That's the sound of the last few days of my maternity leave ticking away. Just as Clementine settles into a routine, just as I think I'm really getting the hang of it, I'm being yanked back to work.
Before having a kid of my own, I kind of resented the way people with families had an airtight excuse for not working late, taking extra holidays, getting special release time, etc. Now fate is smacking me in the ass for that. I'm devastated at the thought of turning over the best part of my day to my job and the best part of Clementine's to an outside caregiver. It seems so wrong, so counterproductive, and I still haven't figured out what I should do about it.
Nate is staying home for December so we don't have to fret just yet. I plan to propose to my boss an arrangement that allows me to work from home two days a week, but he has hinted that it isn't likely to fly very well. It seems most workplaces would rather lose moms entirely than be flexible enough to let them balance home life and work. I don't want to work fewer hours, I just want to work some of them from home and some of them in the evening when Clementine's dad can care for her. I want to put my family first but not have that sacrifice my commitment to my job. It seems possible to me if they are willing to be flexible and trusting, but how many workplaces are flexible and trusting?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Have baby, will travel
Since Clementine is no fan of the car, we haven't strayed too far from the Metro Detroit area on a regular basis. I imagined my maternity leave would be a world of adventures and exploration, my baby sleeping soundly in the back seat while I discovered new towns and fun places to visit. Little did I expect that even a trip to Target would be impossible without a constant distracting wail from the backseat. My mom tells people that I'm getting what I deserve: I was a hellion of a child in her book, and so it serves me right that my wanderlust would be squashed by a willful infant who just wants to stay put. Whatever the reason, my baby is a homebody. Nevertheless, we packed her up the day after Thanksgiving and took her to Cleveland for the Bazaar Bizarre and a show at the Beachland Ballroom (to be fair, these were things her parents wanted to do and weren't entirely kid-friendly).
It turns out the hardest part of the road trip was really the preparation. We're not innocents who think a baby can travel light like we do: a sweater and a toothbrush and we're good to go. But nor were we prepared for the amount of deciding and hemming and hawing we would have to do to get her stuff together. Do we bring the bouncing, vibrabrating, bubbling seat? How many diapers does she need? How many outfits do we pack? Should we pack a medicine kit? Should Mr. Night come or just her stuffed carrot? By the time we packed her up, we were tired, totally off-schedule and just a little harried. We decided to bring as little as possible (leaving her white noise CD behind seemed brave since she has never fallen asleep without it), but it still filled up more than half of the back of my friend Laura's car.
Clementine slept more than I thought she would, cried just a bit to let us know she was serious but was generally a lovely baby. She went with the flow, hung out for hours in the gallery where the Bazaar Bizarre was held, despite the fact that her mom sold very little (not even one "George Bush hates you" onesie, which was surprising). She even survived the epic searched for restaurants that took us to various odd choices, including a very chic Greek place that was really not a great place for babies. In turn, I learned that traveling with a baby can be easy if you're relaxed about it and how to change her diaper just about anywhere, including balanced across a toilet and on a stack of magazines. It was fun for all.
My friend Laura offered to sit with Clementine in the hotel Saturday night so Nate and I could see two Detroit bands at the Beachland Ballroom: Blanche (a perennial favorite) and The Dirtbombs. We had a tremendous time, although I was sad Clementine couldn't come and meet Blanche in person--she accompanied us to many of their concerts before she was born. Apparently Clementine was sad about that as well, as she had a bit of a meltdown at the hotel without us. Laura soldiered on without calling us, but we felt pretty bad the next day. I can't wait until the weather is warm and we can enjoy all our favorite bands outside with our little girl, leaving no one home to miss out.
Next weekend we are going to push our road trip luck and head for Chicago. Five hours in a car--who knows what can happen?!
It turns out the hardest part of the road trip was really the preparation. We're not innocents who think a baby can travel light like we do: a sweater and a toothbrush and we're good to go. But nor were we prepared for the amount of deciding and hemming and hawing we would have to do to get her stuff together. Do we bring the bouncing, vibrabrating, bubbling seat? How many diapers does she need? How many outfits do we pack? Should we pack a medicine kit? Should Mr. Night come or just her stuffed carrot? By the time we packed her up, we were tired, totally off-schedule and just a little harried. We decided to bring as little as possible (leaving her white noise CD behind seemed brave since she has never fallen asleep without it), but it still filled up more than half of the back of my friend Laura's car.
Clementine slept more than I thought she would, cried just a bit to let us know she was serious but was generally a lovely baby. She went with the flow, hung out for hours in the gallery where the Bazaar Bizarre was held, despite the fact that her mom sold very little (not even one "George Bush hates you" onesie, which was surprising). She even survived the epic searched for restaurants that took us to various odd choices, including a very chic Greek place that was really not a great place for babies. In turn, I learned that traveling with a baby can be easy if you're relaxed about it and how to change her diaper just about anywhere, including balanced across a toilet and on a stack of magazines. It was fun for all.
My friend Laura offered to sit with Clementine in the hotel Saturday night so Nate and I could see two Detroit bands at the Beachland Ballroom: Blanche (a perennial favorite) and The Dirtbombs. We had a tremendous time, although I was sad Clementine couldn't come and meet Blanche in person--she accompanied us to many of their concerts before she was born. Apparently Clementine was sad about that as well, as she had a bit of a meltdown at the hotel without us. Laura soldiered on without calling us, but we felt pretty bad the next day. I can't wait until the weather is warm and we can enjoy all our favorite bands outside with our little girl, leaving no one home to miss out.
Next weekend we are going to push our road trip luck and head for Chicago. Five hours in a car--who knows what can happen?!
