Six Weird Things About Me

Teresa tagged me for this. Six weird things about me:

1.) I hate, and will avoid at all costs whenever possible, making left turns in traffic where there is no traffic light. If there is a light around, I will go blocks out of my way to turn there instead. I will do it, but I hate to. It doesn't make me cry, but it makes me terribly anxious for a bit.

2.) I cannot and will not sleep with an arm or a leg hanging off the bed. I also generally cannot sleep with my feet uncovered, although there are some exceptions. To me these scenarios make you ripe picking for the monster lurking under the bed. And I don't seriously think that there is a monster under the bed, so I suppose maybe these are lingering childhood habits. Or else there's something seriously wrong with me.

3.) If I have to get out of bed to turn the bedroom light off, I literally run and jump back into bed before said lurking monster (see number two, above) can grab my feet and pull me under. Again, a childhood holdover, I suppose, and quite annoying to Brian when I run and take a flying jump into the bed he's attempting to fall asleep in.

4.) I can't stand MySpace, and avoid it. I don't find this weird, but most of the people I know love it obsessively and find my dislike to be outright bizarre. There's no particular reason, it's just not for me.

5.) I always eat the outside edge of a hamburger or sandwich first, thereby getting crust or the non-meat, cheese and condiment filled part of a bun out of the way, leaving the savory inner part of said sandwich or hamburger for last. I highly recommend this, you should try it at least once, it's a great way to savor the flavor (oh, I'm a poet).

6.) I will eat shrimp, depending on the manner in which it is cooked, and I will go fishing, and catch fish, and take them off hooks and such, but I will not generally eat fish. And cleaning up after the cooking of fish is vile to me; I once stood at the kitchen sink, cleaning out a pan that Brian's father had baked some fish in, scrubbing and gagging. I don't know why, it just completely grossed me out.

Bonus: FedEx's new scanner has the smallest signature area I've ever seen, and after some weeks of trying to cram my signature into the tiny space provided, I have abondoned all attempts at an actual signature and started drawing random shapes. Just this morning, minutes ago, I drew a lovely pyramid. The other day I made a cheerful little star. That's not really weird, but it's not exactly normal, either, so I thought I would include it.

Weird is all in the eye of the beholder, I think. I'm proud to be weird, and enjoy it when people say I'm strange. You're strange, I'm strange, whatever. I enjoy the eccentric people in my company more, because they keep life interesting.

I am apparently supposed to 'tag' people, but I don't know anyone else, so I suppose the chain stops here. My bad.

This Reminds Me of Someone

You know who you are. I enjoy Brian Andreas, it's whimsical, if not a little campy and hokey and sometimes, he doesn't make any sense whatsoever but then, who does? In case you can't make it out, the quote on the print says:

"You're the strangest person I ever met, she said & I said, you too & we decided we'd know each other a long time".

Darn tootin. I want a print of this particular piece, and I shall have it, but for now I'm fine to think about the little quote and smile. A good weekend to all!

Please Drive Through

It is high time that some rules were established, some common courtesy and etiquette dictated for the use of fast food drive-through windows. Myself, I generally prefer to go inside a restaurant and order - I find face-to-face communication to be far more effective, and the chances of something being wrong with your order decrease dramatically. I will patronize a drive-through if I am attired in a manner inappropriate for public viewing, like a swimsuit, or pajamas (natty pajamas - anyone who knows me is well aware I am not above wearing pajamas in public). I also generally choose the drive-through on my lunches from work, because I don't really want to be around people. So I will hit the drive-through, get my food, and go to a park somewhere or go sit by the bay and eat, blissfully alone, the only noise being 'All Things Considered' or some similar NPR program on the car radio.

There should be requirements for even entering the drive-through lane. Maybe a big sign. If you attempt to use a drive-through teller at a bank, there are requirements there, discreet little signs posted along the entrance saying things like, "The drive-through teller is for account holders only" and "Please have all deposit forms completed before entering" and whatnot. Why can't fast food restaurants do the same?
I have some suggestions. If you pull into a fast food establishment and are debating drive-through versus walk-in, take a moment to consider the following:

Do you have a vague idea of what you might like to order? If the answer is yes, proceed to the drive-through. If the answer is no, get your lazy ass out of the car and walk inside. If you have to ask a question like, "Ummmmmmm...What makes the Asian salad Asian?" or "Can you give me a list of the ingredients in your oil?" then you need to go inside. Or possibly home. Some other factors to consider:

Do you have a large order? Are you picking up lunch for yourself and six co-workers? Were you on the losing end of a rock-paper-scissors game to see who had to go pick up dinner for you and your fifteen friends? Go inside. This should be obvious, but to many it is not.

Do you need to pay separately for each individual meal, even though you are buying twelve individual meals? GO INSIDE. Are you trolling underneath your passenger seat for change to pay for your meal? Park, complete the trolling, and go inside to mull over what you can get for $1.39 in pennies.

Do you need a menu suggestion? Go somewhere else entirely, it's fast food, not gourmet fine dining. Do not pull up to a drive-through and ask the disembodied, static-y voice, "So what's good here?" If they were honest they would answer, "For you, nothing, because once you finally decide what to order we will punish you for wasting our time by dropping your food on the floor, or by giving you old, smelly lettuce or covering your sandwich in the mayonnaise that someone accidentally left by the grill for four hours. And Jim has a cold, so there's no telling what else could happen".

It's all about common sense and courtesy. The drive-through lane was created to speed up the ordering process, and should not be abused by those who are merely lazy or stupid. This is an actual conversation I overheard at a McDonald's the other day, which inspired this post:

Minivan Driving Idiot: Can I get chocolate milk with that happy meal?
Poor McDonald's Employee: I'm sorry, maam, we're out of chocolate milk
MDI: How can you be out of chocolate milk?
PME: I'm sorry, maam, we just ran out
MDI: Do you have regular milk?
PME: Yes, maam, would you like that, instead?
MDI: Can you use that to make chocolate milk?
PME: Um, no maam
MDI: Fine, just give me a coke, and does that come with apples or oranges?
PME: You can get apple slices
MDI: Hmm, could I get orange slices instead?
PME: We don't have orange slices
MDI: You can't just give me orange slices instead of apples?
PME: No, maam, because we don't have oranges
MDI: So you're telling me I can't have oranges, I have to get apples

And it went on and on, for seven minutes, because I timed it. I was fascinated and repulsed all at the same time. She bought three happy meals and three combo meals, and insisted on paying for them separately. She violated most of the rules of drive-through etiquette: asked about the oil, even threatened legal action, at one point, over wheat products and gluten. It was utterly insane.

So, I say, people of the world, unite, against bad-mannered, thoughtless idiots, clogging and congesting our drive-through lanes with their stupid questions and comments and needy ways. Taking up our precious time that we can never get back, saying things like, "And if it isn't decaf coffee, I'll know". Let's take back the drive-through. Or we could just go inside. :-) Whatever.

In Case You Were Wondering.....

I have been on a CD buying spree lately. Over the last couple of months I have made a whopping 4 CD purchases, very unusual for me. Anyway, if you are interested in checking out something a little different, this is what I have purchased (these links take you to Amazon where you can listen to samples, if you are so inclined):

Imogen Heap, Speak for Yourself
This can get a little pop-py, but 'Goodnight and Go' and 'Hide and Seek' are good tracks. Not my best purchase, and I will confess to some buyer's remorse, but it's mine now, so I'll make the best of it.

