News flash: being a mom makes you crazy. I know we all knew that already--between the lack of sleep, worrying, the crying (baby's and mom's), the forgetfulness, the mass of brightly colored plastic shit strewn about the house and the looming spectre of kids' music, pretty pretty princess addiction, insipid TV shows (Calliou, anyone?) and toy characters, no one can stay too sane for too long. So I hope the nice man in the Saab who pulled up beside me this morning as I was making my way to daycare while having a full-on conversation with myself (complete with hand gestures) thought to himself, "Oh, must be a new mom," instead of thinking I was some loony toon talking to herself. I quickly feigned using my cell phone in hopes I could disguise it, but there was something in his smirk that told me he caught on and was thrilled to witness such ridiculousness.
What was I doing? Why, I was practicing, of course. I was practicing how to talk to my daycare provider Julie about the horrific bottle-propping episode I witnessed last Friday. I was trying to find just the right I'm-not-angry-but-I-am-concerned way of bringing things up, a we're-in-this-together-but-don't-ever-fucking-do-that-again tone, a I-know-you've-done-this-forever-but-you-should-know-better little message. I worked on it during my shower this morning, as I pumped, and all throughout my drive to her house.
And what did I do when I got there? I choked! I don't know what it ws, but I felt strangely embarassed to bring it up. This is hard to admit because I feel ashamed that I didn't advocate for my kid's safety and happiness more readily, but there were two powerful and unexpected forces working against me.
1.) I didn't want to be bitchy. For those who know me, this must sound strange because I am often bitchy. But when it comes to my kid (and even during my pregnancy), I am forever trying not be a raving lunatic bitch mom. I don't know if it's that I'm trying to convince everyone I'm totally in control or all-knowing or what, but I am so bad at asking questions and standing up for myself! For one, I was afraid of branding Clementine as a poor baby with a freak of a mom and subjecting her to less than loving treatment. It's not crazy to think someone like a teacher or a daycare provider could retaliate, even subtly, for a parent's actions by not liking a kid or holding a grudge. I'm a former teacher--I KNOW this happens. Also, I don't want to be like the parents I've dealt with here at school, so crazy and over-the-top about things. It's true that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but I'm always too chicken to squeak. They may get grease, but they never get respect.
2.) All the other parents who were there dropping off their kids intimidated me. On the one hand, I didn't want them to think I'm a crazy bitch (see #1). On the other, I was afraid they would think I was a bad mom for not exploding in the first place, fo waiting a whole weekend to even mention it.
A little paranoid, don't you think?
Being a mom has made me incredibly insecure in ways I never was before. It is such a struggle to know how to listen to my own voice, to trust my own instincts, especially with the deluge of parental advice I get from all sides. When I shared the bottle-propping story with my friends who are also moms, they were appropriately horrified and rightly told me I needed to say something more than I did at the time. Of course they are right, and some even had suggestions, but I'm still having a hard time facing up to it.
Nevertheless, it has to be done. I swear I'm going to bring it up when I go get darling C. this afternoon. I swear. I swear.
Just who am I trying to convince?
Her crankiness, by the way, persists, even after a much better night's sleep. It is making me cranky, as is the crappy weather. And I'm also working up quite a crank about my friends without kids who sometimes make me feel like I'm something to be survived or tolerated, something from which they need time away or recovery. I get it: I spent a long time as one of them, annoyed at dinner parties that the conversation always seems to turn toward mommying and new babies and breastfeeding and diaper wipes. But I try so hard to give them haven in my not-so-childless world. I knock myself out to have interesting conversations, to get dressed like a human and not just a milk bank, to not make the baby the center of all activity, to steer things back to the main road if they take a baby detour. And for what? To end up feeling like this one-dimensional shell of the person they used to know? I'm not really angry, but I am mourning my pre-baby life a bit: the travel and spontanaeity (do you know how hard it is to nip into a store when you're lugging around an infant carrier?), music and late nights out. Sure, hearing about the ups and downs of parenting can suck if you can't relate. But so can hearing about the ins and outs of the outside world, of grabbing drinks with friends and having time to workout, of trips here and there if you can't participate. I wouldn't change Clementine for a million nights out, and I am so sick of apologizing for that.
Man, sorry to unload all that. Were I still a little girl, my mom would give me M&Ms and pretend they were pills to make me sweeter. If Clementine doesn't wail the whole way home tonight, maybe I'll make a quick stop, get some and cheer the hell up.
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