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
BFD
Yes, it's true: I have a Bottle-Fed Daughter, BFD. I suppose it could stand for BreastFed Daughter just as easily, but it does not. Just becasue it's a bottle doesn't mean it's formula, but an obnoxious woman in Target today just assumed as much as she sneered at me: "Did you at least TRY to breastfeed?" Caught off guard, I was nice to her in response and explained Clementine's difficulty latching, my long nights with my breast pump, my concern. Of course, five minutes later I realized I should have said:
"Not that it's any of your business, bitch, but after a week of her screaming every time I put her to my breast, a week of her losing weight instead of gaining it, three visits with lactation consultants, endless phone conversations with nursing friends, hundreds of pages in various parenting books and ounces of milk on my clothes, in my hair and on my furniture, I gave the kid a bottle. She was starving. The bottle made her happy. I spent weeks after that enduring the screaming, using nipple shields and surgical tubing and frustrating the heck out of myself to get her to latch--all of which was unsuccessful. Now, in addition to feeding her a bottle, I also spend a good portion of my day pumping breast milk, showing committment to the whole breast milk concept that doubles yours. So don't assume that because I'm giving her a bottle (or becasue I'm dressed like an unshowered slob) I am some sort of degenerate parent. I am doing my best and THANK YOU for the f-ing support."
I remember going places with my sister when she was pregnant and feeling shocked at how people looked at her and felt free to comment about what she wore, how she walked, how she dressed, etc. When I got pregnant I was ready for that kind of public involvement--everyone has an opinion about baby's sex, how much weight mom is gaining, when the baby will come, etc. What I didn't realize is that pregnancy was just the beginning of my very public life. Now, everywhere I go people feel free to give me advice and to judge me. She's not wearing enough layers for this cold, she's wearing too many layers to be indoors, you shouldn't carry her around because you'll spoil her and on and on and on. I've heard it takes a village and all, but I don't think this is what that saying means.
And it's not like I'm not already totally mental about the fact that she won't latch. I watched a woman at the gym the other day flop down and nurse her kid like it was nothing--it left me zinging with jealousy. Of course, I rushed home to try to latch Clementine with NO LUCK. I realize that ship has sailed, but it's still hard to accept. In my perfect picture of what motherhood would be like, I was sitting comfortably with my little girl as she nursed her heart out. Now that most of my pre-motherhood illusions about motherhood are shattered, I sit next to a slurping breast pump and watch as ounces of milk pour out of me. It's not what I pictured, but it's good enough.
Clementine is ready for her bath! Such an easy ending to every post--I defer to her.
"Not that it's any of your business, bitch, but after a week of her screaming every time I put her to my breast, a week of her losing weight instead of gaining it, three visits with lactation consultants, endless phone conversations with nursing friends, hundreds of pages in various parenting books and ounces of milk on my clothes, in my hair and on my furniture, I gave the kid a bottle. She was starving. The bottle made her happy. I spent weeks after that enduring the screaming, using nipple shields and surgical tubing and frustrating the heck out of myself to get her to latch--all of which was unsuccessful. Now, in addition to feeding her a bottle, I also spend a good portion of my day pumping breast milk, showing committment to the whole breast milk concept that doubles yours. So don't assume that because I'm giving her a bottle (or becasue I'm dressed like an unshowered slob) I am some sort of degenerate parent. I am doing my best and THANK YOU for the f-ing support."
I remember going places with my sister when she was pregnant and feeling shocked at how people looked at her and felt free to comment about what she wore, how she walked, how she dressed, etc. When I got pregnant I was ready for that kind of public involvement--everyone has an opinion about baby's sex, how much weight mom is gaining, when the baby will come, etc. What I didn't realize is that pregnancy was just the beginning of my very public life. Now, everywhere I go people feel free to give me advice and to judge me. She's not wearing enough layers for this cold, she's wearing too many layers to be indoors, you shouldn't carry her around because you'll spoil her and on and on and on. I've heard it takes a village and all, but I don't think this is what that saying means.
And it's not like I'm not already totally mental about the fact that she won't latch. I watched a woman at the gym the other day flop down and nurse her kid like it was nothing--it left me zinging with jealousy. Of course, I rushed home to try to latch Clementine with NO LUCK. I realize that ship has sailed, but it's still hard to accept. In my perfect picture of what motherhood would be like, I was sitting comfortably with my little girl as she nursed her heart out. Now that most of my pre-motherhood illusions about motherhood are shattered, I sit next to a slurping breast pump and watch as ounces of milk pour out of me. It's not what I pictured, but it's good enough.
Clementine is ready for her bath! Such an easy ending to every post--I defer to her.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Solo expedition
It wasn't due anything in particular, but I needed to get out of the house on my own tonight. Without the potential time bomb in the backseat (see previous post on how much Clementine hates the car), I remember what it's like to just cruise around, blast some music, sing along and enjoy red lights. Who cares where I end up when I'm just trying to clear my head. For a while it chills me out, but soon enough I feel drawn home. I want to see her all-gums smile when I walk in the door, I want to feel her hand clutch my finger as I feed her, I want to smell her sweet little head.
The hippest radio station in Detroit
Forget the hot local band scene, your iPod, your carefully crafted mix CD. Clementine has turned me on to the hippest new radio station around: 101.7. Never heard of it, you say? Sounds like static, you say? Exactly. Nothing says cool mom like tooling around listening to static. It post-punk, beyond music. Too cool for words.
Clementine has made sport of dispelling many of the notions of motherhood I had before giving birth--peaceful, easy breastfeeding, for example. She'll have none of it and would much rather watch me pump and then take my milk from a bottle. Packing up and hitting the road like a couple of vagabonds is also not on her agenda. Horror of horrors, she has decided she hates the car. Hates it. Screams bloody murder almost every time we get in.
