One sunny morning not so long ago on the way to Lucy's daycare, "We Keep Waiting for the World to Change" was blasting on my radio. The song may be cliche, overplayed, and predictable, but you have to admit, it's catchy and happy. Luce took to it immediately, singing along with the chorus and asking for me to play it again and again and again and again. (Unfortunately, the concept of "we have no control over what plays when" radio is pretty foreign in her world of DVR, OnDemand, and YouTube.) The song has only played once in the car, and still, at least a month later, Lucy asks at least once every other day for "Waitin' for the World to Change" as I strap her in the carseat. It's an appropriate song for this stage in our family's life for a lot of reasons (mostly the 41 weeks pregnant one), but here I want to capture a snapshot of gratitude for the waiting.
Because Xander/Zander has chosen to take his sweet time, we have had an incredible week of "just the three of us" moments:
*Playing in mommy and papa's bed in the morning, mostly involving gleefully hiding in the blankets and finding each other.
*Baking brownies together. Not screaming due to sleep deprivation when huge raw egg messes result.
*Taking slow walks around the neighborhood. Pausing to slip off our sandals to feel sand on our toes.
*Pushing a baby doll around in Lucy's stroller at the Farmer's Market. Cracking up at the shocked look on people's faces when they peek into the stroller expecting to see a baby, and being greeted instead by a maniacal-smiling plastic replacement.
*Looking through photo albums of Lucy's birth and toddlerhood and talking a lot about what is to come.
I could go on and on, but you get the point. Sometimes flowers sprout right there in fields of frustration. I know in less than a week "just the three of us" will have morphed into "just the four of us", and our world will have indeed, totally and completely changed. So, since this current world ain't so bad itself, I might as well take a moment to relish it . . .
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Selfish Parenthood
It's time the world knew the truth:
People seem to stereotype parents (particularly mothers) as somewhat sacred, selfless creatures. We rise at all hours to nurse our little darlings; we sacrifice our careers, our social lives, our pre-pregnancy bodies, for the sake of nurturing and loving our infants. We even tend to lose a piece of our identity in the process, known more as "so and so's mommy" than our previous, indpendent selves. And of course, this assumed generosity of mythic proportions is not entirely unreasonable. After all, I no longer watch anything on television that doesn't involve Elmo, Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, or some other strangely disturbing three-year-old allure.
But here's the dirty secret:
Parenting (especially parenting your own biological children) is quite possibly the most egocentric project anyone can undertake. I know this, not just because I personally gain great pride from my own undertaking of said project, but because I watched parenting from the outside when I was a brand new teacher. And let me tell you from experiencing more than my share of insane, irrational rants from otherwise normal, logical people: having a child catapults some folks into the most self-centered, narrowed-perspective, all-about-us versions of themselves. Only when you are a parent can you be excused for believing that something that sprung from your body can do no wrong, should never receive an A- in anything, and should dictate the needs of an entire group of people.
Personally experiencing parent-pride has further proved my beliefs here. I see myself silently scrutinizing every cute thing Lucy says, every adorable face she makes, for pieces of myself. "I hope she got that from me," I think when she is sweet and kind and intelligent. "That must come from Justin's side," I think, when her stubbornness is unyielding. Every night she makes up song after song to put herself to sleep, and I find myself, each night, more in love with the songs as they bring me back to my own preferred method of putting myself to sleep when I was a young child. "What a CREATIVE, MUSICAL child," I smirk proudly. Perhaps the greatest evidence of the identity-promoting-parenting-connection involves status updates and photos on Facebook. For the most part, if you are a parent, your cute child ends up being front and center of the majority of the photos posted and, for me, the status updates the dot my page. This is no accident. Facebook pages are vehicles for self-promotion of identity. My kid is the coolest thing about me. Of course I'm going to flaunt her.
Sorry to blow the whistle, all you parents who have been enjoying pats on the back for your selfless family-first choices. But we insiders know this story well. We are happiest, we are most self-satisfied through our vicarious lives in those little people we helped create. . .
People seem to stereotype parents (particularly mothers) as somewhat sacred, selfless creatures. We rise at all hours to nurse our little darlings; we sacrifice our careers, our social lives, our pre-pregnancy bodies, for the sake of nurturing and loving our infants. We even tend to lose a piece of our identity in the process, known more as "so and so's mommy" than our previous, indpendent selves. And of course, this assumed generosity of mythic proportions is not entirely unreasonable. After all, I no longer watch anything on television that doesn't involve Elmo, Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, or some other strangely disturbing three-year-old allure.