Mexico and Mariachis
This is the soundtrack to all three of Robert Rodriguez's Mexico trilogy. Wonderful music, no buyer's remorse at all with this one. If you feel up to it, listen to the sample of 'Malaguena Salerosa' - it rocks. Most of these tracks are quite enjoyable.

Etta James, The Definitive Collection
The queen of blues, a voice like silk. 'W-O-M-A-N' is great, a classic sing along at the top of your lungs while dancing and driving song. Really, the whole CD is quite good. Again, no buyer's remorse.

Prince, 3121
Do I need to say anything? Prince, in all his short, oversexed glory. 'Satisfied' is among my favorite tracks of this CD.

And now, for music that I do not own yet but plan to purchase at my earliest convenience:

Hoodwinked the Movie Soundtrack
There's unfortunately no way to listen to this, and I have discovered that it is virtually impossible to find this here in town, and still quite difficult on the internet. Cute movie, I would recommend it. Well, interesting movie.

Damien Rice, O
This is melancholy, acoustic, plantive music, good for when you're feeling a little down and need to wax dramatic.

That's it, my recent music purchases and my musical desires. I don't think there's any defining (or accounting for) my musical tastes, but I thought I would share. I have learned, thanks to a good friend of mine, that you never know what you might like or even obsessively love, so if you have time check it out.

And the Living Is Easy

Jacelyn has no hobbies. This concerns me from time to time; especially this time of year, where an endless stream of children parade into the store for recitals. 6 year olds plunking out five finger arrangements of the 'Star Wars' theme, their parents and grandparents beaming from the audience or from behind a videocamera. Am I denying my daughter? While I want her to have interests, and hobbies, I also want her to learn the value of free time. Of getting lost in thought, of laying on a blanket and looking up at the stars or the clouds.

She does things, don't get me wrong. She loves swimming, and playing outside. She enjoys being read to, and will peruse books on her own and make up her own story (although all of her stories seem to involve Cinderella and poo). She loves her V-Smile video game system, and her Leapster handheld games. The love of video games makes me mildly uncomfortable, but the educational value of these games allays my maternal fears. She does do things, she doesn't just lay around on the sofa like a 34-pound throw pillow, but is that enough? Aside from the obvious need for her to be around other children, I find myself rather comfortable with her lack of scheduled activities.

I enjoy being unfettered. Having tasks, errands or activities scheduled in my free time gives me a feeling of dread. Accomplishing these things on my own at my own pace and schedule is fine, but give me a schedule or a timeline and I get all grumbly.

I also want her to decide what she wants to do, as opposed to me or someone else deciding for her. I bought her a violin two years ago for Christmas, and I still haven't put her in lessons yet. I wanted to, and still occasionally entertain the notion, but I want that to be her decision. I am waiting for her to come to me, to say, "Mommy, I want to _________". Then we'll go from there.

I think it's important for children to be allowed to be children. To enjoy the years before school begins, not spend them being shuttled between soccer practice and dance class and french lessons. Just the other day, picking up Jacelyn's forms for school, I heard one mother say to another mother, "He's never been in t-ball? Oh, my, he'll never make it into little league if he's never played t-ball, he'll be eaten alive". What? I was talking to a mother one day about putting Jacelyn in dance class, and she told me, "If you didn't start her at three she'll never have a chance, there's almost no point in starting her now". What? I'm not trying to turn her into a prima ballerina, I just want her to have fun doing the things she enjoys. Of course I want her to try, and to dedicate herself to the activities she pursues, but you don't have to master a skill or art to enjoy taking part in it.

There is freedom and joy in occasionally having nothing to do. The days that I am off work, Jacelyn inevitably asks me, "So what do we have to do today, mommy?", and there is nothing I enjoy more than to say, "Nothing but spend it together".

The Curse of the Black Thumb

Jacelyn and I, in a combined effort, have managed to kill off the sunflowers we so lovingly nurtured into seedling-hood. A cat (or something) ate our morning glories, and our bachelor's buttons never even sprouted. This leaves us with one drooping citronella plant on the front porch. I'm trying to be extra attentive to it, and will probably over-water it until it, too, dies a withered death. Here's to the survival of our only remaining plant! Keep your fingers crossed!

To Hell With Me

I've re-discovered religion, all in the name of quality preschool education. Horrible? Yes. Possibly blasphemous? Indeed. My heart is in the right place, for what it's worth. We don't fit the qualifications to receive the discounted tuition for practicing Catholics at the preschool Jacelyn will (hopefully) be going to. I've come to terms with that; it's only an additional $50 a month. I say that like I'm rolling in fifty dollar bills, which I assure you I'm not, but when it comes to Jacelyn's education, I'm not going to mess around. There is a woefully inadequate preschool system in place here in Pensacola; actually, there really isn't a system. Jeb Bush has entitled us all to state-funded preschool at assorted day care centers, while the public schools with Pre-K classes (all four of them, no less)have waiting lists for miles. There's many things about the private education that appeal to me at this level, but I won't get into them right now.

I called the catholic church where we are registered earlier to obtain offertory envelopes. That is one of the things they check for when deciding whether or not you can receive the catholic discount - or, the 'Parish Participation Grant'. We missed the boat this year, but next year, all we have to do is: 1.) be registered members of the parish (which we are - one down!), 2.) Attend mass every Sunday, 3.) Tithe either via numbered offertory envelopes or with a personal check (for proof, I suppose), 4.) Participate in the Annual Catholic Sharing Appeal (a church-wide stewardship event), and 5.) in their words - "volunteer use of your time and talent to the various ministries and organizations within the parish".

I don't have a problem with the above - after all, if you attend a church, that is what you are supposed to do, correct? My problems are the motives behind suddenly becoming such active, tithing church members. For school. Not for any greater, spiritual reason - for the class size and test scores. Granted, I have been wanting to get back into a church, and I want Jacelyn to go to church. But I'm still not 100% certain on the catholic thing. For myself. Jacelyn....well, she can decide for herself later in life.

My issues with the catholic church are theological, mostly. I also don't think that the parish we live in is very kid-friendly. They don't have a nursery, for younger children, and they don't have any kind of junior church or anything during mass. So going to church is difficult with a child Jacelyn's age. It's hard for me to sit through a sermon sometimes, I certainly can't expect her to. I was raised Baptist, where for every service, regardless of day or time, there was a children's service. Jr. Church, Sunday School, Youth Group. The only thing Little Flower offers is a crying room, a small soundproofed room with a window that looks out onto the pulpit/altar area (whatever you call it). If your kid gets whiny, you go in there where they can't bother anyone else.

I think having children's services enhances the churchgoing experience for everyone involved. The days I have attended services with Jacelyn were trying; forget any attempts to listen to a sermon. She fidgets, and acts out, and I spend an entire service trying to keep her quiet and entertained. It's stressful. On any given Sunday we will make two trips to the bathroom. She will try and show the nice couple behind us her 'My Little Pony' panties. She will 'read' out loud, usually during a prayer, from the bulletin. I always bring two baggies of fruit snacks, which I reserve for moments where loud whining (or reading aloud) seems imminent. It's hard, and neither of us glean anything from it.

That being said, maybe this is an opportunity. To change things, or to recommend change. Maybe help to make the church more child (and parent with child) friendly.
Who knows. I'm going to try all this, and see how it works out, and keep my options open. I'll let you know how it goes. I can only hope that I'm making the right decisions.