I've tried just about everything to get her to feel calm and relaxed, but listening to very loud static is the only thing besides pulling over and getting out or having someone ride in the back seat with her that works. And it only works part of the time. You can imagine how relaxing it is for me to drive with a screaming baby (she sometimes cries so hard that I end up crying, though that hasn't happened for a while) and static so loud I can hardly think. Upside: keeps me off my cell phone and close to home. Downside: makes me feel crazy and sometimes a little trapped. I often wish I would get pulled over just for the satisfaction of getting out of a ticket. Who would have the heart to push a woman all the way over the edge instead of just letting her teeter there in her car with the static and the screaming?
A few weeks ago, we took a jaunt up to work to visit my friends and coworkers. Clementine was O.K. on the way up--just a little fussy. She screamed and cried so hard on the way back, though, that I ended up stopping at my friend Laura's house because I was afraid Clementine was going to choke or stop breathing. Yes, she was crying that hard. I was so beside myself that in removing her from the car seat, I left my coat on Laura's front lawn and my purse spilling out the side of my car.
What is the universe trying to tell me? How could I of all people end up with a baby who hates the car? Nate and I have planned out half a dozen road trips we want to take her on in the first year of her life and now we can't go anywhere without one of us in the back. It's very Driving Miss Daisy. Except of course that no one screamed in that movie and there was never a half-crazed mom in the back seat trying to use a breast pump in a moving vehicle while looking for a pacifier and trying to keep her baby distracted and happy all at the same time.
Motherhood is so glamorous.
Clementine has made sport of dispelling many of the notions of motherhood I had before giving birth--peaceful, easy breastfeeding, for example. She'll have none of it and would much rather watch me pump and then take my milk from a bottle. Packing up and hitting the road like a couple of vagabonds is also not on her agenda. Horror of horrors, she has decided she hates the car. Hates it. Screams bloody murder almost every time we get in.
I've tried just about everything to get her to feel calm and relaxed, but listening to very loud static is the only thing besides pulling over and getting out or having someone ride in the back seat with her that works. And it only works part of the time. You can imagine how relaxing it is for me to drive with a screaming baby (she sometimes cries so hard that I end up crying, though that hasn't happened for a while) and static so loud I can hardly think. Upside: keeps me off my cell phone and close to home. Downside: makes me feel crazy and sometimes a little trapped. I often wish I would get pulled over just for the satisfaction of getting out of a ticket. Who would have the heart to push a woman all the way over the edge instead of just letting her teeter there in her car with the static and the screaming?
A few weeks ago, we took a jaunt up to work to visit my friends and coworkers. Clementine was O.K. on the way up--just a little fussy. She screamed and cried so hard on the way back, though, that I ended up stopping at my friend Laura's house because I was afraid Clementine was going to choke or stop breathing. Yes, she was crying that hard. I was so beside myself that in removing her from the car seat, I left my coat on Laura's front lawn and my purse spilling out the side of my car.
What is the universe trying to tell me? How could I of all people end up with a baby who hates the car? Nate and I have planned out half a dozen road trips we want to take her on in the first year of her life and now we can't go anywhere without one of us in the back. It's very Driving Miss Daisy. Except of course that no one screamed in that movie and there was never a half-crazed mom in the back seat trying to use a breast pump in a moving vehicle while looking for a pacifier and trying to keep her baby distracted and happy all at the same time.
Motherhood is so glamorous.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
More BS from HR
I felt bad after bitching about HR yesterday because they called me back to say that they had indeed been in the wrong and were granting me another full week of leave. Don't let the language confuse you--"granting" makes them sound nice, when really they misread my midwife's note and are just giving me what I deserve after all.
As I softened, however, I got an email from the HR department to the "community" of workers. Here it is:
NON-FACULTY AND NON-UNION EMPLOYEES:
I know from an HR or management perspective I am being overdramatic and a little bit unrealistic. But am I crazy to think that a little generosity and humanity on the company's part might inspire a little love in return?
As I softened, however, I got an email from the HR department to the "community" of workers. Here it is:
NON-FACULTY AND NON-UNION EMPLOYEES:
I have been contacted regarding whether the community will be "closed" on Wednesday, November 23rd given that there will be no network functionality from 5:00pm November 22nd through November 23rd.
For clarification, the community will not be closed. Those employees eligible for CTO who do not work on the 23rd, will be expected to use CTO.
Please let me know if you have any questions.
I know from an HR or management perspective I am being overdramatic and a little bit unrealistic. But am I crazy to think that a little generosity and humanity on the company's part might inspire a little love in return?
Monday, November 07, 2005
Here come the crazies (again)
When I was pregnant, I was prepared to be weepy and crazy hormonal. I will confess to crying at Oreo commercials, TV shows (mostly sit-coms), movies and even the odd movie trailer (tearing up at the preview of the Life of Yao was my real high point). After Clementine was born, I also cried--cried when I first held her, cried when I studied her face and felt my heart would break from so much love, cried when I realized one day she would feel pain I couldn't stop. Those were happy-sad tears, bittersweet little bubbles of hormones as I slowly woke up as a new mommy, madly in love and totally freaked out. There were other tears: frustrated tears when Clementine wouldn't nurse, tired tears at 3 a.m. when I thought Nate was the biggest jerk alive (he wasn't, nor was I the biggest bitch as he might have been imagining--we were just really, really tired). I've read the books--these tears are all to be expected, and I've now had a few weeks without any crazy crying jags out of nowhere.
Until today.
Today we returned to the pediatrician's office, a place I remember hazily but fondly from Clementine's first few weeks of life. The first time we went, it was a family affair and our first outing since bringing Clementine home from the hospital. The second time, Nate had gone back to work, Clementine was still losing weight because she wouldn't nurse and I babbled my head off about every single feeding, every pattern, every problem I had encountered to my daughter's very understanding doctor. Yes, he sat and listened to me for 20 minutes and comforted me and acted like I wasn't crazy or boring or just like every new mother he had ever dealt with. Needless to say, I heart my pediatrician.