But here's the dirty secret:
Parenting (especially parenting your own biological children) is quite possibly the most egocentric project anyone can undertake. I know this, not just because I personally gain great pride from my own undertaking of said project, but because I watched parenting from the outside when I was a brand new teacher. And let me tell you from experiencing more than my share of insane, irrational rants from otherwise normal, logical people: having a child catapults some folks into the most self-centered, narrowed-perspective, all-about-us versions of themselves. Only when you are a parent can you be excused for believing that something that sprung from your body can do no wrong, should never receive an A- in anything, and should dictate the needs of an entire group of people.
Personally experiencing parent-pride has further proved my beliefs here. I see myself silently scrutinizing every cute thing Lucy says, every adorable face she makes, for pieces of myself. "I hope she got that from me," I think when she is sweet and kind and intelligent. "That must come from Justin's side," I think, when her stubbornness is unyielding. Every night she makes up song after song to put herself to sleep, and I find myself, each night, more in love with the songs as they bring me back to my own preferred method of putting myself to sleep when I was a young child. "What a CREATIVE, MUSICAL child," I smirk proudly. Perhaps the greatest evidence of the identity-promoting-parenting-connection involves status updates and photos on Facebook. For the most part, if you are a parent, your cute child ends up being front and center of the majority of the photos posted and, for me, the status updates the dot my page. This is no accident. Facebook pages are vehicles for self-promotion of identity. My kid is the coolest thing about me. Of course I'm going to flaunt her.
Sorry to blow the whistle, all you parents who have been enjoying pats on the back for your selfless family-first choices. But we insiders know this story well. We are happiest, we are most self-satisfied through our vicarious lives in those little people we helped create. . .
Friday, May 27, 2011
How to Prolong Your Pregnancy . . .
People counfound me for all sorts of reasons. Here's one: folks generally get sick of being pregnant after 40 weeks.
The advice online is all about how to trigger labor, get to see your baby, and regain your body back. My theory: the people writing this blogs and contributing to these websites have either never had a baby or are about to have their first. And they, like I before having Lucy, have no idea what a greater disruption having a newborn in the home is in comparison to being slightly large, sore, and overdue. Because of this, I propose a new topic entry into the abundant genre of pregnancy advice: "How to Prolong Your Pregnancy". And, since I am currently five days overdue, I happen to be quite the expert on the subject. Here's what you can do so that you too can gather amazed stares from folks on the street, so you can frustrate your anxious friends and family who are just dying to meet your new little addition. In essence, here's what I've done:
*Eat ridiculous amounts of cottage cheese, salt and vinegar chips, and grapes, mixed together.
*Carry your three year old (or a 30lb weight) around all the time.
*Watch an embarrassing number of "baby story" shows in which, time after time, women just spontaneously "go into labor", as if this is an easy feat to accomplish, requiring no effort at all.
*Work out everyday on the elliptical to the point where the undergrads working at the gym say with nervous laughter: "You are banned from the gym once you hit your due date". Then, continue going to the gym once it passes.
*Tell everyone when you are 34 weeks pregnant that your midwife is afraid you might go into labor early. Then watch God laugh as you hit 41 weeks.
So yes, I'm still pregnant. But I'm also still blogging. And if Zander had already entered the scene, I can promise this blogging thing wouldn't have been happening.
P.S. If you do decide you want to make an entrance into the world anytime soon, baby boy, well I'd appreciate it to happen sooner rather than later. . . . your head is only getting larger . . .
The advice online is all about how to trigger labor, get to see your baby, and regain your body back. My theory: the people writing this blogs and contributing to these websites have either never had a baby or are about to have their first. And they, like I before having Lucy, have no idea what a greater disruption having a newborn in the home is in comparison to being slightly large, sore, and overdue. Because of this, I propose a new topic entry into the abundant genre of pregnancy advice: "How to Prolong Your Pregnancy". And, since I am currently five days overdue, I happen to be quite the expert on the subject. Here's what you can do so that you too can gather amazed stares from folks on the street, so you can frustrate your anxious friends and family who are just dying to meet your new little addition. In essence, here's what I've done:
*Eat ridiculous amounts of cottage cheese, salt and vinegar chips, and grapes, mixed together.
*Carry your three year old (or a 30lb weight) around all the time.
*Watch an embarrassing number of "baby story" shows in which, time after time, women just spontaneously "go into labor", as if this is an easy feat to accomplish, requiring no effort at all.
*Work out everyday on the elliptical to the point where the undergrads working at the gym say with nervous laughter: "You are banned from the gym once you hit your due date". Then, continue going to the gym once it passes.
