 2006 (1 day before estimated due date)

Time: 4:11 AM (because I apparently only look at the clock on the 11’s)

Location: My brain lying in a king size bed

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I have to pee. Wake this pregnant lady up. Must go pee. Don’t turn on lights. Pretend you’re still asleep. Reply “I’m fine. Just have to pee.” to husband. Pee. Flush. I hope I don’t wake up the little lady. Must fall back to sleep. Hoist body back into bed. (Lift with the legs Hercules.) Lie down. Still asleep. Pretend you are still asleep.

Take a deep breath and let your mind go back to sleep. OK, that deep breath made me feel more like I am hyperventilating. Take another one. Take another one. Inhale to 10. Only make it til 5. Exhale to 10. What number was I on? Labor and delivery. Is the baby moving? Lie on left side. “They” say blood flow to the baby is better that way. Whole left side of head is congested. Can’t breathe. Should have shot up with some saline spray before I got back in bed. Should I get back out? No.

Go back to sleep. Epidural? Intrathecal? Will there be enough time? Will there be too much time? How long will it take? Will it be in the middle of the night? Or during the day? Will the little lady be at school? Wonder who will be able to pick her up? Need to vacuum the guest room. And water the plants. Wonder what day is trash day this week. What if I need a c-section? Haven’t really thought about that one. Sounds a hell of a lot easier. But much worse recovery. Don’t think about c-section. C-Section. C-Section. C-Section.

OK. Time to relax. Need to go back to sleep. Circumcision? Must remember to finalize that decision. Wonder if my water will break. Will it come on suddenly or slowly like with the little lady? Should call pediatrician about newborn testing. March of Dimes recommends way more tests than our state requires. Should we do all? Who would pay? Guess we are not going to bank the cord blood. AM I COMMITTING A MAJOR MISTAKE BY NOT BANKING CORD BLOOD? No we have talked about it. Decision is made. Too late now. Oh but the guilt. The guilt. Will I regret that? What if? What if? What if?

OK, now you need to breathe. Quit with the spin cycle thinking. Time to go back to sleep. Still a lot of time to rest. What time is it? Can’t see the damn clock because husband’s water glass is directly in front of it. I think it’s still 4 something. Does he think I am some sort of contortionist that can move this body around easily to see the clock in the middle of the night? Remind him to get a co-worker’s address for thank you card. God, I should really get those thank you cards done while I am sitting here waiting for all this. Wonder if I will have time to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Really should do that. Must remember to put toilet paper on the list. And shampoo.

OK, now I must really rest. Labor and Delivery. Oh the pain. That’s gonna suck. But it won’t last forever. Baby is the greatest reward. Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. OK. Now I’m going to rest. Breathe in. Definitely hyperventilating more than I am breathing. You are such a moron. Get over yourself. This is all out of your control now. GO BACK TO BED.

Should I turn on the TV? Need to stop this thinking before it is time to wake up. Hubby will be pissed if I ask for the remote. Will tell me to “just relax” and rub my back for three seconds before he falls back to sleep again (with the best of intentions). OK, I’m reaching for the remote. Warning hubby to avert his eyes. Oh shit. It must be early. There is news on. Fuckety Fuckety Fuck. Find mindless show. No I don’t want to think about war in the middle east or Osama bin Laden or the fifth anniversary of 9/11. What if the baby is born on 9/11. Not sure how I will feel about that.

Move on. Hey there’s that Tony Robbins guy. Advertising pillows? That’s weird. Why are they trying to crack eggs with weights? Move on. Mad About You? That might work. Oh, it’s over. God, there are lots of infomercials on. If only I had my wallet next to my bed. Hmmm… German News show. Nope don’t understand a word of it. Some other mindless sit-com. That will work. This is really dumb. But, feeling a little drowsier. Putting thoughts out of my mind. I guess this is why kids aren’t supposed to watch so much TV. It really is mindless. Really need to cut down on little lady’s TV habits. Deal with that later. OK. Drifting back to sleep. Set sleep timer for 15 minutes. And…. I’m….. out.

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You really don’t want to know the dreams, do you?

Maybe it’s the effect of The Brady Bunch marathon on my brain (we’ve been watching it this morning and my pregnant noggin is loving the simplicity of it all), but when I read this article on a new book about the female brain, I didn’t find it too controversial. Maybe I am much less of a feminist than I ever thought. Or maybe there is a difference between hard core feminism and simply supporting women and their rights.

Regardless, I am a firm believer in the subtle differences in the female brain and the impact hormones and those differences have on us all. And no, that doesn’t mean that there is a physiological reason that women “can’t” do math and science. That’s bullshit. But, more importantly in my opinion, it does indicate a physiological reason that women find themselves stressed, forgetful, anxious, overworked, depressed, and underappreciated in many phases of their lives.

Proof? I was a wiz at math and science all through high school and college. For crying out loud, I was a hero because I was able to figure out the the size of the fake ID board in college by calculating the ratio of actual head size with head size on a real drivers license. I didn’t get “discouraged” until, oh about five years ago when I was pregnant with the little lady. Then my brain turned into a pile of shit barely capable of calculating a tip for the delivery man.

Am I all alone out here or do you agree?

The spam is getting trickier these days. It’s all coming through trackbacks with valid Blogspot addresses, which is bugging the shit out of me. But I had no idea it was getting so malicious. I got one today with the comment “Diabetes… your lucky color has faded.” Thanks for the scary health fortune telling. Did you realize I am a raving hypochondriac who will now worry that I have diabetes because I got a freaking spam that alluded to the idea? I didn’t think so. I am the person who got worried the other night that I was going to have a stalker because the pizza delivery guy, who looked a little like a pedophile (not sure how else I can explain it), kept staring at my belly while I was counting up my dollars.