And I trust him, too. I went today knowing that immunizations were in order but that he would be willing to support me if I chose to hold back and wait a while longer. We talked a lot about them, he gave me some of his theories and I ultimately decided to start with the DTaP and Polio today and read up on the others before next month's visit. He then excused himself, joking that he never gives the shots because it is important for the babies to like and trust him--he has hentchmen to give shots on his behalf. Should I leave also? I half-joked, not wanting Clementine to associate me with even a second of pain. But before I knew it, there were the nurses leaning over my little girl, asking me to hold her hands out of the way before they counted to 3 and stuck needles into her thighs in a synchronized torture dance that made Clementine instantly turn red and wind up for a big scream. Of course before all this happened, I burst into tears for the first time in weeks and, truth be told, I cried harder than Clementine.
After the shots, the nurses left me to dress Clementine and get her calmed down. This was a difficult task, as I could hardly see from the tears that were pouring out of my own eyes. I quickly gave up and sat down on the floor to hold my baby and weep with her. Why was I crying? I don't know. Yes, it's awful to see your child hurt, but will I be like this every time she skins her knee? I was nearly inconsolable for a good long time, although eventually Clementine got it together and I was able to look into her puffy, red, tear-stained and still beautiful eyes and pull myself together too.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry some more once in the safety of my car. Or that I didn't check on her every five minutes as she napped this afternoon, looking for the dangerous side effects of immunizations like fever or convulsions. She seems fine--much better than me, in fact.
And so another whole day slips by without much accomplished. It's crazy how much a baby slows down your life. Normally, I would have tried to fit in about 10 errands, lunch with a friend and a haircut after a morning doctor's appointment. Today, I was happy with just that little bit of excitement and a whole afternoon of watching my kid as she napped.
Until today.
Today we returned to the pediatrician's office, a place I remember hazily but fondly from Clementine's first few weeks of life. The first time we went, it was a family affair and our first outing since bringing Clementine home from the hospital. The second time, Nate had gone back to work, Clementine was still losing weight because she wouldn't nurse and I babbled my head off about every single feeding, every pattern, every problem I had encountered to my daughter's very understanding doctor. Yes, he sat and listened to me for 20 minutes and comforted me and acted like I wasn't crazy or boring or just like every new mother he had ever dealt with. Needless to say, I heart my pediatrician.
And I trust him, too. I went today knowing that immunizations were in order but that he would be willing to support me if I chose to hold back and wait a while longer. We talked a lot about them, he gave me some of his theories and I ultimately decided to start with the DTaP and Polio today and read up on the others before next month's visit. He then excused himself, joking that he never gives the shots because it is important for the babies to like and trust him--he has hentchmen to give shots on his behalf. Should I leave also? I half-joked, not wanting Clementine to associate me with even a second of pain. But before I knew it, there were the nurses leaning over my little girl, asking me to hold her hands out of the way before they counted to 3 and stuck needles into her thighs in a synchronized torture dance that made Clementine instantly turn red and wind up for a big scream. Of course before all this happened, I burst into tears for the first time in weeks and, truth be told, I cried harder than Clementine.
After the shots, the nurses left me to dress Clementine and get her calmed down. This was a difficult task, as I could hardly see from the tears that were pouring out of my own eyes. I quickly gave up and sat down on the floor to hold my baby and weep with her. Why was I crying? I don't know. Yes, it's awful to see your child hurt, but will I be like this every time she skins her knee? I was nearly inconsolable for a good long time, although eventually Clementine got it together and I was able to look into her puffy, red, tear-stained and still beautiful eyes and pull myself together too.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry some more once in the safety of my car. Or that I didn't check on her every five minutes as she napped this afternoon, looking for the dangerous side effects of immunizations like fever or convulsions. She seems fine--much better than me, in fact.
And so another whole day slips by without much accomplished. It's crazy how much a baby slows down your life. Normally, I would have tried to fit in about 10 errands, lunch with a friend and a haircut after a morning doctor's appointment. Today, I was happy with just that little bit of excitement and a whole afternoon of watching my kid as she napped.
Human Rejects
or Half Retarded
or Holy Ridiculousness
These are just some of the nicknames I've come up with for HR--not Human Resources as they claim but Horribly Repulsive or Hairy Rears. The HR department has called me more times during my maternity leave than my boss has. One might think I was involved with some complicated scam to deprive the place of manhours by the way they track my moves and continually call with requests for more and more documentation. Perhaps they think I'm in cahoots with crooked doctors and medical billers and have pretended to have a baby just to collect my gloriuosly high salary while kicking back on the couch and eating bon-bons. It's the place's one failure--there is no humanity in human resources.
or Holy Ridiculousness
These are just some of the nicknames I've come up with for HR--not Human Resources as they claim but Horribly Repulsive or Hairy Rears. The HR department has called me more times during my maternity leave than my boss has. One might think I was involved with some complicated scam to deprive the place of manhours by the way they track my moves and continually call with requests for more and more documentation. Perhaps they think I'm in cahoots with crooked doctors and medical billers and have pretended to have a baby just to collect my gloriuosly high salary while kicking back on the couch and eating bon-bons. It's the place's one failure--there is no humanity in human resources.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
More than a mom
It happened today. For the first time in the entire life of Clementine, I think there were at least five whole minutes today that I wasn't conscious of being a mom. I spent nearly the whole day away from her (she stayed home with her dad and grandpa who is visiting from Arizona), and at one point I realized I had a whole thought that in no way related to Clementine, breast milk, getting home, post-pregnancy, my future as a working mom, etc. In Nordstrom Rack I dedicated myself wholly and completely to finding a good deal on some amazing piece of clothing, and for a good five minutes I was so lost in flipping through the racks and boxing out overanxious shoppers that I think I wandered into a no-baby zone in my mind. I felt instantly guilty and at the same time comforted to find out those zones still exist.