*Tell everyone when you are 34 weeks pregnant that your midwife is afraid you might go into labor early. Then watch God laugh as you hit 41 weeks.
So yes, I'm still pregnant. But I'm also still blogging. And if Zander had already entered the scene, I can promise this blogging thing wouldn't have been happening.
P.S. If you do decide you want to make an entrance into the world anytime soon, baby boy, well I'd appreciate it to happen sooner rather than later. . . . your head is only getting larger . . .
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Pregnant Professional
Let's just face it: Being 40 weeks pregnant is an obscene, in-your-face assertion.
When your belly is this size, there is no way to conceal your upcoming addition. No one needs to ask "What will you be up to this summer?" No one offers you wine, and strangers register vague fear on their face when you sit beside them, as if they imagine they may be called upon to deliver a wriggling infant at a moment's notice.
This is why I solidly recommend attending an academic conference the weekend of your due date. If you can remain professional-sounding, if you can miraculously obtain an air of intelligence, if you can get people to take you seriously without veering into baby talk, and if you can keep your feet from swelling so much they fall off, you know you have arrived. You are a true professional. You have not only successfully distracted yourself the fact that, despite your midwife's fear you would deliver weeks ago, you are STILL not in labor, but you have established that being a mother doesn't inherently detract from being a member of academia.
Of course, there's also the distinct possiblity you could fail terribly. You could find yourself in a state of panic in the morning, unable to find anything to accomodate your size from your "professional wardrobe," thus forced to wear an ugly shapeless flower-filled sundress. You could, like I did today, find yourself unable to have a conversation withoug blurting out: "My due date is tomorrow!" and "You won't BELIEVE what my three year old said the other day!" You could fail to prepare to present anything for your working session (since you thought you'd be in labor, after all), and instead sit nodding dumbly at the brilliance of all of the smaller-stomached presentations. You could hear your voice reverberating in the atrium at lunch: "After all, I'm eating for two!" as you snag a fourth cookie. You might even find yourself interrogating a new acquaintance about exactly how the delivered their third child without pain medication rather than discussing their research interests. Worst of all, you could, with great paranoia, imagine that everyone is looking at you judgmentally, surely thinking: "Look at THAT grad student. She surely isn't taking her career seriously enough."
So I may not have been at my professional best today. And I may not ever be, or at least for another 18 years or so. Nevertheless, I stand with my belly firmly placed forward. Juggling both maternal and professional identities is a choice I have made. They overlap in messy ways; they even inform each other at times. And although I may never publish quite enough research articles, and although I will never be the mother than sends "made from scratch" cupcakes to the kindergarten class, I may just scrape by. After all, mediocrity can't be such a curse if it results in opening up so many different opportunities for joy, for growth, and for life.
When your belly is this size, there is no way to conceal your upcoming addition. No one needs to ask "What will you be up to this summer?" No one offers you wine, and strangers register vague fear on their face when you sit beside them, as if they imagine they may be called upon to deliver a wriggling infant at a moment's notice.
This is why I solidly recommend attending an academic conference the weekend of your due date. If you can remain professional-sounding, if you can miraculously obtain an air of intelligence, if you can get people to take you seriously without veering into baby talk, and if you can keep your feet from swelling so much they fall off, you know you have arrived. You are a true professional. You have not only successfully distracted yourself the fact that, despite your midwife's fear you would deliver weeks ago, you are STILL not in labor, but you have established that being a mother doesn't inherently detract from being a member of academia.
Of course, there's also the distinct possiblity you could fail terribly. You could find yourself in a state of panic in the morning, unable to find anything to accomodate your size from your "professional wardrobe," thus forced to wear an ugly shapeless flower-filled sundress. You could, like I did today, find yourself unable to have a conversation withoug blurting out: "My due date is tomorrow!" and "You won't BELIEVE what my three year old said the other day!" You could fail to prepare to present anything for your working session (since you thought you'd be in labor, after all), and instead sit nodding dumbly at the brilliance of all of the smaller-stomached presentations. You could hear your voice reverberating in the atrium at lunch: "After all, I'm eating for two!" as you snag a fourth cookie. You might even find yourself interrogating a new acquaintance about exactly how the delivered their third child without pain medication rather than discussing their research interests. Worst of all, you could, with great paranoia, imagine that everyone is looking at you judgmentally, surely thinking: "Look at THAT grad student. She surely isn't taking her career seriously enough."