A side note: a friend of mine recommended Pensacola Christian's preschool, and I just laughed and laughed. Anyone who knows my mother knows how fast she would be spinning in her grave if I did that, and I have no desire to do that anyway.

Part 3: Working Mother

I am not very fond of that term, 'working mother'. It implies that some mothers do not work, which is not true in the slightest. I would have changed the title to 'Part 3: Mother Who Works Outside the Home' but that seems a little fussy and slightly long, so I left it as it was but with this disclaimer.

Despite my qualms with stay at home motherhood, I could not envision myself doing anything else. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was going to stay home with my child at least until she started school. I wanted to be this cool, do-it-all myself super mom. I wanted to say things like, "It's almost time for playgroup! Let me grab the homemade flaxseed cookies. Everybody into the minivan!". When the harsh realities of economics forced me into a job search after two years of stay at home motherhood, I was horrified. Work? Leave my baby? Be out of the house? Then I was accepting and almost eager. Work? Get out of the house? When can I start?

My first foray back into the working world was cleaning offices part time at night. I went to work around five, and got home a little after nine. It was hard work, and more than a little dirty, but it paid decently and I was really enjoying getting out, being around other people, and helping out with the finances. I did miss Jacelyn's recently instituted 8 o'clock bedtime, but trusted in Brian and his family to make sure she stayed on her schedule. Working part-time wasn't too bad, and inspired very little separation anxiety for Jacelyn or myself. Michelle and Joe had recently moved back into town and in with us, and she suddenly had two new and doting relatives around to keep her busy. I didn't have to worry about paying anyone to watch her, because Brian was off by 6pm at the latest and he could watch her.

The novelty of working again wore off fairly quickly. I found myself watching the clock more during the day, thinking, 'I only have 3 more hours with Jacelyn until I have to leave for work' and so on. Working in the evenings caused me to miss out on family dinners, and I found myself missing bathtime, storytime and bedtime with Jacelyn more and more. The bedtime schedule that I had so strictly adhered to slowly started slipping away, a victim of well-intended yet slightly indulgent family members. I felt a little frazzled, even with Michelle's help after she moved in, trying to get everything done around the house during the day.

A convenient excuse to find another line of work arose when my boss called me at home one morning, yelling about me stealing clocks, of all the ridiculous things. I was devastated and very upset by the angry accusation, made without merit or proof, and even though the clocks were found and my good name restored, I didn't want to work for the company or the owner anymore. I was secretly pleased that I had found a reason to leave the job, and wondered if staying home again was a possibility. It was not.

Opportunity arose in the form of dear Jen, who got me a job working part-time with her at Dollarhide's. Michelle, who had not yet found a job in town, offered to watch Jacelyn while I worked, so I had in home childcare. I enjoyed the work, found it interesting and different, but despaired about money. After paying Michelle and putting gas in the car, there wasn't a whole lot left over. Working part time was not paying off, and when the opportunity to work full time arose, I hesitantly agreed. I'll never forget that first morning. Since Michelle was watching Jacelyn and living with us, I didn't have to worry about getting Jacelyn up and dressed and ready for day care, which saved me considerable time and trouble. I do remember how bizarre it felt, that first morning of going in early, to know that when Jacelyn woke up, it wouldn't be to me. When she climbed out of bed and went down the hall calling out my name, I wouldn't be there to answer.

It's a balancing act - just like everything else in life, only with motherhood the stakes feel higher (to me). I'm half the mother I want to be, half the employee I could be, and none of the wife I should be. And I understand fully how easy I have it - living with family eases the burden considerably. I don't know how real working mothers do it, much less single mothers, yikes. I feel wrung out, overextended. Upon arriving home in the evenings, my daughter needs my attention. And so does the laundry, and the bathroom. There are dishes to be done, toys to pick up, everything is covered in dust, Jacelyn's room needs a thorough bulldozing to clean up the crap on the floor, there are errands to be run, bills to be paid, and the weeds in the front yard are up to the baby's waist. There's a neverending stream of dull activities and tasks to be accomplished, and in the middle of it all is a precocious little toddler who doesn't understand why her mother is never home anymore, and why when she is home she's so grumpy.

I lose sight, now and then, and find myself buried in the stress and drudgery. Overwhelmed and fraught with woe. Jacelyn always manages to help me throw off the doldrums, somehow. She'll say something funny, or she'll give me a snuggle, or she will say, "I need a big smile, mommy. Show me a big smile". How can I refuse?

For some time I always considered myself to be something of a feminist. Maybe a more conservative feminist, but I held some feminist viewpoints. While I appreciate the work of our foremothers to assure us of the rights we have today, I don't really affiliate myself with the movement (I'm certain they're devastated, ha-ha). Women became increasingly free to pursue higher education and careers. Liberating? Yes. Empowering? Certainly. It's also dangerous. The underlying message is that women can have it all. We can have careers and husbands and children, and because we are strong, giving and powerful we can balance it.

As the economy weakens and the two-career family becomes the norm rather than the exception, having it all often means having too much. I'm certain that there are women out there with careers, children, and good, healthy relationships with their husbands and they are sailing through, feeling fine. I'm not handling things with that much grace, but I'm certainly trying. And as I've said before, and as a dear, dear friend of mine likes to remind me, that is what matters. That I'm trying.

And I will continue to try.

I'm constantly reminded of Jacelyn when I'm at work, and I think of her all the time. I know she's safe and well cared for. But I miss her, greatly. I will leave work for lunch, and the weather will be beautiful, and I will think sadly about what she and I could be doing at that particular moment were I not at work. At a park? Swimming somewhere? Maybe blowing some bubbles? When there's a loud thunderstorm, I will think longingly of the mornings we would snuggle in my bed on rainy mornings, watching Sesame Street and singing, 'Rain, Rain, Go Away'. I also consider that those home-together-all-day times are rapidly drawing to a close with the start of pre-school in August. My baby is growing up, and I'm tearfully standing by and watching it happen, and can almost feel time passing me by.

I want a balanced life. John Boland once told me, "You work to live, you don't live to work". Amen, John - I want to work enough to live and enjoy the rest of my time. I want time with my daughter, while still allowing time for household tasks and maybe even for myself. And sometimes, when there's grass to cut and laundry to wash and my beautiful daughter says, "Mommy, let's go to the playground!", I'm going to go. And forget about the grass and the laundry and remember that my little girl isn't going to be four years old much longer, and we'll never get this time back. I will gleefully and shamelessly shirk responsibility for the sake of love and lasting memories.

Mothers, Daughters, and Ladybugs

I like to remember my mother as the strong, downright feisty woman she was when I was in elementary school. For someone who cannot remember much of her childhood, I can recall a surprisingly large number of occasions from that time. As for the woman that my mother became, after the recovered memories and the diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, I can only say that she tried. Which is more than I can say for myself. I'm not proud of my behavior; on the contrary, I'm very ashamed of it, and hindsight being what it is, would love to go back and change it. That being said:

Mom and I got very close after I had surgery my sophomore year of high school. I was admitted into the hospital right at the end of school before Christmas break began, and we spent the following two weeks of my recovery together, staying up late, getting up early, putzing around in general. Before school started again I remember sitting down and tearily writing her a thank-you letter, telling her how much I enjoyed spending that time with her. I can't remember if I ever gave it to her or not. I would like to think that I did, but I can't remember.