Of course, right now I don't want to spend a whole lot of time there. I like looking at my kid and marveling at her facial expressions, cooing sounds and superior growth and development. When she's not with me, I like thinking about every cute thing she does, recalling her every feature and trying to smell her on my clothes. It sounds dippy, yes, but it really is more exciting than just about anything I've ever done so why not revel in it just a little bit? Despite the mooning, it is cool to think there will be times when I can retreat just a bit--even if it's just for a minute--and not try to look at my whole life through the lens of Clementine and motherhood. I'm not talking abandonment (this is the guilty, justifying voice in my head jumping on the defensive), just a part of myself that remains for me, helps keep me centered and sane and even makes me a whole person, a whole woman and a great example for my daughter. Now if only I can make that retreat time happen in front of a computer and far away from my charge card something better than a great pair of jeans may come of it. I know they say shopping is therapeutic, but who would have thought I could get all that from the experience and still have the sanity to just say no to the off-the-shoulder purple sweatshirt with skulls all over it that I thought might help me make the perfect statement of my carefree motherhood. My friend Karen and I are always concerned with those pieces that ride the line between terrific and terrible, fabulous and horrible, and I'm proud to say that I figured it out on my own for once. Or did I? Maybe it was fabulous...
In other news, we're off for Clementine's first round of immunizations tomorrow. Most people look at me like I'm a loon when I express trepidation about these shots--it's one thing to let her sleep in your bed, but what kind of nutjob doesn't protect her kid from disease? I get it. I know we've all had them and that they are a good idea and mostly safe and there is a less than 1% chance of anything going wrong, but still. I don't want to see Clementine suffer or be uncomfortable, and I certainly don't like that there is even a small risk of something happening to her. I was just reading an article by a woman with a 15 month old who hasn't received any of her immunizations yet and I confess to being a little curious. I'm going to read a little more about all this tonight and talk things over with my doctor tomorrow--he seems open to the more natural approach.
As for my waning intelligence that I complained about in the last post, I am coming to embrace my new mommy smarts. Mere months ago, I knew little about immunizations and certainly nothing about fearing them. See--smarts gained. And more seriously, I didn't know how hard it is, how truly hard it is to be a conscious mother (how ironic that I started this post celebrating a moment of losing that consciousness!). It's so much more important to think about TV and the Bush administration and food additives and workplace politics and all the ways women get the shaft when they are out trying to "have it all" with their shiny post-feminist badges securely in place now that I am a mom. I may not be as smart as I once was in terms of contemporary poetry, but it's true that I am expanding my mind in lots of new ways. And just in case there is a bit of the poet left in me after all, I'm taking Plath's Ariel to bed with me. I can't wait to revist her mother poems.
Of course, right now I don't want to spend a whole lot of time there. I like looking at my kid and marveling at her facial expressions, cooing sounds and superior growth and development. When she's not with me, I like thinking about every cute thing she does, recalling her every feature and trying to smell her on my clothes. It sounds dippy, yes, but it really is more exciting than just about anything I've ever done so why not revel in it just a little bit? Despite the mooning, it is cool to think there will be times when I can retreat just a bit--even if it's just for a minute--and not try to look at my whole life through the lens of Clementine and motherhood. I'm not talking abandonment (this is the guilty, justifying voice in my head jumping on the defensive), just a part of myself that remains for me, helps keep me centered and sane and even makes me a whole person, a whole woman and a great example for my daughter. Now if only I can make that retreat time happen in front of a computer and far away from my charge card something better than a great pair of jeans may come of it. I know they say shopping is therapeutic, but who would have thought I could get all that from the experience and still have the sanity to just say no to the off-the-shoulder purple sweatshirt with skulls all over it that I thought might help me make the perfect statement of my carefree motherhood. My friend Karen and I are always concerned with those pieces that ride the line between terrific and terrible, fabulous and horrible, and I'm proud to say that I figured it out on my own for once. Or did I? Maybe it was fabulous...
In other news, we're off for Clementine's first round of immunizations tomorrow. Most people look at me like I'm a loon when I express trepidation about these shots--it's one thing to let her sleep in your bed, but what kind of nutjob doesn't protect her kid from disease? I get it. I know we've all had them and that they are a good idea and mostly safe and there is a less than 1% chance of anything going wrong, but still. I don't want to see Clementine suffer or be uncomfortable, and I certainly don't like that there is even a small risk of something happening to her. I was just reading an article by a woman with a 15 month old who hasn't received any of her immunizations yet and I confess to being a little curious. I'm going to read a little more about all this tonight and talk things over with my doctor tomorrow--he seems open to the more natural approach.
As for my waning intelligence that I complained about in the last post, I am coming to embrace my new mommy smarts. Mere months ago, I knew little about immunizations and certainly nothing about fearing them. See--smarts gained. And more seriously, I didn't know how hard it is, how truly hard it is to be a conscious mother (how ironic that I started this post celebrating a moment of losing that consciousness!). It's so much more important to think about TV and the Bush administration and food additives and workplace politics and all the ways women get the shaft when they are out trying to "have it all" with their shiny post-feminist badges securely in place now that I am a mom. I may not be as smart as I once was in terms of contemporary poetry, but it's true that I am expanding my mind in lots of new ways. And just in case there is a bit of the poet left in me after all, I'm taking Plath's Ariel to bed with me. I can't wait to revist her mother poems.