I gave him a big tip. Do you think that will help or hurt my case when he comes after me in the middle of the night?

We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today. ~Stacia Tauscher

This quote is courtesy of the little lady’s preschool director. It has really resonated with me because I usually am so caught up with the idea of how what I am doing/not doing is going to shape her adult self… when what I should be focusing on is who she is now. It seems logical enough, but I haven’t had that lightbulb go off yet. My mind has consistently been focused on how what I am doing is going to result in some “end product” that will either be deemed successful or unsuccessful (judged alongside my parenting ability, of course). So when she wouldn’t give up the pacifier or she pushed cute little girls in the park or she threw fits in the cookie aisle — the stress I felt was just as much about her being judged as it was about me.
And this combined with the absolutely wonderful Mr. Rogers congressional hearing video that I saw recently (courtesy of Sweetney… I would have posted the URL before, but I feel like I am always bumming URLs from her — and seriously I am trying to quit.) I dare you to watch that and not cry.

When I look at the little lady and see her humanity — outside of being my daughter — it suddenly makes me realize when I am stressing her out or putting unnecessary pressure on her. The other day we bought a slip and slide to use in the backyard while I benched my 7 months pregnant self on a chair in the shade. She hadn’t really used one before, so I was trying to tell her how to do it. And no, I don’t do demonstrations. Somehow I don’t think my OB/GYN would approve. “OK, now stand back there and start to run. When you get to the yellow, go down to your belly and slide. No, you can’t stop running once you get to the slip and slide. You have to do it all at the same time. Madeline, why do you keep stopping? You’re not going to be able to really slide doing it that way.”

Meanwhile, the only one who was frustrated was me. She was having fun just getting wet in the hot sun. Two days in a row we did this. Of course, I wasn’t a total tyrant. We were laughing and taking pictures and I was also throwing in the occasional “great job, you did it!” or “you can do it however you like.” And two days in a row, she decided she wanted to go inside eventually because she had a sore belly. I figured it was from launching herself on the hard ground, which it may have been. But, when we got inside on day two, we were sitting on the couch reading a story and that lightbulb went off. I asked her if I was making her sad when I was trying to tell her how to do the slip and slide. And she started to cry and said, “I was just doing it my own way.”

Gah. I am a total loser. So focused on trying to turn her into some sort of champion slip and slider, I totally missed out on the pressure I was putting on her. My intentions were good. I was just trying to explain to her how to do it — what I needed was some 6 year old dare devil here to show her how. But those words coming from her mother came across as total criticism. She felt like I didn’t think she was doing a good enough job.

And to a four year old, getting that feeling from your mommy is hurtful even when you are doing a slip and slide. It shapes who you become. A whole hell of a lot more than how well you launch yourself down a piece of wet yellow plastic made by Whammo.

The little lady and I were on our way to the grocery store today when she started talking about what she wanted to be when she grew up.

“I want to be a princess.”

(Mommy oscillating between thinking “I hate Disney” and “join the club.”)

“And a doctor.”

(Mommy thinking “OK, maybe she is paying attention to some of the things I try to tell her about role models and the importance of school and brains.”)

“And a mommy.”

(Mommy thinking “My heart is oozing out my chest right now.”)

“And Rapunzel.”

(Mommy thinking “I hate those blasted fairy tales too.”)

Of course I had to question how she was going to do all those things. “You know, it would be really hard to be all those things at the same time.”

She didn’t seem phased, but I kept thinking about it.

What she chose is the typical linear progression of roles in a woman’s life. You start out as a child being a princess where people wait on you hand and foot, you get to dress up any time you like, and you can throw fits like the best member of any royal family. You then move onto a career, where you hopefully use your talents and brains in a way that makes you feel like a valued member of society. You then become a mommy. ‘Nuf said. And after that, in true Rapunzel style, on most days you then feel like locking yourself in a tower and have a tendency to let yourself go because you can’t find the time to schedule a freaking haircut.

Here is a link to Sweetney where she includes a wonderful essay on motherhood by Anna Quindlen. Amazing. Just amazing.

When I hear so many veteran mothers telling us to relax, appreciate it all, and live in the moment, I know they are spot on. But why is it that none of us can (and they couldn’t either, hence their advice)? Are we female human beings simply not structured to live in the moment? How can I take a snapshot of my little lady sitting next to me right this very moment eating pretzels (prencils, as she likes to call them) in her denim overall dress and pigtails and make it stay in my brain? Not in film or video, but engrained in my brain. I want to remember faces and moments and smells, but I find I end up searching the depths of my brain to simply remember how it felt to hold her when she was born (not with much luck, I should add).

Or is it that mothers observe such monumentally small increments of their child’s development (minute by minute on some days) that it is nearly impossible to see the big markers and lay down the footage by which we remember them? I sure don’t know.

I have just guzzled my 16 ounces of water and am seriously praying that I don’t wet my pants in the course of the next hour. All that can mean is that I have my ultrasound today. And I am nervous. Really nervous.

Someone once said that nervousness is the same thing as excitement — it’s all in how you look at it. But I am firmly on the nervous side. The sex of the baby thing? That’s just a bonus if we can figure it out. I really want to know, but the whole issue of all the parts being in the right places and overall health are what I am obsessing about. I can’t help it. I know that worrying is not going to change anything. The outcome will be the same regardless of how much cortisol I get going through my bloodstream.

But that never seems to change things. So for now, I will try to do some one nostril in, one nostril out breathing, may need to do some push-ups or something to get rid of this extra energy, and will continue to hope that I don’t wet my pants.

I’ll keep you posted on all fronts.