Then we moved. And I turned, viciously and suddenly, into a sullen, angst-ridden, defiant teenager. I rebelled with fervor and passion, dropping out of school, picking up bad and dangerous habits and friends. I remember the last few months that I lived in Jacksonville Mom and I went at each other almost nightly. I would waltz through the door, usually rather late into the evening, all full of attitude and swagger. Mom, who would sit up and wait for me, would find something to pick a fight about: the late hour, my appearance, I smelled funny, was I on drugs? We would argue for hours, and sometimes, despite our best efforts, would get a little too loud, and either Dad or Teresa would come into the room, squinting in the light and sighing heavily, either asking us or ordering us to quiet down. "Just stop," I remember Dad saying one night. "Just stop, you're killing me". It was in the midst of one of these fights that she said, "One day, I hope you have a daughter just like you and then you'll know how I feel right now".

After she returned to Pensacola our relationship had cooled down. We no longer fought so bitterly, but there was nothing. I pitied her. I pitied her choices in life, pondered what made her the way she was, and, in a way, grieved for the woman that she had been. I have always wondered about the nature vs. nurture theory. Did her upbringing and incidents in her past make her who and what she was? Or was she just that way? Could she have changed, if she wanted to, and did she want to change? Did she like the way she was? Of course, I never thought to ask her. I remember the day she and dad were supposed to close on the house, she was over-medicated. She would fall asleep anywhere, at any moment. She was sitting at breakfast at Grandma's house, a biscuit in her hand, snoring and slack-jawed. Dad was wringing his hands and fretting and trying to wake her up. "Vicki, we have to be around people for this, you can't be like this". I left the house and drove around, angry, smoking cigarette after cigarette and hating her, just a little bit, for the way she was. And hating myself for hating her.

The months before her death are sort of vague and blurry. In my own defense, I was pregnant and in the throes of completely rearranging my life. It became as though she was on the perimeter of my life, just someone who I passed by occasionally. Her hospital bed was in the living room, immediately to the right when you opened the front door. I would come in the house and she would immediately start throwing down rapid fire questions. I would offer vague responses, generally over my shoulder as I walked down the hall to close myself in my room. That was how we communicated: short questions from her, shorter answers from me as I walked into the kitchen, or to the garage, or out the front door.

When mom died, I was numb. I didn't expect her to die. I remember how crowded it seemed afterwards, how wherever I went there just seemed to be so many people around. At our house, and Grandma's house, at Brian's house. I would escape by driving around, slowly and with no destination. I would listen to music and cry, and would occasionally say, out loud, "Oh, mama". Always 'mama', never mom. And I would hope that she knew that I loved her, always, despite how I may have acted or what I may have said. I still hope that: that she knew, and knows, that I love her.

And now I have a daughter, a daughter who, according to my mother, is going to be just like me. And I'm scared. I want so much for her, and I want so much for us. I want her to have a good sense of self worth without thinking the world revolves around her. I want her to develop her own dreams, and I want her to be ambitious but patient. I understand that she has her own personality, and I want to impart standards of behavior and morals while allowing her to maintain that shining personality.

I once said, in the throes of self-pity and woe, that the only good advice I have to offer my daughter is to not turn out like me. While in some ways I still feel that is true, she has picked up some of my habits and personality traits that I don't mind imparting. She cares deeply about other people, and can't stand to see the people she loves mad at each other (Teresa can vouch for this). She's creative, and imaginative, and has a sense of whimsy that I find breathtaking. I might not have practical advice or skills to offer, but whimsy and imagination I've got, and it's delightful to see it in my daughter.

I said in my first paragraph that I can only say that mom tried. Before I had a daughter myself, I didn't think that was good enough. Now, however, I give her more credit. No matter what else she was going through, mom still tried. And she loved us.

There have always been ladybugs around mom's grave. Every time I'm there, there are a few ladybugs buzzing around. And I seem to attract ladybugs. In the spring and summertime they like to perch on me. Just the other day, I left work for lunch, spent the entire time in the car running errands, and when I went back inside there was a ladybug meandering around on my back. There was one on the windshield of my the other night. Jacelyn attracts them as well; when she sees them on her and freaks out, I'll calm her down and tell her the ladybugs are from her Grandma, so she will know that she loves her. Now, when she sees them on me she'll brush them off and say, "Grandma's giving you bugs again". Incidentally, whether or not I actually believe they are from mom is completely beside the point, to me. I find the idea to be lovely.

Happy Mother's Day to all. Live well, love much, laugh often, and all those other cliches about life. And, I suppose, don't let the little stuff get in the way of the bigger picture. I love y'all.

Every day is an adventure

Last night, I was standing in the kitchen drying dishes when Jacelyn went waltzing past me on her way to the restroom. She looked up at me and said, while still walking, "Mommy, I just put the biggest boogar on the wall, go look". What?! She went into the bathroom and did her business while I went to check the wall in question, and there was indeed a very large boogar placed at 4-year old height. Upon her return from the restroom she stood back and admired her placement. "Big, isn't it" she commented proudly. I directed her to get a napkin and remove the boogar from the wall, while instructing her as to proper boogar removal and discarding procedures. She did not seem convinced; she seemed to think display to be far more appropriate. Only time will tell if anything sunk in, I suppose I'll just have to keep checking the walls.

Bedding Bonanza

I bought this duvet cover yesterday. We got our tax return and I decided to be a good American, GW style, and return a little of it to the economy. :-) It was on sale, and I liked it, and it actually means quite a lot to me, as goofy as that sounds, for reasons that I can't really get into right now. Anyway, here it is: my horrid taste in bedding. I did not buy the flowery sheet set or the white bed skirt - didn't so much like those, but I love the duvet cover and shams.

Happy Birthday, Emily!

Emily Lenz is Jacelyn's first friend. She was a born a week - to the day! - before Jacelyn. She was four yesterday - I'm off by a day, sorry. Nicole, Emmy's mommy, is me if I lived better and didn't use so much foul language. She is me with better morals, me if I wasn't so lazy. Nicole is my soul sister - we were that rarity of rarities - two mommies who were very different people but had similar, almost identical, parenting ideas. We breastfed, we made our own baby food, talked smack about our husbands, sympathized and cajoled each other about our rotten children. :-)
I miss her dearly for many, many reasons, and if I can ever formulate a good enough excuse I am so going up to visit her. But I digress; I got off subject. Happy Birthday, Emmy! We miss you!

My daughter is so cool.....

Sunday was magical, really. It had its' less than splendid moments, just like any other day, but there were lots of downright magical moments:

- Brian's mother bought Jacelyn a stuffed mop puppy and a stuffed bunny in a little gingham dress. I asked her what she was going to name her two new friends. Her response? The puppy's name is 'Meenka' and the bunny's name is 'Geena' (not with a 'geometry' sounding G, with a 'God' sounding G). I was thrilled - no "Fluffy" or "Tiffany" names from my baby, no sir. To me, that signified great imagination.

- We were in the bathroom at Sear's. I was waiting for her to wrap up the business that she was attending to, and was getting annoyed. We had been in the bathroom for going on ten minutes, and she had spent the last five telling the same knock-knock joke over and over (it ended, every time, in 'Jacelyn Banana')at top speed at the top of her lungs. I was getting annoyed, in all honesty, so I stopped responding to the jokes. Finally, she changed the joke and surprised me by making me laugh out loud:
Her: Knock-knock, mommy
Me: Who's there?
Her: Jacelyn
Me: Jacelyn who?
Her: Jacelyn McSaltnPepper
I don't know why, but this cracked me up.