Friday, November 04, 2005
I used to be smart...I swear
As one who always seems to come late to the party, I have only just now truly discovered how large the blogging universe is. Maybe I just didn't care before, but it is stunning to find out that blogs are so much more than celebrity gossip or a way to keep track of my friend Nick. One article on parenting leads to a blog which leads to 25 other blogs and on and on and on. I read myself dizzy this morning, part enthralled and grateful to find so much out there and part jealous that so many other people seem to "get" this whole mothering thing so much more than I do.
And when I came back to it this afternoon, I stumbled across the blog of a poet I knew in graduate school, which lead to another poet I knew and eventually a whole bunch of poets I knew, know or don't know it all. It doesn't matter, the jist of it all is that I realized whith a gulp and a sigh that I have let a whole part of me slip almost completely away. The defensive side of me says who the fuck cares? A lot of what I uncovered was the kind of academic masterbation that made me flee academia in the first place. But I also found poems and thoughts and ideas and...and...and I realized that I, too, used to think. I used to read poetry and devour it. I used to know the names of most poets writing and publishing and I used to have opinions on difficult poetry, confessional poetry, MY poetry.
It would be easy to say it is all gone--like my muscles that are slowly dissolving as I celebrate 9+ weeks away from the gym. That would be a lie. It is there, the abilty to engage with that world again, but I feel such strong resistence and don't know where it comes from. I can't help but think I'm not as smart or as talented as my peers from grad. school, that they would laugh to see what my life has become since I so defiantly turned away from them and the goals we were all setting as writers. I fled because I thought I knew a better way--and now they are still there, thinking and writing and living, and I am in such a different place. It's not a bad place--being a mother has brought me back to intellect in so many ways. It has made me question and wonder and think and look for different perspectives. It has made me search and seek and, most of all, want to write and communicate. But it ain't poetry.
So, yes. I used to be smart about some things. I used to write poetry and think about it every second. I couldn't have an interaction that didn't start to fit itself into a poem as I processed--a toll booth collector, my students, a trip to the grocery store. Is that smart or am I talking about creativity? And what is the difference between that and this new urge to record, to translate these experiences I have as a mom? For one, when I was a poet I knew things, I thought I had answers for everything. I wrote from a place of knowledge and had theories, ideas. Now I write from ignorance, confusion, a desire just to get the details down. I have no confidence (now that I think about it, I haven't had much confidence since I left the sheltered world of academia) in this new role, and so I blog. I don't even really know why.
If there's one thing I know, though, it's that I used to be smart. I swear.
And when I came back to it this afternoon, I stumbled across the blog of a poet I knew in graduate school, which lead to another poet I knew and eventually a whole bunch of poets I knew, know or don't know it all. It doesn't matter, the jist of it all is that I realized whith a gulp and a sigh that I have let a whole part of me slip almost completely away. The defensive side of me says who the fuck cares? A lot of what I uncovered was the kind of academic masterbation that made me flee academia in the first place. But I also found poems and thoughts and ideas and...and...and I realized that I, too, used to think. I used to read poetry and devour it. I used to know the names of most poets writing and publishing and I used to have opinions on difficult poetry, confessional poetry, MY poetry.
It would be easy to say it is all gone--like my muscles that are slowly dissolving as I celebrate 9+ weeks away from the gym. That would be a lie. It is there, the abilty to engage with that world again, but I feel such strong resistence and don't know where it comes from. I can't help but think I'm not as smart or as talented as my peers from grad. school, that they would laugh to see what my life has become since I so defiantly turned away from them and the goals we were all setting as writers. I fled because I thought I knew a better way--and now they are still there, thinking and writing and living, and I am in such a different place. It's not a bad place--being a mother has brought me back to intellect in so many ways. It has made me question and wonder and think and look for different perspectives. It has made me search and seek and, most of all, want to write and communicate. But it ain't poetry.
So, yes. I used to be smart about some things. I used to write poetry and think about it every second. I couldn't have an interaction that didn't start to fit itself into a poem as I processed--a toll booth collector, my students, a trip to the grocery store. Is that smart or am I talking about creativity? And what is the difference between that and this new urge to record, to translate these experiences I have as a mom? For one, when I was a poet I knew things, I thought I had answers for everything. I wrote from a place of knowledge and had theories, ideas. Now I write from ignorance, confusion, a desire just to get the details down. I have no confidence (now that I think about it, I haven't had much confidence since I left the sheltered world of academia) in this new role, and so I blog. I don't even really know why.
If there's one thing I know, though, it's that I used to be smart. I swear.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Ashes, ashes
I fell down. Yesterday. While holding my baby. Oh. My. God.
Of course she's fine, but I don't know what has been worse for me--the bumps and bruises (I fell down many stairs, righted myself on the landing and then fell forward to the floor) or knowing that so far I have been the most dangerous thing my daughter has come into contact with. Forget disease, accidents all the other horrors my paranoid new mommy mind can come up with--Clementine must beware her clumsy, clumsy mom. Yikes.
Happily, Karen came for a visit in the afternoon and confirmed that 3 o'clock on such a traumatic day is not too early for a cocktail. Besides, it was cider, which is almost like apple juice for grown ups only it calms you so much better.
Of course she's fine, but I don't know what has been worse for me--the bumps and bruises (I fell down many stairs, righted myself on the landing and then fell forward to the floor) or knowing that so far I have been the most dangerous thing my daughter has come into contact with. Forget disease, accidents all the other horrors my paranoid new mommy mind can come up with--Clementine must beware her clumsy, clumsy mom. Yikes.
Happily, Karen came for a visit in the afternoon and confirmed that 3 o'clock on such a traumatic day is not too early for a cocktail. Besides, it was cider, which is almost like apple juice for grown ups only it calms you so much better.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
The daycare dilemna
Clementine is sleeping and I know I should be making use of this time to call some more daycare providers to see if any of them have openings for infants, much less if I like them. Everyone was urging me to start this process before she was even born, but I kept putting it off. Denial is a powerful tool in my hands and I'm happily wielding it now as I try to figure out what my next move should be.