So I may not have been at my professional best today. And I may not ever be, or at least for another 18 years or so. Nevertheless, I stand with my belly firmly placed forward. Juggling both maternal and professional identities is a choice I have made. They overlap in messy ways; they even inform each other at times. And although I may never publish quite enough research articles, and although I will never be the mother than sends "made from scratch" cupcakes to the kindergarten class, I may just scrape by. After all, mediocrity can't be such a curse if it results in opening up so many different opportunities for joy, for growth, and for life.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
In Pursuit of Pain
I've come to the well-thought-out conclusion that all mothers are, at their heart, masochists.
How so? I could begin with the excitement we feel when that little line shows up on the pregnancy test, to be followed closely with a good 6-9 weeks of the worst, most-persistent kind of nausea and exhaustion imaginable. Then there are the back aches, the hip pains, the swollen body parts, and the inevitably unflattering weight-gain. Forget about childbirth: c-section or vaginal birth-- either one presents its own set of amazingly indescribable-off-the-charts levels of moans and groans. Think the fun ends once the kid is born? Ha! There are the bleeding nipples, the sleepless nights, and I could go on and on. Things do let up a bit as the kid becomes more human and less animal, but I've got to tell you, at least once a week my romping three year-old daughter's hard head comes into painful contact with my head or jaw or nose with enough force to bring tears to my eye. And parents of adolescents tell me that the emotional pain of raising a teenage daughter will make all of this initial pain seem like child's play . . .
I bring all of this ouch-factor up because I am on the cusp of enjoying it all over again. 39 weeks pregnant, my due date is just four days away. And I am struggling to make sense with the fact that, every time my stomach tightens or cramps with another meaningless Braxton-Hick's contaction, my heart leaps with the hope that this MAY BE IT. I'm falling for it all over again! Although I believed that humans have biologically evolved to avoid pain (aka- once we touch a hot stove, we don't touch it again), we are somehow excempt from such rationality where procreation is concerned. Not only am I such a sucker that I want to start this roller coaster of exhaustion over again as soon as possible (rather than enjoying my last few days of freedom), I want to pursue a NEW type of pain . . . a VBAC rather than a C-Section. I even plan to avoid an epidural as long as I can (to avoid any complications), although even I have my limits . . .
Billy Blanks, my personal DVD Tae-Bo coach, likes to remind me, as he sweats fake sweat bouncing around in bright leotards, that "you have to give some to get some." Perhaps this is why we pursue the pain of parenthood, even when we know precisely what we are getting into, even when we can no longer claim the profound ignorance of first time parenthood. Because we second-time mothers know that beyond the pain, there is pleasure that far-surpasses it. . .
That's what I'm banking on, anyway . . . After all, I'm kind of committed at this point . . .
How so? I could begin with the excitement we feel when that little line shows up on the pregnancy test, to be followed closely with a good 6-9 weeks of the worst, most-persistent kind of nausea and exhaustion imaginable. Then there are the back aches, the hip pains, the swollen body parts, and the inevitably unflattering weight-gain. Forget about childbirth: c-section or vaginal birth-- either one presents its own set of amazingly indescribable-off-the-charts levels of moans and groans. Think the fun ends once the kid is born? Ha! There are the bleeding nipples, the sleepless nights, and I could go on and on. Things do let up a bit as the kid becomes more human and less animal, but I've got to tell you, at least once a week my romping three year-old daughter's hard head comes into painful contact with my head or jaw or nose with enough force to bring tears to my eye. And parents of adolescents tell me that the emotional pain of raising a teenage daughter will make all of this initial pain seem like child's play . . .
I bring all of this ouch-factor up because I am on the cusp of enjoying it all over again. 39 weeks pregnant, my due date is just four days away. And I am struggling to make sense with the fact that, every time my stomach tightens or cramps with another meaningless Braxton-Hick's contaction, my heart leaps with the hope that this MAY BE IT. I'm falling for it all over again! Although I believed that humans have biologically evolved to avoid pain (aka- once we touch a hot stove, we don't touch it again), we are somehow excempt from such rationality where procreation is concerned. Not only am I such a sucker that I want to start this roller coaster of exhaustion over again as soon as possible (rather than enjoying my last few days of freedom), I want to pursue a NEW type of pain . . . a VBAC rather than a C-Section. I even plan to avoid an epidural as long as I can (to avoid any complications), although even I have my limits . . .
Billy Blanks, my personal DVD Tae-Bo coach, likes to remind me, as he sweats fake sweat bouncing around in bright leotards, that "you have to give some to get some." Perhaps this is why we pursue the pain of parenthood, even when we know precisely what we are getting into, even when we can no longer claim the profound ignorance of first time parenthood. Because we second-time mothers know that beyond the pain, there is pleasure that far-surpasses it. . .
That's what I'm banking on, anyway . . . After all, I'm kind of committed at this point . . .
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