- We bought some flower seeds, and decided to plant them Sunday afternoon. I did the heavy stuff - pulling up the vegetation, moving around soil, putting down top soil, all that stuff. I had worked up a sweat and a backache by the time we were ready to put the seeds in the ground. I was sitting there watching her plant stuff, my hand full of seeds, feeling sweaty and kind of cranky. I happened to look over at Jacelyn and she was kissing every seed before she planted it. Is that not the sweetest thing in the world? It made me tear up, a little, and greatly improved my mood.

We stayed outside all afternoon. We blew bubbles, and then popped them (she did most of that, but I did venture from my lawn chair occassionally to assist). We attempted
a clumsy form of some tennis-like game with an egg-shaped, fabric covered ball and two paddles, but neither of us could really get that going, so we abandoned it in favor of more bubbles and some t-ball. She's pretty good; my stats aren't so hot. I end up whacking the tee into pieces half the time. There was some wagon riding, until a bug crawled into the wagon. She attempted to fix her power wheel (which is suffering from no more than a dead battery) with her toy weedwhacker, a feat which I greatly enjoyed watching. All in all, I would call it a rousing success. I hope everyone's Easter was equally enchanting.

It's freaking spring, ok

A little template change, commemorating the change in seasons, and how it's already hot as blazes here. I also thought the change in template would make the blog a little easier on the eyes - particularly MY eyes, since there is something about the color blue on a computer screen that makes my eyes ache. Anything on a computer screen makes my eyes ache these days, though. I am not aging gracefully - I am clunking around in my late twenties, dispiritedly watching 30 looming in towards me. I know that I am not old, and I don't consider 30, 40, or 50 to be old (I shamefacedly confess that I do consider 65 or so to be kind of old - just kind of, but kind of old, nonetheless - sorry). But signs of my aging do bother me, from time to time. My eyesight is in the crapper. My hair has so much silver in it someone needs to stamp "sterling" on my forehead. I am happy that it is a bright, shiny silver - no dull gray for me, nosiree. But there's a lot of it. And time and gravity are taking their toll, and things are drooping.

But you know what? Screw it. It's freaking spring. Jacelyn and I have managed to get some sunflowers to sprout, and even grow a little. They aren't flowers yet or anything - I'm certain we'll do something to kill them off long before they have the chance to become actual flowers, but they are little sprouts that have grown fairly tall. Plants are blooming, birds are singing, we're surrounded by beauty, and I'm just going to enjoy life. Ha! I sounded like an optimist for a second there, didn't I? Don't be fooled or concerned; I am still the deeply negative person you all might know a little and that some love. There's a lot of stress to be found inside; with this weather, and a almost-four year old to show you just how fun it can be, outside is pretty nice. So if you need me, that's where I'll be. Happy Easter.

Welcome, Karma

Not the concept, the infant. My friend Leeann delivered her baby daughter, whom she named 'Karma', yesterday. Sweet little Karma was born six weeks before her due date, has a cleft palate, small lungs, some potential kidney problems, and some issues with bone development in her legs and hips. She is breathing on her own, and is breathtakingly beautiful. She is most assuredly a very, very special little girl, and if you think of it, mention her in your prayers. Or, if you don't pray, think of her fondly and send her happy thoughts. Congratulations to Leeann and Karma, we love you both very much.

A Post-Script to Part 2

I am on a mission to rid my life of unnecessary clutter. I got rid of things in DROVES yesterday - purses, shoes, belts, clothing. Threw away things that needed to be thrown away. I went through my pitiful, neglected and unused craft stuff and tossed the things that were old. Then I came across my scrapbook and paused. That scrapbook dated back to a few months after Jacelyn was born, when I went through a crafting phase because I thought that was what I should do.

Mommies that I knew could churn out magazine-quality scrapbook pages with perfectly cropped and scalloped photos and whimsical, themed designs. I once spent three consecutive evenings staying up until 3am meticulously cutting and pasting Jacelyn's name (in my defense, it was her FULL name) and birth picture onto a scrapbook page. Three nights with my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, sweat beading on my forehead, wielding an exacto knife and alphabet stencil. Three nights, and on the third night, my task finally completed, I held out my finished product and to my dismay, it was crap. The letters of her name were at an angle, her picture was crooked, and the whole thing was just wonky. I promptly tossed the scrapbooking material (including the wonky page I had just created) into a rubbermaid tote and forgot about it, until last night.

I looked at my scrapbooking attempt and waited for the inevitable rush of guilt - if I really loved my daughter, I would commemorate her upbringing with a well documented, thoughtfully compiled scrapbook. And the guilt never came. I peeled the picture off and threw away not only the page I had made but also the entire blank scrapbook. I do not mourn my lack of creativity in the scrapbooking department - the photos of Jacelyn will not mean any less in a regular old photo album. They will not cease to make me smile because they are not surrounded by stickers and gingham patterned paper. She might not have a lovingly crafted scrapbook to remember her trips to the zoo, or the first time she went bowling, but she will remember the nights we sat on the front porch and looked up at the stars - that doesn't require a scrapbook page (although many of the talented scrapbookers I know could certainly make one of it, and it would be breathtaking). My point here is not to knock scrapbooking as an art - it's just to say that I am not good at scrapbooking, and therefore do not attempt it, and I'm ok with that. It doesn't make me a bad mother, or mean that I care less.

It's rare for me to not experience guilt over things like this, so I felt the need to document it. And one day, I promise, part three is coming.

The pressure!

Well, now I feel pressured to make this terribly witty and intelligent. I can't live up to the spin - my hype has surpassed my ability. The reason behind this is this- Teresa neglected to include me as someone whose response she would like to read, and I was devestated. The only reason I'm doing this is because she edited the post to include me, in bold, colored letters no less. So Teresa, this is for you:

Three names you go by:
1. Val
2. Mommy
3. Valerie, when I'm in trouble

Three things that scare you:
1. Not changing
2. Changing
3. That something will happen to Jacelyn

Three of your everyday essentials:
1. Cigarettes
2. Sunglasses
3. Skittle-flavored lip balm

Three things you are wearing right now:
1. Blue, glittery socks emblazoned with the words, "STRUT YOUR STUFF"
2. Brown pants that very closely resemble Shaggy's pants from Scooby Doo
3. A blue sweater that I love but that I am afraid might be terribly ugly and the people that know and love me are too kind to tell me how horrid it really is

Three of Your Favorite Drinks:
1. Diet Coke
2. Water
3. Coffee (and a close fourth, almost a tie for third: vodka, and anything containing vodka)

Three of your favorite songs - at the moment:
1. "Novacaine", Beck, Odelay - but really, the whole CD freaking rocks
2. One of the songs from Buena Vista Social Club's self-titled album, but I can't remember which track and the whole thing is in Spanish, anyway
3. There's a new song out from Pink, and I like the message - not the song, the message, about empowerment, and goals, and being more than eye-candy with a shopping habit. It's what I want for Jacelyn. Corny, yes. But I don't care.