I had no idea I would feel this conflicted about daycare, and it's throwing my whole sense of mothering and working out of whack. Before I actually had a kid, I knew hands down that I would always be a working mom--it just seemed like the normal, inevitable, even logical thing to do. Now that I have Clementine and have watched her develop over the last two months, I'm starting to see how very important every single second is. She changes with almost every experience we have (not every second, of course, but certainly daily), and I hate to trust that time to anyone else. To be honest, it's not only about trust--why should anyone but me or Nate get the best part of her days during a time in her life when she is becoming who she will be forever? Moreover, why should a job get the best part of my day or Nate's? What do we have left for each other come 5 o'clock--a few hours before bed where we can scramble to spend time with one another, clean the house, do laundry, cook, be social and have a life? Let's not even factor into it the things Nate and I do for ourselves creatively--write, make art, work in the garage, work on the house.
And about my job. I'm not a career woman in my head, but here I've ended up with a career. Truth be told, I don't much care about my job when I'm not there, but I have this overwhelming work ethic when I am and I get sucked in. It's like when I am around a football game or a baseball game or something; normally, I wouldn't care and would certainly never seek out the opportunity to watch them, but when I'm in front of one, I can cheer with the best of them feel like something DEPENDS on the outcome. It's the same with work--the job could evaporate tomorrow and my sense of myself wouldn't change at all. Nevertheless, when I'm given an assignment or a job I can't help but do it and do it right. Even before I got pregnant, though, I was looking around and wondering how I got to this place that is as far away from what I imagined of my life as possible. I was starting to feel bitter about the whole wake, work, eat, sleep, wake, work cycle that consumed me Monday through Friday. I used to be a poet--where did that go? I thought leaving academia behind would help me find a real world connection to poetry, but instead I got lost in the corporate universe. It's not so bad when I'm in the thick of it, but with a little perspective it feels...well...it feels like something I want no part of. Having a kid has really redefined the importance of work for me.
But that doesn't mean I'm ready to just chuck it and stay at home. There's a frightening look in the eyes of some of the stay-at-home moms I see in Target as they wander through the aisles. Their lives are their children, which is a wonderful notion but doesn't leave them much of their own stuff. I don't want that either. I want to have something, some kind of work, but I want to have time and flexibility, too. I see the temptation to hole up inside motherhood and insulate myself from the world and its responsibilities--I don't want that. I don't want to use this as an excuse to withdraw. I just want to find a balance between putting my kid first and having a life, a job, something to do.
What I'm skirting, of course, is my desire to get back to writing. I never really gave it a shot when I fled academia to try and make it work in the real world. It's not like I think poetry is a career or anything, but freelance writing is. I used to make sense of the world through writing, and I think the fact that I've lost that connection explains a lot about how traditional some aspects of my life have become. I've stopped questioning, stopped being instrospective and am just taking that broad, paved, unmistakable and easy path through the world.
So, how do I balance all of this and what do I ultimately do about daycare? There is so much guilt on both sides of the issue--I'd feel guilty leaving Clementine and I'd feel guilty stepping out of the workforce all together and depending on Nate to help us survive. This sucks. But avoidance helps. Writing this instead of calling daycare providers is so much more enjoyable, even if it leads to a serious responsibility hangover later.
I had no idea I would feel this conflicted about daycare, and it's throwing my whole sense of mothering and working out of whack. Before I actually had a kid, I knew hands down that I would always be a working mom--it just seemed like the normal, inevitable, even logical thing to do. Now that I have Clementine and have watched her develop over the last two months, I'm starting to see how very important every single second is. She changes with almost every experience we have (not every second, of course, but certainly daily), and I hate to trust that time to anyone else. To be honest, it's not only about trust--why should anyone but me or Nate get the best part of her days during a time in her life when she is becoming who she will be forever? Moreover, why should a job get the best part of my day or Nate's? What do we have left for each other come 5 o'clock--a few hours before bed where we can scramble to spend time with one another, clean the house, do laundry, cook, be social and have a life? Let's not even factor into it the things Nate and I do for ourselves creatively--write, make art, work in the garage, work on the house.
And about my job. I'm not a career woman in my head, but here I've ended up with a career. Truth be told, I don't much care about my job when I'm not there, but I have this overwhelming work ethic when I am and I get sucked in. It's like when I am around a football game or a baseball game or something; normally, I wouldn't care and would certainly never seek out the opportunity to watch them, but when I'm in front of one, I can cheer with the best of them feel like something DEPENDS on the outcome. It's the same with work--the job could evaporate tomorrow and my sense of myself wouldn't change at all. Nevertheless, when I'm given an assignment or a job I can't help but do it and do it right. Even before I got pregnant, though, I was looking around and wondering how I got to this place that is as far away from what I imagined of my life as possible. I was starting to feel bitter about the whole wake, work, eat, sleep, wake, work cycle that consumed me Monday through Friday. I used to be a poet--where did that go? I thought leaving academia behind would help me find a real world connection to poetry, but instead I got lost in the corporate universe. It's not so bad when I'm in the thick of it, but with a little perspective it feels...well...it feels like something I want no part of. Having a kid has really redefined the importance of work for me.
But that doesn't mean I'm ready to just chuck it and stay at home. There's a frightening look in the eyes of some of the stay-at-home moms I see in Target as they wander through the aisles. Their lives are their children, which is a wonderful notion but doesn't leave them much of their own stuff. I don't want that either. I want to have something, some kind of work, but I want to have time and flexibility, too. I see the temptation to hole up inside motherhood and insulate myself from the world and its responsibilities--I don't want that. I don't want to use this as an excuse to withdraw. I just want to find a balance between putting my kid first and having a life, a job, something to do.