Three things you want in a relationship (other than real love):
1. Laughter
2. Genuine fondness and affection
3. Hot monkey sex (You know you all thought it, shut up)

Two truths and a lie:
1. Dr Pepper makes my burps toxic and rooms and/or cars I have burped in uninhabitable
2. Dr Pepper and Skittle burps could kill a small animal or child
3. Peanut Butter makes me gassy

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. Reading
2. Baking
3. Writing

Three things you want to do really badly right now:
1. Find a place to live that is affordable, safe, and comfortable
2. Smoke
3. Make some fresh coffee

Three places you want to go on vacation:
1. Disney World, with Jacelyn
2. The Grand Canyon
3. Pennsylvania

Three things you want to do before you die:
1. Have another child, at least one
2. Visit another country - even if it's Canada
3. Ride a bunch of roller coasters and collect all those horrible pictures they sell you for $25 where your hair is standing on end and your face is all squinched up and you can see your fillings because your mouth is open so wide - yeah

Three ways that you are stereotypically a chick/guy:
1. I cry when I have PMS - at anything and everything
2. I cry at sappy movies
3. I can talk on the phone for HOURS, when I'm in the mood

Three people I would like to see take this quiz:
1. Mike
2. Mary
3. I dunno, I don't know any more people

Identity Crisis: Part 2

Part 2: Motherhood

To disclaimer: in this post I say a lot of things that could be construed as negative about motherhood, and being a stay-at-home mother. By no means were my experiences as a stay-at-home mother miserable all the time; there is not enough gigabytes in the world to put down all (or even just some) of the positive and wonderful and breathtaking moments motherhood offers. There is no blog with enough storage capability to contain my thoughts and memories pertaining to my love for my daughter and the many wonderful things she has brought into my life. That being said, I placed a lot of expectations on myself at that time, and combined with my tendency to constantly question myself and my finely honed sense of self-deprecation, generally made life more difficult than it needed to be. That, and motherhood does make you have to search for who are you, and who you are going to become. That's enough; read on.

Welcome to the world, little one. Jacelyn was born. I spent a couple of nights in the hospital thanks to my blood pressure going all wonky, and I was actually rather grateful. There were professionals there; people who got paid to help me. If I had a question I could always ask one of the 8-million consultants that were on hand for every possible malady and problem that could arise. There were lactation consultants, nurses to monitor me, nurses to monitor Jacelyn, counselors subtly monitoring my mental health. I was surrounded by people who knew what they were doing, and I was glad. Then it was time to go home. Alone. Just myself, Brian, and Jacelyn. When the nurses were going through the check-out process I felt a tad nervous. As though someone was going to declare me imminently unqualified for child-rearing and revoke my parental rights. We loaded the car with luggage, gifts, and finally, baby and ourselves, and as we were driving away I heaved a sigh of relief. We had made it out the door; we had fooled them into thinking we were reasonable and capable enough to assume the responsibility of baby-raising.

The next few days are a blur. Jacelyn was a good baby, mostly sleeping and eating and staring up at you with that googly look that new babies have. It's kind of a bleary-eyed, bored look. It's as though you've disrupted everything they have known up to this point, and for what---this? Brian was home with me for the first four days or so, and we had settled into a routine. I would nurse Jacelyn until she went to sleep, at which time I would put her in bed with him, and they would sleep together while I crept around the house cleaning. And checking on them, every five minutes, to make certain Brian hadn't rolled over and crushed her.

When Brian went back to work, I felt slightly lost. Gone was my steady, daily dose of adult companionship, gone was the person that could watch Jacelyn while I got things done. We saw Brian off to work, and I settled into the chair for our morning nursing marathon. Afterwards, I burped and changed the baby and then considered my options. There were breakfast dishes to be done, laundry that needed starting, and the tub needed attention and a grout brushing in the very worst way. I went over to the baby swing and put Jacelyn in it, hoping it would succor her long enough for me to wash some dishes and start a load of towels. She goggled up at me while I belted her in and started the swing at a low speed. She considered everything for a moment, and the promptly screwed up her face and started wailing. I removed her from the swing and decided to give the vibrating bouncy chair a try (why don't they make those for grown-ups? I would totally buy one). I belted her into the bouncy seat, set the vibrations on low, and put up the "entertainment tower": a little bar with dangling rings, brightly colored, crinkly bugs, and a enormous button that played children's songs when pressed. Baby was not amused, nor was she entertained. She expressed disinterest by wailing once more, her little fists curled up and shaking. Not only was she bored, she was downright angered by my attempts at keeping her busy.

I was despairing, at this point. There were syrupy plates congealing in the sink from the pancake breakfast I had made, the towels were smelling a little off, and I couldn't sit my baby down without her crying. I faced a dilemna: did I just let her cry? Was I supposed to just plop her down somewhere and let my poor, defenseless, week-old infant, who could do nothing for herself, cry ceaselessly, all for the sake of some dirty dishes? I decided to wait until naptime to get things accomplished. I was amazed by how alert she seemed, and how completely on to me that she was. In the following hour or so that she was awake, I tried again to sit her down somewhere, but she remained unimpressed by the expensive myriad of baby toys I had to offer. Finally, she nursed herself off to sleep. I stood up and laid her, ever so gently, into the bassinette that I had placed nearby, and tiptoed a few steps away, holding my breath. I had not even turned around yet when she immediately started crying again, full-on crying, crying that would not cease with rocking and cooing. She wanted to nurse, again. Ten minutes later I repeated the experience, with the same results. I returned to the chair, started nursing, and made a tearful phone call to my best friend, who had a daughter a week older than Jacelyn. "I'm never going to get anything done," I wailed, as Jacelyn nursed contentedly. "I'm going to sit in this chair, nursing, for the rest of my life." Nicole assured me that I would, one day, be able to do something other than sit and nurse. "But probably not for a while" she said, with a sigh.

I spent my first mother's day in the backseat of the car at Captain D's, nursing. I longingly watched Brian and his mother eating happily. I despaired; of ever eating a hot meal again, of ever wearing a bra that didn't snap open. I exposed myself in public places, all for the sake of nourishing my child. When Jacelyn was a couple of weeks old we accompanied Jen and Cam to a local park, for a mommy group outing. I nursed for what felt like hours. My McDonald's lunch got cold and rubbery, and I ate it in record time while Jacelyn sat in her car seat and cried. When we left the park, I forgot to buckle Jacelyn down in her car seat and she almost fell out. Once safely inside my own home, I wept, bitterly. For my own ineptitude, for my inability to control my life. I felt guilty, for not being blissfully happy. There were certainly many moments when I was blissfully happy, but there were also moments where I was full of doubt, and disappointment in myself, and selfish longing for easier days. Things slowly got easier, in some ways. Jacelyn and I worked around her temperament, carefully choosing the moments when she was less needy to get things done around the house.

Parenting seems to be a long, drawn out process of great care and need followed by painful moments of letting go. It's funny; when your child is totally dependent on you, you long for the days when they will need less constant attention. As their need for attention and care wanes, you acutely miss those moments. Jacelyn had some problems nursing at first, and it was recommended that we not introduce a pacifier (bink) just yet to avoid furthuring the problem. About three weeks in, I decided she was ready. Her sucking reflex had always required high maintenance, and I was grateful and excited at the thought that I would now not be the only thing around that could sustain her. Brian held her, popped the bink into her mouth, and....
silence. Blissful silence. I was thrilled, and yet....I was aghast. I actually went into the bathroom and had a brief cry over the same thing I was so excited about earlier: my baby was receiving comfort from something other than me.

We settled into a routine, of nursing and playing. With the bink, I grudgingly had to admit things were considerably easier. Once we had found our stride, I delved, headfirst, into the mommy game. I was going to do this right, by God. I went to mommy outings, and I could talk all day about post-partum depression, nursing, sleeping schedules, and bathroom cleansers. But then I longed for more. I wanted to talk about other things, too. But I wasn't experiencing anything else to talk about. My day revolved around feedings, and diapers, and cleaning and cooking and washing. I didn't have time for TV and was barely aware of the world around me. I once considered myself passionate about politics and the like, and would discuss it with great fervor and passion. Now I was suddenly barely aware of who the president was, much less his party affiliation or his policies.

It was bad, for a while. I was trying to figure out who Val, the mommy was. Was it ok to watch MTV? Or was I suddenly too old and/or parental? Did I need to change my style of clothing? I had gone from dressing up for work every day to barely getting out of my pajamas by the time Brian got home from work. I decided to seek out a hobby, and turned to other mothers for advice: what did they do? I discovered I was uninterested and quite bad at Scrapbooking, something that a lot of mothers I knew did and enjoyed. I could barely tolerate the home parties I was invited to. Tupperware, Longaberger Baskets and candles bored me to tears, and sitting around oohing and aahing over them for two hours was almost too much to bear. I'll peruse a catalog all day long, but those parties....they drive me crazy.

One afternoon I went to a Mary Kay party with some other moms I knew, and was miserable. At one point the Mary Kay saleswoman actually commented on my skin problems. She singled me out as an example: "After giving birth your hormones can radically change your skin tone and even cause acne, like with Veronica here." She informed the party, grabbing my chin and holding my face out for everyone to see. At the end of the party she handed me a brochure about adult acne and patted my hand, saying, "It's hard to get it together after a new baby, but I'm sure you'll do it, Veronica." Thanks. My self esteem plummeted - there's nothing like being singled out and mocked by a woman wearing green eyeshadow and electric blue mascara.

I was feeling desperate. I wanted something, anything to do. I couldn't crochet. Crafts were beyond me, and the mess they made was usually more trouble than the reward of the final product. I attempted gardening, but my allergies flared up immediately, and since I was breastfeeding I couldn't take any allergy medicine. I read a lot, but reading is a solitary hobby and I craved company and conversation. I tried to become perfect; anticipating and fulfilling every whim, need and desire that my husband and daughter could possibly have. I was exhausted, and constantly felt like a failure. If Jacelyn developed a diaper rash I felt personally responsible. If Brian's favorite red shirt wasn't clean when he wanted to wear it, I knew I wasn't properly doing my job. If the grout in the bathroom wasn't spotlessly white, I was slacking. I wanted to and tried to do it all, and in retrospect, there was no way I could have.

And there was nothing like bumping into someone you used to know pre-baby. They would always be (at least to me) impeccably dressed, and they were buying fun things, like wine, or a board game, or anything that wasn't the baby suppositories and breast pads that I always seemed to be buying when I bumped into someone. I always seemed to be wearing sweats, usually stained with spit-up or marred by leaking breast milk. My hair was always a mess, and the baby was usually behaving horribly and had a facial rash, or something, so that when the friend would peer down at my mewling, rashy baby, they would always have to force themselves to smile and say, "Uh, what a cutie". And they would wave and walk away, their buggy laden with purchases that they would not later have to shove up someone's butt (unless they were into that sort of thing).

I felt stupid. I felt like I couldn't maintain an interesting conversation with anyone about anything that didn't relate to drain cleaner or breastfeeding latch-on. I would say things like, "I really like that new grout brush I bought the other day" or "I finally got that blocked breast duct going again, that freaking hurt" and then I would hate myself. The irony is that I was the one judging myself so harshly, but it didn't feel that way at the time.

A big moment in the day of a stay-at-home mother (and this is true of many of the moms I know) is the arrival of daddy. You've spent your day in the throes of all things domestic; you're covered in baby food, you have to pee and would appreciate the chance to go to the bathroom by yourself and maybe, just maybe, take a shower. Daddy comes into the house, and you feel awash with relief. Here is your loving spouse, the man who helped you make the baby sitting in the high chair rubbing peas into her hair, the person you rely on for companionship, and assistance. He walks in, maybe there's a hug or a peck on the cheek, and you ask: "Can you watch her for a minute so I can pee?" Daddy sighs. "Can I at least sit down for a minute first?"

You're disillisioned, you're disappointed, and you still have to pee. I read an article once that suggested you allow the working spouse in a single-income home thirty minutes before asking them to take on any baby-related duties. I could see the sense in this, but cut the amount of time down to ten. Ten minutes to sit, empty pockets, put down keys, and take a moment. This probably sounds unforgiving, but 1.) It's his baby, too, and 2.) No one gave me ten minutes to sit down before my baby obligations began. Was my attitude juvenile? Probably. But I didn't care. Daddy's day ended at 5pm. He clocked out, came home, and sat down. He ate whenever he wanted to, he napped at whim. His work day was, effectively, over. My workday was nowhere near over. I ate and slept around Jacelyn's schedule. How does that little proverb or whatever go? "Man works from sun to sun but woman's work is never done". True. Very true.

Not in every case, there are always exceptions, but in my case, this was true. I woke up early, to make breakfast for Brian. I cooked and cleaned and mothered all day, and when Brian got home and plopped into a chair, his day done and over with, I was entering phase two of my day: husband care. Dinner, dishes, laundry, picking up, nursing, baby bath time. When Brian and Jacelyn went to bed it still wasn't over. There would be more picking up, and laundry, and preparing for the next day. I would make my baby food at night, staying up until 2 or 3 AM steaming vegetables and pureeing fruit to put in the freezer. I was tired, and burnt out, and felt guilty for being both.

One of the smaller activities I missed was driving around, by myself. All the windows rolled down, radio or CD blaring, smoking, driving fast, just rocking out. Post-baby life brought me a Winnie the Pooh sunshade, windows tightly rolled up, obviously no smoking, and "Mozart for Babies" playing softly. I enjoy classical music, but in the first few months of Jacelyn's life I tired of it enormously. I would drive along, playing "Opera for Babies", and gritting my teeth, thinking to myself "It will make her smarter. It will make her smarter. It damn well better make her smarter". That all ended when she was six months old or so; tiring of the soft, soothing melodies of the great composers, I put in some alternativeish-metal-type of CD and guiltily moved all the sound to the front speakers. Then gradually I stopped messing with the speakers and just left things alone. Now, I am proud to say, my daughter rocks. Hard. And she's none the worse for it, I don't think.

The point of all this? I struggled a great deal. I was striving for perfection, to be this ideal mother and wife that I know now doesn't and can't exist. Motherhood, for whatever reason, actually made me a more conservative person in many respects, extending even to my political beliefs. Prior to having Jacelyn I was a passionate liberal, and one night actually got a little teary when I found myself agreeing with a comment made by Bill O'Reilly (in my defense, it was about SUV's and what a waste of gas they are). I was also trying to reconcile the rather old-fashioned ideal I was holding myself up to with my views on feminism and the roles of women. New friends, new ideals, new life all around. And it all happened rather quickly, making me feel like a spectator rather than an active participant. I've gone through phases and stages of mothering normal to a first time mom, ranging from over-protective to almost nonchalant. I've muddled through a complete upheaval in my life, and come out on the other side only a little worse for wear, but wiser, and happier, and with a beautiful little daughter who makes every day beautiful. Despite anything else, despite the activities or proclivities that I may occasionally miss, that makes it all worth it.