What I'm skirting, of course, is my desire to get back to writing. I never really gave it a shot when I fled academia to try and make it work in the real world. It's not like I think poetry is a career or anything, but freelance writing is. I used to make sense of the world through writing, and I think the fact that I've lost that connection explains a lot about how traditional some aspects of my life have become. I've stopped questioning, stopped being instrospective and am just taking that broad, paved, unmistakable and easy path through the world.
So, how do I balance all of this and what do I ultimately do about daycare? There is so much guilt on both sides of the issue--I'd feel guilty leaving Clementine and I'd feel guilty stepping out of the workforce all together and depending on Nate to help us survive. This sucks. But avoidance helps. Writing this instead of calling daycare providers is so much more enjoyable, even if it leads to a serious responsibility hangover later.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
8 weeks old...
...and we're just finally getting into a groove.
Before Clementine was born, I thought I had all the answers. Although pregnancy took us by surprise, it's not as if we were totally unprepared. We had a house, jobs, love, a stable life. How hard could adding a kid to the mix really be? Fewer concerts and nights out, less running around and drinking, but what a cool family life we could have in exchange for some of that. I had a great pregnancy, a pretty short and easy labor and then...well, then things all fell apart. I don't think I had thought about what would happen AFTER the baby was born--that's all instinct, right? How hard could it be?
Now that it's all behind us, I think it wasn't all that terrible. But in the thick of it--troubles nursing, illness, fussiness, incessant crying, no sleep, endless visitors, newfound insecurity, doubts about my ability to parent, doubts about Nate's ability to parent, solitude, etc.--I thought it was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I remember a friend who had been through all that and then some telling me, "Amanda, in a year your life will be so much better." A year? Why do people do this, I wondered.
But the cloud lifted. It was never all bad because I had this beautiful little creature depending on me, getting to know me and helping me get to know her. Sure, we struggled, but the good times were always there and became more plentiful as I began to relax and think again that it's all instinct and how hard could it really be? I let go of the parenting books, and my anxiety disappeared. I let Clementine take over and things got so much better as I followed her lead and worked to hush the voices of common knowledge that came at me from all sides, each with its own agenda.
In general and in theory, I've never been one to subscribe to common knowledge theories. But every time my life gets a good shake up (a baby, graduation, a job change, marriage), I do freak out a little and try to find a book or a theory or a set path to explain it all away. It's a weakness I always end up regretting: that moment of insecurity leads to so many more when I abandon my own ideas and try to plug in the theories other people have developed. Luckily, I have a good safety net of people (starting with Nate, who is way smarter than I ever give him credit for being) who bring me back to myself, remind me that things work out and urge me to get back into my own head.
And so it is that Clementine is 8 weeks old today and we are happily chilling out in front of the computer thinking about all that has happened to us in such a relatively short period of time. She has been all smiles this morning, and I've been grateful for every second we have together. There are lots of things I'm still trying to figure out; as content as Clementine has made me, my life still feels like it's in upheaval. I have lots to figure out in the coming weeks. (How) will I go back to work? How do moms balance work and a life (especially a creative one) and a kid and a marriage and still feel like they are giving each one the best they can? How will I put Clementine in day care? Do I even want to work? Why do I feel guilty either way? How can I be the best mother for Clementine and still give myself time to be me?
Ah, she fusses. Enough introspection for now.
Before Clementine was born, I thought I had all the answers. Although pregnancy took us by surprise, it's not as if we were totally unprepared. We had a house, jobs, love, a stable life. How hard could adding a kid to the mix really be? Fewer concerts and nights out, less running around and drinking, but what a cool family life we could have in exchange for some of that. I had a great pregnancy, a pretty short and easy labor and then...well, then things all fell apart. I don't think I had thought about what would happen AFTER the baby was born--that's all instinct, right? How hard could it be?
Now that it's all behind us, I think it wasn't all that terrible. But in the thick of it--troubles nursing, illness, fussiness, incessant crying, no sleep, endless visitors, newfound insecurity, doubts about my ability to parent, doubts about Nate's ability to parent, solitude, etc.--I thought it was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I remember a friend who had been through all that and then some telling me, "Amanda, in a year your life will be so much better." A year? Why do people do this, I wondered.
But the cloud lifted. It was never all bad because I had this beautiful little creature depending on me, getting to know me and helping me get to know her. Sure, we struggled, but the good times were always there and became more plentiful as I began to relax and think again that it's all instinct and how hard could it really be? I let go of the parenting books, and my anxiety disappeared. I let Clementine take over and things got so much better as I followed her lead and worked to hush the voices of common knowledge that came at me from all sides, each with its own agenda.
In general and in theory, I've never been one to subscribe to common knowledge theories. But every time my life gets a good shake up (a baby, graduation, a job change, marriage), I do freak out a little and try to find a book or a theory or a set path to explain it all away. It's a weakness I always end up regretting: that moment of insecurity leads to so many more when I abandon my own ideas and try to plug in the theories other people have developed. Luckily, I have a good safety net of people (starting with Nate, who is way smarter than I ever give him credit for being) who bring me back to myself, remind me that things work out and urge me to get back into my own head.
And so it is that Clementine is 8 weeks old today and we are happily chilling out in front of the computer thinking about all that has happened to us in such a relatively short period of time. She has been all smiles this morning, and I've been grateful for every second we have together. There are lots of things I'm still trying to figure out; as content as Clementine has made me, my life still feels like it's in upheaval. I have lots to figure out in the coming weeks. (How) will I go back to work? How do moms balance work and a life (especially a creative one) and a kid and a marriage and still feel like they are giving each one the best they can? How will I put Clementine in day care? Do I even want to work? Why do I feel guilty either way? How can I be the best mother for Clementine and still give myself time to be me?
Ah, she fusses. Enough introspection for now.
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