So where am I now? That's for part 3. I'll try to make that one shorter.

An Identity Crisis in Three Parts: Part 1

Part 1: Pregnancy

Pregnancy is a joyous experience, particularly a first pregnancy. There is the excitement, the anticipation, that whole miracle-of-life thing. My pregnancy was unplanned, but not unwelcomed. The adjustments throughout were difficult: no smoking, or drinking. Prenatal vitamins, while chock full of folic acid and iron and other things vital to baby growing, can also place a strain on mommy's system via such fun conditions as constipation and the like. Your body suddenly goes haywire, and is really not your own anymore. The little being inside is at the controls, and never hesitates to screw with you mercilessly. Heartburn, naseau, vomiting. Things swell and contract, muscles and skin stretch, however reluctantly. Not only was I trying to adjust to the idea of being pregnant, I was also trying to cope with the physical realities of pregnancy.

There was an initial adjustment period that I went throught, trying to come to terms with new life, growing inside me, new life that would eventually have to emerge. Then, you have to tell family and friends. Family, in my case, were cautiously optimistic, then blissfully happy once they found out that I was going to get married. Friends....well, they differed. My guy friends were outwardly happy, but seemed to be more confused. I guess maybe that's what happens when you're 'one of the guys'; anything girl-like, especially something so particularly uber-girl-like as pregnancy, just baffles them. In the first few months they would say, "You seem the same", almost marveling at my lack of what they thought was appropriate pregnancy behaviour, possibly learned from prime time sitcoms. There were a lot of questions: your water isn't going to break on my couch, is it? Not at three months, no. Aren't you supposed to throw up a lot, or something? Yes, I do, but not at the moment, and certainly not on command. When I started showing, there was a lot of belly poking. "So there's a baby in there, huh" they would comment, prodding at my protuding stomach. "You're sure you're not just getting fat?" Good-natured teasing aside, I am sad to say that most of my guy buddies drifted away as my pregnancy progressed, possibly overwhelmed by the hormones.

My girlfriends were more supportive. The childless ones sort of drifted out of the picture eventually, torn between the fact that I was suddenly a really good candidate for designated driver but that I couldn't drink myself. Somehow they deduced that I would not enjoy going out, nor would I be the fun, rambunctious gal that I had been pre-pregnancy. It was a gradual drift; they would still make and return phone calls, but it happened nonetheless. Friends who have kids are always thrilled when you turn up pregnant, and end up being your greatest source of support. I turned to other outlets, as well, like the internet. I joined an online mommy e-group, for pregnant mothers with babies due in April of '02. I found wisdom and wit there. I got advice from the moms who were on their second or third (or in one case, fifth) child and sympathy from the other first timers. There was the occassional flare of temper, as is bound to happen in a group of woman whose bodies were now in the hands of their hormones, but we always managed to make it right.

I talk about friends, because friends are important. They help you to see yourself. They offer praise, and support, and lend an ear to listen to you vent and/or mope, and offer their shoulder for you to cry on. They pick you up, when you fall. They will offer you ice cream and listen to you blather about mucus plugs and afterbirth. They laugh, but not in a mean-spirited way, when you disclose that there is a certain yoga pose that, everytime you perform it, makes you pee on yourself because of the way the baby ends up resting on your bladder. They will oooh and aaah over every kick you make them feel. They will play "guess that body part" with you when you are in your ninth month of pregnancy and baby sticks some appendage out. They will exclaim over even the blurriest, most indiscernable ultrasound photos. They love you and support you and make you feel normal again.

My decision to stay home was a tough one. I had never really held stay-at-home motherhood in the high regard that I now know it deserves. I was used to taking care of myself. I was a working girl, not having to depend on anyone, and I liked it that way. The thought of staying home all day and having to depend on Brian for money was terrifying. Once the cost of day care was considered, and my maternal instinct kicked in (someone else take care of my baby? no way), I decided that I would stay home. I thought I knew what I was getting into, but I had no idea. That's for part two, though.

As my delivery date loomed I became obsessed. All I could talk about or think of was pregnancy, delivery and childbirth. I took classes. I could name all the stages of labor and their accompanying symptoms. In Lamaze classes, if you answered a question correctly, the instructor would literally toss you a free sample of some baby product, like a little pouch of diaper rash cream, or a diaper sample. Woof-woof, good dog, here's your dye-free, frangrance-free laundry detergent sample. I ate it up. I was Superwoman: I worked all day, massively pregnant, then came home and cooked and cleaned. The laundry was done, the husband was fed and happy. My nesting phases were good times for Brian-I would wake up at 3am with the insane and overwhelming urge to clean the ceiling fan and bake a pecan pie. I felt domestic. I knew that I could do this stay-at-home thing. After all, if I could work and get it all done, a baby wouldn't change anything. I would have even more hours at home to get things accomplished. Riiiiiiiiight. How little I knew.

Once I was firmly ensconced in my ninth (and later, 9 1/2) month of pregnancy, I was slowly getting over it all. I enjoyed certain apects of being pregnant, but that list was slowly shrinking considerably. I felt enormous, and pointless. Walking was difficult; driving was getting to be that way. I had to start leaving for work early in order to accomodate for the extra five minutes that it took me to get out of the car. When I stopped working I slept, a lot. For the first couple of days I spent more time asleep than I did awake. Caught up on sleep, I got bored. I wanted to clean and prepare and nest, but didn't have the energy or, at that point, the ability. I spent ten minutes trying to get out of a chair one afternoon before finally giving up, dissolving into tears, and waiting for Brian to get home.

The point of all this: that I was entering a huge new phase of my life, and was losing the few things that I had identified myself with. I felt like I was losing my independance and at the same time had to find a new way to define myself. Does that make sense, or am I crazy? I am who I am (thank you Popeye), but you are also defined, sometimes by yourself and many times by others, by what and/or how you do. Or, my life has always been one big identity crisis. One of the two. Anyway: coming soon, part 2: motherhood. I'm sure the anticipation is killing you.

A Directive for the Day

Sunday evening I was rushing about the house, cleaning and doing laundry. Brian was in town, and left this morning, so I was trying to get all his stuff together--laundry, paperwork, etc. My mother-in-law reminded me that the bathroom needed cleaning, so I added that to the list. Jacelyn was home with me, following me around, asking me questions, moving things around, knocking things down. I guiltily confess to being less than patient with her, over all. At one point I was angrily scrubbing the shower, singing along with music from the shower radio. The music suddenly stopped, and I peered over the doors to see Jacelyn, perched precariously on the toilet tank, turning the shower radio off. I slid the door open, and in an entirely impatient, un-motherly manner said, "What, baby?!?"as I helped her down. She looked at me, sighed, and said, "I just love you, mommy, that's all. I just love you".

In that one moment I was reminded of what is important. That may sound hokey, but here is what I mean: the tub can be cleaned another day. Laundry can wait - it will still be dirty tomorrow. My daughter will only feel the need to risk life and limb to turn down music to inform me that she loves me for probably a little while longer. Ten years from now (when she is 13 - yikes!) I will probably think longingly of that moment. So I stopped what I was doing (much to the chagrin of my mother-in-law) and played. With abandon. So that is my directive for the day: find someone busy, someone unhappy, just someone, and remind them of what's important. Give them an "I just love/respect/appreciate/really like you"moment.

I just love you, that's all.